Pli|i|ili!i|iiiii||g 
 
 BITTERSWEET 
 
LISRARV 
 UNIVERSirv Oi CALIFORNIA 
 
BITTERSWEET 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 CAVIARE 
 
 NINTH EDITION 
 
 "My compliments and thanks to Mr Grant 
 Richards, publisher and author. I made one 
 meal of his ' Caviare,' and finished it in bed at 
 four o'clock in the morning. For a few cheerful 
 hours it made me forget I was living in England. 
 . . . The thrill of the gambling chapters, and the 
 charm of Alison, and the cool and adroit assur- 
 ance of the young Englishman who %mns her for 
 his bride, make a delightfully entertaining 
 novel." — Punch. 
 
 " ' Caviare ' is a brilliant tour de force. Mr 
 Grant Richards is master of the exact word, the 
 apt phrase. His hero's adventure in connection 
 with American railway stock is tlie finest and 
 most exciting piece of gambling we have ever 
 heard of. One character is a masterpiece ; the 
 crosses the stage a couple of times, and hardly 
 speaks a dozen lines, but we shall not readily 
 forget her." — Daily Mail. 
 
 VALENTINE 
 
 TENTH 'IHOUSAND 
 
 " A Story which is not only interesting in the 
 trite sense of the ivord, but really interesting in 
 that it adds to the stock of human knowledge iti 
 an agreeable and original manner. Mr Grant 
 Richards has evidently a good knowledge of 
 London life, and he looks on it with the eye of a 
 discriminating judge of manners and words and 
 with the eye of an artist. He sees himself, and 
 makes his readers see tohat he sees. But enough 
 said ; — ' Valetitine ' is a book to buy and read." — 
 Morning Post. 
 
 GRANT RICHARDS LTD. 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
 LONDON 
 
BITTERSWEET 
 
 BY 
 
 GRANT RICHARDS 
 
 AUTHOR OF "OAVIARB" 
 
 ^ 
 
 LONDON 
 GRANT RICHARDS LTD. 
 
 1915 
 

 PRINTUD IN GREAT BRITAIN BY NEILL AND CO., LTD., EDINBURGH. 
 
TO 
 
 MY MOTHER 
 
BOOK I 
 
 Comme Us sont heuretix, les amoureux. 
 
 BOOK II 
 
 La vie est dure et amere, et les femvies sont cheres. 
 
 BOOK III 
 
 . . . tout lasse. 
 
BOOK I 
 
 Comme Us sont heureux, les avioureux. 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 IN the blossoming weeks of earW summer Wimbledon 
 seems no unreasonable place to live in. Its roads 
 are not the country, but they have green trees 
 and gardens in which flowers grow. Houses are not 
 expensive, and in less than an hour one can reach the 
 Strand. The fields and field-paths are within striking 
 distance, and yet the theatres are not so far away but 
 that one feels oneself able to keep in touch with what 
 is going on. One need not stagnate. . . . 
 
 Something of this kind was running through Gerard 
 BlundelPs head as he walked up from the station to 
 The Haven, Acacia Road, at half-past six on the 
 evening of June 15th in the year 1912. He had had a 
 hard day. There had been plenty to do at the oflfice — 
 he was the junior partner in a rather well-known firm 
 of wine merchants in Pall Mall — and just at the busiest 
 time he had had to take an hour off to see a specialist 
 in Harley Street, one of those delightful, solicitous, and 
 forgetful old gentlemen who seem to exist for the sole 
 purpose of talking to patients; whose mental interestsand 
 capacity are not to be gauged by the out-of-date weekly 
 papers which cumber the tables of the rooms in which 
 
12 BITTERSWEET 
 
 one has to force oneself to believe that they ever dine ; 
 and who have apparently the knack of attracting to 
 their service the neatest and most capable parlour- 
 maids. Dr Arbuthnot had told Gerard Blundell that 
 all his fears were unnecessary, but that he had evidently 
 been overdoing things, that his system must be helped 
 to get rid of its excessive uric acid or serious trouble 
 might result, and that he had better take a cure. 
 
 Certainly it was rather a nuisance, but better now 
 than later. Blundell had gone back and had told his 
 partners what the doctor had said, and they had both 
 pointed out to him that if he was to go he had better 
 go quickly, that a cure need not, even with an after- 
 cure, take more than six weeks, and that with a very 
 little re-arrangement of their holiday dates no one would 
 be inconvenienced. Did Arbuthnot recommend any 
 particular place ? Aix-les-Bains. " You wouldn't be 
 dull there, anyway," Pontifex, the senior partner, a 
 much older man, had remarked. " It's very hot and 
 very pretty. I was there with poor Jessica before she 
 died. Perhaps it's altered now. I remember I lost a 
 lot of money in the Cercle. That's not in your line, 
 Blundell. Anyhow, go back and fix things up at home, 
 and then the sooner you start the better." 
 
 All the same, Gerard Blundell was a little uneasy. 
 To look at him you would not have thought there was 
 much need of his going away for a cure. He was tall 
 enough, and well set up ; he was clean-shaven, and his 
 eyes required no assistance ; his face was that of a 
 healthy man, and was less lined than his age, thirty-five, 
 might have excused. Just now as he walked, carrying 
 
BITTERSWEET 13 
 
 a brown leather despatch case, but not otherwise looking 
 very much of a business man, he was unconsciously 
 frowning at his thoughts. In the first place, he did not 
 want to go to Aix — now, or at any time : he liked to 
 take his holiday with his children and his wife, and he 
 certainly could not afford to carry them with him into 
 Savoy ; in the second, there were, in spite of what his 
 partners had said, a lot of things in Pall Mall which he 
 alone could look after, projects he had himself initiated 
 which were only too likely to die of inanition if he left 
 them for so long at this particular time. And there 
 was a third perplexity — his wife. He loved her dearly, 
 but somehow or other she was growing old too fast, 
 becoming too fixed, hardening in some way. He did 
 not think it could be because she saw too little of the 
 world. They knew plenty of people in Wimbledon 
 and in London — almost too many ; she went to town a 
 good deal ; she was not a fool. But she was growing 
 older in a way that he could not believe natural in a 
 woman of only thirty-four, even though she had had 
 the care and trouble of three children ; and she was fail- 
 ing to keep her mind brushed up and alert. He wished 
 he knew what was the matter. And his going to Aix 
 would not help. He was sure that Mary would try 
 to be cheerful about it, but she would resent it all the 
 same : she would resent the interruption to the ordinary 
 course of their year ; she would dislike his not being 
 able after all to go with her and the children to Bude 
 as they had planned ; she would not approve of so 
 much money being spent on what after all must be a 
 problematic good. Yes, sometimes certainly Mary was 
 
14 BITTERSWEET 
 
 trying, but all the same she was a dear and they had 
 never quarrelled and they never need quarrel. It was 
 his business to see to that. He would make it up to 
 her in some way now that he had to go off on his own 
 account. Perhaps, later in the year, they could take 
 together that holiday in France or Italy that had 
 always hung encouragingly in the future. He thought 
 that a woman who had had three children could be ex- 
 cused a certain moodiness. In a little while she would 
 be all right again, no doubt. 
 
 Gerard Blundeirs father had been a soldier. A 
 widower and an old man of some fame and of great 
 personal distinction, he had died when Gerard, the 
 elder of two sons, was still at school. Leaving enough 
 money to start both boys in life, he had left also one 
 recommendation — that neither should feel himself under 
 any obligation to follow his father's example and enter 
 the army. Gerard went from school to Oxford, and then 
 forthwith elected for commerce ; his brother, Gervase, 
 two years his junior, was at Oxford too, but he preferred 
 to go to the Bar, where it was thought that his con- 
 sistent and cold-blooded selfishness and his quite infernal 
 cheek would make him an opening without more delay 
 than was absolutely necessary, and that after a seemly 
 interval he could enter Parliament — he would be Liberal 
 or Conservative according to which party at the moment 
 offered the best prospects — achieve cabinet rank, marry 
 the daughter of a political peer — and so on. To finish 
 with Gervase first. He had so far carried out his 
 programme to the letter, except that he had married 
 before he had made much headway in the House, and 
 
BITTERSWEET 15 
 
 that just now unfortunately he was under something of an 
 eclipse, the political peer's daughter having tired of her 
 young husband's egoism and run away, in the fourth 
 year of their marriage, with a new playwright whose 
 comedies were almost as hard and brilliant as Gervase 
 BlundelFs best speeches. Of course he had divorced her. 
 It was a very great nuisance, and the scandal did him 
 harm, put him back. It is inadvisable for politicians 
 to make even an innocent appearance in the court in 
 which such knots are untied. Unhappily as it turned 
 out, not foreseeing this development in his domestic 
 fortunes, he had elected to be a Liberal, and the average 
 Liberal, especially in the provinces, has no breadth of 
 view. Luckily there were no children, and Gervase, who 
 had never cared extravagantly for his wife and who could 
 do very well without any permanent woman in his life 
 unless she could advance his prospects, gave up his house, 
 took chambers in the Albany, exhibited a very cynical 
 and disenchanted view of all feminine questions, and 
 managed very quickly, as some sop to his damaged 
 conceit, to attain the reputation of a man whom few 
 women could withstand. For the rest, he saw very little 
 of his elder brother, whose suburban menage he could 
 not help feeling reflected rather on his own eminence 
 and distinction, and whom he looked down on as a mere 
 man of commerce who did not even make any great 
 success of the not specially creditable trade he had 
 chosen. This indifference of fraternal feeling was not 
 shared by Gerard. He both liked and was proud of his 
 younger brother and refused to believe in his cynicism 
 or his selfishness. " People don't understand old 
 
i6 BITTERSWEET 
 
 Gervase," he would tell Mary, his wife ; " all that stuff 
 he talks is only his way. He's got a heart of gold really. 
 But he's sensitive, and when that woman went off he 
 curled up like — like — oh, what's that animal that goes 
 into a dark corner and dies when it loses what it loves ? " 
 It is no doubt good for even the most selfish of us to 
 have someone to believe in the essential nobility of our 
 characters. But one did not need to be an acute 
 observer to realise that dying in a dark corner was not 
 exactly Gervase BlundelPs form. And while the younger 
 brother had been, except for the temporary handicap of 
 his domestic misadventure, getting on like a house on 
 fire at the Bar and in the councils of his party, Gerard, 
 the elder, had been throwing himself heart and soul 
 into commerce and had certainly not succeeded in setting 
 the Thames alight. He had not chosen wine as the 
 subject of his energies fortuitously or without a deal of 
 thought. When he was preparing to leave Oxford he 
 possessed a certain capital. The question had been to 
 what use he should apply it. Assuredly he did not pro- 
 pose to invest it soberly and use the interest as an aid 
 to a comfortable life. His idea from the first had been 
 to employ it to break into some interesting business. 
 Publishing had occurred to him. He liked the arts, 
 and to be a publisher surely meant that his concern 
 would be with the things of the intellect. Inquiry, 
 however, led him to be a little shy of putting his money 
 into a trade half of whose members always seemed to 
 be wringing their hands about the future of the book 
 business, cutting one another's throats in the pursuit of 
 cheapness, and constantly becoming embroiled either 
 
BITTERSWEET 17 
 
 with the public or the distributors on questions of 
 " terms " or propriety. He came to the conclusion, after 
 several interviews with spry and amiable or stuffy and 
 obviously incapable gentlemen in the neighbourhood of 
 Paternoster Row and other publishing centres, that the 
 business, as a business, was not sufficiently stable or 
 optimistic, and that before he parted with any of his 
 good money and burned his boats he would like to find 
 some trade which was not so obviously overcrowded and 
 prone to pessimism. Picture dealing ? Well, he loved 
 painting too much, he told himself, to care to start on 
 a life of handling second-rate stuff, as most dealers, he 
 suspected, had to do. Besides, it was too jolly risky. 
 What else was left that combined commerce and romance, 
 trade and the pleasures of a man of taste ? The theatre ? 
 No, a thousand times no : he had watched friends of his 
 go to pieces after the most casual connection with the 
 O.U.D.S. and the methods of the playhouse. 
 
 It was an Oxford friend of his, to whom at the end of 
 his fourth year he was confiding the perplexities of his 
 position, who, taking down " The Rubaiyat " from his 
 shelf and reading out the eternal question : 
 
 " I often wonder what the Vintners buy 
 One half so precious as the Stuff they sell ? " 
 
 had put wine into his head. True, the wine trade was 
 in its way as depressed as the publishing. Most people 
 confined their reading to books from the circulating 
 libraries and only drank whisky or cheap claret. But 
 wine remained a marketable commodity. A bottle of 
 wine was not like an unappreciated six-shiUing novel : 
 
 2 
 
i8 BITTERSWEET 
 
 its value did not fall in a night from three-and-sixpence 
 to threepence halfpenny. Yes, surely his capital would 
 be safer locked up in thousands of bottles of what are 
 called "choice vintages" than in advances to authors 
 who perhaps would never produce the work for which 
 they had contracted or in masses of printed sheets that 
 no power on earth could ever make the public want. 
 Gerard Blundell, even before he left Oxford, was a 
 knowledgeable young man : he did not propose to 
 handicap himself at the start by any false step. And 
 wine, besides being when properly treated a safe sort of 
 business, was, if looked at with the eye of youth, truly 
 romantic. If people did not drink as much wine as 
 they used, it was because the matter was not handled 
 with sufficient enthusiasm and imagination. 
 
 So Gerard Blundell began to look about him for a 
 house which would take him on trial for a year or two 
 and would then, if he shaped properly and was still 
 of the same mind, give him a suitable partnership in 
 exchange for his youth, his work, and ten thousand 
 pounds. 
 
 And luckily, through his College Bursar's introduction, 
 he found such a house at the first attempt. Pontifex, 
 Mathews and Merrick — it became Pontifex, Mathews 
 and Blundell when later on Gerard did purchase his 
 partnership — was a fine old crusted firm, going back a 
 hundred years or more, having high traditions of its 
 own and enthusiasm for the traditions of the trade. 
 Since its foundation there had been a Pontifex in the 
 business, and no Pontifex would ever have connived at 
 the substitution of Algerian or Spanish wines for the 
 
BITTERSWEET 19 
 
 more valuable products of the Medoc. If such a thing 
 was ever done in Pall Mall one could be sure that it 
 was kept from the Pontifex ears. The existing Pontifex 
 was sixty-four years old, was corpulent, wore whiskers, 
 and was seldom seen without a silk hat of the shape 
 sported in the time of the Regent. Such a distinction 
 gave him character and was, his partner, Harry Mathews, 
 liked to remember, rather an advertisement for the firm. 
 It was Mr Pontifex who had been to Aix. 
 
 Gerard Blundell threw himself into the wine business 
 with enthusiasm. It began by amusing and ended by 
 interesting him as no other trade was likely to have 
 done. In energy, in zeal, in imagination, he put into 
 it a great deal more than he ever took out in the more 
 vulgar form of pounds, shillings, and pence. But that 
 was no one's fault. Good wine might be a rising market 
 but the wine trade was not what it had been. Prices 
 were closer; the public demand certainly did not in- 
 crease ; as one connoisseur after another on the books 
 of the firm removed his gouty soul to a different sphere 
 his place was not filled up. As likely as not his son 
 was a water-drinker or had built himself a house in 
 which the architect had been allowed to forget that no 
 gentleman's residence should be without proper cellarage. 
 
 Nevertheless Gerard made a decent living. He was 
 much younger than either of his partners — Mathews 
 was over fifty — and he brought a lot of energy into the 
 house and a number of ideas which gradually he was 
 allowed to carry out without interference. He really 
 believed that it would be enormously to the advantage 
 of the Englishman if he could be induced to drink pure 
 
20 BITTERSWEET 
 
 and light wine instead of heavier or more spirituous 
 beverages, and he created quite a sensation in the trade 
 generally and in the circles in which most of the firm's 
 customers moved by the issue of a circular, to which 
 he had induced his partners, after much argument and 
 delay, to allow the firm's signature to be appended, in 
 which Pontifex, Mathews and Blundell said once and 
 for all that they refused in future to supply their 
 customers with whisky. That drink might be all very 
 well in the right place but that place was not on the 
 table of the amateur of wine. If you drank whisky 
 you spoiled your palate for wine. Barley and the 
 grape were as the poles apart. If their customers 
 wanted whisky they could send to the Stores for it. 
 No longer would Pontifex, Mathews and Blundell palter 
 with their obvious duty. The circular proved an 
 excellent advertisement. It lost them some customers, 
 but it brought in more. Gerard had intended that it 
 should be talked about, and it was. 
 
 And now after thirteen years in the wine trade Gerard 
 Blundell had no true cause to quarrel with fate. He 
 liked his work ; he loved his wife ; he dearly loved his 
 three children. It was true that the doctor had ordered 
 him away, but that after all was nothing to worry over. 
 His only serious preoccupation was about his wife — and 
 that was simply because he hated to see her fretting 
 about quite unnecessary things, and he hated to see her 
 growing older under his eyes when surely with a woman 
 of thirty-four the very idea of middle age was ridiculous. 
 
 Certainly he was not growing older himself. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 NO sooner had Gerard Blundell turned the 
 corner of the road in which he Hved than 
 the gate of his garden was flung open and a 
 girl of ten, teeth clenched, hands outstretched, hair 
 waving behind, ran at the height of her speed to meet 
 him. He caught her with his free arm and kissed the 
 lips which she held up to him. 
 
 " Well, Vivian, are you any better to-day ? " 
 
 " Why, you know, I haven't been ill lately. Daddy. 
 But I want to tell you. Look ! Mummy says we may all 
 go to the circus on Saturday if you'll take us. Will 
 you ? Do say ' Yes."" "" 
 
 " 111 think of it, my dear. We'll see. Fll try, but 
 it may be impossible. How's Dickie ? " 
 
 " I don't know. He hasn't come back from school. 
 It's a cricket day. If you'd come by the earlier train 
 he wanted me to take you down to see it. It's too late 
 now. Basil's in the garden : he's been very naughty. He 
 will play tennis against the side of the house — oh, and 
 he's broken a window ! " 
 
 " Has he, the scoundrel ! We must see about that. 
 What else has happened ? " 
 
22 BITTERSWEET 
 
 " Nothing. But Mummy 's got a headache and is lying 
 down. She said would you go and see her directly you 
 came in." 
 
 The Blundells' house was not a big one, but it was 
 big enough for their simple needs. Detached, it stood 
 in a pleasant garden of about the third of an acre. It 
 had its own tennis lawn and its own acacia tree : it was 
 in essentials exactly like thousands of other residences 
 around London. Mary Blundell worked in the garden 
 herself with unsparing energy, her husband helping her 
 with his ignorant counsel. As long as there were plenty 
 of cheerful flowers he was quite content to let his wife do 
 all the work. Two of the children were old enough to 
 play lawn tennis in a kind of way. Vivian was the first ; 
 her brother, Richard, was to be ten before Christmas ; 
 Basil, the youngest, was just seven. Vivian had a daily 
 governess who taught her very little ; Dickie was at 
 a preparatory day school ; Basil went through a 
 farce of lessons and could write and read. The real 
 interests of the house were all within its four walls. 
 Gerard Blundell was not nowadays impervious to ideas, 
 but he thought of very little else than his work, his 
 home, and his children. With his marriage, achieved 
 immediately he had acquired his partnership, he had 
 become domestic, and had remained so. The suggestion 
 that he had ceased to take proper notice of the 
 things of the world would have angered him. He 
 still kept up his interest in painting, and was not 
 entirely unsympathetic to its new developments. Also 
 he read, or thought he read, the weekly reviews. 
 Mary Blundell was not the kind of woman to stimu- 
 
BITTERSWEET 23 
 
 late ideas. Very little his junior, she had embraced 
 matrimony as the be-all and end-all of her life. Her 
 husband, her house and her children, her servants and 
 her garden were what really occupied her thoughts. 
 She could have done without friends. She was happiest 
 when the currents of the world flowed round and past 
 her home. She was placid but sometimes a little 
 peevish and exigent. Without being at all vain, she 
 very much resented the coming of age. Indeed, it was 
 this trouble which had given her the headache Vivian 
 had spoken of. After lunch she had gone to her room 
 to get ready to go out. The blinds had remained 
 undrawn, and as she combed back her hair the sun fell 
 full on her face. She looked at her skin and at the 
 lines round her eyes. It was horrible that she should 
 be growing old. Her husband might come to care 
 for her less. Already she fancied now and again that 
 he preferred Vivian's company to hers. She had sat 
 down before the glass and pondered her troubles until 
 she had grown very sorry for herself. Tears had stolen 
 into her eyes and had coursed down her cheeks. She 
 had drawn the blinds and locked the door, and had 
 then telephoned to the kitchen that she had a headache, 
 that she was not to be disturbed, and that Mr Blundell 
 was to come to her directly he came in. Then she had 
 lain down on her bed and had fallen asleep. It was true 
 that she was growing older, but her other troubles were 
 all purely fanciful. 
 
 Gerard went at once to his wife's room, to the room 
 that he shared with her. She was still asleep and he 
 
24 BITTERSWEET 
 
 had to wake her with his knocking before he could 
 gain admittance. She had forgotten the sorrows that 
 had kept her indoors ; her headache was gone. But she 
 looked a little dishevelled, tumbled, certainly not at 
 her best. 
 
 " Why, Mary, youVe got a headache again. I'm so 
 sorry ; and Fd thought we should have time for a little 
 tennis before dinner. You lie down and Fll go and play 
 with Vivian, or we'll walk down to meet Dickie. Do 
 rest anyhow, because I have a lot to talk to you about 
 after the children have gone to bed." 
 
 " No, talk to me now. My headache has quite gone, 
 and if it's something annoying it will be a good thing 
 to get it over." 
 
 " It is rather annoying, but it isn't serious. What 
 gave you your headache, dear ? " 
 
 " Basil and the servants. You'll have to deal with 
 that boy, Gerard. He's getting beyond me. He doesn't 
 pay any attention to what I say. I don't think you 
 back me up enough. I have told him again and again 
 that he must not play ball against the side of the house 
 — and now he's broken a window." 
 
 " I know — Vivian told me. It doesn't matter much. 
 A window's soon mended. But which one is it ? " 
 
 "It's the one over your desk." 
 
 Gerard's face darkened. It pleased him less well that 
 something of his own should be touched. 
 
 " Wait a moment, and I'll go down and settle with 
 him." And he was gone, to send the offending child 
 incontinently to bed. Why, in the name of patience, 
 should he be so worried ? Here he came home from his 
 
BITTERSWEET 25 
 
 work tired out and he had promptly to cope with one 
 difficulty and another. Why couldn't Mary settle these 
 little things herself? Now he would have to hear about 
 some petty delinquencies of the maids, and then, instead 
 of getting out with V^ivian, he'd have to sit and talk 
 over the doctor's opinion and to discuss the question 
 of going abroad. 
 
 " Well, Mary, and what have the maids been doing 
 this time .'* "" 
 
 " I'll tell you afterwards. I want to know now what 
 this annoying thing is that you have to talk to me 
 about." 
 
 " Oh, Mary, do let us put that off till after dinner. 
 It's not so bad that it can't wait." 
 
 "That's just like you, Gerard. Yes, of course I'm 
 anxious — I always am when there's something happen- 
 ing I don't know all about. You are so inconsiderate." 
 
 " Very well." Gerard saw that it was no use attempt- 
 ing to put off his news. Although she had knov.n of 
 his little aches and pains and that he had not been 
 feeling quite himself, he had kept from his wife the 
 fact that he was going to consult a specialist. He had 
 not been exactly frightened at what he might hear, 
 
 but Well, he had always been in such good health, 
 
 the whole system of his body had worked so well 
 towards its ordained end, that the mere idea of having 
 to take a serious opinion had carried with it a vague 
 disquiet. He told her the bare outline of what he had 
 heard and of his partners' opinion in as few words as 
 possible. "The worst of it is that it'll prevent my 
 going to Bude with you all. I shall miss that — 
 
26 BITTERSWEET 
 
 and you'll be sorry too, won't you, dear ? If Fm to 
 go to Aix at once don't you think you'd better go to 
 Cornwall now instead of at the beginning of August ? 
 The rooms are sure to be vacant. Humphries will let 
 Dickie off, of course. He'll only miss six weeks of term. 
 
 That won't do him any harm at his age Why, 
 
 what's the matter, Mary ? " He jumped up and went 
 over to the side of her chair, bent down and rubbed 
 his cheek against hers. " Crying ! What for ? On my 
 word of honour there's nothing to be frightened about. 
 Dr Arbuthnot said that if I took a cure now and was 
 reasonably careful about exercise I'd get rid of the gout 
 once and for all. Please don't cry, darling. Tell me ; 
 what is it ? " He caressed her hair with his hands and 
 felt a beast^ — and felt also in the back of his mind a little 
 impatient. The day was so beautiful, and here he was 
 cooped up inside the house discussing something that was 
 already settled — and oh ! how he hated scenes. 
 
 " It isn't that I'm frightened, Jerry, But you've never 
 done a thing like that before. You never kept anything 
 back from me. Why didn't you tell me you were going 
 to the doctor ? How can I know now that you are not 
 making the best of it, that there isn't something else ? 
 If you were ill what would happen to me and the 
 children ? You treat it all so lightly." 
 
 Gerard did his best to reassure her, and succeeded. The 
 tears that irritated him so much ceased to flow. 
 
 But Mary was not satisfied. " When will you go ? " 
 
 "The day after to-morrow, I think, dear, if you can 
 get vne off so soon. The sooner the better from the office 
 point of view." 
 
BITTERSWEET 27 
 
 " Of course ; but you might think of me a little. We are 
 dining on Monday with the Brett Joneses. I shall have 
 to write to them. . . . And there are a lot of other things. 
 Still, you'd better go. Won't it cost a great deal, though ? 
 I thought those places were so expensive. Aix-les-Bains 
 is, anyway. Why couldn't he send you to a smaller, 
 quieter place ? Uncle Harry went to Contrexeville." 
 
 " I don't know, dear. He said Aix-les-Bains, and 
 I suppose I'd better take his advice. He'd have said 
 Contrexeville if he'd thought it would have been as 
 good, no doubt." 
 
 Mary shook her head, "/don't think so. These doctors 
 are all in the pay of the foreign watering-places. They 
 send you to the one they've got the best arrangements 
 with. But I wish you'd ask him if Contrexeville won't do 
 as well. It would cost much less." 
 
 " No, I won't do that, Mary. I shouldn't have the cheek. 
 Besides, he's writing to the Aix doctor about me to-night. 
 I can't alter it now. We must just make the best of it. 
 But I heard Dickie come in. Let me go out now ; I want 
 one set with him. There's time before dressing. Cheer up, 
 sweetheart. We'll be happy as grigs when August comes. 
 / don't like the idea of going to Aix, I can tell you. But 
 the six weeks will soon be over. Now give me a kiss and 
 I'll go down to the children." 
 
 " The children — the children, they're all you think of 
 nowadays." But Mary spoke without apparent bitterness 
 as she kissed her husband. 
 
 And for his part, Gerard thought that he had got 
 through rather easily. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE Savoys Express swung round the bend at 
 the foot of Lac du Bourget, and Gerard, 
 watching the beauty of mountain and lake 
 unfold itself before his eyes, drew his breath in wonder. 
 For the moment, that he was alone was the one flaw in 
 his pleasure. If only Mary could have shared these 
 impressions with him, or if he could have pointed out 
 each fresh interest to Vivian his child ! 
 
 Later, in Aix itself, as he unpacked in the gathering 
 twilight and arranged his things for his three weeks of 
 solitude, he felt unhappy, almost abandoned. As far as 
 he knew he had neither friend nor acquaintance in the 
 place. Mary's miniature he had put on the night table 
 at the side of the bed, flanked by a copy of "Round 
 the Corner" which he had tried to read in the train, 
 and with which he had found himself out of patience ; 
 on the mantelpiece was a folding case containing the 
 photographs of his three children and the leather- 
 covered travelling-clock that his wife had given him 
 at Charing Cross just before he had started : by its side 
 were other books, books that he was always intending 
 to read or to read again — " Tom Jones," the first two 
 
BITTERSWEET 29 
 
 volumes of Bury's Gibbon," The Way of All Flesh," "The 
 Varieties of Religious Experience," " Sandra Belloni," 
 "The House of Soulsj^a play of Shakespeare, and a volume 
 of Shelley's early poems. He looked at them and smiled 
 in doubt of whether even here, where he would have no 
 serious distractions, he should ever master their contents. 
 All of them had at one time or another been on fruit- 
 less journeys with him. For some reason he had read 
 so much less since he had come down from Oxford. 
 But here — well, here he would have nothing to do but 
 read. The cure wouldn't make for exercise. His 
 friends had told him that, at first at least, he would 
 find it depressing, lowering. And already indeed the 
 mere facts of being here with no one to talk to, of the 
 night falling, of being cut off from his interests, from 
 his work, from his home, of having to follow a strange 
 new routine, clouded his spirit. He felt that had he 
 the courage he would return to London incontinently — 
 that very night, indeed : yes, there was a train ; he had 
 looked — and that he would tell Dr Arbuthnot that he 
 was sure the cure was worse than the disease and that 
 he'd get better in Pall Mall and Wimbledon with the 
 help of his own energy rather than spend twenty-one 
 days in so alien, so remote a world. 
 
 Nor did a further investigation of the building in 
 which he was to live his next three weeks do anything 
 to cheer him. It was so early in the season that few 
 of its usual English visitors had arrived. The ornate 
 dining-room of the hotel had a chill, damp air ; the 
 half-dozen people who were already at dinner when he 
 came down looked at him with apparent suspicion, 
 
30 BITTERSWEET 
 
 seemed to resent the fact that he was late. The head 
 waiter struck him as a particularly unpleasant specimen 
 of his German type. No, it was to be regretted that 
 Monsieur couldn't have the little table by the window. 
 Oh yes, certainly he could sit there to-night, but it was 
 engaged for the morrow by old clients of the hotel. 
 
 Gerard chose another table, against the wall and 
 removed as far as possible from the tables that were 
 already occupied. He remembered that after to-night 
 he would have to follow a strict diet. Certainly there 
 was nothing on the menu of the hotel dinner that 
 would help to make of it a last feast. Perhaps, he 
 thought to himself, he had been a fool not to go out on 
 this his first night in the place to one or other of the 
 ambitious restaurants that he knew Aix could boast. 
 He might then have felt less homesick. He wondered 
 whether he would not after all have been wiser if he 
 had brought Mary with him. But no, Mary would not 
 have liked it ; and even if she had, even if she could 
 have reconciled herself to the expense, there would have 
 been the difficulty about the children. Her mother 
 could no doubt have been induced, would perhaps have 
 been glad, to come and look after them, but — well, both 
 he and Mary were in complete agreement that within 
 limits the less the children saw of their grandmother 
 the better : she spoiled them. And so no doubt it was 
 all for the best that he had come away by himself. 
 Twenty-two days and nights would pass, even if they 
 passed slowly, and Aix, though it was the beginning of 
 the season, had surely some gaieties with which to 
 amuse its visitors. But he wouldn't look for them 
 
BITTERSWEET 31 
 
 to-night. The journey from Pai-is had tired him ; he 
 would go to bed and sleep. The physician to whom 
 Dr Arbuthnot had commended him was to call betimes 
 in the morning. Gerard had warned him of his imminent 
 arrival, and had found a note waiting in the hotel. He 
 had been told to stop in bed till Docteur Ribot came 
 about nine o'clock — a stupid instruction, he thought, 
 suggesting that he was actually ill and in need of great 
 care rather than a little run-down and requiring merely 
 a brief and gentle treatment. 
 
 Monsieur le Docteur Ribot took no more serious 
 view of Gerard BlundelFs case than Dr Arbuthnot had 
 done, but he subjected him to a much more searching 
 examination, pounding and sounding him, investigating 
 organ after organ, till his patient, not generally pos- 
 sessed of an intolerant spirit, wished him and Aix and 
 all their works at the bottom of the lake. 
 
 "There is not very much the matter with you, 
 Monsieur Blundell — nothing we can't put right in two 
 or three weeks' treatment. When you've done what I tell 
 you for a while and have had three weeks' rest on top of 
 it — well, you'll be able to go home to your work and, 
 with luck, not be troubled again for years." 
 
 " Two or three weeks, Monsieur ? May I hope that 
 two will do ? " 
 
 Docteur Ribot smiled. " No, I'm afraid not : that 
 was my manner of speaking. You'll be here for three 
 weeks from to-day — for you'll begin your cure at once." 
 
 " But the after-cure — is that absolutely necessary .''" 
 
 " I think it will be. If you go straight back to London 
 
32 BITTERSWEET 
 
 and your ordinary life from Aix you'll undo half the 
 good that I'm going to do you. No, I shall send you 
 somewhere or other, no doubt, and you'll finish the cure 
 off properly — but we needn't bother about that now. 
 Give me some notepaper, if you please : I will write 
 you some prescriptions, and I'll put down exactly how 
 you are to arrange your time." 
 
 The instructions, when Gerard came to read them, 
 didn't seem so terrible. To-day he was to go to the 
 bath-house at eleven, but ordinarily he was to be up 
 at six-thirty to be carried down to his bath by porters 
 whom Docteur Ribot promised he w-ould provide ; there 
 he was to be massaged and pummelled and douched, 
 and he was to be carried back to bed, where he was to 
 stop till hard on lunch-time, sleeping the while if he 
 found it possible, " I can always sleep," Gerard inter- 
 polated. His diet was to be very restricted, and he 
 was to be prepared to feel very tired, weary, played 
 out. " But that will pass if you do exactly what I tell 
 you. Above all, try not to be bored. I needn't say 
 that I don't want you to stop up till what you English 
 call the small hours playing baccarat at the Grand 
 Cercle, but there is no reason why you shouldn't amuse 
 yourself reasonably in the evening. Go to the theatre ; 
 listen to the music. Don't go to bed too late, and take 
 all the fresh air you can. I shall see you again to-morrow 
 at about this time." 
 
 Left alone, Gerard turned over in bed and looked 
 out of the windows at the hard line made by the 
 mountains against the blue sky. It was a beautiful 
 place ; he did not see why he should not pass the time 
 
BITTERSWEET 33 
 
 pleasantly enough even though he was alone. For the 
 moment all he had to do was to wait for the porters 
 to come and fetch him. He would sit up in bed and 
 write to Mary to supplement, with a description of what 
 Docteur Ribot had said, the brief note telling her of 
 his arrival that he had sent over night. And then he 
 wrote to Vivian, a long rambling letter describing the 
 Channel-crossing, his night in Paris, the odd people in 
 the train, the lake and the mountains, and how curious 
 it was to be waiting for someone to carry him through 
 the streets to his bath. , . . The second letter was a 
 far more interesting one than the first : it was written 
 with less effort and with more pleasure ; he knew that 
 Vivian would understand all that he had to tell her, 
 that she would misapprehend nothing. With Mary, 
 now, it had been different, He had had to pick and 
 choose his words, to ask himself what effect each 
 intended sentence would have on her mind before he 
 could trust himself to write it down. It was not that 
 she would be unreasonable, but her very love for him 
 and his love for her had built up during these years 
 of living together a certain unacknowledged restraint. 
 He had been aw^ay from her hardly at all since they 
 were married, certainly never for moi'e than a few days 
 — it was not experience but intuition that told him 
 that his intelligence must not sleep when he wrote 
 to her. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 HIS first day at Aix left Gerard with a sense 
 of agreeable boredom. The sunshine of the 
 morning, when he was in bed, had given 
 place to a gentle rain in the afternoon, when, having 
 had his first experience of a bath and its attendant 
 manipulations of his unaccustomed body, and having 
 eaten the uninteresting meal which Docteur Ribot had 
 ordered, he was at liberty to walk about and explore. 
 He could see that the place had possibilities, but for 
 the moment at least it was, under grey skies, dull rather 
 than gay, a resort of invalids rather than the haunt of 
 fashion. He hoped that the next few days would 
 liven things up. After all, one came to Aix in pre- 
 ference to a dozen other and less known cures because 
 it was smart, cheerful, and because lots of people who 
 had nothing whatever the matter with them had given 
 it the reputation of an inland Monte Carlo, a continu- 
 ally amusing Vanity Fair. He was frank enough with 
 himself to know that his reason for not at once acced- 
 ing to Mary's suggestion that he should try to get 
 Dr Arbuthnot's permission to go to Contrexeville 
 instead of to Aix was that as he was to be alone he 
 
BITTERSWEET 35 
 
 would be less dull in a town which laid itself out to 
 entertain as well as to cure, and in which he could, 
 within the limits imposed by the treatment, lead what 
 to him would be an entirely new kind of life, surrounded 
 by amused and amusing crowds doing things which 
 were never done in England, in a way which to an 
 English observer would be a constant source of dis- 
 traction. And now apparently^, judging by to-day's 
 experience, the weather, and the visitors to his hotel, 
 he was by no means to get what he had bargained 
 for : he might almost as well have gone to Droitwich 
 or to Bath. 
 
 Still, there was something rather pleasant and idle 
 about the programme that had been laid down for him. 
 To have no other duties than the six-thirty visit to his 
 bath, the nine o'clock visit of his physician, and the 
 necessity of catching the evening post to England — for 
 he would write to his wife every day — meant that he 
 could be as lazy as he chose, that he could sleep all day 
 in his room or, when the sun came, in the garden of 
 the hotel ; that he could read or pretend to read ; and 
 that when the whim seized him he could go about 
 and see the neighbourhood, visit Annecy and Chambery, 
 and even go as far afield as Grenoble and the Grande 
 Chartreuse. He need not and would not bother about 
 the other people in the hotel. " Is this your first visit 
 to Aix ? " an Englishman, with an untidy, noncon- 
 formist beard, had sidled up to him and asked as, 
 just before going up to dress for dinner, Gerard had 
 perched himself for a moment on the balcony rail 
 and looked out over the tennis-courts to the hills 
 
36 BITTERSWEET 
 
 beyond. " Taking the cure, I suppose ? So am I. My 
 sixth year. Ifs a change after Sheffield, but ifs a bit 
 lonely till one makes friends. Fll show you a few 
 things if you like — you're alone, aren't you ? Person- 
 ally, I always do exactly what my doctor tells me. Who 
 do you go to ? Ribot — oh ! well, I don't know any- 
 thing about him, but I'm sure you'd be wise to change. 
 Everyone says that Docteur Vignon is the best here. 
 Let me speak to him about you. Shall I ?" 
 
 Gerard explained politely that he had come to Aix 
 on the advice of his own English doctor and that he 
 had been told to place himself under Docteur Ribot, 
 and that, even if he wanted it, he did not quite see how 
 a change could be effected. Mr Champion — for that 
 was the name of the untidy nonconformist — was not to 
 be so easily rebuffed. "That's a pity. The cure here 
 can do a lot of harm if your man doesn't understand 
 you — and there are as many stupid doctors in Aix as in 
 England, and the fools in London and the fools here 
 play into one another's hands. I hope you'll be all 
 right though. I don't suppose you want to go down 
 there much at night-time " — and he waved his hand in 
 the direction of the two casinos ; " I went once, and 
 I didn't like it. No, sir, it astonishes me the way the 
 French go on and the things they allow — but no 
 matter : one needn't share in it. And this hotel's good 
 enough for me in the evening. Of course, it's empty 
 now ; it'll be crowded in a fortnight. They play bridge 
 a lot. I don't. I play patience. And the music isn't 
 bad sometimes. There's a girl here now with her 
 mother — Goddard their name is: I'll introduce you — 
 
 i 
 
BITTERSWEET 37 
 
 who sings rather well. Between you and me and the 
 doorpost I think she's here to get married. It's time, 
 although she isn't bad-looking." He looked Gerard up 
 and down. " You'll suit them, I should think. They'll 
 know all about you before you've been in the place three 
 days, and then you'll have to look out for yourself. They 
 were here last year, and the year before, so I know them 
 pretty well. Nice, though. Shall we go somewhere to- 
 gether to-morrow afternoon ? — it'll be fine, you see. No. 
 Perhaps you're right. At the beginning of the cure it's 
 best to be quiet. But I'll be glad to do something with 
 you any day you like. My room's near yours — number 
 forty-three. See you to-night, too." 
 
 Devoutly hoping that it was the fact that he had only 
 just arrived, and that Mr Champion had so far found 
 few other visitors on whom to exercise his geniality, 
 which explained this unwelcome onslaught, Gerard went 
 up to his room and dressed at his leisure. His trouble- 
 some friend greeted him when he entered the restaurant, 
 and looked as if he was going to ask him to share his 
 table, and Gerard had hurriedly to search his mind for a 
 plausible, a not too obvious, excuse ; but Mr Champion 
 apparently thought better of it, very likely thought that 
 it would be a pity to compromise himself too deeply before 
 he saw what other visitors the next few days might pro- 
 duce. Gerard had gone to his own place and had read 
 and had eaten, and when his dinner was at an end had 
 looked into the drawing-room, had identified without 
 interest or pleasure Miss Goddard and her mother, and 
 had gone upstairs and to bed. If he was to be called at 
 half-past six it would do him no harm to be asleep by ten. 
 
38 BITTERSWEET 
 
 Gerard sank into slumber thinking pleasantly of 
 the fact that one day out of twenty- one had passed, 
 and believing vaguely that since, as far as he had seen, 
 the atmosphere of Aix was the reverse of exhilarating 
 and gay, he would be able to sleep through the greater 
 part of his cure. He had always been able to sleep. 
 While other men of his time sat on into the small 
 hours, he had, as soon as ten o"'clock was past, always 
 fidgeted for his bed. He and Mary, save when some 
 form of Wimbledon gaiety or a visit to town had kept 
 them up, were in the habit of finishing their day, he 
 closing his book, she folding her knitting or her sewing, 
 at ten. And he would sleep till he was called. . . . On 
 this second night at Aix, however, he woke while it 
 was still dark. Turning on his light, he found that it 
 still wanted four hours to the time when he would have 
 to rise. He composed himself to sleep again, but sleep 
 would not come. He lay there wondering what had 
 happened to him. He felt neither ill nor tired nor 
 energetic. Knowing nothing by experience of insomnia, 
 he fancied that something must have gone wrong, or 
 that he must have been wakened by some noise that 
 his senses did not remember. Whatever it was managed 
 to keep him awake, just awake, uncomfortably on the 
 wrong side of consciousness. The curtains covered the 
 windows inadecjuatelv ; soon they were outlined by the 
 gathering dawn ; then the sun crept round their edges. 
 After a while he gave up the struggle, and taking up 
 his book read till he was called, consoling himself with 
 the thought that no doubt the sudden change to a 
 mouutain atmosphere was responsible for this aberration, 
 
BITTERSWEET 39 
 
 and that it was not likely to be repeated. Anyhow, 
 it was a fine day. 
 
 When he came back from his bath and was once more 
 in bed, his breakfast was brought to him, and immedi- 
 ately afterwards his letters and the London papers. A 
 letter from his wife and a letter from Vivian said nothing 
 that was of the slightest interest. They missed him — of 
 course. There was no word from Pall Mall : his partners 
 had assured him that not even a serious crisis in the firm's 
 affairs would make them break in on his cure. He would 
 have welcomed any news. He wondered how certain nego- 
 tiations, not very important but still interesting in their 
 way, which he had initiated and which Pontifex had 
 promised to carry through, were progressing. Well, he 
 would have to wonder. And the newspapers were no more 
 amusing than his letters. . . . After a while he fell asleep, 
 and woke unrefreshed and very bored with life at half- 
 past eleven. The fine day had gone to pieces again. 
 
 Lunch over he walked down to the Grand Cercle 
 and took out a subscription for a month, looked at the 
 dull papers that were so pretentiously arranged in the 
 reading-room, and ascertained that before he could go 
 into the cercle prive he must produce his passport. He 
 could do that to-night, when he would hear the concert. 
 Dinner was the same uninspired meal, and he could 
 hardly put his hand on his heart and say that the 
 concert had given him pleasure. He was one of those 
 unfortunate people who care only for bad or indifferent 
 music or for good music which had grown familiar. The 
 entertainment, however, served one good purpose : it 
 kept him out of bed till close on midnight. 
 
40 BITTERSWEET 
 
 But that night he slept no better and was awake almost 
 as soon as it was light. Docteur Ribot, to whom he com- 
 plained in the morning, said that it was often so at the 
 beginning of the cure, that he must expect it, and that 
 it would be better to put up with it. "Of course, if it 
 goes on I can give you a sleeping draught, but I don't 
 want to — no, better not, better not,"" and he went away 
 leaving Gerard with the impression that he didn't care 
 a damn whether his patient slept or not, that perhaps 
 after all his case was misunderstood and the so-called 
 cure would do him more harm than good. 
 
 "I can't stand this for another nineteen days. I shall 
 go mad," he said to himself. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 WISER counsels prevailed. Gerard remembered 
 he had been warned that the first days of his 
 cure would be very depressing, dull, relax- 
 ing. They certainly were. Of course it was possible that 
 Docteur Ribot was treating him wrongly ; it was possible 
 that he was only being kept at Aix and tied down to 
 this dull routine in order that he might add to the 
 physician's income. But he had the sense to know that 
 both these things were unlikely. He would look even a 
 greater fool than he felt if he went back to England 
 without giving Aix and its doctors a chance. Mary 
 would have the opportunity of her life : she would never 
 forget that he had chucked away all that money for 
 nothing. And his partners. . . . No, he would have to 
 stick it out. Perhaps if he wasn't so damnably unsocial 
 he might get some distraction out of Champion, put of 
 Mrs Goddard, and out of her daughter with her fresh, 
 warm skin, her firm neck, and her vacuous, rather chin- 
 less face. But there he was again — seeing quite ordinary 
 people in terms of aversion. How could he expect to 
 enjoy himself? Anyhow, it was too late now. He had 
 snubbed Champion, and he had no reason for supposing 
 
42 BITTERSWEET 
 
 that the other guests, those he had seen anyhow, were 
 either amusing or inteUigent. Still, even with these 
 handicaps that he had made for himself with his intoler- 
 ance and his temperament, he wouki be a fool indeed if 
 he could not entertain himself, if he could not make life 
 tolerable, for nineteen days. It was not as if he didn't 
 like walking, as if he didn't appreciate scenery. Why, 
 people came to Aix for its beauty, and they came, too, 
 because of its gaiety. 
 
 That afternoon Gerard walked under a grey sky the 
 whole straight length of the road to Viviers and back, 
 and found it dull, dull and tiring. He had taken no 
 real exercise for days, and going back to his room he felt 
 so sleepy that he enjoyed half an hour's nap before 
 dinner . . . but he didn't enjoy waking up; and when 
 later on he went again to the concert he was in no 
 proper mood to take pleasure even in the music that he 
 knew. Truth was that he could not support these solitary 
 hours ; he felt more than he realised the need of the 
 society he relied on, the absence of conversation, of 
 cheerful chatter : he was not used to being alone. If Mary 
 had been with him or one of his partners or one of the 
 friends of his Oxford days he would have been ajnused 
 with watching the stupid game of ho^de and the stupid 
 dull people losing their francs. Alone, the thing had no 
 savour, no spirit. It appeared to him, who had seen no 
 public gambling and had gambled hardly at all in private, 
 an easy game to win money at ; he even went to the 
 length of adventuring and losing a few francs with a 
 sense of sin, with discomfort and with the knowledge 
 that he had no margin for such extravangances. Then, 
 
BITTERSWEET 43 
 
 paying a subscription that it seemed ridiculous that he 
 should pay, and yet salving his conscience with the re- 
 flection that after all he must see what there was to see, 
 and that he must provide himself with some means of 
 diversion in these later hours of the evening when it was 
 hopeless to attempt to sleep, he went into the salons 
 privh of the Cercle and looked at, without at all under- 
 standing, the baccarat. These elderly men with impassive 
 faces whom he supposed to be " taking the bank " and 
 who would call out numbers and show their cards as if 
 the whole thing was rather a bore than otherwise ; a 
 group of young Englishmen who laughed too much 
 when they put money on the table and much too much 
 when fate enabled them to take it off again ; a fat, tall 
 American whose clothes were too good, whose moustache 
 was too carefully arranged, who looked the embodiment 
 of false geniality, and who was evidently somebody of 
 importance ; the few ladies of a kind to which he wasn*'t 
 accustomed, dressed with an exquisite skill that he had 
 never seen in London, and whose lack of virtue he scented 
 rather than suspected — all these people seemed to be 
 like actors in a play, and, in a haze of tobacco smoke, 
 hardly real. He watched thousands of francs change 
 hands, but without excitement, without interest. Cer- 
 tainly his little losses at the smaller game outside had 
 killed all temptation to try his luck again. Besides, 
 the stakes ran higher here. And he remembered that 
 Pontifex had lost a lot of money in this very place. Well, 
 he wouldn't do that. 
 
 He looked at his watch ; it was already one oY-lock. 
 It would be nearly two before he would get to bed. 
 
44 BITTERSWEET 
 
 Surely to-night he'd sleep. But he felt dull rather than 
 
 tired. 
 
 Getting his coat and hat, Gerard stood for a moment 
 at the gate of the Grand Cercle and looked about him. 
 There was a little moon and a heavy bank of clouds. The 
 sky promised rain. The porter wanted to call him a 
 carriage but, although he had no umbrella, he refused. 
 In the first place, he wished to walk ; and in the second, 
 the carriage would cost more than he would like to spend. 
 His hotel was not twenty minutes away. The rain would 
 keep off surely. He would chance it. 
 
 Three minutes from the door of the Casino the first 
 drops fell. Gerard turned up his coat collar and hoped 
 that they would come to nothing. Then, with the sud- 
 denness that Aix knows, the rain came down ; he had 
 hardly time to find shelter under the glass awning of a 
 cafe before the street was streaming with water, the 
 gutters running little torrents. And now there were no 
 cabs to be seen, and the moon was eclipsed : it looked 
 as if it might rain for hours. " Hell ! " he said to him- 
 self, and wondered how long his patience would allow 
 him to stand there being splashed with the water falling 
 in sheets from the edge of the screen. There was no refuge 
 in the cafe. It was closed tight : he could j ust see through 
 the doors chairs and tables piled one on top of another. 
 Even in the little while it would take him to get back 
 to the Casino he would get wet through. No, that wasn't 
 to be attempted. I'erhaps directly an empty carriage 
 might come. 
 
 Ten minutes passed and no cabman had offered to 
 drive him home. He was just making up his angry mind 
 
BITTERSWEET 45 
 
 that he had no choice but to sacrifice his coat, his dress 
 suit, his shoes and his hat — and that would be the devil 
 of a business : he had no others in Aix to fall back on 
 — when at last a carriage did arrive at a door only a 
 few paces from where he stood. Evidently it had come 
 from the Grand Cercle. Gerard could see its passengers 
 alight, protected one by one as they scurried into shelter 
 by the huge umbrella of a chasseur who had sprung from 
 nowhere. As the door opened he could hear music, and 
 bright light shone across the wet pavement. He realised 
 then that next to the cafe was a restaurant that he had 
 noticed that very evening, a gay, coquette little place 
 that he had thought of dining in one night. Now it was 
 serving an even more useful purpose. He could take the 
 carriage of these late revellers — and he whistled to the 
 driver. His difficulties, however, were not to be so simply 
 resolved. The Frenchman looked at him and grinned, 
 lifting his half-open hand and waving it to and fro as if 
 in deprecation of any more attempts at getting his 
 attention. Gerard understood. The man had to wait for 
 the fares who had just left him. And it was raining 
 harder than ever. 
 
 But, after all, there was no need to get wet. Where 
 these other people had gone he could go. Why a 
 restaurant should be open at half-past one he didn't 
 know, but he could go in and get a drink and a sandwich, 
 and by the time he was ready to leave the rain might 
 have stopped. He whistled again to the driver and held 
 up a franc, shouting as he did so in the best French of 
 which he was capable : 
 
 ^'' Knvoyez le chasseur la avec son omhrelle.'''' 
 
46 BITTERSWEET 
 
 The Frenchman either couldn't or wouldn't under- 
 stand. Gerard had to shout explanations. At length 
 the facts seemed to penetrate through the layers of 
 waterproof with which the driver was enveloped, or 
 perhaps the light shone on the franc that was being 
 held up. " Bien,'''' he cried, and flicked the door with his 
 whip. The chasseur appeared again, and, after a word 
 with his friend, took in the situation and came to Gerard's 
 rescue. His huge umbrella was big enough to shelter 
 them both. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 AS a compliment to its English clients the restaur- 
 / % ant which Gerard had entered is called the 
 X .m. Piccadilly. Its proprietor is an Italian, its 
 motto Fay ce que vouldras, its reputation — well, it is 
 a place to which, after winning considerable sums in 
 the Casino or after losing everything but a louis or two, 
 the gambler resorts to drink champagne, to dance, 
 to make perhaps the acquaintance of a pretty woman 
 to whom his hard work at the green tables had so far 
 prevented his paying attention. Ladies often insist on 
 being taken to it out of curiosity or a sense of adventure. 
 Generally they find it dull. 
 
 And dull, certainly, it was to-night, dull and empty. 
 
 As Gerard entered he was for a moment dazzled by 
 the light. Also he had, from the very minute that a 
 tumbled and obsequious cloak-room attendant insisted, 
 in spite of his protests, on taking his coat and hat, a 
 sense that he was adventuring in what was for him a 
 new and in some way unseemly world. Not that he knew 
 anything of the place that need give him pause. He had 
 heard often enough of night restaurants in Paris and 
 had read of them, but it never occurred to him that he 
 
 47 
 
48 BITTERSWEET 
 
 would find one here in Aix, and even if it had, he would, 
 no doubt, quite carelessly, have taken shelter. His life 
 had been a simple one. Even a wine merchant can re- 
 main unspotted from the world. It was literally true 
 that Mary was the first woman Gerard had ever loved. 
 He had flirted at his college balls at Oxford, but nothing 
 had come of his little affairs ; nothing was intended to 
 come of them. A certain shyness, the shrinking of his 
 spirit, had kept him from experience. 
 
 The guests who had preceded Gerard into the Picca- 
 dilly had, he saw at once, the place to themselves. They 
 were two men and a woman — all three of them people 
 he had seen an hour before. They w^ere sitting in a 
 corner under a balcony screened from the rest of the hall 
 by a couple of marble pillars. It was a chamber not 
 without some architectural charm, even with some 
 dignity. All around were small tables prepared for 
 visitors whom perhaps the bad weather had kept away, 
 and at one end was an orchestra that even Gerard re- 
 cognised as beyond calculation bad. It was working 
 hard playing rag-time, each musician a law unto him- 
 self, noisy but perfunctory. But not the three guests, 
 not the empty tables, not the proprietor with his sleek 
 hands and false smile, not the turbulent orchestra held 
 Gerard's attention : what mostly he saw were the half 
 dozen costumed dancers who, just for four visitors, were 
 circling the room. Two were men, a youth with oiled 
 yellow hair and a dirty Spaniard, the rest women, of an 
 age uncertain as they moved, but graceful, skilful. . . . 
 
 Gerard was interrupted in his watching of the scene 
 by Monsieur Piaci, the proprietor, who insisted that his 
 
BITTERSWEET 49 
 
 guest must have a good table and who, misinterpreting 
 his hesitation and fearing to lose his. fish, began to ex- 
 plain that it was still early, that directly there would be 
 plenty of other visitors, that it would be very gay. He 
 himself pressed the wine list into Gerard's hand and 
 waited for his order. 
 
 " Oh, give me a whiskey-and-soda and a sandwich of 
 some sort." 
 
 " Pardon, Monsieur, but we only serve wine for supper. 
 We have to make a rule : the expenses are so heavy." 
 
 Half inclined to get up and go away, but remember- 
 ing the rain and disliking to appear mean, Gerard opened 
 the list and almost at random asked for half a bottle of 
 the first Moselle that he recognised, and that he also 
 recognised was priced at about four times its proper 
 restaurant value. 
 
 " I am sorry. Monsieur, but we have only bottles. I 
 will bring Monsieur a bottle — and a tongue sandwich," 
 — and he was gone before any remonstrance, or any re- 
 quest for a half bottle of something else, could reach 
 his ears. 
 
 " Well, ifs lucky that Fve got a couple of louis in my 
 pocket," Gerard said, feeling to be sure that he had made 
 no mistake. "Apparently Fm to pay for my shelter 
 and my experience. Eighteen francs for a bottle of 
 Piesporter of no stated year is about the limit. I won't 
 come here again, that's certain." He turned to look at 
 the dancers. 
 
 Already the spring had gone out of their movements. 
 At the moment that guests had arrived they had begun to 
 dance, but the hour or so that they had had to wait, dull 
 
 4 
 
50 BITTERSWEET 
 
 and unoccupied, had damped their fire. Now slowly the 
 measure dropped to nothing, like one of those toy pigs 
 or chickens which children inflate and then allow to 
 shrink and fade till they fall to the ground. But Gerard 
 had time to see that their dancing was no evasion. Even 
 the two men could dance, with a nervous, almost epilep- 
 tic energy which their partners did their best to equal. 
 The third couple interested him most. A young girl, 
 looking perhaps nineteen, whose laughing yellow curls 
 shook above her shoulders, and whose blue eyes found 
 and held his with impertinent curiosity, was dancing 
 with another whose age w^as perhaps a year or two more, 
 a girl of a different type, serious, almost tragic faced. 
 The music stopped ; the two who were at the other 
 end of the hall separated, and the one whom Gerard 
 took to be the younger trotted lightly in her very short 
 tartan skirts to his table and sat herself down with no 
 more by-your-leave than " Oh, I'm thirsty : quick, give 
 me something to drink. You will let me sit here, won"'t 
 you.?" 
 
 Whether he blushed or not Gerard could not have 
 told. He was extremely surprised and profoundly em- 
 barrassed. Here was a situation for which neither by 
 experience nor by taste was he equipped. What should 
 one do in such a position ? He could hardly bring him- 
 self to send the young woman away, but he could with 
 difficulty reconcile himself to her remaining where she 
 was, at his table, at his table where anyone might see 
 her and misunderstand. Luckily there was practically 
 nobody in the place. He supposed he would have to put 
 up with her with as good a grace, with as much politeness, 
 
BITTERSWEET 51 
 
 as he was capable of. He poured out and gave her a 
 glass of his Moselle. She made an ugly face. 
 
 " I don't much like that wine. However, it'll do. And 
 now something to eat, please." 
 
 The waiter coming at that moment with the sand- 
 wich, Gerard gave it to her and ordered another for 
 himself. 
 
 And now he felt that he would be justified in looking 
 at his guest, from whom, in his shyness and ignorance 
 of the right way to behave, he had been averting his 
 gaze. 
 
 More than nineteen, he thought to himself, but not 
 very much more ; that tangle of curls was real, and she 
 didn't look vicious or stained, but gay and young-hearted, 
 even simple. He could see that her skin was powder- 
 coated : especially now did it show when her forehead 
 was beaded with sweat ; but her smile was natural and 
 candid. The little tell-tale lines around her eyes were 
 almost alone in suggesting that experience was here as 
 well as youth, knowledge as well as charm. Her thin 
 shouLiers, covered discreetly with a white blouse, were 
 finely drawn and well proportioned. She looked in good 
 health. And what could he say to her ? She talked 
 English evidently, was English or American perhaps. 
 But how was he to interest her for the few minutes that 
 she would remain his guest ? He did owe her some polite- 
 ness, he felt. 
 
 The girl broke the silence : 
 
 "You don't look very cheerful. Perhaps you have 
 been losing money ? You'd have done better to have 
 come here and given it to us. However, it's not too 
 
52 BITTERSWEET 
 
 late."" She paused, and Gerard asked her if she was 
 
 English or American. 
 
 " Neither; French — Parisian. I've worked in America, 
 though ; danced there a whole year, in New York and 
 all over — with my sister : there she is," and she pointed 
 out a girl who was talking to the people at the only 
 other occupied table. " She's older than I am — a year 
 older. We were called 'The Two Forget-me-nots' in 
 America, and we had lots of success. Why didn't we stop 
 there ? Oh, we wanted to come home and see the folks. 
 Besides, I didn't like the travelling, and we can make more 
 money in Paris. Oh no, we don't get paid anything here, 
 but people pay us to dance with them. You'll dance 
 directly. And for sitting at their table too. But this 
 year everything's rotten so far. The season hasn't begun, 
 of course. You're about the only boy I've seen — and 
 I've been here three days." 
 
 Gerard winced at being called a " boy " : it reminded 
 him of his undergraduate days and foolish gossip with 
 barmaids. He would have liked to have told his com- 
 panion that people who knew how to behave didn't talk 
 of " boys," and indeed the sentence j,was on the tip of 
 his tongue ; but instead he asked her name : 
 
 " Oh, Sybil — Sybil Murray. My sister's called Claire. 
 She'll come over directly. She likes English boys," and 
 she looked round ; and then with " Pardon, a minute," 
 she ran off to speak to her sister, leaving Gerard in con- 
 siderable discomfort of mind. One young woman of 
 this strange species he might be able to manage — but 
 two ; no ! And perhaps they'd want more wine — he 
 looked at the half-full bottle that remained — and more 
 
BITTERSWEET 53 
 
 to eat ; and she had spoken of people paying her for 
 sitting at their table. Two louis and three or four francs 
 were all that he had about him. He might spare her 
 five francs. But he had a doubt whether that would 
 satisfy her. Well, he must get out of it as quick as ever 
 he could. It was an experience any way, even though a 
 costly one. Exactly what did the girl expect of him in 
 the way of money and attention .'' And how pretty she 
 was, and how graceful. He had watched her little feet 
 and slim ankles tripping across the room. It was a shame 
 that she should be in a place like this. 
 
 Minutes passed, and Gerard began, not without some 
 disappointment of spirit, to think it likely that he was 
 to be left alone, that his new friend had tried him and 
 had found him wanting. She had disappeared now. He 
 couldn't help being sorry. He had liked her ; had been 
 interested in her. There was, he felt sure, more in her 
 than the ordinary visitor to such a place would realise. 
 Her prettiness, her grace, were not all she had. He 
 wondered how much of simplicity, how much that was 
 real, was still left in her character. He wished she had 
 come back, because he would have liked to talk to her, to 
 learn more about her. No, he didn't think he could 
 reclaim her. For one thing, it wasn't his business — he 
 could not afford in his position to start on any enter- 
 prise of that kind ; for another, perhaps she didn't need 
 reclaiming — there might be nothing to reclaim her from. 
 All the same — well, where could such a life lead ? He 
 wished she had come back. As things were he wasn't 
 likely to see her again. He wouldn't be coming to the 
 
54 BITTERSWEET 
 
 Piccadilly a second time. . . . He sipped his poor wine 
 meditatively. It was a beastly world, he reflected. Per- 
 haps it had stopped raining and he could go home. He 
 supposed he could send the waiter to see. 
 
 But as he looked round for someone to despatch on 
 this quest Sybil Murray reappeared. She was not alone : 
 her arm was round the waist of the girl with whom lately 
 he had seen her dancing. Together they crossed the 
 hall to his table, his friend smiling, her companion with 
 a face not smiling at all, but impassive, still : she seemed 
 as she approached to examine him impersonally, as if 
 he were an object of a kind to which she was not very 
 used but which might be worth investigation. Gerard 
 felt his eyes drawn to hers. He saw that they not 
 only looked but were serious. He was, however, allowed 
 little time. 
 
 " I tell my friend there is room for her on your table. 
 There is, isn*'t there ? You know we're rather dull to- 
 night. We want cheering up. You must give us some 
 wine." 
 
 Gerard did not rise. He had a feeling that it would 
 not be the right thing to do. He smiled a welcome. 
 
 " I was afraid you weren"'t coming back, that you were 
 going to neglect me. Of course there is room for your 
 friend. But won't you introduce me?" — and then he 
 could have bitten off his tongue. How could he, whose 
 name Sybil Murray didn't know, be introduced ? But he 
 need have had no fear. 
 
 "This is Illona. She's not French. I don't know 
 what she is. She's a good camarade. And she likes 
 English boys, too." 
 
BITTERSWEET 55 
 
 The stranger girl held out her hand : " Enchanted, 
 Monsieur, to know you. Yes, I talk English almost as 
 well as Sybil does: I learnt — oh, years ago. No, not in 
 America." And she sat down and fixed her gaze on him 
 once more as if speculating on his character. Her eyes 
 had a tolerant, comprehending look. 
 
 Gerard's first embarrassment had worn off. They seemed 
 harmless, these two girls. He liked their being there. 
 Why shouldn't he ? He would not see them again; and, 
 just now, poor souls, they were dull, and he was helping 
 them pass the time. He was attracted by them too. 
 He recognised that frankly. And they were so different 
 from the women, the girls, he had known — and different 
 from one another. Perhaps Sybil was the prettier, but 
 the new girl was handsome and of a finer type. He 
 looked at her and caught her eyes again. They were 
 simply green, with brown radiations from the centre ; 
 her skin — was it made up at all ? He knew too little 
 to tell — was of ivory. It looked cool. There was a 
 little flush of pale rose in her cheeks. Her mouth had 
 no vice : it was regular, and not till later did he dis- 
 cover that it was best, far best, in repose ; that when 
 she smiled it lost a little of its charm, and that when 
 she laughed, which she did hardly at all, it lost much. 
 Brown hair she had, rippling and generous, falling 
 over her shoulders and held at the neck by a clasp 
 of tortoise-shell. Her hair and her simple dress, white 
 and not decorated, of a length convenient for dancing, 
 coming to just above her ankles, which were ribbon- 
 strapped, gave her something of the air of a flapper. 
 Certainly she didn't look Gallic, but she didn't look 
 
56 BITTERSWEET 
 
 English. Perhaps the word he wanted was " distinc- 
 tion." Surely she had distinction. 
 
 Suddenly she spoke : " We'll have some supper. And 
 give me some wine, please — Yd rather have champagne." 
 Gerard remembered his two louis, and he felt that, even 
 if he hadn't the usages of the place at his command, he 
 must at least pretend to be no novice. It would never 
 do to find himself without enough money to pay the 
 bill. " I am very sorry, but I can't stop long enough 
 for you to have supper — you shall have a sandwich like 
 your friend, and as for wine, well, here is some Moselle. 
 It costs about as much as champagne, and / can't drink 
 champagne : I'm on a cure." 
 
 The girl's eyes clashed with his and sank. Her face 
 clouded for a fraction of a second. " Very well : order 
 - me a sandwich ; I wanted chicken. And I'll drink this 
 wine, but it doesn't suit me." She seemed anxious to 
 relapse again into silence, to be left alone. Sybil Murray 
 began to talk. Had he been in Aix before.? How long 
 was he going to stay ? Did he know Monte Carlo ? 
 Why had she never seen him anywhere ? Or had she 
 seen him at the Abbaye ? Surely he danced. She would 
 teach him. He ought to learn. Wasn't it dull in Aix ? 
 However, there were plenty of things to see. Boys often 
 took her motoring. But there was nobody she knew 
 here yet. It would be different directly. 
 
 Gerard looked at her and found himself wishing that 
 he could offer to take her — and her friend, too, perhaps 
 
 on some motoring excursion. But it was out of the 
 
 question. He knew he had better get up as quickly as 
 he could and go away. The waiter was hovering over 
 
BITTERSWEET 57 
 
 the table, expectant of fresh commands. Gerard took 
 his courage and asked for his bill. He must go — even 
 if it were still raining. Better to sacrifice his clothes 
 than to linger here. After all, he might meet these girls 
 outside and it wouldn't do to feel bound to recognise 
 and talk to them. He would surely have to, if he sat 
 on now and learned more and more of their tastes and 
 habits. 
 
 " What, are you going so soon ? That is a pity. But 
 you'll come to-morrow : ifll be gayer then ; there will 
 be more people." It was his first acquaintance who was 
 speaking. Gerard felt bound to answer her gently, 
 politely : 
 
 " I must go, Mademoiselle ; I'm on a cure. My doctor 
 would be angry enough if he knew I was up as late as 
 this. But I hope to see you both again." Heaven help 
 him for a liar ! he thought. 
 
 The waiter brought him his bill. There was little 
 change out of two louis. The tip deducted, there wasn't 
 enough to give Sybil Murray the five francs he had 
 destined for her. He felt very awkward, but what could 
 he do ? After all, she had come uncalled to his table, and 
 so had her friend. 
 
 The girl Illona looked up. " Haven't you a louis 
 for each of us ? It will be useful to-morrow," 
 
 Gerard blushed and avoided her gaze. " I haven't o-ot 
 more than this change. Mademoiselle. I never intended 
 coming here to-night, and so I brought no money. It 
 was the rain that drove me in. I am very sorry." Some- 
 how it didn't seem odd or shameful that she should ask 
 for a louis. It seemed natural. And her eyes, her face, 
 
58 BITTERSWEET 
 
 had changed not at all. They showed no regret at her 
 
 failure. 
 
 " Very well, then. You'll come again to-morrow, and 
 well have supper with you — but mind, no sandwiches. 
 Then you'll owe us each two louis — one for each day. 
 Au revoir, Monsieur.*" 
 
 Gerard would have stopped a few minutes longer. 
 Now that his bill was paid and his retreat secure he felt 
 more at ease. But he took the girl's words as his 
 dismissal. 
 
 The rain had ceased. Stars powdered the sky where 
 it showed between trees black or bright green in the 
 light of the lamps. The air had the freshness of morning. 
 As Gerard left the restaurant and took his things he 
 gave the cloak-room attendant a couple of francs, the 
 smallest coin he had. The man showed his teeth and 
 smiled. He also looked to see this new client again. 
 Surely he would return to-morrow. But Gerard walked 
 home to his hotel with no idea of a second visit in his 
 mind. Suddenly he had become very tired, very sleepy. 
 To-morrow he would think of what he had been doing. 
 Just now all that he wanted was to get to bed. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 AT half-past six the next morning Gerard, when 
 /\ called for his bath, was fast asleep. He could 
 X JL have slept for hours longer, and only his 
 respect for Docteur Ribot in particular, and for 
 authority in general, prevented his sending the porters 
 away, turning again to his pillow and letting, at least 
 for a while, his cure go to the devil. But even though 
 his rest had been cut short, he felt immeasurably better, 
 fresher, than he had done on previous mornings. 
 Carried through the busy, smiling, sparkling streets, 
 he recalled all the incidents of the night, recalled them 
 with a kind of pleased shame, making a little grimace 
 to himself as he thought of what Wimbledon or Pall 
 Mall would have said if they could have seen him at 
 that restaurant table entertaining, or trying to entertain, 
 those two pretty girls. Trying to entertain — yes, that 
 was the worst of it. He had succeeded so ill ; he knew 
 so little of the way in which he should or in which he 
 was expected to behave. They must have laughed at 
 him as singularly simple and stupid. Perhaps he would 
 see them again. Would he recognise them in any other 
 than their dancing dresses ? Certainly there would be 
 
6o BITTERSWEET 
 
 no harm in his looking out for them. He wished now 
 he had been less cautious and had discovered something 
 of how they passed their days. Anyhow, even if it were 
 less expensive — and how much it had cost ! — he 
 wouldn't go back to the Piccadilly. It was not the 
 kind of world in which he saw himself. And other 
 people might see him, people whom he knew. One 
 could never be sure. He did not find now that he 
 regretted the money he had spent. He could save it in 
 one way and another during the next weeks. The great 
 result of his little dissipation was that he had broken 
 the chain of his sleepless nights, and that he had 
 had an entirely novel experience. After all, he was 
 old enough to recognise what was not good for him, 
 and it was surely an advantage to know how other 
 people lived. And what an extraordinary life it was ! 
 All the time he was being bathed and douched and 
 pummelled he thought of those two girls. Sybil was as 
 slim and graceful as a little panther. He could picture 
 her so clearly, her golden curls shaking as she danced, 
 her slender legs intricately moving. Surely she was 
 youth itself, a Bacchanal, an almost childish server in 
 that curious temple dedicated to pleasure. Her com- 
 panion he could recall less clearly, but he could see her 
 eyes, strange, serious, questioning eyes. . . . 
 
 " You seem better this morning," Docteur Ribot 
 remarked. " Your pulse is steadier and your eyes look 
 clearer. Ah ! Ifs because you've slept better 'i That's 
 right. You'll find you have no ntt)re difficulty, I expect." 
 
 In five minutes his patient was asleep again and 
 hardly woke in time to dress for dejeuner. 
 
BITTERSWEET 6i 
 
 That afternoon Aix was at its best. 
 
 Repelling with as polite a reason as he could summon 
 to his aid a suggestion of Mr Champion's that they 
 should go somewhere together, Gerard went in search 
 of the lake. It was. a pity that Aix had not been built 
 on its very edge. He found it a dull walk but worth 
 while, once he could see the mountains mirrored in the 
 placid water. He would have taken a boat, but it was 
 later than he thought. He might go back in the tram, 
 but he preferred the exercise, and he wanted to have his 
 tea in some place where he could see the world. He had 
 not learned much of the town yet, and now for the first 
 time he was beginning to enjoy himself, to have a zest 
 for sight-seeing. He had a sense of well-being. If all his 
 days were to be like this that was passing, then surely 
 his visit would do him good, Dr Arbuthnot would be 
 justified, and Mary, whom he still suspected of having 
 no very clear mind as to the advantages of his journey, 
 would have to confess that, even if Contrexeville would 
 have been cheaper, Aix had done its appointed work. 
 
 But his tea was no great success. He had chosen 
 the most crowded place he could find, and he looked 
 about him in the hope of seeing someone whom he 
 knew. Surely some friend, some acquaintance would be 
 in the town — so he said to himself; but it was but a 
 half-hearted attempt at self-deception : what he really 
 looked for was a girFs figure. From a quarter-past four 
 to a (juarter-past five he sat over his infusion of hay 
 and looked shyly at every new visitor. He recognised 
 no one, and as for the girls he thought he might have 
 seen — well, it was perhaps absurd to expect them to 
 
62 BITTERSWEET 
 
 haunt a place of this kind. At length, when he felt that 
 his long stay was attracting attention, he strolled into 
 the Place du Revard, sat on a bench, and searched for 
 another hour every knot of people with anxious eyes. 
 After a while he gave up hope and walked back to his 
 hotel, but he made a detour that took him past the 
 Piccadilly : it looked both discreet and attractive in 
 the daylight, but it was too quiet : he saw now that it 
 had not the air of expecting visitors to lunch or dinner. 
 Its hour was in the night when every other place was 
 closed. Well, in any case, he wouldn't visit it again. 
 
 Gerard that evening did not leave the hotel. After 
 dinner Mr Champion came up and asked him if he 
 didn't play picquet. They had to converse in broken 
 moments for fear of disturbing Miss Goddard's songs. 
 Gerard explained that he played cards hardly at all, and 
 that picquet he knew nothing of. He hoped that the 
 insistent Champion would single out some other victim ; 
 but there were too few visitors. Instead of going away, 
 the bore sat down and began to talk about bool:s. Had 
 Gerard read Winston Churchill's latest ? " Not our 
 Winston Churchill, of course. You know they're not 
 even related. Funny, isn't it.'' But perhaps you don't like 
 reading. I do; I read a great deal. I've just finished — " 
 and he named the last egregious work of an egregious 
 novelist whom even The Haven, Acacia Road, had 
 never welcomed. 
 
 Mr Champion continued : " As a matter of fact, I 
 didn't suppose you cared for that sort of thing much. 
 You've been out every night, and between you and me " 
 — and here, while avoiding a leer, he succeeded in looking 
 
BITTERSWEET 63 
 
 ridiculously knowing — " you rather broke the record this 
 morning. Fm a light sleeper and I heard you come home. 
 I hope they haven't got you into their clutches down 
 there. Goodbye to the cure if they have, I'm afraid." 
 
 Gerard knew that by " down there " Mr Champion 
 meant to indicate the baccarat rooms, and he saw no 
 reason for taking away this small foundation for harm- 
 less gossip. He smiled shyly and said nothing, and 
 continued to say nothing for several minutes, with so 
 much success that at last, during a pause in Miss 
 Goddard's energies, his tormentor took himself off and 
 he himself went to his bed. 
 
 To-night he found sleep quickly, but it was not yet 
 midnight when some neighbour, going to his room — 
 perhaps Mr Champion in mean revenge — woke him with 
 the unnecessary noise of which visitors to hotels are so 
 often guilty. And after that, sleep came not again till 
 long after the sun had risen. He tossed to and fro, 
 tried getting up and plunging his head into cold water, 
 tried drinking cold water, tried walking up and down 
 his room. Nothing availed. For a while he was almost 
 tempted to switch on the light, to dress, and to go 
 down to the Cercle — even to visit the Piccadilly. His 
 resolution ought not to count against common sense, 
 against the harm that it would do him if night after 
 night he found sleep impossible. Perhaps it was the 
 thought of Mr Champion that prevented him. Gerard 
 was ashamed of his hesitation, but all the same he had 
 no wish to have his going out at such an unusual hour 
 commented on ; besides, the night-porter would think 
 it odd. 
 
I 
 
 CHAFrER VIII 
 
 T was no use, Gerard had felt so rotten all day 
 that when the evening came he fled his hotel and 
 haunted the concert and the gamins; rooms of the 
 Grand Cercle until an hour after midnight. He evaded 
 through those hours the question of what he should do 
 to finish his day, but in his heart of hearts he knew. 
 And yet, even when he was at the gate of the Cercle, he 
 went through the farce of looking at his watch and 
 wondering^ whether if he went straio;ht home he would be 
 able to sleep. He was afraid not. At least, if he did go 
 into the Piccadilly for a few minutes, he was this time 
 sufficiently provided with money. He had seen to that 
 before coming out. But even in that little action he 
 had refused to be frank with himself. As he strode 
 away he argued a little : after his experience of a couple 
 of days ago surely he was more than justified in thinking 
 that there was something sedative, something that 
 affected his nerves favourably, in the atmosphere of the 
 restaurant. Yes, he would just look in. He need not 
 stop. 
 
 The menials at the door greeted him as an old habitue. 
 
 Monsieur Piaci showed him to the same table. He 
 
 64 
 
BITTERSWEET 65 
 
 looked about him expectantly. There were more people 
 to-night. For the moment no one was dancing. Sybil 
 Murray he could not see, but her sister was at supper 
 with a well set-up young Englishman to whom Gerard 
 had never spoken but whom he had often noticed in 
 London, the first person at Aix whom he realised having 
 seen before. Illona was talking to the male dancer 
 with the oiled, yellow hair, laughing, ragging apparently : 
 she had turned round as he came in and had looked at 
 him, but without any sign of recognition. Perhaps she 
 was expecting someone. The idea did not please him. 
 Indeed, he had thought of himself as arriving and of 
 being greeted immediately by his two friends, who would 
 come running to his table and would later on be 
 reluctant to let him go. As it was, he had to sit down 
 by himself, and had at once the feeling of being neglected, 
 of being unpopular. 
 
 The orchestra struck up a waltz. Gerard lit a cigar — 
 a very good cigar : cigars were one of the commodities 
 in which Pontifex, Mathews and Blundell dealt — and 
 refused to look at the gyrations of the dancers. He was 
 dissatisfied. Things were not happening at all as he 
 had planned. If he had not ordered wine and food he 
 would have made some excuse to himself for going 
 away. To distract his attention he began to read the 
 wine card, an imposing and factitious document. He 
 glanced up just in time to see Sybil Murray glide past 
 in the arms of her sister's Englishman. She was an 
 exquisite waltzer: he followed her with his eyes, and 
 once as she turned she saw and recognised him with a 
 little pout hardly indicative of pleasure or of welcome. 
 
66 BITTERSWEET 
 
 He was chagrined ; his self-conceit was rather injured. 
 
 His mood must have shown itself in his face. 
 
 " You look so cross that I hardly dare come on your 
 table. Whafs the matter ? Won't she look at you ? 
 Never mind ; ifs an old friend of hers, a very rich boy." 
 
 Gerard looked up, startled. It was Sybil's friend, 
 Illona, who had spoken ; she had come up quietly 
 behind him, and now she held out her hand, frankly, 
 to greet him, frankly and yet with that strange, serious, 
 questioning gaze which he had been unable to forget. 
 
 " Oh, please : do sit down. I was afraid you hadn't re- 
 cognised me. I saw you directly I came in, but although 
 you looked at me you looked through me "' 
 
 " I don't understand — but I will sit down." She looked 
 at the table. " The same wine ! Well, I will make the 
 best of it, but it's to be supper this time, you know." 
 
 " Of course it is : that is what I came for — to keep my 
 promise. And I don't want you to drink what you don't 
 like. I shall order you champagne." 
 
 " Tantmieux. Now,tellme,wereyou very disappointed 
 that Sybil didn't come over to see you at once .'' Quite 
 frankly?" 
 
 Gerard blushed a little. " Frankly — well, I am not 
 disappointed now. I am very happy to have yoii here." 
 
 Illona drew her brows together. " Yes, but you'd 
 be more happy if it was Sybil : you knew her first." 
 
 " I knew her first : that's true ; but it doesn't mean 
 that I like her best. Thank you, I am very content as I 
 am, and if only you'll stop here." 
 
 " Well, I promise you that if she comes over I'll go 
 away." 
 
BITTERSWEET 67 
 
 " I hope you won't. I should be very sorry and very 
 cross if you did." 
 
 " We'll see — but I must dance now.'"' The orchestra had 
 started a tango and Illona had been called by Sybil 
 Murray's sister. Of the two she was by far the better 
 dancer. She danced with a high seriousness, her face 
 turned to her companion, her feet moving as if they were 
 part of the music. Now she had taken her hands from 
 Claire's shoulders and was dancing with them clasped be- 
 hind her own back. But still she and Claire might have 
 been fastened together, for as they moved not one hair- 
 breadth did their distance appear to vary. Almost they 
 touched but not quit*:^ — a barely perceptible space 
 separated them. Gerard drew his breath in pleasure. 
 Never had he seen a sight which in its kind seemed to him 
 so exquisite. And as they passed him he could watch 
 Illona's face : she noticed him not at all ; her mind, 
 he thought, was on her art, her eyes shone with the joy 
 of its exercise ; her lips, pressed together, were like red 
 coral washed by the sea ; and a little red had mantled the 
 ivory of her cheeks. Other couples were dancing, but by 
 the side of these their movements had little grace, and 
 soon they danced alone, and when after a while the music 
 stopped the onlookers broke into a round of applause. 
 
 Illona came back at once to her place at Gerard's 
 table. " You liked that — I can see you did. And so 
 did I. I love to dance. It is like a passion with me : 
 it is almost a madness. I should die if I could not 
 dance. And now give me some champagne." 
 
 He looked at her and thought she was one of the 
 most beautiful things he had ever seen. Suddenly she 
 
68 BITTERSWEET 
 
 turned to him, and he knew that from his eyes she 
 realised his thoughts. She said nothing, but Gerard 
 could feel the blood rush into his face. 
 
 For some minutes neither of them spoke. Gerard's 
 mind was swept by doubts, hesitations, misgivings. He 
 had always had a grip of himself. It was a thing in 
 which he took pride. To lose now his equanimity, his 
 
 full control, would surely be too foolish. And yet 
 
 He pretended to be occupied with his food. No, he 
 had got himself into a fix : the only thing now to do 
 was quickly to finish his supper ; then he must contrive 
 without too much awkwardness to give his young com- 
 panion the two louis for which a couple of nights ago 
 she had asked (but what if she hadn't been serious ?) ; 
 and he must get away. And whatever happened he 
 must never come here again. He knew it now : this 
 girl Illona disturbed him, provoked something in his 
 nature, something whose existence he had never even 
 suspected. He would, it should be easy to, avoid her. 
 . . . Suddenly his left hand that lay idly by his plate 
 was covered, half covered, with the little hand of his 
 guest. For a brief moment it rested there warm and 
 quiescent, and then her fingers closed over his in the 
 ghost of a caress. He dared not look up. 
 
 " Oh, I am sorry, IVe shocked you, startled you ; I 
 regret. Monsieur. But I thought you were feeling dull 
 and that I'd cheer you up. Never mind — perhaps Sybil 
 will come and talk to you directly." 
 
 Now it was Gerard's turn. Provoked, his mood of 
 prudence was forgotten. " Look here ! I^isten to me ! I 
 don't want Sybil. I never wanted her. I know now why 
 
BITTERSWEET 69 
 
 I came back. Listen to me, I say. Look at me ; don't 
 look about you as if I wasn't here." He had seized her 
 hand and held it firmly, careless who might see him. " I 
 came back because I wanted to be with you again. It 
 was you I remembered through these two days — you and 
 your eyes." 
 
 Illona laughed harshly. " Ah, my dear, I have heard 
 that sort of thing before. If a man can't have what 
 he wants he looks round and chooses something else. 
 It was Sybil you came for. I know ; I'm not blind. 
 That was what amused me, and that is why I came on 
 your table to-night. It'll make her a little jealous too, 
 and I like that ; but I won't take you away from her. 
 Her boy will go directly, and then you shall have her all 
 to yourself. Now,jTanche77ient, isn't that what you want ? 
 Tell me ; I shan't mind." 
 
 Here, at a moment when Gerard knew not whether 
 dishonestly to protest — for in this matter, whatever his 
 feelings were now, his conscience was not crystal clear — 
 or to become sulky, Monsieur Piaci brought a pause to 
 their talk. Sleek, smiling but peremptory, his " Darisez, 
 Illona!'''' was very clearly an employer's order. It was 
 the habit of the restaurateur to lose no time in summing 
 up the cash value of his clients. Gerard Blundell had 
 visited the Piccadilly twice ; evidently he was not the 
 kind of visitor to make money roll about the floor or 
 champagne to flow like water. There was no reason why 
 his danseuse should be left to talk to him all the evening. 
 She was there to dance. Besides, they were both, he 
 thought, becoming sentimental ; the Englishman was a 
 good-looking fellow — it would be far from an advantage 
 
70 BITTERSWEET 
 
 if the girl had a heguin for, fell in love with, him. She 
 would be useless then, or almost useless, for the rest of 
 the season. Illona looked at the patro?i, turned then 
 to Gerard and, making a little grimace, was in a minute 
 floating round the room in the arms of the yellow-haired 
 dancer, who, he learned later on, was in very fact an 
 English boy, a native of Camberwell, weak-looking but 
 clean. He and his sister, a mere child, with thin legs 
 that looked as if they might break at any moment, and 
 who was surely much too young for so strenuous and 
 nocturnal a life, called themselves the Kentucky Pigeons. 
 They had a pride in being respectable. 
 
 Gerard realised very clearly that he was making a 
 fool of himself, but he had no conception of the degree 
 of his folly. Only one half of his mind deplored the 
 position in which he was. The other half clamoured to 
 be given precedence, was insistent, refused to be stilled. 
 The first congratulated him that Piaci had appeared 
 when he had, that he had been prevented in time from 
 the utterance of fresh protests ; the second raged at 
 lUona's removal, was in a fury that her employer 
 should call her by her Christian name, should order her 
 about, that she should have been torn from him just 
 when he had wished to answer her, just when he was 
 ready to convince her that she was wrong about Sybil 
 Murray. He watched her as she danced. This time at 
 least she looked far from content. Her brows were 
 drawn together. Surely anger clouded her face. 
 
 The dance ended, and she came towards him. What 
 should he say to her ? But before she could reach him 
 Claire Murray intercepted her, and after a moment's 
 
 II 
 
BITTERSWEET 71 
 
 conversation took her to a table where two men were 
 sitting, two EngKshmen — the damned place seemed full of 
 his countrymen ; at least it was a good thing that he knew 
 no one of them. These were not of a type that Gerard liked. 
 They were gross rather than fat, florid, bookmakers 
 perhaps, or successful business men, too newly successful, 
 from somewhere in the North. But whatever they were, 
 Illona and her friend knew them evidently, and were 
 on good terms with them. At once they were a party 
 of four, laughing and talking, drinking champagne, 
 clinking glasses. Illona's back was to Gerard : he 
 could not see whether she herself was laughing ; he 
 could not even guess if she was happy. He cursed under 
 his breath and looked round as if to call for his bill, a 
 merely theatrical gesture, for he knew that he would not 
 go until he had insisted on a finish to their broken talk. 
 Then he turned again to his food : he, too, would at 
 least appear as if he didn't care, as if he had sufficient 
 occupation. He could wish now that Sybil Murray would 
 come and talk to him — but she was pleasantly pre- 
 occupied with what Illona had described as her English 
 friend ; they were holding one another's hands. 
 
 Under his brows Gerard watched the party of four on 
 the other side of the room and wondered of what they 
 were talking, his mind a furnace of anger. And in front 
 of him was the bottle of champagne and the food that 
 half an hour ago he had ordered for this girl. It was 
 true that neither would spoil for the waiting, but what 
 sort of a world was this anyway in which you asked 
 someone to supper and were treated with so much rude- 
 ness ? Wasn't he intending to pay her for her time ? 
 
72 BITTERSWEET 
 
 Wouldn't it serve her right if actually he called for his 
 
 bill and left the place ? 
 
 Really now Gerard was nerving himself to go away, 
 vowing that if he went never, never would he return, 
 and that then not in any circumstances would he be 
 brought to recognise again the girl who had treated him 
 so — so — with so much rudeness, with so much contempt ; 
 he was making up his mind to this course when he saw 
 Illona rise. The others seemed to protest, and the 
 man at her side put out his arm. Something happened 
 quickly. Gerard did not see what it was. The man 
 seemed to touch her neck and to draw her to him. 
 Illona's hand shot out. He heard her fingers on the 
 man's cheek and, later on, saw the mark that they left. 
 The man laughed grossly and held out his hand again, 
 half rising from his chair. Now she was facing toward 
 Gerard, and he saw that she was white with rage. She 
 stamped her foot, and then, suddenly, turned and left 
 them, walking slowly across to where her supper waited 
 her return. 
 
 And when she reached the table she sank into her 
 chair and laughed and lifted her glass to her mouth. One 
 might have said that nothing untoward had occurred, 
 but Gerard saw that her hand shook a little, that her 
 shoulders heaved, that her breath came quickly. For a 
 moment he said nothing. And then : 
 
 " I do not like your friends. Who, what are they ? " 
 
 "Englishmen. I don't like them either very much, 
 but they are rich and rather generous. That one there 
 on the left has been here every night and gives me 
 much money although he doesn't dance. He says now 
 
BITTERSWEET 73 
 
 that he wants to learn the tango. Then he'll come in 
 the afternoon as well. There are all sorts — in my busi- 
 ness one does as well as another. I was stupid just now." 
 
 And that was the only reference she made to the 
 little scene that had passed so quickly and had passed 
 apparently unremarked, as if its like were of everyday 
 occurrence. 
 
 For the moment he let her pursue her supper in 
 silence. Her cheeks were a little aflame, her breath 
 showed that she was excited, but gradually she recovered 
 her calm. Soon she looked up at him with a friendly, 
 shy smile : 
 
 " You'll come here again, eh ? And what is your 
 name .? " 
 
 Neither question was convenient to answer, but 
 Gerard had a little pride. Some men, he thought, 
 might have hesitated at giving their true name in such 
 a place, but if this girl was good enough to sit with 
 him at supper, then surely she could be trusted with so 
 small a secret ; it would be an insult to himself not to 
 give it to her. 
 
 "Gerard Blundell. Do you think you'll remember 
 that ? Will I come again ? Why do you ask ? Do you 
 want me to ? What's the good anyway ? You'd think 
 I came to see your friend — and anyhow you're always 
 dancing and talking to other people." 
 
 "Finished with Sybil. Fll beheve now that you 
 Hke me better. We won't talk about her. She is 
 a good camarade. And of course Fve got to dance. 
 I've got to make money. And of course Fve got to 
 talk to everyone and sit and laugh with them and 
 
74 BITTERSWEET 
 
 make them come again : Fiaci would throw me out 
 
 quick if I didn't.'' 
 
 " ' Make them come again.' That's what you're doing 
 with me, isn't it ? " 
 
 " Don't say that or I shall be angry — very. You're 
 different a little, not like the others." 
 
 " How can you tell 't You've only spoken a few 
 words with me." 
 
 " I'm no fool ; I can see. But don't come again if 
 you don't want to. Go away now if you like. You are 
 trying to make me angry." 
 
 " I shouldn't like to do that. But what do you do 
 in Aix all day?" He wanted to find out where he 
 would be most likely to run across her. Pure curiosity, 
 of course. Or perhaps mere politeness. He surely did 
 not intend to make use of any knowledge he might 
 gain. Prudence and impulse chased one another through 
 his head. For the moment prudence had the floor. 
 
 " What do I do all day t I don't know. Fve only 
 been here five nights. I was never in Aix before. Sybil 
 told me to come. I don't much like it. It's dull, but 
 they tell me that's because the season hasn't really 
 begun. I walk about and look in the shop windows, 
 and then I have tea and write letters in a cafe, 
 and listen to the music sometimes. And then I have 
 dinner somewhere, and afterwards I go and dress — we've 
 got to be ready here at eleven o'clock, you know." 
 
 A jealous thought seized Gerard. " Write letters 't 
 Who do you write to .? Your lover .? Why isn't he 
 here with you.? I suppose he's coming. Is he in 
 Paris .? " 
 
BITTERSWEET 75 
 
 " Oh, my lover ; I haven"'t got a lover. Fm angry 
 with him, finished with him. Do you truly want to 
 know whom I write to ? " She looked darkly at him. " I 
 write every day to my mother. She's in Paris." 
 
 Gerard believed her. " Why doesn't she come down 
 here.? You can surely afford to have her here. You 
 seem to make lots of money." 
 
 " She will come— when I can send her enough for her 
 fare. I'd like her to be comfortable here. She must have a 
 nice room, (^a cofite cJiere^ Ui sals — vous savez, I mean." 
 She blushed, but Gerard's French was too feeble for 
 him to recognise her slip : it had passed too quickly. 
 
 " You'll live together, won't you ? At some hotel ? " 
 
 " No, I have to live here. Besides, it doesn't do for me 
 to live with my mother. We are better apart. I'm too 
 fond of her." 
 
 " Does she like this you're doing ? — does she approve 
 of all this ? " He sneered and motioned with his hand to 
 indicate the hall and its contents. " Does she like people 
 of that kind ? " He nodded to where the rich English- 
 men were still sitting, laughing loudly. 
 
 " My mother doesn't know anything about it. She's 
 wise ; she doesn't want to know, perhaps. But why do 
 you ask all these questions ? You English are all alike. 
 You always want to be told everything. I think it's 
 rude. It's not your affair." 
 
 It was Gerard's turn to blush. " Please forgive me. I 
 didn't mean to be curious." 
 
 " Oh, yes, Til forgive you. But you talk too much, my 
 dear, all the same — and now I must dance again, or 
 Piaci will be on my back." 
 
76 BITTERSWEET 
 
 Gerard sat in his chair and watclied her. She crossed 
 the room to the Englishmen he disliked, and seizing one 
 of them by the ear — not the one who had offended her 
 — lifted him laughing to his feet. Apparently he had 
 been waiting for her to dance with him. It was a waltz 
 the band was playing, playing very badly, but not too 
 badly for the Englishman's dancing. Perhaps his ener- 
 getic movements would have passed muster in the Five 
 Towns or in Hull, but here, and with such a partner, he 
 appeared to almost laughable disadvantage. Once as 
 they passed his table Illona made a face at Gerard 
 expressive of disapproval, but she danced on, and her 
 own steps, shorn though they were of freedom, lacked 
 none of their proper grace. Now and again either her 
 partner would bump her into another couple or would 
 himself push heavily backwards to someone's great dis- 
 comfort. It was all taken in good part. No one seemed 
 very much to mind. But the limit was passed when, tir- 
 ing with this vigorous exercise and flagging in his steps, 
 he trod on his partner's dress. No great harm was done, 
 but Illona spoke angrily : 
 
 " Assez, assez. No, I've danced enough — and you've 
 spoiled my new dress too," Gerard heard her say, and 
 also, with chagrin, he saw her sit down by her partner's 
 side. Apparently they were making it up. He watched 
 her face alter from frowns to smiles. She took on an air 
 of cajolery. The gross man squeezed her hand and she 
 stroked his face. Then, after a minute, the music ceasing 
 and the other couple, Claire and the second Englishman, 
 coming back to the table, she got up and, kissing her 
 hand to her partner, returned to Gerard. 
 
BITTERSWEET 77 
 
 But Gerard was in no mood to welcome her. He 
 wished rather to rise and leave the place without a 
 moment of delay. Jealousy or disgust — he did not know 
 which — had driven out his liking for the girl. But he 
 couldn't go at once. It was absurd, but there was his 
 bill to attend to. He looked at her with hard eyes. 
 Apparently she noticed and was not surprised at his 
 change of mind. She narrowed her brows, regarding him 
 curiously as if he had some secret she must tear from his 
 heart, and then after a second she laughed a little : 
 
 " That was well done — oh, yes. He may tear my dress 
 as often as he likes at that price." She held her hand 
 open, and there in her warm palm lay one of the noble 
 five louis pieces of France. " Generally he only gives me 
 a couple of louis when he dances with me. And I earn 
 it, you know. Now I must hide this,'' and bending down 
 she seemed to slip the big coin into her shoe. 
 
 " I should think it would fall out when you dance." 
 " No fear. Fve put it in my stocking. I've lost too 
 much money to take any risks. I'm going to finish my 
 supper now or you'll be really angry. Oh, yes, I saw ; 
 I saw how angry you were when I was dancing — and 
 afterwards. But what would you "t It's my business. I 
 get tired, though. Piaci can go hang for half an hour. 
 We'll be happy— A^i/i F " 
 
 "Now she's cajoling me," Gerard thought, but in his 
 heart he was powerless to resist the childish charm with 
 which very consciously she appealed to him. Also he 
 could not help being ungracious : 
 
 " I was just going : I'm tired. But I'll wait till you've 
 finished. Then you can go back to your friends — unless 
 
78 BITTERSWEET 
 
 you'd like the waiter to take these things over to their 
 
 table at once." 
 
 Anger started into Illona's eyes, and as quickly 
 faded : " No " — a very decided " no '' — " No, here I am 
 and here I shall stop, and I shan't hurry either, and you 
 shall wait till I've finished — and perhaps longer. I like 
 you. You please me. Fm not dull when you're here. 
 Now you talk to me while I eat. This chicken's not so 
 bad. That reminds me — if I had done as you said and 
 gone over there I'd have had a new supper. They're not 
 mean. The waiter wouldn't have had to take this. A 
 supper's not so much. Oh, and I know : I'd like a con- 
 somme." She looked round and called the waiter. "Quick, 
 a consomme with an egg in it — no, leave the chicken." 
 
 " I wish you'd let me give the waiter his orders," was 
 Gerard's mild protest. 
 
 She pouted and patted his hand. " My dear, you must 
 get used to me. I'm like that. I can't wait when I want 
 anything. Besides, Franc^ois knows me ; he'll hurry for 
 me — and for you he doesn't care that" — she snapped 
 her fingers. " You're not generous enough." 
 
 Conversation on these terms wasn't very easy. Of 
 course, of course he didn't like her any more, was no 
 longer attracted by her, as for one dangerous moment 
 he had been a while ago, but still it was curious and 
 amusing to listen to her and to watch her face, flushed 
 a little he could see now by the dancing and by the 
 champagne she had drunk, and the play of her eyes 
 under their serious brows, to look at the way her hair 
 curled in brown tendrils at her neck and at the manner 
 in which her head was set on her shoulders, lightly. 
 
BITTERSWEET 79 
 
 proudly. Anyhow, it was well that he understood her. 
 There was no longer any risk of his making a fool of 
 himself. . . . 
 
 " Well, you asked me lots of questions. Now it's my 
 turn. Do you do anything .'' Any work, I mean. I can 
 see youVe not an officer. You\e not got a soldier's 
 back ; and English officers all have moustaches. That 
 doesn't make them very nice to kiss, you know, I prefer 
 a mouth like yours. You said you were here for a cure. 
 What sort of a cure .'' Nothing serious — men come here 
 for all sorts of things, you know." Her face clouded. 
 " Only rheumatism ? You don't dance enough — that's 
 what it is. You'll dance with me to-morrow, hei?i!^ 
 Please, please. I promise I Avon't dance with anyone 
 else to-morrow." 
 
 Gerard protested that he didn't dance and that he 
 never had danced. 
 
 "Oh, well, 111 teach you — yes, for nothing, and I 
 generally charge a hundred francs a lesson, you know. 
 You can come here at five o'clock : we'll arrange, Sybil 
 gives lessons every afternoon and there's always the band. 
 But what do you do when you're not taking a cure ? 
 You're in business. What sort of business ? Never 
 mind : I can see you don't want to tell me. Pas gentil 
 f«. I like better boys who have nothing to do — and 
 plenty of money. But what do you do all day in Aix 
 when you're not taking your baths ? Do you go up the 
 mountains ? I'd like to do that. But not on foot, you 
 know. I don't like walking. I get tired so quickly. My 
 little feet hurt. I shall take an auto. Some boy I know 
 is sure to come down here directly. Then I shall go 
 
8o BITTERSWEET 
 
 everywhere. Sybil knows all the places to see. For the 
 moment I can do nothing but go to the Grand-Cafe and 
 write to my lover — No, thafs a mistake." She broke off' 
 and covered her lips with her hand. Gerard could see 
 that she was making fun of him. " I meant my mother. 
 I haven't got a lover ; I told you. I told you too much. 
 But you know the Grand-Cafe at five o'clock is not so 
 bad. rd rather be in Paris — but still it does. And it's 
 near the post office. Really, that's almost all I've seen 
 of Aix." 
 
 The while she chattered Gerard was watching her. He 
 determined to go when she had finished her supper. A 
 profound fatigue had seized him. He was too tired to 
 talk. Perhaps she knew it. For a few moments she ate in 
 silence, and then : 
 
 " You're tired. I can see it. Better you go, my dear. 
 I don't like you to be tired when you're with me. You'll 
 have a bad souvenir. Ask for the bill — and, say, give the 
 waiter five francs. He expects it, you know." 
 
 But Gerard had a serious preoccupation. How was he 
 to o-ive his guest the two louis that she had asked for the 
 other night ? Now the thought that she had not been 
 serious had passed, but all the same it was jolly awkward. 
 To give a young woman money in a restaurant, before all 
 the world, required knowledge, technique. But he must 
 do it. If he didn't do it quickly she might ask for them 
 again — and that would be unbearable. 
 
 " Here, give me your hand," he said. She stretched it 
 across the table to him. And quickly taking the two gold 
 coins from his pocket, where they had lain in waiting, he 
 passed them to her as if he was simply holding her hand. 
 
BITTERSWEET 
 
 8i 
 
 And then he saw again the red rise to her cheeks. She 
 left her hand in his, and smiled and laughed. 
 
 " Truly, I had forgotten that," she said. " You — you 
 are not so bad." She jumped up. "Well, good-bye — no, 
 I mustn't say that : that's the same as adieu, isn't it .'' Au 
 revoir." She was gone. 
 
 Nothing was left but for Gerard to pay his bill. It was 
 a very big bill. He didn't understand how it could be so 
 big. And the waiter seemed to take the five francs as if 
 it was his due : he hardly said " thank you." 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 " Iff'T'S my business." The words of the young dancer 
 I with whom he had spent so many hours of the 
 ^ night did not trouble Gerard's sleep. He lay like 
 a log, dreaming not at all. But they leapt to his memory 
 directly he was awakened and troubled him through 
 all the early ritual of the day. " It's my business." 
 Illona — her name was Illona. He thought of her 
 as Illona. Was it truly her business to dedicate 
 her youth and her fresh young beauty, her haunting 
 grace, to the service of lust ? Was it truly her business 
 to live by enticing, cajoling, exciting men? Some of 
 her phrases worried his brain : " I like better boys who 
 have nothing to do — and plenty of money " ; "I haven't 
 got a lover : I'm angry with him." And his eyes saw 
 again and again the scene at the table when she had 
 cajoled the gross Englishman and had stroked his cheek. 
 But at once that picture would be blotted out and he 
 would see her face, and her eyes searching his own with 
 an earnestness, with a force, with an entreaty that he 
 associated vaguely in his thought with some memory 
 of a painted Madonna. Was it that her nature was 
 
 diverse, changing from hour to hour ? Was she truly a 
 
 82 
 
BITTERSWEET 83 
 
 vessel of easy vice ? Or had she strayed by some stupid 
 error of the disposer of fortune into this world of the 
 devil, keeping the while that dark, instructed innocence 
 that he had seen in the pools of her eyes ? Again and 
 again he asked himself the same questions, racked himself 
 with the same doubts. For Gerard just then life was 
 very bitter. 
 
 Later on, when the day was half gone and he was 
 free to rest or to walk, he went out into the town 
 determined that he would fatigue himself again to 
 the point of forgetting Illona, the Piccadilly, and all 
 that had passed in the night. But the determination was 
 vain. Clouds swept over the mountains, and soon it 
 rained. Aix in rain was intolerable. What was there 
 to do ? What was there to see ? There might be new 
 papers in the Cercle. There were, and those that were 
 available were stupid, and those that he would really 
 have liked to see were in the hands of stuffy, aged 
 people who looked as if they would never finish their 
 desultory reading. The trees in the garden dripped 
 water steadily. The place seemed full of inquiring 
 Germans and opulent Americans. All the people who 
 made Aix smart and amusing were at home in their 
 hotels, the chic hotels, playing bridge, no doubt. Some 
 people rather liked walking in the rain, but he did not. 
 After a while, and sheltering under his umbrella, he 
 walked up to the Credit Lyonnais to cash a cheque. 
 Not yet did he want more money, but he might as well 
 kill time by making the acquaintance of his temporary 
 banker. And, as a matter of fact, his amusements at 
 the Piccadilly had rather made a hole in the small sum 
 
84 BITTERSWEET 
 
 he had brought out from London. He would be more 
 comfortable with another couple of hundred francs in 
 his pocket. 
 
 Gerard came out from the Credit Lyonnais and looked 
 about him. It was nearly half-past four already. Where 
 was the Grand-Cafe ? He rather thought he would like a 
 drink before going back to his hotel to write his evening's 
 letters. To drink between meals was not one of his habits, 
 but really this weather was so damnable that one n)ight 
 be excused so mild a departure from custom. 
 
 The Grand-Cafe belongs rather to old Savoy than 
 modern Aix. It is of the town rather than of the bath. 
 Fashionable visitors do not throng its terrace. Its thriv- 
 ing counterpart could be found in every town in France. 
 Gerard chose an obscure seat in a corner, sheltered but 
 in the open air, where he could watch the coming and 
 going in the little Place. There would be time to finish 
 his drink before five ©''clock. He had chosen the Grand- 
 Cafe with the clear intention of seeing the kind of place 
 in which Illona spent her leisure, but he was equally 
 clear in the intention of going away before the hour of 
 her likely arrival. Five o'clock, she had said. But now it 
 occurred to him that if he got up and walked back to his 
 hotel he would be as likely as not to run against her in 
 one or other of the few streets which contained the shops 
 she passed her time looking into. That wouldn't do. It 
 would be better to sit where he was and then to slip away 
 unobserved after her arrival. The waiter should bring him 
 a paper. Reading it, sheltering behind it, he would be 
 less likely to be recognised. The plan had other advan- 
 tages. It would perhaps enable him to see the girl away 
 
BITTERSWEET 85 
 
 from the trappings, the passionate air, the gay uniform 
 of her hfe. To do that would as likely as not kill the last 
 interest he felt in her. This wet cold day with its grey 
 light would complete the disillusion that the ugly scene 
 of yesterday had begun. Besides, it would be interesting 
 to see her in ordinary everyday clothes, in a hat, to see 
 her in a normal life, doing normal things, not as he now 
 pictured her, moving rhythmically, her whole figure 
 a-quiver with the joy of dancing. . . . 
 
 From over the top of his paper Gerard looked at the 
 life of the Place. The rain had stopped now, but the 
 streets were wet and disagreeable. There was nothing 
 smart about the Place Carnot save the leisurely, noisy 
 motor-cars. The people who were about were all good 
 townsmen, their wives and daughters. He looked at 
 his watch : it was getting on for a quarter past five. 
 The local paper contained little of interest ; his drink 
 was finished ; he had paid the waiter. It would be 
 more sensible to go. Very possibly the girl had talked 
 merely for the sake of talking, and the Grand-Cafe was 
 not really one of her haunts. It was more than likely 
 that she would stop indoors on a day like this. No, 
 she was telling the truth — she said she came here, 
 because it was near the post office, to write her daily 
 letter to her mother. That being so, she should come from 
 the direction of the Piccadilly. He turned his head and 
 looked through the glass screen — and then at length he 
 had his reward. He could watch her with safety. She 
 was walking fast, hurrying rather, with a definite 
 purpose. How curiously she walked ! In spite of her 
 intention, and her speed, she seemed to drift along, to be 
 
86 BITTERSWEET 
 
 blown as leaves are before the wind. Her dress was simple 
 enough. It was neither costly nor smart. It suited her 
 and the day, and was of some dark colour. Dress, did 
 he call it ? It was a cloak rather. She wore no gloves, 
 and her hat — well, it was a jolly enough little hat in its 
 way, of unrelieved black, and the manner in which she 
 wore it gave the one provocative note to her otherwise 
 perfectly ordinary appearance. 
 
 Gerard was satisfied that he had not been noticed. 
 He would give her time to settle down to her writing, 
 and then he would slip out as he had planned. He had 
 seen her. He had now a new image of her. There was 
 nothing alluring about it, nothing to vex his dreams, 
 and yet, although he had hardly seen her face and al- 
 though the cloak that she wore had hidden her form, 
 he felt that if he ever thought of her again it was thus 
 that he would picture her, drifting along the wet pave- 
 ment, uncared for, unsheltered — yes, a poor little figure. 
 
 From where he sat Gerald could see, not directly but 
 in a mirror, that she had taken her place, that the 
 waiter had brought her coffee in a long glass and that 
 she was already writing, bending over her task. She 
 wouldn't see him now. He need have no fear. He 
 would go at once. . . . 
 
 "You are so busy with your letters. Mademoiselle 
 Illona, that you do not recognise your friends. I 
 think your mother is very fortunate in her daughter." 
 Gerard could have sworn that nothing was further 
 from his intention than to go and talk to the girl. He 
 just found himself doing so. It wasn't the result of any 
 impulse. 
 
 1 
 
BITTERSWEET 87 
 
 She looked up, unstartled. " Ah, my dear, I wondered 
 whether you would come and speak to me — or, no, I was 
 sure you would. Now you shall sit down. I shall soon 
 have finished this. My mother shall have a short letter 
 for once. She won't mind. She never tells me if she 
 likes my letters even : perhaps she doesn't read them." 
 She bent again over her paper, and in a minute, having 
 addressed an envelope, she folded what she had written. 
 Then opening the black silk bag that she carried, no 
 very new bag, she took out three notes that Gerard 
 could not help seeing were each for a hundred francs, 
 folded them, and laid them inside her letter. 
 
 " My mother can take better care of them than I can, 
 so I send them to her. She likes money. She likes 
 buying things. I don't. And now tell me why you didn't 
 come to speak to me at once. Pas gentll, fa," 
 
 " One reason was that I didn't like to disturb you 
 And I had no idea you'd seen me. You must get very 
 tired of talking to men. You told me you came here to 
 write letters and I thought perhaps you'd rather be alone 
 and quiet. You'll have plenty of noise and plenty of 
 interruptions later on where you dance." 
 
 Gerard, who had done as he had been bidden and had 
 sat himself down at the girl's side, was conscious that he 
 was, without intention, adopting a more remote, a less 
 intimate tone than that at which they had arrived over- 
 night. Daylight had its sober influence, and the change 
 in her appearance and the task on which she had just 
 been employed both helped to keep him at a distance. 
 The little tentative freedoms that he had allowed himself, 
 that had seemed natural with the dancer, would perhaps 
 
88 BITTERSWEET 
 
 be unseemly with this dutiful letter-writing daughter. 
 Also, though he was only half aware of it, a note of 
 superiority and a hint of sarcasm were creeping into his 
 tone. This Illona was surely far more attractive under 
 electric light. He no longer feared her. She was a 
 coloured moth of the dark hours : now in the daytime 
 her appeal was lessened, perhaps indeed it did not in fact 
 exist. Truth was that he had hardly seen her face as she 
 had entered, and now the gloom which hung over the 
 corner she had chosen hid the green fire of her eyes, 
 clouded the delicate ivory of her skin, robbed her mouth 
 of its scarlet. At two o'clock in the morning a man might 
 easily be deceived, might even make a fool of himself. 
 Now that he had, almost by accident, seen her by day 
 he was surely safe. 
 
 The girl answered him : " I told you last night : you 
 talk too much. What you say isn't true. You didn't 
 want to speak to me. But when you saw me, somehow 
 you couldn't help it. But you can go away now. You're 
 not frank with me. You see I was right in what I said 
 yesterday : it's Sybil you want. Well, she comes here 
 sometivnes, but not so often as me : she's generally about 
 with her boy." 
 
 Gerard was so little used to being treated with this 
 degree of independence by the few women whom he had 
 known that each of these brief sentences had a very 
 definite and even irritating effect on his mind. He de- 
 termined to dominate in some way this ungentle spirit, 
 to show that he could be master. He settled himself 
 more firmly in his seat and, having called for coffee, for 
 the good of the house rather than because he wanted it. 
 
BITTERSWEET 89 
 
 he tried as a beginning to hold his companion's eyes with 
 his own — and failed egregiously. There was something 
 in her sombre earnestness, some quality in the sad regard 
 with which she seemed actually to search his mind rather 
 than simply to look into his face, that defeated challenge. 
 For the moment he felt confused and sought refuge in 
 words : 
 
 " I thought we'd agreed to finish with Sybil Murray. 
 She's very pretty and she dances very well and I liked 
 her very much until I saw you, but I think you are far, 
 far more beautiful and you dance better too — you are 
 ever so much more graceful." 
 
 "That's where you are all wrong, my dear. Some 
 dances I am better at than Sybil — you've never seen my 
 Russian dance — but there isn't a better waltzer in the 
 world than she is. She's like a feather. And she's so 
 graceful ; she's so well made. And everyone likes her ; 
 people think her very pretty. But I don't think Sybil 
 is going to pay much attention to you. She wanted you 
 at first, but Piaci made inquiries about you and he says 
 you're not rich — and if you're not a rich boy you're not 
 much good to her." 
 
 Gerard was nettled at the restaurateur's opinion of 
 his position and importance, but it was not a matter 
 which he felt himself competent to discuss. He fell back 
 on another point : 
 
 " You're always talking about ' boys ' — ' Sybil's boy,' 
 ' a rich boy,' and so on. I wish you'd let me teach you 
 one thing. Then you'll have reason to be grateful to me 
 even if I'm not rich enough for you and your friend and 
 that Italian scoundrel. You oughtn't to talk about 
 
90 BITTERSWEET 
 
 ' boys.'' Ifs common, vulgar. That man who was with 
 Sybil was a man, not a boy. Fm a man, not a boy. Only 
 common people call men ' boys,' common people of the 
 kind youVe not likely to meet, barmaids and so on." 
 
 " Oh, we meet all kinds. But I'll remember — et merci. 
 Anyhow, what I said is true. Sybil only likes rich boys 
 — men, I mean." 
 
 " She's learnt the value of money very early : why, 
 she's only a child." 
 
 The girl laughed. " Sybil's the same age as I am. 
 She's been nineteen for three years. We've danced 
 together at the Trianon all that time and I know. She's 
 twenty-two this year," 
 
 " Then how old is her sister ? " 
 
 " That's not her sister, my dear. They're partners — 
 they say they're sisters : it helps in the business, and 
 
 they're " she stopped and Gerard looked in vain 
 
 for her to finish her sentence. Instead she went on : 
 " But why are you so interested in Sybil ? It's not 
 polite." 
 
 " I'm not, I'm interested in you and everyone about 
 you just because they are about you — and I wish the 
 waiter would turn on the light so that I might look at 
 you again and see if you are as pretty now as you were 
 last night." 
 
 " Pas de chichis ! You thought I was pretty last night 
 but you don't think so now. You are sure I'm not and 
 you just want to make certain. But get a light — the 
 waiter '11 give it you if you ask for it." 
 
 " No, I'm in no hurry : you don't need to go yet. 
 What do you do in the morning ? " 
 
BITTERSWEET 91 
 
 " Stop in bed. Why, we don't generally get to bed 
 till six. WeVe got to have some sleep." 
 
 " Then what time do you get up ?" 
 
 " That depends on what I've got to do. I generally 
 wake up about eleven. The noise in the street wakes 
 me. My bedroom's on the front — I share it with Lucy. 
 You saw her : she's the girl with the black hair, rather 
 fat, I'm going to insist on a room to myself. Then I 
 send the femme de chambre next door for coffee and 
 cakes." 
 
 " Why, you live in the Piccadilly, you said : surely 
 they give you your food .'' " 
 
 " No, not a scrap. We can't even buy it there : Piaci 
 says he can't keep a lot of servants to wait on us. We 
 have to pay for all our own food and, except that first 
 breakfast, to have it outside. It's expensive, you know." 
 
 " I said he was a scoundrel, your Piaci. But if you 
 have to get all your meals in restaurants what advantage 
 do you get by living in the place ? Why don't you live 
 somewhere else ? Wouldn't it cost less ? " 
 
 " Oh, he won't let us. Something to do with the 
 police, I think. We've got to live there. We're a sort 
 of slave, and Madame Piaci, she watches everything we 
 do. Of course I'm new ; the others have all been before. 
 When we start we have to sign a contract to stop for 
 the season. We don't get paid anything, but every 
 night, you know, one of us goes round with la qiute, the 
 plate, to collect what we can from the clients, and we're 
 supposed to share up what we're given." 
 
 " Why only supposed ? " 
 
 " Oh, we have to take it to Madame Piaci at the 
 
92 BITTERSWEET 
 
 caisse, and the money's put away to divide at the end of 
 the season. The girls say we don't get the half — no, 
 not nearly. And then of course they take our fines out 
 of it." 
 
 " Fines ? What fines ? " 
 
 " We're fined for all sorts of things. Cinq francs 
 cfamende for not being ready at eleven o'clock is the 
 commonest. Ten francs if we don't go and dance 
 tout ch suite when Piaci tells us. However, I can't 
 complain much. They're very polite to me. They ask 
 me to have supper on their table sometimes. I don't 
 go : I can't leave my camarades. I wish I could ; the 
 supper they give us is so bad. I was wrong when I said 
 Piaci gave us no food. He gives us supper in the 
 morning when everyone has gone and while the waiters 
 are sweeping up. All the old scraps." 
 
 " Well, you can't be hungry. You get supper every 
 night, surely — more than one." 
 
 " Yes, I do, and Sybil and Claire — but the others 
 don't always. You've got to be a success to be offered 
 supper, vous savez. We've got to ask for it though. 
 That's part of the business : Piaci would soon be on our 
 backs if we didn't." 
 
 Gerard found all this very interesting. It was the 
 same everywhere apparently. Illona was describing a 
 variant on the " living-in system." But at this point 
 their conversation was suddenly interrupted by the 
 lighting up of the corner in which they were sitting. 
 The rain had begun again. The sky was black from 
 mountain to mountain. 
 
 " And now Monsieur Gerard Blundell — I have a 
 
BITTERSWEET 93 
 
 splendid memory, you see ! — you can take a good look 
 at me and you'll find that Fm not nearly as pretty as 
 you first thought me. You won't come again to the 
 Piccadilly, hein ? Well, perhaps I shan't miss you — and 
 I'm sure Sybil won't. More and more people are coming 
 now. The season has really begun. Oh, we shall be very 
 busy, and we shall all of us make much money. I want 
 it, you know, I have lots of expenses. My mother costs 
 dear and I'm happy when she can have all she wants." 
 
 But Gerard was hardly listening. He was looking at 
 the girl, asking himself what really was her character, 
 what thoughts really passed behind those sad, brooding 
 eyes. Nothing that she was wearing helped her beauty, 
 and yet surely she was beautiful. It was a type that he 
 had never seen before, Slav perhaps. He did not know. 
 There was a picture by Manet in the Luxembourg that 
 she reminded him a little of, a picture of an older woman 
 whose chin rested on her fan as she looked out from a 
 balcony on to the street below. The shadows that out- 
 lined the ivory of the girl's face were of the kind that 
 Manet loved to paint. And her skin was of that unlively, 
 placid, single hue that Manet had seized again and 
 again. Yes, she was beautiful. 
 
 The girl pushed back her chair and stood up. "I 
 shall go now. Yes, I know it's raining. Taut pis pour rnoi. 
 I shall drive. Au revoir. Monsieur." She smiled, " You 
 shall pay for my coffee — c'est pas grand chose, fa." 
 
 "Please sit down for one minute. Mademoiselle. I 
 want to say something." 
 
 " Bien — but what is it ? And don't call me Ma- 
 demoiselle ; I am not used to it." 
 
94 BITTERSWEET 
 
 " What am I to call you ? I don't know your surname. 
 What is it ? " 
 
 " Call me Illona simply. Everyone does. I don't like 
 Mademoiselle." 
 
 " All right, Illona — Illona is what I shall call you in 
 future then. So weVe friends now ? " 
 
 " No, not so fast. We are not friends because you use 
 my petit nom. And perhaps it isn't my name any way. 
 But everyone calls me Illona — even Piaci." She smiled 
 maliciously. " What am I waiting here for ? 1 want 
 to go." 
 
 " I was on the point of asking you to have dinner 
 with me to-night. It would be jolly if you would. I'm 
 like you : I find Aix very dull ; my friends haven't 
 arrived either. So do come. We'll dine anywhere you 
 like." The idea had been of rapid growth. Gerard stood 
 away from himself and pondered what he said — but not 
 till after he had said it, not till it was too late for 
 prudence, for revision. He knew that he would like the 
 girl to dine with him ; even he urgently wished her 
 to do so. But why had his resolution failed 't He had 
 been so sure that he would not see her. And when, in 
 spite of his determination, he had done so, he had 
 been so sui-e that he had seen enough, he had felt so 
 secure against any return of that brief attraction, that 
 sudden enchantment. He was acting the part of a fool 
 — oh ! but it was pleasant, and anyhow it should soon 
 be over. 
 
 " Yes, I'll dine with you, my dear. Anywhere you 
 like. But it mustn't be too chic. I'm not chic, me. What 
 time is it ? Half-past six. I've got to go to the post with 
 
BITTERSWEET 95 
 
 this letter and I must go and change my dress — and 
 then youll fetch me at eight, hein ? '^ 
 
 The idea of fetching his companion from her lair, of 
 advertising so clearly, so definitely, to her employer and 
 to her sordid camarades the degree of his folly, was a 
 little too much even for Gerard's politeness. And he 
 thought with shrinking of those knowing servants at the 
 door. 
 
 " No, I won't come to the Piccadilly for you. After 
 Piaci's searching into my affairs I'd be shy. Quite 
 wrong Piaci was, by the way : one's hotel isn't the best 
 judge of one's position, you know. Fll tell you what, 
 I thought we'd dine at that restaurant near the entrance 
 to the Casino, Nikola's isn't it called ? It looks quiet 
 enough. And I think I've heard of it. I'll be there at 
 eight o'clock punctually. You come in a carriage and 
 I'll be waiting for you." 
 
 " It's no use ; I won't do it. Come into a restaurant 
 alone — me ! Not for a million." 
 
 Gerard was at a loss. He thought for a moment. 
 " Very well. I don't see why you shouldn't come to the 
 restaurant. You live in restaurants. And I could have 
 waited outside on the pavement " 
 
 " It's no use : I wouldn't come." 
 
 " I was going to say that I'll wait for you on one of 
 the chairs in the Place du Revard, opposite the cafe in 
 the main road. You just drive up. I'll be looking out 
 for you, and we can drive on together." 
 
 " All right. But you be there, mind : I shan't wait 
 a second. And now I must go. I haven't nearly enough 
 time." 
 
96 BITTERSWEET 
 
 They walked out together. A chasseur called a 
 carriage. Gerard helped his companion in. " Where 
 to.? Oh, the post — or will you trust me with your 
 letter.?" 
 
 " Of course I will. Register it though. It has money 
 inside." 
 
 She was gone, and for a moment Gerard stood watch- 
 ing the slow downpour and wondering at the confidence 
 that she had shown. Surely the life this girl lived should 
 make her more distrustful of strangers. Perhaps, per- 
 haps, it was that she liked him. 
 
CHARTER X 
 
 GERARD was kept waiting outside the Cafe du 
 Centre only twenty minutes. The women in 
 England whom he knew had not inured him 
 to unpunctuality. His mother was always exact in her 
 engagements and as for his wife — well, if she was late 
 he told her frankly that she had no right to add to 
 his troubles as a business man by wasting his time. But 
 with Illona it was different. He knew instinctively that 
 he had to judge her by different standards. And he 
 realised that even a mild complaint she would neither 
 welcome nor understand. He had had to hurry to be at 
 the place appointed at the exact hour. He had hurried 
 his dressing and, more than ever before, he had hurried 
 his letter to his wife. Ideas had not come easily to 
 him. What was there for him to tell her.^ He had 
 described the incidents of his cure already ; she had 
 been told all about Aix and the walks he had taken. 
 Until to-day he had been able with a good heart to 
 deplore her absence, to enlarge on his boredom, to say 
 how much he missed her, how happy he would be if he 
 had her with him to share the novelty of his life ; but 
 to-night, although his conscience did not trouble him at 
 
 97 7 
 
98 BITTERSWEET 
 
 all seriously, he had not the heart for a repetition of 
 those caressing regrets. It was a dry letter that he 
 dropped into the post office five minutes before he 
 rendered himself up at the meeting-place. 
 
 What in the name of wonder could the girl have to 
 do that could keep her over her dressing for more than 
 an hour and a half? When one is not sure of oneself, 
 when one's nerves are troublesome, twenty minutes seems 
 an hour. Gerard tired of sitting. He looked again and 
 again at his watch. He paced to and fro. Luckily the 
 rain had ceased. It was not a bad night. The quick 
 carriages of the South of France rattled round the corner 
 which led to the Piccadilly. He watched one after 
 another, sure that the next would slow down or would 
 pull up with a jerk and a southern '"''He-Id!'''' He 
 began to count them. If she was not in one of the 
 next dozen he would go into the cafe and telephone to 
 the Piccadilly. He supposed that would be possible. 
 There was no reason why he should stop here all the 
 evening. 
 
 " Monsieur Blundell, Monsieur Gerard '"' 
 
 He turned, to see peeping out from the hood of 
 the carriage a woman's head and shoulders. It was 
 Illona, and in a moment he was seated at her side, 
 closer to her than he had ever been. He fancied that 
 she leant a little towards him. She was laughing. 
 
 " I wondered how long you would stick there with 
 your back turned to me. Almost I couldn't be sure it 
 was you." 
 
 " I'd been waiting twenty minutes— but I'd expected 
 you to come the other way, down the hill." 
 
BITTERSWEET 99 
 
 " Was I late ? Ca ne fait rien. I went to the shop 
 down there to get some white gloves. I couldn't dine 
 with you without gloves." 
 
 They came quickly to the restaurant, and then for a 
 moment Gerard was shy. He had not the restaurant 
 habit. He was conscious of a great deal of light 
 and, although it was early in the season, many of the 
 tables were full. While he was paying the driver Illona 
 had preceded him up the steps. The maitre (Thotel was 
 scraping a little. A new client had possibilities. It 
 seemed to Gerard that people looked at him. He was 
 not easy in his carriage, in his mind, as he followed his 
 guest to one of the tables at the back of the terrace. 
 And then they were seated opposite one another, and he 
 could look at her. Her cloak she had refused to remove, 
 pushing it back off' her shoulders ; her hair was both 
 elaborately and simply done ; her eyes shone. She looked 
 pleased with herself and with the world. All this was 
 as it should be, but Gerard still felt shy. Their previous 
 encounters had been almost accidental. Now, formally, 
 she was his guest. How should he treat her? What 
 should he talk to her about? For the moment the 
 ordering of the meal distracted his attention. She 
 would help not at all. " Qa mest egal " was all he could 
 get her to say. The maitre d'hotel did most of the 
 choosing. This wasn't Gerard's world. The wine card 
 he did understand, but his recent experience made him 
 think that his knowledge would just now be of little 
 use: he would have to order champagne. But to his 
 surprise here Illona helped him : 
 
 " If you want champagne for yourself, bien ; Fll drink 
 
100 BITTERSWEET 
 
 it. But rd rather have Bordeaux. I have too much 
 
 champagne when I dance." 
 
 At length they were alone. Quiet as a little mouse, 
 Illona waited for her soup. Gerard avoided looking 
 at her. He feared to meet her eyes. He suspected that 
 she was a little overawed by her surroundings. The 
 silence was long drawn out. Which of them would 
 speak first ? With an assumption of ease which was, he 
 hoped, successful enough to cloak his very real embarrass- 
 ment, Gerard looked round the restaurant at the other 
 tables. A few of the faces seemed familiar to him, but 
 they were figures that he had seen in Aix, not in 
 I..ondon. No one of them was from his hotel. He felt 
 reassured. Three men dining together were, he was 
 certain, the three whose noisy success in the gaming 
 rooms had offended him a few nights before — three 
 nights ago. He had already been in Aix for five nights ; 
 this was the sixth ; fifteen were still to pass. In 
 fifteen days no great harm could come to him. Surely 
 he could hold himself in leash for so short a time. . . . 
 All the same it wasn't exactly prudent to be dining here 
 to-night in what he realised now was one of the fashion- 
 able corners of the town. However clear his own con- 
 science might be — and for the moment he felt he was 
 doing no great harm — other people would hardly view 
 his proceeding with sympathetic understanding. His 
 young companion might be lonely and so might he, but, 
 after all, his friends, most of them, would make light of 
 such an excuse. Acacia Road, Wimbledon, would be 
 shocked, grieved, outraged ; Pall Mall and his partners 
 would be amused and disappointed and intrigued. But 
 
 '" 
 
BITTERSWEET loi 
 
 he was doing a kind action. Fate would perhaps prevent 
 his being seen. He was, he hoped, going to be amused, 
 and as for Illona — well, it wouldn't do her anything but 
 good to dine quietly for once in a while with someone 
 who was not all the time attempting to further an 
 ignoble suit. He must talk to her though. 
 
 " Where do you usually dine, Illona ? And do you 
 dine alone ? "" 
 
 " Sometimes alone ; sometimes with Sybil and Claire. 
 Ca depend. We dine often at that brasserie there in 
 the Place. You can come there if you like — but no ; 
 I don't want you to see Sybil again. And you wouldn't 
 care for it. It's quite bourgeois, you know. But I was 
 asking myself how long you were going to let me sit 
 opposite you without talking to me. I don't like it. 
 I want to be amused, me." 
 
 Gerard excused himself. He could hardly tell her 
 that conversation was not too easy for him, knowing 
 her so little, knowing her world not at all. Doubtless 
 too the conversation she was used to was not the kind 
 that he could provide, however much he worked. She 
 looked around in her turn and then quickly her eyes 
 came back to her plate and he saw that her cheeks had 
 reddened. Following the direction that her glance had 
 taken he realised that the three young Englishmen 
 were the cause of her embarrassment. They were look- 
 ing at his table and at his guest, and perhaps also at 
 him, with an amused but not impolite interest. 
 
 " Do you know those men behind me there, on the 
 left, those Englishmen ? " 
 
 Illona blushed more even than before. " No — yes. 
 
I02 BITTERSWEET 
 
 I know them. Two are good friends of mine. Often 
 I danced with them in Paris. At the Trianon. One 
 is a very good dancer. He's an officer. Ernest his name 
 is. Ilea's gentil, you know. I like him very much. I 
 didn't know he was here. Now I shall have a good 
 time." She clapped her hands a little. 
 
 Gerard was both curious and jealous. "YouVe 
 danced with him. He's a friend of yours. He'll find 
 you at the Piccadilly and you'll dance again. That's 
 all. I don't call that a good time." 
 
 "Not at all, my dear. He'll take me out eri auto. 
 Often when he came to Paris he took me out — to Ver- 
 sailles, to Fontainebleau, partout, partout. Not the 
 other ; only the one with the red hair. I don't like red 
 hair. I like your hair. But he's really nice. And he's 
 rich — and he can dance so well." 
 
 " And does he make love to you ? " Gerard could 
 not help the question. It slipped out. 
 
 Illona narrowed her eyes and looked at him. A 
 half smile passed over her face and vanished. " Oh, a 
 little — not seriously. II est gentil. I'd like him to make 
 love to me. // est beau, except for his hair. Truly 
 though he's a camarade. He's got respect for me. You 
 English are strange sometimes. Not always of course. 
 Young Englishmen are very romantic. They search 
 always for real love. One laughs at them on Mont- 
 martre for that. It's easy to pretend, and then for a 
 time one makes much money, you know." 
 
 " You shock me, Illona. I don't like that." 
 
 " Don't fear. I didn't mean myself. But all the 
 grues amuse themselves with Englishmen. An English- 
 
BITTERSWEET 103 
 
 man thinks ahvays of ramour'''' — she rolled the word 
 out — " of romance. He's sentimental ; he thinks he 
 will keep a girl for himself and that she will love him 
 for ever. He comes to Paris for a week-end and gives 
 her two hundred francs and then he comes back again 
 in a fortnight and is sure she's been faithful. Oh, how 
 we laugh sometimes ! " 
 
 It was Gerard's turn to knit his brows. " What 
 girls ? You and Sybil and Claire ? Surely not. I don't 
 understand." 
 
 " Me and Sybil and Claire ? Penses-tu ! You make 
 me angry, my dear. I mean the grues, the cocottes. 
 Some of the dancers are like that too, but not all." 
 
 " But you don't know that kind ? They're not friends 
 of yours ? " 
 
 " You amuse me. Of course I know them. We're 
 all together. Some of the grues dance ; some of the 
 dancers behave like grues. Voild tout ! Victor won't 
 let every woman come to the Trianon. He's a little 
 particular. But aufond they're all alike." 
 
 Gerard's jealous anxiety did not allow him to pursue 
 the subject. " This Ernest. Did he know you were in 
 Aix ? Did he come for you ? " 
 
 " You ask him, my dear. Naturally he came for me. 
 No, of course he didn't. You are stupid. But now he's 
 found me he'll be glad. He says no one dances like me. 
 And he gives me much money. One day he gave me 
 five hundred francs. Always he gives me a hundred." 
 
 " And he doesn't really make love to you ? Where 
 does he live ? What's his other name ? " 
 
 " Chisholm, I think. I don't know for certain. I did 
 
104 BITTERSWEET 
 
 know, but Fve forgotten. Tve got letters of his, but 
 I never wrote to him. He stops at the Meurice in 
 Paris. He doesn't come often, but the night he arrives 
 he always comes to the Trianon and then we have a 
 good time." 
 
 For a minute the conversation languished. Gerard 
 believed everything his companion had told him. But 
 he had not learned all he wanted to know. He wondered 
 how he could lead up to the subject about which his 
 heart troubled him. The waiter brought now a new dish, 
 a strange dish. Without intention Gerard was w^atching 
 his guest, looking at the lights in her eyes, taking 
 pleasure in the ivory of her face. Suddenly he realised 
 that she was embarrassed again. He wondered why. Her 
 regard had not strayed from the table. It was some- 
 thing of which she had thought, perhaps. Anyhow she 
 was not going on with her meal. 
 
 " You aren't eating, Illona. Don't you like that ? It's 
 supposed to be good." 
 
 She laughed nervously. " Oh,yes — but I'm not hungry. 
 Let me alone a moment. I'm thinking. Eat yourself, 
 my dear." 
 
 Gerard turned his attention to his plate. The maitre 
 dliotel was justified in his recommendation. He looked 
 up, a smile of sympathy with the trouble that he had 
 not recognised coming into his eyes, Illona was eating 
 now. She misunderstood his smile, and she laughed, 
 more nervously than before. 
 
 " I'm angry now. Truly angry. You are not kind, you 
 know." 
 
 " Why, Illona, what have I done ? " 
 
BITTERSWEET 105 
 
 " Pas de blague. You knew I was waiting to see how 
 one eats this dish. I haven't experience, me. Fd be 
 ashamed to make a mistake before all the world. You 
 knew that. Why didn't you help me ? They give fork 
 and spoon and knife and I don't know which of them 
 to use. Tu ii'es pas gentil, toV She was blushing and 
 Gerard saw, but the " tu " passed unregarded. It was 
 as well. It had not been used with intention. 
 
 " Why, Illona, that's nothing, nothing at all. I had 
 no idea you were in difficulties ; truly I hadn't. I'm 
 often like that myself. How can one alv^ays know what 
 one's eating or what one ought to use ? " and then, see- 
 ing that his guest was still unhappy, suspecting indeed 
 that tears were collecting in the corners of her eyes, he 
 did what she had once done with him, did it without 
 thought, almost unconsciously — he covered her hand 
 with his own quickly. It was a moment's caress. At 
 once he regretted it, but Illona did not suspect the 
 regret. The action calmed her, stilled her uneasiness. 
 And it did more. 
 
 " Another time you'll tell me, hein 9 But perhaps you 
 won't ask me to dinner again. Perhaps you're ashamed 
 of me now. But I'm enjoying myself, you know. You 
 make me comfortable." 
 
 " I'm so glad, Illona. But you'll be busy with that 
 Captain Chisholm, or whatever his name is — your 
 English boy, you'd call him, eh ? — and you won't have 
 any time to spare for new friends. I'll ask you again 
 quickly enough if I can be sure you'll come. But what 
 about that good time you're going to have .?" 
 
 " Don't take too seriously everything I say, my dear. 
 
io6 BITTERSWEET 
 
 Now I'll tell you true, though : Til always come when 
 
 you want me. The other shall be second." 
 
 Gerard's interest in his guest had increased with the 
 knowledge that she had other reputable friends. Now 
 as he ate he watched her, talking the while about 
 nothing in particular. What he had done, little though 
 it was, and this new note that had come into their 
 relation, troubled his conscience. He felt that once 
 more his defences were being broken down, that he was 
 being carried along on that same current that three 
 nights before had threatened to engulf him. There was 
 nothing in Illona's face, in the tone of her voice, in 
 the poise of her head on her slender shoulders, but what 
 gave him exquisite pleasure. And her mind — she seemed 
 to know so much, to have lived in so dark a world, and 
 yet to be clean, frank, open of heart. He could have 
 loved her if he had been free. It was well that he was 
 bound. Now he could be her friend perhaps. That 
 would do no harm. . . . 
 
 " They amuse me, those boys behind you — those men, 
 I mean. They keep trying to catch my eye. They want 
 to drink my health. But they don't want anyone to 
 notice." 
 
 Gerard looked up. He had just discovered that he 
 could see the three Englishmen in the mirror behind 
 Illona's head. " I can see them, you know.*" 
 
 Illona herself, now that her frankness had taken 
 away any need for secrecy, looked without hesitation 
 at her admirers. And Gerard saw the red-haired one, 
 a handsome, vigorous specimen of the young English 
 officer, catch her eye, lift his glass and smile. Illona 
 
BITTERSWEET 107 
 
 blushed again and then returned his smile, quickly 
 looking down as if to stop any other manifestation of 
 friendship. Apparently the young man had achieved 
 his immediate aim. The party pushed back their chairs 
 and called for their coats. As they went out the one 
 who was her own friend looked again at Illona and 
 bowed. So he might have greeted any friend of his 
 sister, 
 
 " Well, they're gone," Illona said. " They don't know 
 I'm at the Piccadilly, so perhaps they won't find me. I 
 don't care. But I must go now too. It's after ten. I 
 have to dress. You'll put me in a carriage ? Yon needn't 
 offer to come with me. I know you don't like to. I see 
 more than I say. Truly I've enjoyed myself with you. 
 I feel comfortable, happy, gay. Good-bye, my dear — 
 no, au revoir. I'll see you again surely." 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 GERARD the next morning waved the coffee and 
 rolls away from his bed and turned heavily on 
 the pillow. He was expecting the arrival of 
 his letters, the post from London, surely a letter from 
 his wife, possibly one from Vivian. To-day he awaited 
 their coming almost with distaste. They would be in 
 answer to the first letters he had written from Aix ; 
 they would deal with the place as he had then described 
 it. They would be out of date. Things had altered. 
 His mood was not now what it had been six days ago. 
 On a cure one ought to be free of correspondence, to 
 be spared the preoccupations of receiving and sending 
 letters, of describing one's days, of saying whether one 
 had slept well, of whether one felt better or worse. A 
 cure should be a withdrawal from the world, a retreat. 
 What one did on a cure ought not to be counted in the 
 tale of one's years. One should be free to follow one's 
 inclination. In the after-time one should look back and 
 divide one's life into two parts, the part before the cure, 
 the part after. The cure itself should be free of other 
 rules, restrictions, duties than those imposed by the cure 
 physician. Not that Gerard wanted to break loose. He 
 
 io8 
 
BITTERSWEET 109 
 
 played with the idea of freedom not because he had any 
 wish to throw aside all the inhibitions that ordinarily 
 governed his conduct, but because he did wish very 
 frankly that for these brief weeks he might forget the 
 smaller obligations of his life and surrender himself 
 without grudge or misgiving to the pleasure of the 
 moment, to the life that he could live in Aix if only 
 he could feel free, to the sun, to the beauty of the 
 mountains. He stretched with a vivid sense of luxury 
 under the thin coverlet that was between his body and 
 the flickering sun that played upon the bed. Surely all 
 this was better than working in London. He would 
 normally be in Pall Mall by now, opening letters in which 
 old ladies would be asking for a good claret at sixteen 
 shillings a dozen and retired colonels complaining that 
 the last port his firm had recommended was nothing 
 like as good as its predecessor. Certainly these three 
 weeks, whether he looked on them as a necessity or as a 
 holiday, would do him ever so much more good than 
 a month at Bude. . . . 
 
 There were three letters that morning. One was from 
 Vivian. He read it first. It wasn't very long and it didn't 
 tell him very much, but it contained a drawing of 
 Dickie's stumps being sent in all directions in a "match" 
 in which he had succeeded in making three runs ; and its 
 few lines gave him real pleasure. Basil had caught a 
 cold, but all the same they were starting for Bude the 
 next day. Mary's letter was of some length. It dealt 
 mostly with the difficulties of arranging their departure. 
 Mr Humphries, Dickie's schoolmaster, hadn't been too 
 amiable about letting Dickie off the last six weeks of 
 
no BITTERSWEET 
 
 term ; the maids had been more than usually annoying, 
 and Edith, the cook, had given notice. " It's too pro- 
 voking — I can't leave Ellen alone in the house while 
 weVe away — I don't suppose she'd stop anyhow — and if 
 Edith was going away at her month I didn't want her 
 to stop on with her and I told her she'd better go to- 
 morrow when we go, and I'm paying her her wages and 
 board wages too. So I've told Ellen we'll take her down 
 to Bude instead of her usual holiday — for there'll be a 
 spare room as you won't be there — but that she must 
 make herself useful and do some sewing for Vivian — I 
 think she likes the idea — And I've arranged that 
 Portman " (Gerard recognised one of the local constables 
 to whose wife Mary had been kind) " and his wife shall 
 come and live here — they've got no children. She's to 
 keep the place clean and we're to pay her ten shillings a 
 week. It is all very provoking and costs a lot of money 
 that we can't afford, but it cannot be helped now — I 
 shall try not to spend so much at Bude. We must try 
 to be economical — you must be spending a dreadful lot 
 at Aix-les-Bains — Dickie's school bills will be getting 
 biofger and bigger and then there's Vivian and Basil — 
 we must be careful — oh dear oh dear I wish you hadn't 
 had to go away like this — I miss you a great deal more 
 than I thought I should — I hope you won't have to have 
 an 'after-cure.' Couldn't you rest quite as well at 
 Wimbledon — ask Doctor — I can't read his name. I 
 didn't after all write to the office to ask for wine to be 
 sent to Bude because of the expense — I like water quite 
 as much — I daresay it's better for me. I find it very 
 provoking that the Bude train doesn't stop at AVimble- 
 
BITTERSWEET in 
 
 don — ifs so inconvenient going up to Waterloo and it 
 costs so much extra." There were several pages in the 
 same strain and the letter ended with a postscript : 
 " Vivian has been very rude to Miss Pittard and directly 
 she''s finished your letter she's going to bed — I think 
 that she will have to go to a boarding-school if she 
 doesn't learn to behave better. I heard of a very good 
 one the other day from Mrs Brett Jones — I went to see 
 her to explain why we couldn't dine there — of course I'd 
 written too." 
 
 The third letter was not a letter at all. It was a 
 bulky envelope, was from Gerard's bank and contained 
 his pass-book. He had sent it in on the eve of his 
 departure with a request that it should be made up to 
 the end of the week and then sent to him at Aix. He 
 had no reason to look at it with misgiving. Within a 
 few pounds, and on the assumption that all the cheques 
 he had written had already been their brief round, he 
 knew what it would disclose. He was one of those .un- 
 usual people to whom the keeping of a respectable 
 balance was a settled habit. He had always lived within 
 his income. Money would accumulate in his account 
 until the end of the year ; then he would invest it in a 
 lump. Just now he had some cause to be pleased with 
 the state of his finances. His last purchase had been 
 of London General Omnibus Shares and their rise had 
 been more than ordinarily satisfactory. His broker was 
 to be thanked for that. Gerard was no reader of the 
 financial press. He was content to do what he was told. 
 Well, it was a good thing to have no worries about money. 
 This visit to Aix would cost something, but he could 
 
112 BITTERSWEET 
 
 afford it, and there was no excuse for anxiety in these 
 recent and unforeseen expenditures. Why shouldn't he 
 enjoy himself for once in a way ? He couldn't embarrass 
 his affairs in the fortnight that remained of his visit. 
 If necessary he could make up for it when he got back. 
 But to stop here about a month and to refuse to join 
 in the life of the place and to return without having 
 made the most of the experience — why, it would be 
 ridiculous. . . . 
 
 He dragged himself out of bed and disengaged his 
 writing-case from the pile of clothes with which it was 
 covered. Getting back to bed he wrote at once : 
 
 "My dear Illona: It is such a beautiful day 
 that I think you and I ought both of us to make 
 the most of it. You say you like motoring. Won't 
 you come out with me ? I'm going to mark this 
 letter ' urgent ' so that it may reach you at once. 
 Forgive me, please, if you wanted to go on sleeping. 
 But what I thought was that we might motor up 
 to La Chambotte. My guide-book says it's a ' site 
 ravissant,'' whatever that may mean, and we can 
 lunch there — if only you'll be ready to start at 
 twelve o'clock. You've got time, you know ! But 
 perhaps your English friend has found you and 
 you're engaged. I hope not though. We'd meet 
 at the station — a la gare — at 12.5. Please send me 
 an answer by the bearer. Yours very" — how 
 should he end ? — " Yours very sincerely, 
 
 " G. Blundbll." 
 
 The addressing of the envelope presented difficulties. 
 He didn't know the girl's name. He supposed that 
 " Mademoiselle Illona " would do. It would have to. 
 He rang for a chasseur. But if he sent a boy from the 
 
BITTERSWEET 113 
 
 hotel the little affair would be everybody's property. 
 He didn't suppose that the porter would fail to 
 imagine a great deal into a letter that was going to the 
 Piccadilly. Perhaps after all he had better give the idea 
 up. He looked at his clock. There was not time for him 
 to dress and to go down into the streets and to send some 
 casually picked-up messenger. No, he would not give it 
 up ! He'd have to use the chasseur. He bade the boy wait 
 while he wrote a second note — to his partner, Mathews. 
 It was necessary to have another errand to cloak the 
 boy's visit to the Piccadilly. He had heard that you 
 could buy the discretion of such menials. An excuse 
 for his letter to Mathews ? Would they send at once 
 to Bude a case of half bottles of 1910 Graacher? . . . 
 But that was ridiculous. Why should he send a special 
 messenger to the post-office with a letter that couldn't 
 anyhow, leave Aix till the evening ? It didn't look con- 
 vincing. He must invent a further pretext. There was no 
 one in the place to whom he could send a note. He knew 
 Mr Champion, but he had no wish to write to him, and 
 anyhow they shared the same roof. He must fall back 
 on a telegram. The only person to whom he could 
 telegraph was Mary. "Telegraph if arrived comfort- 
 ably. Very well myself. Gerard." 
 
 " Now, my boy, look here. I want you to send this 
 telegram and to get me a receipt for it, and to bring it 
 to me directly you come back. No, wait a minute. The 
 telegram will be two francs sixty and the receipt a sou, 
 isn't it ? Here's five francs. Tell the porter I want you 
 to go to the post-office immediately, without any delay. 
 No, don't be in such a hurry. There's something else. 
 
 8 
 
114 BITTERSWEET 
 
 It's a letter for the Piccadilly Restaurant. You know 
 where that is ? You can pass it on the way to the post. 
 Leave the letter as you go down and say you'll call for 
 an answer in five minutes, that it's important. Under- 
 stand. Put it in your pocket. Say nothing to the porter 
 about the letter, mind. I've a reason for that. The 
 change out of the five francs you can keep for yourself. 
 Now trot." 
 
 Gerard went back to bed. He could not know the result 
 of his invitation for half an hour. Pontif ex had told him 
 he must go and lunch at I.a Chambotte, but he was very 
 well aware that both La Chambotte and the beautiful 
 day were merely excuses, that the real reason for the 
 excursion was his wish to see Illona again, to spend a 
 day with her in the sun, away from the crowds of Aix. 
 . . . Within limits he was quite honest with himself. 
 
 The boy was something like a chasseur. He was back 
 in less than half an hour : 
 
 " Here, Monsieur, is the receipt, and the message from 
 the Piccadilly is that Mademoiselle will meet you." 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 GERARD had to find a car for himself. In any 
 ordinary circumstances — if he had been taking 
 Mrs and Miss Goddard out for the day for 
 instance — he would have ordered one through the hotel 
 porter without question. But things being as they were 
 he thought he had better keep the fact of his excursion 
 as much as possible to himself. Hurrying his dressing 
 he went downstairs and promptly ran against Mr 
 Champion in the hall. 
 
 " Don't you think this would be the very day for a 
 jaunt, Blundell?" 
 
 The horrid little man progresses in intimacy, Gerard 
 thought, but he answered civilly enough that he was 
 unfortunately engaged. 
 
 " Oh, that's a pity — but we will go some time — 
 eh ? YouVe got friends here now, haven't you ? I saw 
 you weren't in to dinner last night — you came in 
 pretty early all the same. Wonderful not to hear you 
 coming home about four o'clock. You wake me up, 
 you know — but I don't mind. You'll spoil your 
 cure. Docteur Vignon wouldn't let you behave like 
 that, I can tell you. Going down the hill ? I'll walk 
 
ii6 BITTERSWEET 
 
 with you. Nothing like a little exercise before lunch, I 
 
 always say." 
 
 Gerard had no choice but to allow this inconvenient 
 companionship. He wondered whether he was to be 
 forced into a friendship against his will. On the whole 
 he thought that he was safe as long as he responded no 
 more cheerfully than he had previously done. After all 
 he was not of sufficient importance to make it likely 
 that a tuft-hunter would insist on his capture. Shrewdly 
 he supposed that Mr Champion would not lay nets 
 beforehand, would not care to compromise himself by 
 making plans ahead. It was still so early in the season. 
 New guests were arriving at the hotel by every train. 
 You couldn't tell what a day might produce in the 
 way of interesting and important people. If he were 
 once tied up as a companion to Gerard Blundell he 
 might find it difficult to extricate himself. So, Gerard 
 was convinced, Mr Champion reasoned, consciously or un- 
 consciously; but in the meantime minutes were passing : 
 he must get rid of him somehow or other ; he must find 
 a car. The little Englishman stuck to him. Evidently 
 he looked on their walk as a constitutional. They were, 
 he supposed, to stroll down and they were to take a 
 turn and they were to stroll up. All the way he prattled 
 — gossip, stupid gossip about the people in the hotel, 
 about the noted or the scandalous visitors to Aix, 
 about the King of Greece. Without quite realising 
 what he was doing Gerard had chosen the road that led 
 past the Piccadilly : 
 
 " Now that's a place I can't understand decent people 
 going to." He paused for Gerard's reply. 
 
BITTERSWEET 117 
 
 " Why, have you ever been there ? Ifs a restaurant, 
 isn't it ? " 
 
 " You can call it a restaurant if you like. I shouldn't. 
 And I wouldn't go into it. I've heard what goes on 
 there. It's a disgusting place." 
 
 " But what does go on ? " 
 
 " Everyone knows it's shameful. I wonder the police 
 allow it. There are some shocking tales. But anything's 
 possible in France." 
 
 Gerard allowed the subject to drop. He felt that he 
 had been prudent indeed in his attempt to keep the 
 knowledge of his own interest in the place from his 
 hotel porter. His companion would surely have heard 
 of it, and then at once it would have been common 
 property. But they were down now in front of the 
 Hotel de Ville. 
 
 " You must excuse me. I must go and find a barber ; 
 I have to get my hair cut before lunch." 
 
 " Oh, I can take you to the best man. I'll stroll round 
 a bit while you're there and we'll walk up together." 
 
 "No, don't do that. I think I saw a place — along 
 here. I must hurry. I'm not coming back to lunch 
 anyway." Gerard darted off. His legs were longer than 
 his persecutor's. He did get away. 
 
 And he did arrive at two minutes past twelve in front 
 of the station in one of the cars of Monsieur Curvat, a 
 car that he fancied even this Chisholm, unless he had 
 brought one of his own from England, would be unable 
 to surpass in comfort and apparent efficiency. Gerard 
 was frankly sensitive on the point. Who, apart from 
 his name and that he was in the army, the young 
 
ii8 BITTERSWEET 
 
 Englishman was, he had no idea, but certainly he had 
 arrived in Aix a day late, several days late. That he 
 had driven Illona about Paris, that he had danced 
 with her night after night, gave him no claim on her 
 time here in Savoy. Gerard reassured himself with the 
 recollection that she had promised him that in the event 
 of their clashing he should come first. 
 
 Now, no doubt, he would have to wait for several 
 minutes. It was already the hour he had appointed. But 
 Illona was punctual. He saw her coming. She drifted 
 down the Avenue de la Gare in the same wind-swept 
 manner that he had noticed yesterday. She was wearing 
 the same clothes, the same hat. She wasn't smart. . . . 
 But if she was not smart, also it was true that to his eyes 
 at least she betrayed her profession not at all. The 
 dancers, even the actresses, he had seen in London, that 
 he had lunched next to at Romano's or the Imperial, 
 too often gave themselves away. They looked, even if 
 they were not, more than a little disreputable — disreput- 
 able and raffish and dowdy. There was nothing cared-for 
 about their appearance. If they wore lace it was seldom 
 fresh ; their skirts hung just as they should not ; colours 
 clashed ; they seemed to have started on their career of 
 pleasing without thought ; they were amateurs. This 
 Illona was certainly not dowdy, but equally she was not 
 disreputable. She didn't look rich ; she looked forlorn. 
 He need never regret that she was with him. . . . 
 
 " I'm punctual to-day. You were angry at being kept 
 waiting yesterday : I saw. I'm sleepy a little. Quel culot 
 to wake me up, I said, when I saw your note. I almost 
 threw the maid into the passage. I didn't know it was 
 
BITTERSWEET 119 
 
 from you of course. I like your handwriting. But you 
 didn't give me much time. Ill tell you the truth. Fm 
 only punctual by accident : the coiffeur wasn't ready 
 for me, so I didn't wait for him. You mustn't look at 
 my hair." 
 
 "Why, you don't go to the coiffeur every day, do 
 you?" 
 
 " Of course I do. Often twice. Always twice when I'm 
 going out. I've got to — I've so much hair and it flies 
 about when I dance. But I didn't know to-day that I was 
 going out in time to make sure that he'd be free." 
 
 " And is all that hair your own ? Oh, I know it is : 
 I've seen it down — that first night I came." 
 
 " I didn't have it down last night. I shan't again. It 
 makes me look too young. I don't like that. I'm not a 
 gosse^ moi. I'm a woman. I'm twenty-two. Yesterday I 
 wore my Russian dress. Like a boy, you know, with high 
 boots and bare knees. I danced my Russian dance. I had 
 a success. Look, I made quite a lot of money." She 
 opened her bag and took out a metal purse and showed 
 what it contained — a note, for a hundred francs appar- 
 ently, and some half dozen louis. 
 
 " You did well — nearly ten pounds." 
 
 " I had more than that. I gave the femme de chambre 
 ten francs — Piaci doesn't pay her anything either — and 
 I owed the coiflfeur thirty francs and I paid him." 
 
 "• You owed the coiffeur thirty francs ! Why, you've 
 only been here four or five nights." 
 
 " Of course. He costs dear although we pay artists' 
 prices. I've been here a week — yes, a week to-day — and 
 I paid him fifty francs the other day. I left Paris so 
 
120 BITTERSWEET 
 
 quickly that I brought nothing with me, and I had to 
 
 buy powder, cream, everything.'" 
 
 " Anyhow youVe still got about twelve louis there. 
 / don't make twelve louis a day, I can tell you." 
 
 " Blague, my dear. But I work hard, you know. I 
 danced all the time nearly till six o'clock this morning." 
 
 " But you sat down with all your nice friends." 
 
 " Yes, but they wouldn't let me sit down long. It 
 wasn't for nothing though. I'd like the same people to 
 come back every day. They were two Germans. Rather 
 nice, one of them. The other was old, fat, a regular beer- 
 brewer. He tried to make love to me. I didn't like that, 
 so I called Lucy to sit on the table. She doesn't mind 
 what they do. And she's made no money since she's been 
 here. I made him give her three louis at once; I said she 
 wanted it. Afterwards he gave her some more. He got 
 quite drunk and paid for champagne for everyone, for the 
 band, for the other dancers. When he went away the 
 young one had to help him out. How Piaci laughed ! His 
 bill was nearly a thousand francs. I'd have made more 
 myself if I'd stayed on their table, but I went away when 
 he got drunk — and then what do you think happened ? 
 At four o'clock Ernest came : you know that boy we saw 
 last night ; he came with his two friends. They'd been 
 playing in the Casino. So I went to their table. He 
 wanted me to go out to-day. I said I couldn't, that I 
 was too tired. He asked who you were. So I told him 
 you were a very old friend of mine. It wasn't his business. 
 I don't tell everyone all they want to know. But look, 
 you take care of this purse for me, heinP I may lose it." 
 
 Gerard took the purse and put it away in an inside 
 
BITTERSWEET I2i 
 
 pocket. He was moved that she should trust him in this 
 way. He looked at her. Already the wind had brought a 
 new colour to her cheeks ; he thought she might be cold. 
 
 " There's so much wind ; you'd better have my scarf. 
 No, I wouldn't wear it anyway." 
 
 She protested again, but he wound it round her neck. 
 
 " Yes, it is cold," she said, and held out her hands for 
 him to touch. They were chill. For a moment he enclosed 
 them in his own. She looked happily at him, and seemed 
 to press closer to his side, almost as a child might. They 
 drove on in silence. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 SOON Gerard had to lessen the chaufFeur"'s zeal. 
 He was not an habitual motorist ; the speed of 
 the Continental driver seemed to him beyond 
 safety ; he had no wish to appear in the London papers 
 as the victim of a motor-car accident. Whether it left 
 him alive or dead the circumstances would be equally 
 difficult to explain away. And there was no need for 
 hurry. They had the day before them. Then quite 
 consciously he determined to put London and his home 
 out of his thoughts for a few hours. This was a holiday. 
 For a brief space he had escaped from his ordinary world. 
 He would make the most of it. . . . 
 
 From a sky clear save for a few white and happy clouds 
 the sun beat down on that landscape of mountain and 
 field, village and vineyard, that is the glory of Savoy. 
 The car had passed the mean streets and desultory houses 
 that mark the outskirts of Aix. They were running 
 through an avenue of trees, under the tunnel of their 
 widespread branches. Gerard turned a little and looked 
 at his companion. Her face was still, still as a sculptor's 
 marble. She seemed not to notice his regard. From 
 under her small black hat her hair escaped in untidy 
 
BITTERSWEET 123 
 
 waves. Her skin was flushed ; her lips, curled and salient, 
 not meek and suppressed as is the occidental way, were 
 warmly red. She whose life was spent under the hard 
 light of electric globes was for the moment a creature 
 of the sunlight. Her beauty seemed to unfold, to be- 
 come more vivid under his eyes. He had compared her 
 before to the other women he had known ! How much 
 more vital she was, how much more natural. She hid 
 nothing. She was primitive, real. What was it that 
 attracted him ? It was not as if he had seen much of 
 her. They had talked for three or four broken hours, 
 but only about the ordinary commonplaces of her life. 
 Was she beautiful ? Her mouth was beautiful and her 
 skin and her curved eyebrows and long lashes, her green- 
 brown eyes, and the sad, brooding melancholy of her 
 gaze. 
 
 " Illona." 
 " Well .? " 
 
 " You don't regret that English boy ? I'd like to 
 be certain that you wouldn't rather have been with 
 him. Where did he want to take you ? " 
 
 " My dear, if I had wanted to go w ith him be sure 
 I would have gone. Truly, though, even if I had given 
 him my promise last night I would have sent to him 
 to let me off this morning — for you. Where were we 
 going ? To the Lake of Annecy, he said, to some village 
 on the other side. I go with him, perhaps to-morrow, 
 hein? Perhaps not. Notts x^errons. To-day is enough 
 now. I'm very happy." 
 
 "That pleases me, but I'm jealous of your English 
 boy ; don't let's talk about him." 
 
124 BITTERSWEET 
 
 " You jealous ! You don't know how to be jealous. 
 I don't know you very well, but I know that much. It 
 doesn't matter. We won't talk of him. I think only of 
 you to-day — just for four hours. You'll be tired of me 
 then." 
 
 " No, Illona, I'll never be tired of you while you talk 
 to me, and while you look like that with your cheeks 
 pink like a child's, and your hair flying in the wind. 
 Do you know how pretty you are ? " 
 
 " Me — pretty ! " She laughed. " I'm not pretty, my 
 dear. Sybil is pretty. But it's right you should like me 
 for to-day. I like you." 
 
 " Like — that's a poor word. What French word would 
 you use ? " 
 
 " How do you mean ? Je voiis aime^ I think." 
 
 "Yes, that's what I meant. But '' Je vous aime'' is 
 nothing. Vous aimez the motor-car or the mountains. 
 Je vous aime^ but I like also the waiter who brings me 
 my breakfast ; j''a'i7ne this chauffeur." 
 
 Illona burst into laughter. " Oh, you do amuse me. 
 What would you have me say .? Je faime ? " She 
 laughed again. " No, that would be too much — too 
 much for to-day. Besides it wouldn't be true. I'll say J^ 
 vou^ aime bien, if you like." Looking at him she added : 
 " Mostly you amuse me ; yes, that's it ; even you interest 
 me a little. Voild tout ! To-morrow it will be another 
 — another for me, another for you. Your friends will 
 perhaps arrive to-morrow, and then you'll have no time 
 for me. Now let us look at the country. All this is new 
 to me. I want to see." 
 
 But Gerard had no eyes for the little villages they 
 
BITTERSWEET 125 
 
 were passing, for the fields of corn, the vines. He looked 
 only at his companion. Soon they began to climb up 
 and up over a road too rough for ordinary driving, 
 tortuous, a little dangerous. The strange country scenes 
 would at any other time have interested him. Now he 
 watched only the effect they had on the girl at his side, 
 to whom they were as curious as they were to him. 
 " Look, look ! " she would cry out, and he would try to see 
 what had attracted her. Soon she was not content with 
 turning from this side to that. She must stand on the seat 
 looking out over the windscreen or from the back of the 
 car into the valley. At a sudden curve of the road nearly 
 she was thrown over the side. " Put your hand on my 
 shoulder," Gerard told her. He thrilled under her touch, 
 and suddenly and frankly he realised all that she might 
 be to him, all that perhaps she would be to him. He 
 knew that he desired her as he had never desired any- 
 thing in his life ; he knew, and knowing, confessed to 
 himself. Unconsciously he shook his head and bit his 
 underlip. Did what he was thinking count as a sin ? he 
 asked himself Did anything but happiness count to-day 
 under this sun, amid these hills ? 
 
 And then of a sudden they had reached the brow 
 of the mountain and the car had pulled up at the not 
 very imposing gate of the little "hotel-restaurant" 
 which crowns the height. Here too the season had 
 not begun. No other car, no other visitor, was to 
 be seen. 
 
 "Say, tell the chauffeur he"'s to have his lunch," 
 Illona prompted Gerard, and then together they went 
 across the terrace, through the narrow eating-room of 
 
126 BITTERSWEET 
 
 the building on to a further terrace, almost a balcony, 
 
 beyond. . . . 
 
 " Oh, how it is beautiful! . . . Don't talk to me ; let me 
 look at it," 
 
 Gerard drew his breath. He was content not to speak. 
 The waiter who had shown them the way, used perhaps 
 to the effect of the scene on the visitor who saw it for 
 the first time, had left them alone. They were both 
 leaning over the iron rail that served as a protection 
 from the precipice that dropped almost sheer to the 
 ground three thousand feet below. Lac du Bourget lay 
 beneath them, stretching irregularly its length between 
 the high mountains that it gave back from its smooth 
 surface as from a mirror. Polished and blue, the water 
 had no flaw on its broad surface, but here and again it 
 was fretted with the breeze from the shore ; a single 
 sailing boat left a wake hardly perceptible ; the clear 
 enamel colour was shaded by the milk of the clouds. 
 Illona stood motionless. Gerard was on the point of 
 speaking but looking at her he refrained from breaking 
 in on her silence. He wondered what she was think- 
 ing or whether her mind was simply absorbed by the 
 beauty of what she saw. He waited for her to movv- • • 
 Her young, lithe figure, poised so lightly on its feet, 
 was silhouetted against the mountains, against the silver 
 grey of the rocks, against the woods which clung like 
 moss to the steep sides of the lower hills. In this sun, 
 in this tonic air, each minute that passed was some- 
 thing strangely remote from life as he had known it. An 
 ecstasy bathed the seconds, and this young girl was a 
 symbol of an ever to be remembered joy. 
 
BITTERSWEET 127 
 
 The waiter came for his orders. Gerard asked for an 
 early dejeuner. It would be ready, he was told, in half 
 an hour. 
 
 Illona had turned. She came towards him and took 
 his hand. "My dear, this is the most beautiful place I 
 have ever seen. I may forget the others ; now I shall 
 never forget you, because you brought me here. But let 
 us go down. We have half an hour. I want to see more. 
 Everything is beautiful.'''' 
 
 A flight of steps led to an untidy garden that merged 
 untidily into the wild ground that bordered the edge of 
 the rocks. On one of its stones a lizard lay sunning itself. 
 As they went down Illona saw it : 
 
 "Quick, look! What is that? Une salamandre? I must 
 catch it." And she was off, darting here and there like a 
 child, with all a child's eager curiosity and foolish zeal. 
 Then a butterfly, and quickly she ran, throwing her hat 
 in a vain attempt to put an end to its flight. Gerard 
 followed her slowly, laughing to himself, laughing at 
 her, laughing in sheer happiness. . . . The half-hour 
 passed too quickly. 
 
 The air, the lunch, the wine — theSeyssel of the country- 
 side — and perhaps in particular two slices of a veritable 
 Scotch currant cake which came unexpectedly before the 
 coffee and which the waiter accounted for on the ground 
 that the patronne, his mother, was a true Scotchwoman, 
 combined to make Gerard a little sleepy, a little dis- 
 inclined for further exploration. And yet he had no wish 
 to return at once to Aix. His hotel, sanity, his ordinary 
 life, were an hour away. He would postpone his return 
 to them as lone as he could. Illona retained still her 
 
128 BITTERSWEET 
 
 mood of energy. She would have him look out over the 
 full blue lake that seemed to threaten to overflow its 
 banks. " You'll take me out one day in a sailing boat 
 like that, hein ? Arid see the train down there. It's like 
 a snail. How slow it goes ! And that auto. I could drop 
 a stone on them if I tried. The lake looks as if it is 
 splashed with ink." 
 
 Once more she dragged him down to the garden. They 
 must go, she said, to that spur of rock that hung over the 
 road. The way proved more difficult than she thought. 
 There were fences to climb, a wire, and gullies of tumbling 
 stones. Suddenly a high heel gave way beneath her and 
 she fell headlong. Quickly Gerard helped her to her feet. 
 
 " Yes, I'm hurt — my finger : fa fait mal . . . o-oh, ga 
 fait bobo!'" 
 
 For a moment he thought she would faint. The 
 colour faded from her cheeks. " Sit down," he said, 
 and she slipped down beside him. They could have 
 chosen no worse place. The stones were loose, the 
 ground sloped away. He put out his arm to support 
 her. She nestled against him as if it were her right. 
 His arm closed round her waist, and her uncovered 
 head drooped to his shoulder. 
 
 For a moment Gerard was seized by panic. Had she 
 fainted .P Perhaps more than her finger was hurt. He 
 could feel under his arm, under his hand, her soft respira- 
 tion. No woman had ever lost consciousness in his pre- 
 sence before. Should he run for help ? But how could 
 he ? How could he account for the place in which they 
 were ? How could assistance come to them in this 
 crevice among the rocks ? 
 
BITTERSWEET 129 
 
 Perfectly still, save for the slight movement of her 
 breath the girl's slim body pressed against his own. 
 He could feel its warmth. Surely she was only faint 
 from the shock and from the pain. His anxiety passed. 
 He looked down at her length. Her face was turned 
 from him, but one ear and all the glory of her hair, 
 brown, gleaming and rippling to disorder, was beneath 
 his eyes and just the beginning of her forehead, the line 
 of her body too, the curves of her waist and of her hip, 
 the longer line of her leg, and her foot in its black 
 stocking and stupid useless shoe. Hardly he refrained 
 from bringing his other arm round beneath her breast 
 the more surely to support her. An infinite tenderness 
 surged through him. Poor child, so dear, so alone, so 
 fragrant and perhaps so lost. Was there anything 
 he could do to keep her from further harm ? He in- 
 clined his head and kissed her hair softly, so softly that 
 perhaps even if she were conscious she would hardly feel 
 his lips. Through all the figure that he held he felt a 
 shiver run, a thrill. Then a sigh, a moan, and again 
 absolute stillness. . . . 
 
 Gerard tightened the arm that held the girl, that 
 held her from slipping down on the loose stones to the 
 bushes a few feet below. Once more he bent his head 
 and pressed his lips against her hair, rubbing his cheek 
 tenderly, caressingly, amid its soft folds. Clearly she 
 knew. As a cat purrs she drew her breath through her 
 lips and pressed more closely to him. Then he did 
 bring his other arm to her support, clasping his hands 
 together, holding her tightly to him. His cheek, his 
 mouth, lay upon her hair. Its scent, her scent, crept 
 
130 BITTERSWEET 
 
 through his being Hke an intoxication. Still further he 
 bent and kissed her ear, her temple, the corner of her 
 forehead, quietly but without restraint. Then suddenly 
 he felt her tremble and draw away. With the fingers 
 of one hand and with the hand closed that she had hurt 
 she pushed him from her. For a moment she looked 
 into his face, strangely, hungrily almost, as if in search 
 of some secret that evaded discovery. Then she jumped 
 to her feet and before he could catch her was out of his 
 reach. Quickly he followed her. 
 
 " Illona " 
 
 " My dear, don't talk to me. Laisse mot tranquille, 
 Je fen prie. Why did you do that ? No, Fd rather 
 not be told : I don't want you to lie to me. I want to 
 go back now, quickly, quickly." 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THEY had left the steeper part of their 
 descent behind them before Illona spoke again. 
 Hurriedly making her way to the terrace of 
 the little hotel she stood impatiently while the waiter 
 brought the bill and while the car was being sent 
 for. Then when all was ready she delayed their de- 
 parture for more than a minute while she leant over the 
 iron rail and looked out over the lake, motionless, ab- 
 sorbed in her own thoughts. Gerard forbore to in- 
 terrupt her. He was at a loss. Something he knew had 
 happened, something more than he realised. What he 
 had done he regretted not at all, but what should he do 
 now ? What was there for him to do ? He had kissed 
 her. Was that so great a sin ? He smiled grimly, re- 
 membering what he had seen at the Piccadilly and re- 
 membering a score of sentences from her talk. But he 
 had kissed her more than once. The proper time for 
 her anger was when he had first pressed his lips to her 
 hair. Then she had shivered closer to his side. Her 
 outburst had been slow in coming. At present he could 
 only see her back. Perhaps if he could see her face, her 
 eyes, he would be able to understand. Perhaps. He 
 
132 BITTERSWEET 
 
 shrugged his shoulders and was immediately ashamed of 
 the gesture : it was insincere. He did care. Still he 
 could feel her soft hair, her warm flesh on his lips ; still 
 the fragrance of her being was in his memory. Even if 
 now she was lost to him for ever he could hardly find 
 room in his heart for regret at what had happened in 
 those moments that, passing so quickly, had brought him 
 such an ecstasy of delight. 
 
 These thoughts pursued him as the car wheeled and 
 twisted down the mountain side. Illona kept her face 
 averted. For a moment he thought she might be crying. 
 One of her hands lay on the rug, the hand she had hurt. 
 The pain could have been no trifle. One nail was torn 
 and blue, and the skin of her knuckles was bruised and 
 red. Should he take the hand and hold it in his own ? 
 Or would it be wiser, safer, to wait, to allow her anger, 
 her resentment, to run its course ? The opportunity 
 passed, for now with both hands she was rolling and 
 unrolling, folding and unfolding, her handkerchief. Once 
 and again she would start as if her whole body was being 
 racked. 
 
 So the kilometres reeled themselves away. Nearly 
 were they in Aix before she turned : 
 
 "I wanted to send my mother a postal-card from 
 there, and to buy some for myself. How can I get 
 them?" 
 
 " 111 look in the town. The shops are sure to have 
 some. Then 111 bring them to you. If not, well go up 
 again one day, eh ? " 
 
 " No, 111 never go up again — not with you, not with 
 anyone. And ecoute : if you find the cards you can send 
 
BITTERSWEET 133 
 
 them to me. I don't want you to bring them. I don't 
 want you to come ever again to the Piccadilly." 
 
 " But, Illona, how then shall I be able to see you 
 dance ? I must see that again." 
 
 " Jamais, jamais. I don't wish you to see rae dance. 
 No, I forbid you to come. Then perhaps I won't see 
 you. It's better — yes, indeed." 
 
 " Illona, I must see you again " 
 
 *' There isn't any must. I wish not. Perhaps, oh 
 yes, perhaps I shall change. I think not, though. Now 
 stop the man : I want to walk a little ; I don't want 
 to drive into Aix with you." She signalled to the 
 chauffeur herself. 
 
 " But let me get out of the car and walk with 
 you." 
 
 " No." She spoke with angry decision. " No, I will 
 be alone. Good-bye." 
 
 " I won't say ' Good-bye.' I'll only say ' Au revoir.' 
 You taught me that. Illona, I must see you again ; I 
 must see you to-night. Please, please, come to Nikola's 
 to dinner. I want you to so much." 
 
 She laughed harshly. " For how long ? No, I won't 
 have dinner with you. Once was enough " 
 
 "But last night you said you wanted me to ask you 
 again." 
 
 " Last night ! Last night is gone, my dear. I've said 
 it : I won't come. Now let me go." 
 
 " I've done something stupid. I know that much, 
 although I don't know what it was. You'll forgive me, 
 Illona. Please, dear, do. Please forgive me. Perhaps 
 you'll change your mind. I'll wait for you in the same 
 
134 BITTERSWEET 
 
 place, where I waited last night. I shall hope you will 
 
 come." 
 
 " It's no use : 1 won't be there. Youll only wait for 
 nothing. And you did nothing stupid. It was my fault. 
 But now good-bye." This time Gerard could not keep 
 her. 
 
 Back in his room at the hotel, Gerard had first to read 
 the letters that had arrived for him and then to answer 
 them. Certainly he had made a mess of things, he 
 thought to himself, as he stared at the sheet of paper 
 on which he had begun to write to his wife. He had 
 given away his " ancient wisdom and austere control *" 
 for nothing. He had even sinned. Good heavens, yes ! 
 He had plunged in just about as deeply as he could with- 
 out going in over his head. And what for ? What re- 
 mained now ? Chagrin and anger and desire and, yes, 
 love confessed and unsatisfied and insistent. Something 
 had happened. He was sure that Illona wasn't merely 
 playing with him. In what she said she had been sincere. 
 Truly she didn't intend to see him again. It T««isn't that 
 she disliked him. Even now he could feel her in his 
 arms, pressing closer to his side with every caress of 
 his lips until suddenly she had torn herself away from 
 him. What had he done ? What had he left undone ? 
 What could he do now ? Write to her ? His courage 
 winced at going in spite of her wish to search for her at 
 the Piccadilly. He would find her with other friends. 
 She might refuse even to speak to him. He had already, 
 he felt, made himself conspicuous enough. Yes, he would 
 have to write. After all there remained not so many days. 
 
BITTERSWEET 135 
 
 One week out of* three had gone. But even if months 
 remained he had so little time. At the mere thought of 
 her spending her day, her evenings, with one or other of 
 the many men whom apparently her beauty attracted 
 to the Piccadilly, even of her carrying out with this man 
 Chisholm that plan of an excursion to Annecy, every 
 jealous instinct of which his nature was capable had 
 surged angrily into his brain. He saw her with the young 
 Englishman flying along those broad roads, nestling to 
 his side, talking to him, laughing with him. Chisholm 
 made love to her a little, she had said : " Td like him to 
 make love to me." He would prevent that somehow. 
 Yes, he would go early that night to the Piccadilly and 
 he'd compel her to stop with him. She should hardly 
 dance. He would propitiate the scoundrel who kept the 
 place. And he would make his peace with her. She should 
 forgive him whatever he had done to offend her. It 
 could not be so serious. . . . Now he must finish his letter. 
 After that he could lie down for a while and read before 
 dressing. He had a long dull evening before him and a 
 long night, for he would not leave the Piccadilly until 
 everyone else had gone. 
 
 All the first part of his programme he carried out. 
 Still he found himself out of sympathy with Mr Gilbert 
 Cannan and he slept a little until the maid bringing hot 
 water at half-past seven awakened him. Hard on her 
 heels came a chasseur. There was a telephone message 
 for Monsieur. It came from the Grand-Cafe. Monsieur 
 would understand the message, he had been told. He 
 was simply to say that Mademoiselle would dine with 
 Monsieur that evening at a quarter-past eight. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 GERARD hardly arrived in time and when he 
 did arrive a carriage ah-eady awaited him. 
 He was a little shy ; he wondered whether he 
 should refer to what had passed. Illona took his hand 
 and held it in hers for longer than was necessary for 
 any purpose of greeting — not for very long though, for 
 the night was fine and the hood was down, and they 
 were riding through the streets for all the world to see, 
 but long enough for him to realise that he had been 
 taken back into favour. 
 
 A minute's drive carried them to the restaurant. 
 They were received as old clients ; they were given at 
 once the table they had occupied overniglfc'; Illona 
 was wearing the same dress. Nothing in their surround- 
 ings was altered. But in his own heart, Gerard knew, 
 everything had changed. Then for the first time he 
 realised that his companion had not spoken since he 
 had found her. He looked enquiry. 
 
 " Don't look at me, my dear : I dressed in such a 
 hurry. And Fm wearing the same dress. To tell you 
 the truth it's the only one I have here. I've lots in 
 Paris. I'm rather ashamed. I must make some money 
 and get another quickly, several others." 
 
 136 
 
BITTERSWEET I37 
 
 It was on the tip of Gerard's tongue to say that he 
 would like to give her one. His hesitation, he felt, was 
 absurd. Why indeed shouldn't be buy her a dress, a 
 dozen dresses ? He'd given her money ; surely he could 
 give her clothes if he chose. But something restrained 
 him. At least here, away from the Piccadilly and when 
 she was with him alone, this girl had not the air of 
 inviting gifts. To-night more than ever she seemed 
 remote from the life in which he had first seen 
 her. And she seemed remote from either of her chief 
 moods of the day. Her gaiety had left no trace, nor 
 her anger. There was something sad and appealing 
 about her ; somehow she made him feel that she was 
 throwing herself on his mercy. She spoke hardly at 
 all. When he addressed her she answered in the 
 briefest way, looking up at him shyly as if fearful of 
 what might follow. It would, he confessed to himself, 
 have been a dull dinner if he had not been able to watch 
 her face, and now and again to surprise her eyes, sombre, 
 clouded as if a storm had passed. 
 
 They had finished their coffee: it was only half-past nine. 
 Not for another hour would she have to be back at her 
 work. Her work ! He pictured to himself the long hours 
 that were to come. Perhaps she would be dressed in the 
 costume she had described — " like a boy, you know, with 
 high boots and bare knees." . . . He saw her sitting in- 
 timately with German " beer-brewers " and, with an even 
 keener jealousy, he saw her circling the hall in the arms 
 of that Chisholm to whose unconscious influence he felt 
 vaguely he could attribute her strange conduct of the 
 afternoon. For a moment he had wild ideas of taking 
 
138 BITTERSWEET 
 
 some extreme step which would, at least for this one 
 night, make her return to the Piccadilly an impossibility. 
 But what step could he take? And what good would he 
 do? And at the back of his mind, unconfessed but potent 
 against action, lay the fear of scandal and the even greater 
 fear of what would follow — the fear of people talking, of 
 the gossip of her camarades, of that Italian devil Piaci's 
 understanding smile. 
 
 " Illona, is it absolutely necessary for you to dance 
 to-night? Couldn't you say you were ill, or couldn't you 
 have just this one day as a holiday ?" 
 
 " You are stupid, my dear : of course I must dance. 
 There would be an amende of fifty francs at least if I 
 stopped away : and even then I couldn't do it. But why 
 — why do you ask ? " 
 
 " I don't know, Illona. I only know I don't want you 
 to dance to-night. You've been all day with me " 
 
 " You mustn't get sentimental, my dear. I've been all 
 day with you so I mustn't dance ! I don't understand 
 that. Are you so fine that I mustn't be with anyone else 
 after a few hours with you ? Zut alors ! " 
 
 " No, that's not what I mean, but all these hours I've 
 been watching you and I've had you all to myself 
 and " 
 
 She leant back in her chair and laughed and laughed, 
 — laughed quietly, of course, but laughed all the same. 
 Gerard looked at her and wondered, and was infinitely 
 nettled and felt that she was making a fool of him. He 
 did not see her eyes. 
 
 " I seem to amuse vou. May I ask why ? " He was 
 a little pompous. 
 
BITTERSWEET 139 
 
 She laughed again : " My dear, you are jealous ! I 
 like that. Jealous, that's what you are. It's no use, you 
 know. It's no use being jealous of me. I always do 
 what I please. But continue. Be jealous. It amuses me. 
 It gives me pleasure." 
 
 He looked at her still. He had command of his 
 thoughts. Was it true that he was jealous ? How could 
 it be ? What right had he ? But then what right had 
 she to laugh at him, to play with him ? Yes, he did 
 love her, but she could not know that. Surely he had 
 kept his secret. He had kissed her, yes : but a kiss, several 
 kisses — after all, what were they in her world, or for 
 the matter of that in any world ? 
 
 "No, Illona, I'm not jealous. I wouldn't dare to be 
 jealous. But — well, all the same I do wish you were 
 going to be with me till the end of the day. I'd like to 
 feel that I'd had you for myself." 
 
 "That's impossible, my dear — but it's still early. 
 Look : I've got a whole hour before I need be back. I 
 don't want to stop here. It's so hot. Take me for a 
 drive. Let us go as far as the lake. I have time." 
 
 Gerard fired at the idea. He called for the bill and 
 in less than five minutes they were on the pavement 
 waiting for one of the fast Aix carriages. The sky 
 was of a velvet blue, stars sprinkled the darkness, the 
 trees shone green in the light of the lamps. The night 
 was made for danger. Illona leant on his arm. He 
 looked down at her and smiled into her eyes. "Are 
 you cold?" he asked. "Are you sure you won't be 
 cold ? " 
 
 " No, no, I love the night air when it's warm. But, 
 
140 BITTERSWEET 
 
 say, tell them to put up the hood. I must guard my 
 
 hair. Don't forget I have to dance, my dear.' 
 
 They were driving now. The brighter streets of Aix 
 were behind them. The hood of the carriage hid them 
 from the world. Gerard could see nothing of his com- 
 panion but he could feel the length of her body against 
 his own. The rug held them intimately together. He 
 thought he could hear her breathe. 
 
 " Yes "i " It was Illona who spoke. 
 
 " I didn't say anything. Are you sure you are comfort- 
 able .? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, so, so comfortable, my dear." She pressed 
 closer to him. For a moment he kept himself back, and 
 then, then suddenly his desire was too great for him. 
 He had meant so differently, but his hand searched for 
 hers and found it. Her hand was warm. It seemed to 
 welcome him. His other hand crept round her shoulder. 
 She leant still closer and her head fell to the hollow of 
 his arm. He held her to him tightly, and when he felt 
 that with her free arm she too was holding him, all his 
 prudence fled. He bent to her lips and kissed them. 
 For one minute they clung together. Everything fell 
 away from his thoughts save that he loved her, that she 
 was here with him, in his arms. 
 
 The carriage stopped. . . . Gerard looked out, cursing 
 in his heart. They had come to the level-crossing of the 
 railway. The barrier went up and they were off again. 
 She nestled back to his breast. " Commcje suis heuixuse^'' 
 she murmured. 
 
 " Moi aussV Gerard's French carried him thus far 
 even in this moment of emotion. They were so alone in 
 
BITTERSWEET 141 
 
 the darkness. A light here and there in the villa windows 
 told them that the world was not asleep. Their horses 
 went as no hired English horses go. The discreet driver, 
 used perhaps to the ways of lovers, had never shown 
 them his face. 
 
 Their pace slackened. They were approaching the 
 Grand-Port. "Stop, and then wait for a few minutes," 
 Gerard said to the man ; and then to Illona : " Come, let 
 us walk a little," 
 
 '' Si tu veux,'''' she answered, and he took her arm 
 with his and held her bare hand, caressing it as they 
 walked. Slowly they made their way to the pier, where 
 they could see small craft riding at anchor and the water 
 splashed by the feeble lights of the harbour and of the 
 boats. Soon they could go no further. They stood look- 
 ing out on to the lake, peering into the mystery of its 
 soft blackness. On the opposite shore they could discern 
 nothing, but the mountains cut the sky, making them- 
 selves clear through no quality, no light and shade of 
 their own, but by reason of the stars they hid. 
 
 " Illona, tell me : do you still only ' like ' me ? I do 
 more than like you, you know." 
 
 With an action feline rather than human she pressed 
 and rubbed herself against his side. " No, my dear, I'll 
 say now, ' Je faime — je faime beaucoup.'' Truly you are 
 different from the others. But you tell we." 
 
 For answer Gerard found her lips again with his own. 
 The moment held his whole life. Here in the darkness 
 were gathered up all the years that had been and all 
 that were to come. He thought only of the girl by his 
 side. 
 
142 BITTERSWEET 
 
 " Oh, Illona, I love you. Now I know what love 
 is." 
 
 " My dear, my dear one, chh'i a moi ! You make me 
 so happy when you say that. I want to believe it ; I do 
 believe it. Please be kind to me while you are here. I 
 want kindness, tu sais.'''' 
 
 " Sweetheart, I will be as kind as you will let me be. 
 Oh, but I wish you need not dance ! Tell me, must you ? 
 If you can't get out of it then Til come with you and 
 ril stop all the night till everyone else has gone."" 
 
 " Yes, I must go — and at once surely. What is the 
 time.?" 
 
 It was too dark to see the face of his watch. Gerard 
 struck a match. In the brief minute of its light he saw 
 that it was indeed time for Illona's departure, but he 
 saw also her face and her eyes and the shining red of 
 her lips. He drew her to him again. This time her lips 
 sought his. She repaid his kisses with her own, such 
 kisses as he had never known. Then suddenly she drew 
 away from him. 
 
 " Viens vite. I mustn't be late. I hate to be late. 
 But, yes, put your arm round me. Garde moi un peu.'''' 
 
 They were back in the carriage. She would not let 
 him put his arm round her again. She lay contentedly 
 against his shoulder holding his hand. " I want only 
 your hand. Dis moi ; I will see you again quickly — 
 but when ? " 
 
 " Sweetheart, Illona dear, we have time to make plans. 
 I shall take you now to the Piccadilly door but 111 come 
 back at eleven. You're ready then, you say. And you 
 were right, dear : I am jealous. That's why I don't 
 
BITTERSWEET 143 
 
 want you to dance. You won't dance more than you can 
 help — please. And every time you'll come back to me. 
 Promise ! " 
 
 " I will promise anything else, but I won't promise 
 that. Ecoute, mon cheri. I won't have you come with 
 me to the Piccadilly. I am forced to dance there. It is 
 my life. You've seen me ; you know what I have to do. 
 I don't want you to see me there again. I couldn't dance 
 if you were there. I couldn't be natural." 
 
 " But, Illona, I've told you : I am jealous, dear. 
 You'll dance with everybody who wants you. Men get 
 drunk there. They don't know what they do. I can't 
 stand it. Why shouldn't you dance in the theatre ? 
 Surely you dance well enough .'* " 
 
 She laughed. " Well enough ? I should think so. I 
 have danced in the theatre, my dear. That life is worse. 
 I'll tell you another day all about it. Not now. Hold 
 my hand and understand a little. I must dance, but I 
 won't dance with everyone. I'll be careful. I promise.'"^ 
 
 " And you won't sit with that ' beer-brewer ' or 
 those Englishmen who were there the other night when 
 I was .'' " 
 
 " I won't sit with that German. But I must be polite 
 with the Englishmen. I've known them a long time, tu 
 sais. Listen ! I will keep myself for you. We see each 
 other in the morning, say ? I will think of you all the 
 time even when I dance. Now I drive you to the Villa 
 des Fleurs and I'll go alone to the Piccadilly. I prefer 
 that." 
 
 Gerard had no choice but to do as he was told. And 
 indeed he did it without resentment. He thought that 
 
144 BITTERSWEET 
 
 he understood her reasons. They pleased, they flattered 
 
 him. They gave him a sense of ownership. 
 
 " I understand, Illona. But you shall drop me at the 
 end of your street. I don't want to spoil my memories of 
 this night by going to the Cercle. I love you, and I 
 shall go back to my room and I shall think of you till 
 I fall asleep — and then I shall dream of you, sweetheart." 
 
 " Yes, do, and you shall tell me about it in the morn- 
 ing. And me, Fll be hien sage. Truly I will. And when 
 do we meet ? You haven't told me. But don't make it 
 too early, you know. I won't go to bed till six for sure. 
 I'd like to, but Piaci won't let me." 
 
 "Then we'll meet at the station again at eleven. 
 That's not too early, is it ? " 
 
 " Twelve is better. Even so, I'll only have six hours 
 in bed ! " 
 
 They were in the town again. " Kiss me once more," 
 she said. " And now, good-night — good-night, Gerard." 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THAT state of mind into which it had now pleased 
 Nature to call Gerard Blundell evidently agreed 
 with him. He had fallen asleep to the happy 
 memories of his day ; he woke up fresh and in the best 
 of spirits; Docteur Ribot congratulated him on his steady 
 pulse and his clear eyes. Within recent months he had 
 often been conscious of his age ; to-day he felt no older 
 than when he came down from Oxford. He whistled 
 gaily to himself as he dressed in the morning sunlight. 
 Perhaps the cure had effected this improvement in his 
 spirits and in his sense of well-being. More likely, he 
 thought, it was the fact that he was in love. For he was 
 in love. He had given up attempting to conceal the truth 
 from himself. He had even given up attempting to gloss 
 over the facts of what he was doing with the ready as- 
 surance that a flirtation was no very great sin and that 
 no sane person could strongly object to his amusing him- 
 self during these solitary weeks as long as he pulled 
 himself up in time. He no longer gave any apprehensive 
 thought to what might happen next. Continually he 
 thought of Illona, conjured up her eyes set so deeply 
 under her grave forehead, wished that he had her photo- 
 ns 10 
 
146 BITTERSWEET 
 
 graph to solace his loneliness, determined that she should 
 be taken here in Aix in the dress in which she had visited 
 La Chambotte with him — yes, but the photographer 
 should take one portrait at least in which her head should 
 occupy most of the plate, and it shouldn't be worked on, 
 the character shouldn't be stippled out of it : it should 
 be her head simply, showing the contour, the delicate 
 planes of her face, the sweep of her beautiful hair, the 
 smouldering question of her eyes. He pulled himself up 
 then and made a grimace at the looking-glass. He was 
 becoming rather a fool. How was a photograph to show 
 all these things ? And what would he do with a photo- 
 graph anyway ? However much he loved, might come to 
 love, her, he could hardly take it back to England with 
 him, or, if he did, he couldn't put it framed on his dress- 
 ing table. . . . 
 
 Coming downstairs at half-past eleven Gerard was 
 brought back to earth and to the solid realities of life 
 by encountering in the hall Mr Champion and Mrs and 
 Miss Goddard. They might almost have been waiting 
 for him. Very likely they were. All three of them were 
 sitting under a " Carte Tarride," the very wall-map 
 that he wanted to consult about Annecy and its lake. 
 Mr Champion sprang up, enthusiastically cordial : 
 
 " My dear fellow, why weren't you here last night ? 
 You know you're beginning to neglect the hotel. Very 
 wrong I call it. We had such jolly music. Miss Goddard 
 sang and her mother played." And then, dropping his 
 voice a little : " Mrs Goddard asked me to introduce 
 you to her. This is a good opportunity. Come along." 
 
 Gerard pulled himself together. He had only minutes 
 
 
BITTERSWEET 147 
 
 to spare. It behoved him to be expeditious, but it was 
 also necessary to be pohte. He doubted whether 
 Illona would be sympathetic to his excuses if he 
 should keep her waiting ; he knew that he could not 
 postpone his introduction to Mrs Goddard. There 
 passed through his mind very vaguely some old picture 
 of a young man being torn between love and respect- 
 ability. He had time to realise that he was thinking of 
 David Garrick wavering between Comedy and Tragedy, 
 and then he found himself smiling at Mrs Goddard and 
 assuring her that he was the veritable son of that 
 General Blundell with whom, he now learned for the 
 first time, the Goddard family had been on terms of 
 some intimacy years and years ago at Cheltenham while 
 Gerard was still at school and Eileen Goddard was still 
 unthought of. 
 
 "No, I never saw you, Mr Blundell, but your father 
 used to talk about you. It seems so long ago ! And to 
 think that you are that little boy whose photograph he 
 showed me. My husband and I liked General Blundell 
 so much. We were with him for months together for 
 two or three winters at the Hydro. Now you must let 
 us see something of you. But perhaps you have lots of 
 friends in Aix. I don't see you at meals very often. Mr 
 Blundell might join us in some of our excursions, Eileen. 
 Where did we say we'd go to next ? Was it Annecy ? " 
 
 Gerard, furious at being delayed, cursing in his heart, 
 smiled pleasantly at the fountain of kindly talk which 
 Mrs Goddard had become. " I am sure it will be jolly 
 for me if I am allowed to join you one day. No, I 
 hardly know anyone in Aix, but — but I have got an 
 
148 BITTERSWEET 
 
 appointment now unfortunately."" He looked round at 
 the hurrying clock. " I am afraid I must go. I am late 
 already. I hope you'll let me talk to you again about 
 my father, Mrs Goddard.'' 
 
 Almost running down the hill, since as luck would 
 have it no carriage was hanging about the door of the 
 hotel, Gerard reviewed his situation in the light of this 
 new event. That Mrs Goddard had known his father 
 and evidently wanted to cultivate his own acquaintance 
 was more than a nuisance. Aix was a very small place. 
 She would learn quickly of the existence of his wife ; 
 and she or the egregious Champion would be sure to 
 see him with Illona in the course of the next day or 
 two. Well, it couldn't be helped. She would indeed 
 have reason for bringing into play that strange feminine 
 habit of " putting two and two together." Anyhow, it 
 was too late now to retrace his steps. He refused to 
 look the possible complications in the face. The sun 
 shone too brightly ; the day promised too well ; he w^ould 
 see Illona in a few minutes and all the hours till 
 ten o'clock he would spend with her — and it would be 
 the same to-morrow, and for days to come. For the 
 moment the horizon of Gerard's future was bounded by 
 the two weeks that yet remained of his visit to Aix. 
 
 When Illona arrived at the station there were still 
 several minutes before the train for Annecy would 
 start. She smiled gaily at him. " Come," he said, " we're 
 going to Annecy. I'll get tickets and then we'll walk 
 up and down a little ; and I want an English paper." 
 
 "Annecy — cliiche ! But why tickets? We don't go in 
 
BITTERSWEET 149 
 
 the train surely ? Moi, I hate the railway. I thought 
 we'd go in the same auto as yesterday." She made a 
 face of dissatisfaction, and took his arm affectionately : 
 " We go in an auto, dis, Gerard ! Then I shall have so 
 much pleasure. No, Annecy's not far. Everyone goes 
 there en auto. I'd be ill in the train. Always I am. Now 
 we take a carriage and drive to the garage, eh ? " 
 
 Gerard had not given up the idea of going by car 
 without thought. His guide-book had shown him that 
 an excursion to Annecy was a very different matter 
 from a morning at La Chambotte and he had made a 
 calculation of the likely expense. But neither by him- 
 self nor with any one of his friends would he have 
 thought of going in any other way than by train. A 
 car would be pleasanter of course, but he had taken 
 it for granted that Illona would be content. After 
 all the excursion was the chief thing and they would 
 be as alone together in the train as in a car. 
 
 But in such matters Illona was not used to being 
 denied. " I'm sure a car won't take any longer ; and 
 think : we don't want to go just to Annecy. It's a 
 town, you know. I want to drive on round the lake — 
 to a village called Talloires ; and we can't go there by 
 train. We'll lunch there — please, please ! " 
 
 Gerard knew that if he had sense he would tell her 
 frankly that the cost of going to Annecy in a car was 
 more than he cared to spend, and that when they got 
 there they would be able to go on to Talloires in one 
 of the lake steamers ; but he had not too much of that 
 kind of wisdom at his disposal, nor had he the courage. 
 His mind too had gone off at a tangent. 
 
ISO BITTERSWEET 
 
 " Talloires — who told you about Talloires ? I thought 
 you had never been in this part of the world before."" 
 
 "I haven't, dear. But I knew about it from the others." 
 She blushed a little. 
 
 " What others ? " 
 
 " From Sybil — no, that's not true. That English boy 
 told me. He wanted to take me there yesterday, and 
 asked me again last night. But Fm not going out 
 with him at all, you know. Fve told him so. He was 
 furious." She laughed, " No, I won't go with him, and 
 I won't go with anyone else while you're here. But it's 
 getting late, tu sais. I'd rather stop in Aix than go 
 in the train, truly." 
 
 And Gerard had to give way. 
 
 Of the beauty of the road to Annecy Gerard learned 
 nothing. No sooner had they started than Illona slipped 
 her hand into his and held it tight, and when they were 
 clear of the town she nestled close to him, and with her 
 eyes and with her questions and with her answers 
 to his questions kept all his attention. There was no 
 wind and no dust, and there were no clouds. To ride 
 thus with this girl by his side was all that for the present 
 at least he wished to ask of life. 
 
 As they approached Annecy he freed his hands to 
 draw his guide-book from his pocket. Illona laughed at 
 him : 
 
 " What do we want that book for ? What do we want 
 to see ? We have eacli other. I only want you. No, I 
 don't wish to stop. I like better the country, the real 
 country where there are no houses. Tell him to go 
 
BITTERSWEET 151 
 
 straight on, round the lake. We needn't go as far as 
 Talloires you know if we see another place we like." 
 
 Gerard was content, but he insisted on showing her 
 the map. Such actual things appeared to interest her 
 not at all. Her only answer was to laugh and to press 
 closer into the hollow of his shoulder. But they were 
 coming into the town and in a moment she drew herself 
 away. 
 
 " I must behave now. You English are so careful — 
 and so cold. But this isn't a big place ; I'll soon come 
 back again. I mustn't even look at you, I suppose. Now 
 watch : I'll be very good. People will think I'm your 
 sister." 
 
 But when they had left behind the flat meadows at 
 the head of the lake the beauty and strangeness of the 
 scene drew her eyes. The road runs by the side of the 
 water and they looked across its blue and shining glory 
 to the mountains which came down to the opposite shore. 
 The villas and the little villages they passed were like the 
 villas and villages of a child's play-box. Here and there 
 boats were sailing or rode at anchor under frail piers 
 from which slim ivory boys bathed, making splashes of 
 diamonds as they dived, coming up to shake their heads 
 and to call laughing to their friends. Gerard had told 
 the chauffeur to go slowly, but almost as it seemed before 
 they were clear of Annecy they were in sight of Talloires. 
 Their road now led them inland and high up, and they 
 came round a corner to look down on the lake and the 
 little village and harbour clustered in the few acres that 
 were left between the steepness of the mountains and the 
 blue depths of the water. 
 
152 BITTERSWEET 
 
 " Let us send the car on and walk down," Gerard said, 
 thinking how like the place was to those dream -villages 
 pictured in the chromolithographs of his childhood. 
 
 " Is it far ? " Illona asked, making a wry face. " Me, 
 I like best to ride, but Fll walk for your sake. My 
 feet get so quickly tired, you know." 
 
 " Your feet get tired ! I remember you told me that 
 before, but how does it happen ? You dance and dance 
 for hours together. Walking isn't worse than dancing." 
 " It is ! When I walk I get tired at once. I never 
 get tired when I dance. Dancing goes to my head. 
 When I have someone I like to dance with and who 
 can really dance I could go on and on till I died almost. 
 I foi'get everything. It's my happiness, dancing. But 
 walking — oh, that's different. My feet seem to get 
 bruised." 
 
 The car had gone on, they could see it disappearing 
 round the corner. Illona turned and looked up the 
 road. They were alone. No sound broke the stillness 
 save from some distant gully the falling of water. She 
 took his arm, bending his elbow and holding his hand. 
 Then she glanced up at him and smiled. He bent his 
 head and kissed her. 
 
 " A — ah, I wanted that ! You hadn't kissed me this 
 morning, tu sais : c'etait pas gentil. You should guess 
 when I want to be kissed — but then perhaps I always 
 want to be kissed — when I'm with you, I mean, my 
 dear." ... 
 
 Under green spreading trees they took their lunch, 
 on little birds and fish from the lake which they could 
 almost hear rippling at their side, so close it was. And 
 
BITTERSWEET 153 
 
 when they had finished their coffee Illona would 
 not listen to their going back to the car. " Let him 
 sleep, pauvre gosse,'''' she said of the chauffeur ; " he'll be 
 tired after his work. We'll go down to the water or 
 else up among the vines. I want to be alone with you — 
 come, rd like best by the lake." 
 
 So they went off, their hands clasped in the half con- 
 cealment of his arm. They looked like lovers. Gerard 
 had no cloud to his happiness. Illona's eyes shone. 
 She tripped by his side rather than walked, glancing 
 again and again up into his face, and laughing softly to 
 herself as if for joy. 
 
 Access to the shore at Talloires is intermittent. To 
 get to any part of it which was not already taken up by 
 the grounds of the smiling, toy-like villas they had to 
 pass between high flower-capped walls and before old 
 gates that led to wildernesses of shrubs and to untidy 
 fragrant gardens. Soon the walls and gardens gave 
 place to vineyards and the shy path led them to the 
 lake. Illona had forgotten her reluctance to walk. 
 They went on in silence, hand in hand almost like 
 children. Now and again they would come to a marsh 
 or to some difficult place where a stream barred their 
 easy progress, and after a little while they reached a 
 stretch where apple trees sprinkled a meadow and where 
 a couple of feet below the bank the waves rippled lazily 
 on the pebbles and the fish played in the shallows, and 
 where above their heads were clusters of that fruit 
 whose very sight might well have brought the cold 
 blood into Gerard's heart, and prudence to his head. 
 Sun there was and shade and the lazy lake stretching 
 
154 BITTERSWEET 
 
 blue and almost un wrinkled before them. The old castle 
 of Duingt was all that reminded them of man, save that 
 from the distant road came occasionally the low hum of 
 a motor or the sharp bark of its horn. 
 
 " We need not hurry, Gerard ? I like it so, so much. 
 I haven''t seen country like this before. I want to sit 
 down just here where I can watch the fishes." She had 
 chosen a nook where the branches of an apple tree, fruit- 
 laden, and vividly green against the deep blue of the 
 sky, broke the sun into dappled shadows on the grass 
 beneath. Through the leaves they could see towards 
 the hills at the foot of the lake : vines and flowers and 
 rushes shut off the world. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 IT was the next morning. Gerard had forgotten to 
 close his shutters overnight and he had awakened 
 with a start at the moment that the hot sun had 
 crept so far across the room that it fell on his head and 
 shoulders. He looked at his watch. It was half-past five. 
 The bath porters would not come for him for another 
 hour. Illona — Illona was perhaps dancing still ; her 
 nighfs work not yet over, she would be spending her 
 slim youth and her pale beauty in the foul air of that 
 hall in which he had first seen her, in which she had said 
 that he was never to see her again. His thoughts were 
 intolerable to him, and the picture of what she might be 
 doing now. She was his, his absolutely, and yet he seemed 
 powerless to save her from a life in which, whether she 
 were happy or sad, a success or a failure, the end must 
 come so soon, a life in which during every single day she 
 ate away a week of her health, her gay childishness, 
 the glory of her straight young body. The smoke, 
 champagne, the foul arms of men, their eyes, their jests 
 — he shuddered in disgust. But no clear idea came into 
 his mind. Vaguely he wondered whether she could not 
 come to London to dance in some theatre. Surely she 
 
IS6 BITTERSWEET 
 
 would have a success there ; at least she danced as well 
 as a dozen young women who had dancing parts and 
 who presumably enjoyed salaries on which they could 
 live decently. 
 
 He was to see her at mid-day. It now seemed quite 
 natural that each day should be dedicated to the pursuit 
 of their happiness. The thought of London and of his 
 home intruded on him hardly at all. England was so far 
 ofi. and the ten days that had passed since he had left 
 The Haven, Acacia Road, seemed a lifetime. . . . 
 
 Gerard's ninth day in Aix was like to the day that 
 came before it, and so were the days that followed. He 
 did not neglect the first reason for his being in the 
 place. It was not difficult to attend to the instructions 
 of Docteur Ribot, for the details of his cure were carried 
 out during the hours in which Illona slept behind the 
 discreet green shutters of her so-called hotel ; and at 
 night he went betimes to bed, caring for nothing once 
 he had taken the girl to the corner of the street in which 
 at half-past ten the Piccadilly was just beginning to hang 
 out the scarlet and yellow signs of its midnight trade. 
 Sometimes, in order to get time for a longer excursion, 
 they would meet a little earlier, but generally they met 
 at mid-day, and then they would remain together for half 
 a score of hours, lost in a happiness which he at least had 
 never known before, the possibility of which indeed he 
 had never suspected. She gave herself to him so wholly. 
 She was his with no reserve. His was her body and every 
 secret of her mind. For hours together she would talk 
 of the life she had led in that empty time before she had 
 
BITTERSWEET 157 
 
 known him. Holding his hand, or nestling into the 
 hollow of his shoulder, she would answer every question 
 that he chose to ask with a frankness that would have 
 been cynical if it had not proved itself to him again and 
 again to be entirely simple. She had done a great deal, 
 had suffered a great deal, in her short life and she seemed 
 to regret none of it. " Penses-tu ! "" she exclaimed when he 
 asked her if she was not sorry that things had turned out 
 as they had. " It is fate. Besides Fve not really been 
 unhappy. I have had a great deal of fun. I only regret 
 that I didn't know you earlier, Gerard — yes, four years 
 and a half ago. Then — then perhaps things might have 
 been different." 
 
 She wrenched herself from his arm and turned so as 
 to be able to examine his face. For what seemed a Ions 
 time she looked into his eyes, with her own eyes con- 
 tracted as if in pain or doubt. Tears came to mar their 
 beauty but remained unshed. The mood was a short 
 one. Generally she was gay, light-hearted as one of those 
 butterflies whose flight in the sun she never tired of 
 following, and she returned quickly to gaiety now. 
 
 " How many more days have we to be happy together.'* 
 Eight. Oh, that is a long time. And you have no friends 
 to take you away from me ? Each day is to be all mine ? " 
 
 Gerard reassured her, but his heart misgave him. He 
 remembered the Goddards and their friendship for his 
 father, and their wish that he should spend a day with 
 them. That was nearly a week ago. He had seen them 
 since but only to bow and in effect incontinently to flee. 
 Surely they must think him very rude ; indeed already 
 he fancied that Mrs Goddard observed him with a colder 
 
158 BITTERSWEET 
 
 eje, greeted him with a less cordial smile. And the worst 
 of it was that now she had found him she was little likely 
 entirely to let him go. Whether she had actually seen 
 him with Illona he did not know. It was not improb- 
 able. They lunched and dined, they even went to the 
 Villa together, with absolute carelessness. One slips 
 into these things. Champion certainly had seen him — 
 Champion, that respectable little worm who wondered 
 that such a place as the Piccadilly was allowed to exist. 
 They had met him one day on the Mont-Revard railway. 
 Their train was on the way up, his on the way down. 
 They passed at Pre-Japert. Gerard and Illona were 
 seated alone on the open bench right at the back of their 
 train, and Champion was in the corresponding position 
 in the front of his. The two carriages stopped exactly 
 opposite one another. Gerard was too much occupied in 
 his conversation with his companion to pay any attention 
 to his surroundings, but just as his train started he looked 
 up and saw Champion's eye fixed on him. Often after- 
 wards he wondered what he had done, to what extent 
 he had betrayed his embarrassment. Almost without 
 attempt at concealment he had been holding Illona's 
 hand. Had he snatched his own away ? Or had he 
 raised it naturally and quietly to salute his fellow-guest .'* 
 He knew that Champion had looked awkward, " Hullo, 
 how are you ? " he had said, and Champion had screwed 
 up his eyes self-consciously. Afterwards, when next morn- 
 ing they met in the hall of their hotel, his persecutor 
 had certainly carried himself in a knowing and superior 
 manner. He had asked whether Gerard had managed to 
 see Mont Blanc from the top of the mountain. Gerard, 
 
BITTERSWEET 15$ 
 
 who had not even searched for that giant of the Alps, but 
 had spent his time lying among the bushes that cloak 
 the hillside, chattering and looking out on the deepening 
 shadows towards Aix, had answered without intelligence. 
 The incident had annoyed him, but it had not given 
 him pause, nor did the reflection that what Champion 
 had seen Mrs Goddard and her daughter might easily 
 see. He shrugged his shoulders and borrowed one of 
 niona's habitual expressions : " Taut pis pour moi.'''' A 
 man must have some liberty even though he is married. 
 It would be monstrous if people should imagine that 
 because he was going about with a pretty girl every- 
 thing was not exactly as it should be. They were not 
 to know that she made her living by dancing at the 
 Piccadilly. She might be some intimate friend of his 
 family for all that Mrs Goddard could tell. But his 
 intelligence warned him that this last attempt at re- 
 assuring himself was unworthy. Illona did not look 
 very much like a friend of any English family. She was 
 a creature apart. She had something about her, some- 
 thing indefinable, stormy, disquieting, that could not be 
 concealed. In the first place she did not look English : 
 in the second, her beauty although of no conventional 
 or recognised kind was too insistent for daily wear. 
 Well, it was all very much worth while, this risk that 
 he was running. But the thought of actual risk and 
 indeed the thought that he was in fact doing something 
 which he had no right to do never seriously presented 
 themselves to his mind. He had not much time for 
 such considerations. Now and again he would think 
 vaguely that if his friends knew the details of his life in 
 
i6o BITTERSWEET 
 
 Aix they would be surprised ; but they did not know 
 and in their ignorance lay both his protection and his 
 excuse. It was extremely unlikely, so different did this 
 world seem from the world in which he ordinarily had 
 his being, that Mary would ever have even a suspicion 
 of the truth. He was doing her no harm. The fact 
 that he had given himself body and soul for these 
 two weeks to Illona would have no influence on his 
 conduct or on his wife's happiness once he was back in 
 Wimbledon. Surely he would love his wife as much as 
 ever. Perhaps even he would love her more. And his 
 children. He longed to see them again. In no way was 
 he harming them. He would be with them in so short 
 a time. 
 
 And in that short time he would have left Illona. 
 Once more he stood away from his own being and his 
 own actions and regarded them. He did love her. He 
 did not know how he would bring himself to leave her, 
 but that he would leave her was certain. The capacity 
 to do so was the essence of his understanding with him- 
 self. He would feel it bitterly, but he was old enough 
 to believe that one got over such partings. She would 
 feel it, would feel it, he hoped, more even than he would 
 himself, but in her world he inclined to think that 
 one loved and quarrelled and one loved and parted : it 
 was all in the season's work. Of course there was a 
 difference in their case. She cared for him he believed 
 far, far more than for all the other acquaintances and 
 friends of whom from time to time she had spoken ; and 
 then of course he was her lover and she was his mistress. 
 He was sure in his own mind that she had neither really 
 
BITTERSWEET i6i 
 
 loved nor had given herself save in caprice or despair to 
 the men she had known before she knew him. Then with 
 definite intention he put away from him the thought of 
 the inevitable end. Such thoughts could be postponed. 
 
 In the meantime Illona seemed happy enough. If 
 the future troubled her she showed no definite sign of 
 her disquiet. But Gerard, who watched continually her 
 eyes and the conduct of her lips, believed that again 
 and again she hid her real feelings. For hours together 
 at such times she would cling to him, would refuse to 
 talk, would beg him not to go back to his hotel to dress 
 for dinner. " Oh, je suis conteiite,'''' she would say ; 
 " never did I believe that one could be so happy as I 
 am now." And she would look as if tears were coming 
 into her eyes. "-A suis bete! But I am not used to 
 being happy like this, tu sais. I find it hard to believe 
 in such happiness." 
 
 From the beginning Gerard had spoken frankly of 
 his visit to Aix being only for the period of his cure, 
 but, as if by mutual consent, they had ceased to speak 
 of the future. Once, on the evening of their visit to 
 Talloires, he had, while holding her closely to his side 
 in the motor-car as they drove back to Aix, referred to 
 the few days that remained to him and to the days he 
 had wasted before he knew her. " Dis pas fa, cheri a 
 moi ; dis pas fa / It will come, the end. I know it well. 
 Perhaps it will ba my fault. But I love you now. For 
 how long will it last ? Who knows ? A month perhaps. 
 Fm yours, yours only. Do not let us speak of your 
 going away. . . . Oh, Gerard, Gerard, sometimes I wish 
 I had never seen you ! " 
 
 11 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 NOTHING now gave pause to Gerard's course. 
 Save that Illona persisted in her refusal to let 
 him come to the Piccadilly, her whole day was 
 his. They met every morning as soon as the duties of 
 his cure were over, and their faithful chauffeur would 
 take them hither and thither over the face of the land. 
 She appeared never to tire of being with him, of holding 
 his hand, of sitting quietly by his side in the sun. But 
 her pleasure in other things was keen. Gerard discovered 
 that she was no fool. He asked no questions to that end, 
 but it was soon evident to him that she had not been 
 dragged up, but that her education was at least as good 
 as, and perhaps even better than, that of most English 
 girls of her age and of his class. That she used it hardly 
 at all did not apparently lessen its effectiveness on those 
 rare occasions when she did call it into play. One day 
 they had motored to Chambery, and after lunch Gerard, 
 half apologetically, announced that he wanted to spend 
 an hour in going up to Les Charmettes to see Rousseau's 
 house. 
 
 Illona's face brightened : " Rousseau — show me that 
 ffuide. . . . Rousseau : I shall like that : I have read 
 
BITTERSWEET 163 
 
 Rousseau and I know about Madame de Warens '" ; and 
 she was eager to be off. 
 
 Going through the precise, curious, untouched rooms 
 that had sheltered another love than theirs, Illona''s hold 
 on Gerard's arm tightened. She would not speak, and, 
 looking down, he discovered that she was almost weeping. 
 To cheer her he said : " This is the sort of little house 
 you and I would be happy in, sweetheart. We'll look 
 for one. Shall it be in England or France ? I have to 
 live in England so it had better be there."" 
 
 They had seen nearly all that there was to see, but 
 she had no more patience and drew him quickly out 
 into the garden and onto the road. " Tell the man to 
 wait. I want to walk a little. Let us go higher, away 
 from people." 
 
 They were alone in the climbing lane. Gerard sought 
 to put his arm round her shoulder, but she shook him 
 off. Nor would she suffer his caresses even when in a few 
 minutes she had led him to a corner amid trees where 
 the road and its passers-by might have been a mile 
 away. 
 
 " Gerard, to please me, mon cheri, never say that 
 again. I love you too well for you to play with me 
 even in your talk. That is not the way you care for me. 
 Now, yes. I amuse you ; you like me — love me even. 
 But you don't want to live with me for ever. No " — 
 seeing that he was about to interrupt her she covered 
 his mouth with her hand — " No, don't lie to me. It will 
 all pass, but it will not be my fault. You will tire of 
 me. I know it : I have too much experience, tu snis ; 
 and then I love you. I can read what is in your heart 
 
i64 BITTERSWEET 
 
 even before you know yourself. You will go away from 
 here and you will forget me. By and by you will marry, 
 and it is with your wife that you will have a little house 
 like that. She will never love you as I do, though — 
 jamais, jamais — and you will never be as happy as you 
 have been with me." 
 
 At the mention of a wife Gerard, who had never 
 given a serious thought to the fact that he had not 
 told her he was married, unconsciously stiffened. Should 
 he, ought he to, tell her now ? What did it matter ? 
 What could it matter to her ? And then he had agreed 
 with himself that while he remained in this fairy, sun- 
 Hushed woi'ld he had no wife, that he was free. 
 
 But Illona had felt immediately the new constraint 
 in his attitude. She turned and looked at him in the 
 searching way she had. . . . 
 
 " Well ? " He laughed awkwardly. 
 
 " It is I who ask a question ! What is it ? What has 
 happened ? You are not married, you : you do not 
 carry a ring. Perhaps you are fiance and some thought 
 makes you sad. Is that it ? " 
 
 Her eyes tore the truth from him, 
 
 " No, I am not fiance.'''' He laughed again, harshly, 
 nervously. " I am married, Illona ; I am married and 
 I have three children." 
 
 Illona made for a minute no sign of having heard 
 his words. And then of a sudden she wrenched her arm 
 away from him and threw herself face downwards on the 
 grass. At first Gerard could only realise that she was 
 crying by the slow movement of her shoulders, but soon 
 her sobs shook her, and seemed to him to rend the air. 
 
BITTERSWEET 165 
 
 " Illona, Illona, what am I to do ? Darling, I didn"'t 
 know you would mind. I didn't mean to hide it from 
 you. It can make no difference to you — to us now. And 
 then perhaps I thought you would rather not know. . . ." 
 He bent over and caressed her neck and shoulders with 
 his hand, trying ignorantly, vainly, clumsily, to calm, 
 to comfort her. 
 
 Minutes passed. Gradually the outward violence of 
 her sobs abated. Gerard's solicitude and patience had 
 given way to a rather angry resentment that his assur- 
 ances and his caresses had been fruitless, and he had 
 turned from her and was looking moodilv at the sky. 
 By and by, he supposed, she would recover. They 
 couldn't stop here all day. The situation was absurd. 
 But, all the same, how he did love her ; how much she 
 had come to mean for him with her happy voice, her 
 serious, questioning eyes, and her careless, easy, bird-like 
 grace. If he had hurt her he was sorry. He had hurt 
 her and he had said how sorry he was. He had certainly 
 been stupid. He ought either to have told her the truth 
 at the beginning or he ought to have lied to her 
 just now. 
 
 There was a slight movement behind him, but his 
 heart was proud and still too full of resentment for him 
 to turn. And, since she had spurned his advance, it 
 would be better that now she should come the whole 
 way. He sat on like a rock, giving no hint that 
 he had heard her stir. But was she coming any of 
 the way back to him ? She had risen and walked 
 away with dragging footsteps towards the lane. . . . 
 Perhaps she was leaving him. She was capable of it. 
 
i66 BITTERSWEET 
 
 He was on the point of jumping up when he heard 
 
 her stop. 
 
 " Gerard " 
 
 It was not a loud cry, and stubbornly, as this was not 
 enough to ease his pride, he ignored it. 
 
 " Gerard " and then before he could answer he 
 
 heard her run towards him, and she was in his arms, 
 sobbing again on his breast, crying as if in truth her 
 heart would break. This time he had the sense to keep 
 silence. He strained her to him, holding her tighter 
 and tighter so that weeping itself must have been an 
 effort. Slowly after a while her mouth found his, and 
 then she drew away from him a little and looked into 
 his face. 
 
 " Oh, my dear, my dear, why didn't you tell me 
 before .'' I could have stood it then, but now it is so 
 hard. Tell me, do you love your wife .'' Frankly — I 
 want to know the truth. I have the right to know, 
 tu sais.'''' 
 
 " Illona "" he stumbled in what he thought he 
 
 would say, and paused. 
 
 "No — dis moi la verite. I will be brave. Do you 
 love her, Gerard ^ Do you remember her, is she in your 
 mind, when you are with me ? " 
 
 Her eyes, so candid, so tragic now, so clouded with 
 sorrow, forbade the words he would have spoken. 
 
 " I did love her, Illona ; I do love her — but it is 
 not in the way I love you. I love you so much more ; 
 I have been so much happier with you than I ever was 
 with her. Truly, I have thought of her hardly at all 
 in these last days, and never when I have been with 
 
BITTERSWEET 167 
 
 you. Yes, I love her : she is kind and good, but she is 
 different from vou. She is the mother of my children, 
 but, dear, I think you understand me better, and perhaps 
 even you care for me more."" It was for the moment 
 the real truth, the whole truth as he knew it, that he 
 spoke. He could see that he was believed. 
 
 " Yes, my darling, my darling, I do love you more. 
 How do I know ? Ah, I know. No one could love you as 
 I have loved you — -but oh, oh ! why didn't you tell me ? " 
 She stopped and seemed to think. " I believe you like 
 me. Indeed, I am sure you do. But I am one of many 
 perhaps. Have there been others ? Have you deceived 
 her before ? " 
 
 " Never, I swear it — never, never." It was good tc be 
 on firm ground. 
 
 " Then you do love her — and your children ; what 
 about them ? Do you love them ? If I had a child I 
 should talk about him always. And I have wanted a 
 child — how much I have wanted one ! A little baby 
 would have been a consolation for all there has been 
 hard and bitter in my life. Gerard, I want to tell you : 
 I have dreamed that we might have a child, a boy who 
 would grow like you. You would never have known. 
 I should never have told you. Never should I have 
 annoyed you with him. . . . And now all that is finished. 
 You are another woman ''s. She bears you your children. 
 
 Oh, Gerard, Gerard " and she broke off to surrender 
 
 herself once more to tears, to sobs that this time tore 
 also at Gerard's heart. 
 
 Emotions of this, and indeed of any, kind had been 
 until these last few days so foreign to Gerard's taste 
 
i68 BITTERSWEET 
 
 and experience that he had no idea what to do with the 
 stricken girl who clung so tightly to his side. His own 
 feelings were soon under control, but the storm had left 
 its traces : he felt shaken. It was as if he had shared in 
 some confidence of which he was not worthy, had partici- 
 pated in some crisis for which he was not fit. What 
 should he do now ? All that had happened was, he 
 supposed, his own fault, but it was also his misfortune. 
 He argued the matter out in his mind and then, turning 
 to contemplate his companion, all reason was vanquished 
 and he cared only to recover for her her happiness, her 
 content, her peace of mind. He feared to talk. Already 
 words had done so much harm. He sought to calm her 
 distress with caresses, with sweet foolish phrases, and 
 after a while he succeeded — or else Illona's tortured 
 mind had mastered itself. She turned her tear-stained 
 face to him and felt vaguely for her handkerchief, that 
 handkerchief which was never by any chance where it 
 should be, and for which now he had to substitute his 
 ot^n. Even he dried her eyes, and when they were dry, 
 when the tears had ceased to form in the dark corners 
 of her lids, he kissed and kissed again the places where 
 they had been. 
 
 Now she smiled wanly : " N^eii parlons plus ! It's 
 done. Anyhow, Fm glad I know. Take me back now. 
 Oh, my dear, dear Gerard, my little heart feels so 
 small, so pressed together — you must hold me in your 
 arms and comfort me and help me to forget. No, I shall 
 never forget — but I shall pretend. And we have so few, 
 few days left to be together. ,1 understand now why 
 the end is to come next week. Til be brave." She stood 
 
BITTERSWEET 169 
 
 up and shook herself as if to free her mind from the burrs 
 of evil thoughts. "To-night — Gerard, to-night I will 
 not leave you. I can't go and dance. Je me fiche de Piaci 
 and his amende. If he is very angry Fll go. But I make 
 him no money since you came and stole away my love, 
 so perhaps he won't mind.'' 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 WHATEVER else Gerard Bluiidell had in- 
 tended and whatever else he could pardon 
 in himself, he had certainly not intended 
 nor could he pardon the havoc that — even if it were 
 only for a time — he had caused in the mind of the 
 young girl whose acquaintanceship, begun in idleness, 
 had grown into affection and had become now at once 
 so menacing and so joyful. He had fallen in love. 
 That was nothing. One fell out of love. But he loved. 
 And that meant so much. That he would have to 
 leave her was certain, to leave her in a few days. He 
 could not, must not, make plans to see her again after 
 that. The random thought that she might dance in 
 London he had put away from him as soon almost as it 
 was conceived. They must pass out of one another''s lives 
 — but not yet : there remained still the best part of a 
 week. He must try to make her happy, and at the same 
 time he must do what he could to soften the bitterness 
 of the end when it came. 
 
 It was the day after their visit to Chambery. Gerard 
 was waiting for Illona's return from the Piccadilly. 
 She had gone there to make her peace with Piaci, to 
 arrange herself afresh for the day and to get any letters 
 
BITTERSWEET 171 
 
 there might be for her. She came back with an angry 
 and clouded face. Piaci had been insolent. She was to 
 be fined a hundred francs. Not that that mattered. It 
 would come out of her share of the quete when it was 
 divided up at the end of the season, and anyhow Sybil, 
 who had been there in previous years, had told her 
 that, even if one had been fined nothing at all, the 
 result, the share, that each girl received became in some 
 way or other marvellously small. No ; what had angered 
 her were Piaci's taunts, and, worse still, the way in which 
 his wife — " c'est une femme qff'reuse, tu sais " — had 
 spoken. Illona's camarades had apparently been talking 
 of the manner in which she passed her days, and that, 
 combined with the facts that she did not bring her 
 lover to the Piccadilly every night to spend, to toss 
 about, his money, and that she herself had lost most of 
 her provocative gaiety, her allure, her light indifference 
 to what she did and to what was done, angered Piaci 
 in his pocket. It was not good for his business that one 
 of his dancers should develop a serious affair and should 
 herself become serious. A dancer should be legere, gay, 
 impertinent ; she should not care what happened as 
 long as she could wheedle gold out of the men who 
 either pleased or annoyed her and make them spend 
 money and more money and yet more money for the 
 good of the house. So much for her anger. The cause 
 of her further distress did not at first appear. It had 
 much the same root. 
 
 They were on a terrace overlooking the Lac du 
 Bourget. It was a common enough little place, too 
 
172 BITTERSWEET 
 
 near to Aix to have any serious custom and yet in its 
 way simple and pleasant. They had driven out in a 
 horse-carriage. For one reason and another they had 
 had no temptation to go further afield. Illona at least 
 had hardly recovered from her emotion of the previous 
 day — although she had successfully concealed any out- 
 ward and visible signs of its havoc — and she had herself 
 vetoed their wonted automobile. "Pa* la peine,'''' she had 
 said ; " and besides, why spend the money ? " 
 
 Why spend the money indeed ! Gerard had come to 
 ask himself that question many times more than once. 
 Never in his life had he spent money as he had spent it 
 during the last week or so. He thought with foreboding 
 of the state in which his pass-book would be when next 
 he saw it. The clerk at the Credit Lyonnais was becom- 
 ing quite an old friend. They shook hands warmly with 
 one another every day, and Gerard tried to dissemble 
 his shyness at drawing yet more cheques with vague 
 attempts at conversation about the state of the weather, 
 the European situation, the season. Five hundred francs 
 seemed in this new life in which he was embarked to 
 last only a few hours. It was not that Illona showed 
 any definite wish to spend money wantonly, but some- 
 how or other in her society money melted away. There 
 were the motor-car and expensive meals — they were 
 having a cheap meal to-day : she had wished it ; she 
 had asked for r. bourgeois restaurant — and souvenirs, 
 little trumpery but all the same costly souvenirs of 
 every new place she visited — little presents in gold or 
 silver or stone for her mother, for the concierge of her 
 apartment in Paris, for the cnissicre of the Esqueline — 
 
BITTERSWEET i73 
 
 a Montmartre restaurant to which, she told Gerard, she 
 went morning after morning when her ordinary dancing 
 was over — for the concierge's little boy, for the wife of 
 her coiffeur, for the poor lame daughter of the cabman 
 who came every night to drive her to her work. Louis 
 and francs had but a passing acquaintance with Gerard's 
 pocket in those mad days. He realised it all well 
 enough, but he refused to allow the facts to trouble 
 him. In a week — in a week he would be sane again, and 
 sad. In the meantime let her have all the pleasure that 
 he could give her. Let her be generous. She was used 
 to spending as the whim seized her. Her companions 
 had, Gerard gathered, never been mean, and they had 
 always been rich. They had showered upon her rings, 
 bracelets, bijoux of all kinds — most of which she seemed 
 to have lost or mislaid. He had done nothing of that 
 sort. Once when he had offered to give her a gold wrist 
 watch they had seen in a window at Geneva and at 
 which she had exclaimed with pleasure, she had refused 
 although he had gone to the length of bringing it out 
 for her to try on. 
 
 " No, no, Gerard, cheri ci moi^ I want no presents from 
 you — not now. When you are back in London you shall 
 send me a ring and I shall wear it always to remind me 
 of you. But that is all I shall let you give me." 
 
 Money as money had no real value for her. She said 
 frankly that although she liked it she could not keep it. 
 " I don't know where it goes. In Paris I make hundreds 
 of francs sometimes in a night and in three or four 
 days c''est tout parti — it has all disappeared." When 
 Gerard knew her first her purse was full of gold. He 
 
174 BITTERSWEET 
 
 carried it cjenerally for her, but now he had occasion again 
 and again to notice that it was ahnost empty. " Where's 
 all your money?" he asked. "Oh, I don't make any 
 money nowadays — not since IVe known you. I shall 
 have to work extra hard when you go away, Gerard ; 
 I shall have to pay more attention to my business, Ui 
 sais. Why don't I make it ? Oh, because I don't like 
 the work any more. I can't sit and make love to men 
 now nor let men make love to me, because I'm thinking 
 all the time about you. Oh, they make me angry. I^ots 
 of things I used not to mind disgust me now. I keep 
 wondering what you would say if you saw or heard — 
 and then I get cross and get up and go away. I fight 
 with everyone — and it is all your fault, cheri. But I'm 
 glad really. I'm poor now but je rrCen jiche. I'll get 
 rich again. It's not difficult for a girl to make money 
 in my business when she is pretty and dances well and 
 when she has hemicowp de toupet — cheek, you know." 
 
 They had finished their lunch. Everyone else was 
 finishing his lunch too or sleeping away the first 
 part of the halcyon afternoon. It was that still hour 
 that falls sometimes on those high valleys. All move- 
 ment seemed to have ceased for a time. No boat, no 
 flock, no birds, no man disturbed the quiet. The hills, 
 the lake, looked painted rather than real. Here and 
 there a light pillar of smoke ascended into the pale 
 blue of the sky. . . . Gerard, who had been counting 
 in his mind the hours that still remained, looked at 
 his companion. Her profile was turned to him ; she 
 was gazing out over the water, lost in thought. He 
 
BITTERSWEET 175 
 
 could not tell whether she was happy or disturbed. 
 Such beauty as she had showed best in repose, but 
 always her repose seemed to hold some quality of re- 
 gret, of doubt. Then she turned : 
 
 " Gerard, I want to speak to you, to ask you some- 
 thing — mats fai lionte. Wait, I'll come next to you." 
 She pushed the table away a little and made room for 
 herself on his bench, nestling close to him and holding 
 his hand. 
 
 " Ecoide, moil cheri adore : you mustn't be angry. You 
 know when I went back just now I found a letter from 
 my mother. She wants me to send her some money. I 
 always send her money but — but for the last two weeks 
 I haven't, and she has her rent to pay. Pauvre maman ! 
 And, dear . . . well, I haven't got any money. It's 
 never been like this before ; I have never been without 
 more than I really needed, but since you've been here, 
 tu sais, I have been si serkme 1 have hardly made a louis 
 a night — sometimes not that. Men don't like me any 
 more. I am glad, though; I'm not sorry. Now I'm 
 yours only, 1 don't know how I shall ever go back into 
 that life " — she spoke bitterly — " oh, comme tout <;a me 
 degoute mamtenant. . . . And that's not the worst : I 
 have my own rent to pay — of my apartment in Paris, 
 you know. I hadn't forgotten, but I never worry : I 
 always thought something would turn up — and it 
 hasn't." She went cm rather breathlessly as if to prevent 
 Gerard's interrupting her: "But it is not to disturb 
 you, Gerard a moi ; if you haven't got it I will arrange 
 somehow. Trust me for that : I can always arrange. 
 But it's ennuyeiix tout de meme.'''' 
 
176 BITTERSWEET 
 
 Gerard's curiosity made him ask : " How would you 
 arrange ? It isn't necessary though, of course." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know, always je me dehrouille — always 
 I can get myself out of a scrape." 
 
 He put his arm round her shoulders to reassure her : 
 " How much do you want ? Of course you shall have it — 
 this very afternoon." 
 
 She named a sum, not a huge sum, not perhaps as 
 much as Gerard expected, but enough certainly to make 
 no small difference to that account which nowadays was 
 more in his mind than it had ever been before. 
 
 " Bien, mon enfant. I'll go and get it at the bank — 
 there'll be time before it closes. Now I deserve a kiss 
 for having let you be silent through almost the whole 
 of dejeuyier.'''' He put his hand under her chin and lifted 
 her mouth to his. She laughed with pleasure. 
 
 " I was so quiet because I was ashamed and unhappy : 
 I didn't like to ask you for money, you know. Perhaps 
 it's strange : I never minded asking anyone else for 
 money. I asked you that first night. Sybil told me to. 
 She said she was sure you wouldn't know you ought 
 to give us something if I didn't ask. Was it true 
 or not .? " 
 
 Gerard laughed and kissed her again. "Quite true, 
 my little pet. But I had forgotten all about it. I only 
 remembered you and your eyes and your kisses, you 
 know — it was stupid of you all the same not to ask me 
 directly you came back this morning. You wouldn't 
 have had that anxious look on your face then. Pauvre 
 petite Ilhna., I shall begin to think you don't trust me. 
 And now let us take a boat and I'll row you about — 
 
BITTERSWEET 177 
 
 or you shall row me about and I will pretend to go 
 to sleep." 
 
 He felt very cheerful. It was curious, and he wondered 
 at the fact, but he was conscious of an actual glow of 
 satisfaction that Illona had asked him for money and 
 that he was giving it to her without question and 
 without difficulty. 
 
 12 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE time passed swiftly, too swiftly. As the 
 day on which his cure was to come to an end 
 approached more nearly, Gerard found it in- 
 creasingly difficult to reconcile himself to leaving this 
 girl who had taken so great a place in his mind. The 
 joy that he had when he was with her began to be 
 spoiled by the imminence of their separation. In this 
 last fortnight he had given himself so completely to her, 
 had confided in her affection so unreservedly, that he 
 could not imagine how he would do without her when 
 next week he was passing through the tedious period of 
 his after-cure, and when in three weeks he would be 
 back at his work and in his home. Docteur Ribot had 
 quite early put his foot down and had insisted on the 
 after-cure. It was essential that his patient, with whose 
 progress he was very well satisfied, should go somewhere 
 for a fortnight — to the sea for choice. Gerard came 
 to dread the prospect. If he could, so to speak, tear 
 himself from Illona's arms, board the train, pass without 
 delay through Paris, take the fastest boat, and then 
 begin to lose his memories at his desk in Pall Mall and 
 in his home, in the company of his children, in the 
 laughing society of Vivian, of Dickie, and of Basil — 
 
 17S 
 
BITTERSWEET 179 
 
 why then he would be able to get along. But to be 
 alone for a fortnight, alone with no one to talk to, 
 nothing to do ! 
 
 The difficulty about Champion and the Goddards 
 had gone the way that all such difficulties go when they 
 are ignored. Gerard, however, realised that he had 
 purchased his freedom at the cost of his reputation, at 
 the cost of his reputation for politeness, for the ordinary 
 manners of an English gentleman, if not for virtue and 
 respectability. The egregious Champion had ceased to 
 persecute him with proposals that they should go about 
 together. He knew enough, Gerard supposed, to suspect 
 that his fellow-guest was no fit and proper companion 
 for a man who stood well in the best local society of 
 Brondesbury and West Kilburn. And yet, after all, 
 were not Brondesbury and West Kilburn as intelligent 
 and creditable as Wimbledon ? Gerard felt ashamed of 
 himself. As for the Goddards, for the moment he had 
 given up troubling about them. He would, in spite of 
 the increasing coldness of Mrs Goddard's salutes, bow 
 politely whenever he met either mother or daughter in 
 the hall or garden of the hotel ; he would even discuss 
 the weather with them ; but he knew that he had shown 
 far too clearly that he had no wish to take his father's 
 place as an intimate of the Goddard family, and it was 
 at least possible that some day or other he would be 
 made to pay for this demonstration. 
 
 Nor had he mentioned the Goddards in his letters to 
 his wife. Those letters still continued. Day after day 
 one would leave by the evening post for England, and 
 in every one of them Gerard would say frankly where 
 
i8o BITTERSWEET 
 
 he had been and what he had seen. He would describe 
 Grenoble as a disappointment, the Grande Chartreuse as 
 worth seeing, and so on, all in the best style of the 
 average tourist. About two things only was he lacking 
 in candour : he never said that he had on any one of 
 these excursions a companion, and he left his wife to 
 take it for granted that he travelled in the ordinary first- 
 class carriage of the modest Englishman's Continental 
 holiday. Also he had entirely given up expressing the 
 wish that she and the children were with him. Duplicity 
 did not come naturally to him ; he liked his wife and 
 loved his children and respected his home, and to lie 
 in that way would have damaged his sense of what 
 was decent, 
 
 Illona never told Gerard whether she also had 
 cherished the idea and had feared to give it birth. In 
 any case it appeared to be his own : 
 
 Two days only remained, two days hardly indeed, for 
 it was already the midday of July 8th and on the 10th 
 Docteur Ribot was to pay his last morning visit to his 
 patient and Gerard was to be free to go where he would 
 as long as he did take a holiday of a fortnight and did 
 honestly observe certain simple regulations as to his 
 method of life during that short period. " Then you'll 
 be all right till you come back here again next year," 
 the doctor had added in the cheerful way with which 
 the medical man of the Continent assumes that once 
 having surrendered yourself to his treatment you are 
 to continue bound to the yearly loss of a whole 
 month until the Almighty or his own growing banking 
 
BITTERSWEET i8i 
 
 account decides for him that he had better cease 
 practising. Gerard had given no thought to where he 
 should go. It would be natural to go north, to one of 
 the bathing-places in Normandy or Picardy, but if he 
 went north would it not be his duty to press his wife to 
 join him ? And, if that proved impossible, what, after 
 all, was there to prevent his going straight through to 
 Bude and spending there his penitential fortnight ? 
 
 No, his inclinations were neither towards Dieppe nor 
 Cornwall. In the one place, with the addition of the 
 sea and the subtraction of the mountains, the people 
 and the life would, he imagined, remind him at every 
 moment of the day of what he had left behind at Aix ; 
 in the other he would find himself thrown at once into 
 the arms of his family, into the closest proximity to all 
 the little domestic worries which seemed at this distance 
 to loom intolerably irksome : he would be exchanging 
 the spacious if dull saloons of his hotel for the cupboard- 
 like rooms of an English lodging-house, and the naughty 
 freedom of the Savoyard valley for the rather grey cliffs 
 and restricted excursions of a small seaside resort ; Mary 
 would think him mad if he began to dash about Corn- 
 wall, from Whitesand Bay to Penzance, in a four- 
 cylinder motor-car at four or five pounds a day ! Besides, 
 he liked what he had seen of the South, and as he had 
 come so far it would be a pity to exchange its sun and 
 gay colour, its warmth and freedom, for the colder 
 attractions of the North. 
 
 He took his " Baedeker " and looked at the map. To 
 get to the coast anywhere south of Brittany would not 
 be so very easy. Moreover he had no assurance that it 
 
i82 BITTERSWEET 
 
 had the kind of beauty that he wanted. Why not push 
 further down through these Alps into Provence, to the 
 coast somewhere in that part which was yet unspoiled 
 by the tourist ? Provence had a magical name. Vaguely 
 he felt that you went to Grenoble and looked out over 
 the whole valley of the Mediterranean and that every 
 village and every town would bear enchanted memories 
 of the past. . . . 
 
 And, after all, why should he go alone ? All things 
 are possible if one tries hard enough, and surely Illona 
 could come with him if she chose and if, choosing, she 
 determined to have her way. They would have then 
 another fortnight together, a fortnight that would in 
 very truth be carved out of their lives, cut off from 
 the past and from the future. In these two weeks that 
 were almost gone they had had to submit to so many 
 disabilities : there had been his cure and her dancing, 
 for instance — and they were not the chief. But if they 
 could go away together they would be so definitely 
 alone. It would be easier then, perhaps, having had so 
 full a draught of happiness, to separate. 
 
 Directly they met he broached the subject : 
 
 " Illona, you know what happens the day after 
 to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Mais oui^ mon cheri : it seems to be a cheerful 
 thought to you ; I'll try to be pleased too if you wish. 
 You look forward to being with your children and 
 your wife, is that it ? And to being alone first for a 
 while to rest without anyone. I am going to be brave." 
 Her eyes contradicted her words. 
 
 " My stupid Illona, I shall be as sorry to go, sorrier 
 
BITTERSWEET 183 
 
 perhaps, as you will be to say good-bye to me. But I 
 have a plan. You know I have to have first what 
 they call an 'after-cure' — a fortnight somewhere to 
 rest in after all the hard work of the cure — now why 
 shouldn't you come with me ? " 
 
 The tears that had begun to collect in her eyes forgot 
 their errand and disappeared. " Oh, oh, that would be 
 good ! But how can I arrange it ? Piaci would never 
 let me go. I had to sign a contract to stop till the end 
 of the season " 
 
 " Well, the season hasn't really begun yet. Everyone 
 says that. It doesn't begin properly till August. You'd 
 be back long before August. That's when he wants 
 you. Go to him and tell him you're ill, or that your 
 mother is ill — tell him anything to get a fortnight's 
 holiday with me." He looked at her and added : 
 " Illona, I don't believe you like my idea ; I don't 
 believe you want to come." 
 
 She put her hand out and took his : " Don't say that, 
 Gerard : surely you know better. But you mustn't make 
 a joke about my mother being ill ; it might happen. I 
 will ask Piaci. I will do my possible. Mais tout le temps 
 maintenant il rrCengueule. He will fly into a great rage. 
 Perhaps he'll put me out — that would be a good thing ! 
 I'd go at once without asking him, but then he'd keep 
 my trunk. I'd perhaps not get it away from him. 
 There's a big amende if a girl breaks her contract. 
 He's so well with the police too." 
 
 " What's the amende ? We might pay that." 
 I don't know. I haven't even got the contract. He 
 promised to give me a copy." 
 
i84 BITTERSWEET 
 
 " Well, he fined you a hundred francs for being away 
 a night : if you were away fifteen nights it would cost 
 fifteen hundred " He broke off and made a wry face. 
 
 " Leave it to me. I will talk to him to-night. Nous 
 verrons. Hell know that I want to go away with you, 
 but that can't be helped. He doesn't like you, tu sais:" 
 
 She refused to talk about it any more. " I don't want 
 to count on it," she said. 
 
 The rather glum maitre dlwtel at the Pavilion 
 Rivollier liked to see Illona arrive, and the next 
 day, when she ran excitedly up the steps crying out 
 '•^Arrange! Arrange!'''' before she had half crossed the 
 terrace to the table at which Gerard was in the habit 
 of awaiting her, he smiled as if he too were in the secret 
 of these lovers in whose doings he was beginning to 
 take so fatherly an interest. Your head waiter in such 
 places has a surfeit of sordid love. " Encore un mkhe ! " 
 he says to himself when a young Englishman sits 
 waiting for the arrival of a woman not of his own race 
 and world. But these two were different, so he gave 
 them of his best, and he hoped devoutly that whatever 
 it was that had been arranged had been arranged well, 
 and that it would have all the success that it deserved. 
 
 " Oh, but, chM, it was difficult ! " She laughed and 
 would hardly wait for a footstool to be brought and 
 for the little waiter to get out of earshot. " Ifs all 
 arranged though. Mais fetais ve.vee, tu sais. I asked 
 Piaci directly I got in last night. I caught him alone. 
 He listened and then he called his wife, and told her. 
 ' So you want to go off with that lover of yours that 
 
BITTERSWEET 185 
 
 you never bring here,' she said at once. ' It has nothing 
 to do with you, madame,' I answered. ' If I go I can 
 go where I like, and I can go with anyone I like, 
 I suppose.' 'Well, you can't go, it's absurd; fi'est ce 
 pas, Amalio .? ' she said to Piaci. ' Not so fast, not so 
 fast ; let us see what Illona proposes. You can't go for 
 nothing,' he added, turning to me ; ' you'll be breaking 
 your contract and I shall have to get another dancer 
 while you're away.' I knew that was blague, and I waited 
 for him to speak again, but his wife interrupted : ' Oh 
 yes, if she likes to pay a hundred francs a night — or if 
 her lover likes to pay a hundred francs a night for her 
 — she can go then.' She hates me because — oh, because 
 of a lot of things, because I haven't brought men there 
 since I've known you, because I never made you spend 
 money there, and — mostly — because I don't like her, 
 the sale femme. ' That's too much ; it wouldn't be fair,' 
 Piaci said ; " Illona can go if she brings me here in 
 my hand a thousand francs.' I ran away quickly up- 
 stairs to get dressed then ; I didn't want to give her 
 the opportunity to change his mind." 
 
 A thousand francs — forty pounds ! The sum was 
 enough to give Gerard pause, but anyhow it was now 
 too late. The matter was "a^ran^g." He couldn't 
 throw Illona over, and indeed he didn't want to. 
 Forty pounds! Well, it was forty pounds the more. 
 Surely it was and would be worth it. To-morrow they 
 would start, and in fifteen or sixteen days the happiness 
 that he had won would be at an end — but it would 
 have been ; it was a thing he would never, never forget, 
 would never wish to forget : of that he was sure. Look- 
 
i86 BITTERSWEET 
 
 ing round and seeing that no waiter had them under 
 his eye and that there were no other guests to make a 
 scandal or to be amused, he leant over the table and 
 took quickly her face between his hands and kissed her 
 on the mouth. She saw nothing of his second's doubt ; 
 she had been too absorbed in her own success. 
 " It will be une vraie lune de miel,'''' she said. 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 EVIDENTLY Piaci did not change his mind. 
 Gerard Blundell produced a note for a thousand 
 francs, Illona took it and carried it off cheer- 
 fully as if such sums meant nothing at all to her, and 
 surely could mean very little to her lover — Why, poor 
 darling, should she think otherwise ? Gerard asked 
 himself; he had taken no steps to make her understand 
 that he was not a millionaire — and she came back the 
 next morning with her cheeks flushed with excitement, 
 pleasure, anticipation. 
 
 " But, cheri^ you liaven't said where we are going. 
 Not far, I hope. And it must be a quiet place. I want 
 to have you to myself; and then too I am not chic ; I 
 have no dresses, no hats, nothing at all. Oh, and we 
 must go and buy one dress — one is enough, and one 
 hat, and some shoes and a cloak to keep the dust away 
 when we travel. We go and get them now, hein ? " 
 
 Gerard, who had been giving another hour to his 
 guide-book and had been puzzling out times and trains 
 with the aid of an " Indicateur-Chaix," announced that 
 they were going far, that they were to stop first at 
 Grenoble and that then they were, so to speak, to fall 
 
 187 
 
i88 BITTERSWEET 
 
 off the edge of the Alps and to go on falling until they 
 reached Marseilles. " It will take hours and hours — a 
 whole day, and it will be very hot, but we shall have a 
 carriage all to ourselves at this time of the year, and 
 then when we get to Marseilles we shall see the sea and 
 later on we'll bathe in it — so you must buy a bathing- 
 dress too. Finish your lunch quickly and we'll go and 
 find everything you want." He had not bargained for 
 these additional expenses, but he might just as well hang 
 for a sheep as for a lamb. Illona should be happy for these 
 fourteen days if it was in his power to make her so. 
 
 " Chiche ! Chiche ! " She clapped her hands and the 
 head waiter looked at her and wished that he were 
 young again too, and he wished that Gerard would be 
 good to her and that the years that were to come would 
 be good to her. . . . 
 
 Illona had never bathed in the sea. She could swim ; 
 she had learnt to swim at school, in a river. The idea 
 of being actually in the sea and of being tossed about 
 by its waves at once delighted and terrified her. The 
 bathing-dress became the one important item in her 
 trousseau ; it took immediate precedence of the frock 
 and the hat and the shoes. She dragged Gerard off 
 at once to a shop in the rue des Bains where she had 
 seen such things. She insisted on his helping her in her 
 choice, and he shyly did his best, getting indeed some 
 pleasure out of the transaction and remembering not 
 at all that if his wife or his sister had wanted him 
 to accompany them on such an errand he would have 
 stoutly refused to go further than the door of the shop. 
 They were soon satisfied and, while Illona explained 
 
BITTERSWEET 189 
 
 some slight alteration that she wanted made, he strolled 
 about looking at other wares. Suddenly through the 
 window he saw Mrs Goddard and her daughter, saw 
 them, and, before he could even turn his back, realised 
 that they were entering and that they had seen him. 
 Evidently Mrs Goddard had at least for the moment 
 forgotten her resentment : 
 
 " Why, Mr Blundell, you are a stranger : one wouldn't 
 think we lived in the same hotel. You are never there 
 for meals now, and we haven't yet had " 
 
 She stopped midway in her sentence, to look with 
 astonishment at the cause of interruption. Illona, 
 bathing-dress in hand, seeing nothing at all, thinking of 
 nothing but her purchase and of how it would suit her, 
 had run across the shop and seized her lover by the 
 arm : " See, Gerard cheri ; tell me : don't you think 
 that if they take away this braid altogether it will be 
 better — you say : I want it to please you." 
 
 Gerard, who had no time to reason, no time to be 
 polite, no time even to excuse himself, found that he 
 had been dragged back to the counter. Continually, in 
 the future, he wondered what he should have done, but 
 at the moment he had no opportunity of doing anything. 
 When he did manage to free himself and to turn, Mrs 
 Goddard had gone. " I don't care," he said to himself; 
 '■'■je nCen fiche^ like Illona. She no doubt hurried her 
 daughter away and thinks that I am lost for ever, and 
 she'll^nderstand now why I am never at the hotel. Well, 
 she shall see us again as she has seen us once ; she shall 
 see, the stupid old woman, that I have nothing I'm 
 ashamed of." 
 
190 BITTERSWEET 
 
 He paid for the bathing-dress and went out into the 
 street, walked up and down flaunting his happiness, 
 looking out for the Goddards, determined that he 
 would find them again. And he did find them, but not 
 until Illona^s other shopping had been completed, not 
 until he had paid another visit to the bank. He 
 remembered that Mrs Goddard had told him that her 
 one extravagance was to take tea in the Villa des Fleurs. 
 Hitherto he had avoided the place at that hour ; to-day 
 he sought it. Yes, the Goddards were there and they 
 could hardly fail to see him come in. The table he was 
 allotted was not far from where they sat. He chose a 
 seat which would give them his back and an uninter- 
 rupted view of his companion. He wanted them to see 
 her now. He was proud of her. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 ILLONA brought with her to the station a happy 
 face. If happiness is the one necessity at the 
 beginning of a honeymoon, then indeed she was 
 in a fair way to enjoy that lune de miel that she 
 had promised herself. She had forgotten her disHke 
 of the railway, and on the day following their de- 
 parture she even came smiling to the 7.22 morning 
 train out of Grenoble for Marseilles. At first Gerard 
 hid from her the length of the journey that lay before 
 them. He was nervous, afraid that her patience, her 
 good nature, might not last out over ten hours and 
 twenty- two minutes ; but he might have spared himself 
 the anxiety. Everything went well. The journey was 
 hot and dusty but it was also strange and interesting. 
 They had neither of them climbed up over mountains ; 
 and Illona found again and again in those Savoy 
 uplands little villages in which she begged that they 
 should stop instead of going on to the sea. Now indeed 
 she seemed to have no tastes but the most simple, no 
 wishes that it would not be reasonable to satisfy. Hour 
 after hour she was content to sit, Gerard's hand in 
 hers, watching from the window the passing land- 
 
192 BITTERSWEET 
 
 scape and turning every little while her face to be 
 
 kissed. . , . 
 
 Marseilles in summer is perhaps no more the true 
 Marseilles than it is in February, but certainly it has 
 in June qualities of tradition, of deep and constant 
 beauty, that it lacks in winter. Illona clapped her hands 
 at the sea and at the ships ; Gerard was excited by 
 his first view of the Mediterranean. They had time 
 to wash away the traces of their journey, to walk down 
 the Cannebiere to the Vieux Port, to dine chez Basso- 
 Bregaillon in the open air, where, as they experimented 
 with oursins and bouillabaisse and drank cassis, they 
 could look out at the curious southern boats and the 
 odd many-coloured sails, the decaying architecture of 
 the Empire, and the constant passing to and fro of 
 the peoples of all the world in the dying light of the 
 southern sky. The next morning they left betimes, 
 reached Toulon, changed to the light railway, and 
 almost before they were ready for lunch they were at 
 Le Lavandou, the place which Gerard had chosen, but 
 of which he knew no more than that it was a fishing 
 village and that its hills were covered with lavender. 
 Illona had given him no trouble. She had run from 
 one side to the other of the coinpartment, exclaiming 
 at the cypresses, at the olive trees, at the blue stretches 
 of the sea. Not even did she prove restive when they 
 arrived at their hotel, picked out at random or because 
 its porter was a little more energetic than his rival, and 
 found the shabby rooms, the worn furniture, the one 
 servant. ..." I feel myself well here," she said ; " and 
 
BITTERSWEET 193 
 
 Gerard, I know how long you say you will stop, but 
 we won't count the days ; 111 try to forget that the 
 end is coming so soon. My dear, my dear, I will be 
 so happy." 
 
 In Le Lavandou you can go out on to the beach and 
 walk for miles without finding a road, without crossing 
 more than the immemorial paths, the sheep tracks, the 
 fishermen's walks that carry one back to the age of the 
 Heroes. Gerard had written to London for a copy 
 of " The Earthly Paradise," and Illona never tired of 
 sitting at his knee and listening to the stories of the 
 past. Together they peopled the woods and bays with 
 fauns and centaurs, with armed warriors and strange 
 long-oared vessels. For hours they would bathe in water 
 crystal-clear in the sunlight ; and they would drive 
 up into the hills and lose themselves in the vineyards. 
 For Gerard they were days cloudless as the sky. He 
 forgot London ; he forgot his home. No letters left 
 Le Lavandou for England. He was in love. Each day 
 Illona meant more to him. He never tired of her ; he 
 never tired of looking at her, of listening to her talk. 
 Away from the distractions and the luxury of Aix she 
 cast aside all that part of her that was impatient and 
 wilful. She waited on his wishes, caring for him as a 
 mother might, and holding to him always with a pas- 
 sionate strength that seemed to deny the passing of the 
 days. . . . 
 
 But the days did pass. That side of Gerard which 
 was prudence plucked fearfully at his shoulder when a 
 fortnight was over. "Illona, sweetheart, to-morrow I 
 must go back," he said. 
 
 13 
 
194 BITTERSWEET 
 
 She looked at him with a white face. " I know, I 
 know. I have feared and expected this moment for all 
 the last two days. I was afraid whenever I saw you 
 you were going to speak. Oh, and I have longed so 
 much that you would forget for a little while. But we 
 will start when you wish. . . . Dis^ Gerard, can I go 
 with you as far as Marseilles ? " 
 
 " Of course, my pet. If you don't mind going a 
 longer way round, you can travel with me to Macon. 
 Otherwise indeed you'd have that long, lonely journey 
 up to Grenoble all by yourself — for I must get back to 
 England as quickly as I can. As a matter of fact, it will 
 take you longer if you go alone by the way we came." 
 
 "No, Gerard, I won't come with you further than 
 Marseilles. I will find it easier to part from you there." 
 
 He was disappointed. He couldn't understand. He 
 was even a little resentful. 
 
 The next afternoon they left Le Lavandou. " I am 
 leaving there all my little heart," Illona said as the 
 toy train steamed out of the station. " Well — t ant pis! 
 but I have been happy. What more could I ask ? 
 Gerard, you have been kind to me. I love you too 
 much, too much. It isn't reasonable ; c'est bete, nest-ce 
 pas? A woman like me ought not to love. I haven't 
 the time to love ; it's a luxury for the others, but not 
 for me. It won't happen again though ; it never 
 happened before. Pity me a little, dear ; hold me tight 
 to you ; put your arm round me. They won't see, and, 
 even if they do, what does it matter .'' Nothing matters 
 except that to-morrow morning tu me quiUes. Oh, 
 Gerard, Gerard" — and she broke down for a minute. 
 
BITTERSWEET 195 
 
 On the morrow Gerard's train left Marseilles at 
 nine o'clock. Illona would have an hour to wait, 
 and then after travelling for ten hours would, if her 
 train was punctual, catch a connection at Grenoble 
 that would bring her to Aix-les-Bains before midnight. 
 " You will have time to dress and dance if you are not 
 too tired," Gerard said, and she turned to him with her 
 eyes full of reproach : 
 
 " I shall sleep in Grenoble, chert : I couldn't dance 
 to-morrow. I don't know how I shall ever be able to 
 dance like that again. But I shall : tu verras — but no, 
 you won't know. You tell me I shan't see you again, 
 Gerard ; and I shall never write to you. . . . No, not 
 even if I am ill. Je suis trap Jiere pour ^a. You think 
 it is better for you that we should part. Bien ! I won't 
 even have your address. I shall carry you and my 
 memories of you in my heart always, and that shall 
 be enough for me. I am not worthy of more, moi, une 
 petite danseuse du Piccadilly ! " 
 
 Her mood was one of resentment and of unhappiness. 
 Gerard, whose mind, so well disposed, so properly under 
 control, so disciplined, had already gone ahead of him 
 to his desk in Pall Mall and was occupying itself with 
 thoughts of the work that five weeks ago he had left 
 half done, responded to the best of his ability. He tried 
 to console her but he failed even to understand. She drew 
 him as much as she had ever done, more indeed, but he 
 had in his heart faced the fact that he was about to 
 leave her. The separation was in a sense accomplished. 
 He feared a scene now, and almost wished that the hour 
 of his departure might quickly come. 
 
196 BITTERSWEET 
 
 And when it came near, when they were both on the 
 railway platform pacing to and fro watching the hands 
 of the clock, Gerard, although his heart was cold and 
 his mouth dry, although he felt that anyone could see 
 he was shivering with suppressed excitement, showed 
 no emotion. Illona held his arm, clung to him, seemed 
 almost to resent the little ways in which he hid his 
 nervousness. He bought her papers and books ; he bade 
 the porter who had charge of her poor little trunk and 
 her bag, watch carefully over her until her train started ; 
 he found her flowers for her dress, a pillow for her 
 head. . . . 
 
 " En voiture pour Parts ! " Four, three minutes still 
 remained. 
 
 Gerard bent and kissed her. " Again, again ! " she said, 
 breathing deeply, her eyes sunk back in her head but 
 reaching out from their caves as if to compel the secrets 
 of his heart. " Tu rnaimes ? You love me truly, Gerard ? 
 I have not been cheated ? Oh, Gerard, what shall I do, 
 what shall I do, when you are gone .'* I think I shall die." 
 And then, suddenly, without a word to him, she tore her 
 arm away, and ran to the porter. " Mettez mes affaires 
 dans le coupe, vite, vite. Apres tout^firai d Paris, moi.'''' 
 And then to Gerard : " I can't leave you yet, my dear, 
 my dear. I thought I was strong. I shall go to Macon. 
 Forgive me, Gerard. My ticket is wasted, I know. 
 Pardon ! "" 
 
 The train had started. Gerard, hardly realising what 
 had happened, found himself alone with her again. She 
 had flung herself into a corner, and had hidden her face 
 in her arms. . . . 
 
BITTERSWEET 197 
 
 Only minutes had passed. Gerard, moodily wondering 
 what would happen next, wondering whether he was glad 
 or sorry, wondering what would happen at Macon, sat 
 by the corridor and looked out into the Etang de Berre. 
 He had not bargained for what had just occurred. It 
 didn't seem to him quite fair. He had been honest ; he 
 had been frank ; he had done nothing which he had not 
 settled to do a fortnight ago. He too would feel the 
 pain of parting, but he would feel it none the less for 
 its postponement for half a dozen hours — nor would 
 Illona. He moved and went close to her, pulled her 
 hands from her face, drew back her head and kissed her 
 wet eyes. She pulled him down to her and held him 
 with her arms. 
 
 " Gerard, my dear, dear Gerard : forgive me ; please, 
 dear, forgive me. I won't be like that at Macon. Truly I 
 won't. But I couldn't let you go. I couldn't, sweetheart — 
 and you did tell me I might travel with you as far as 
 Macon. Je siiis btte. But now I'll be reasonable ; I'll 
 be reasonable all the time. Tu verras. See, it's finished ; 
 I'm not crying. I won't cry again," and she sat up, 
 dabbed at her eyes and turned to him a smiling face, a 
 sad smiling face. 
 
 She was as good as her word. The waiter came 
 and offered them places in the ivagon-restaurant for 
 lunch. " We'll go to the first dejeuner, Gerard : I'm 
 hungry, me ; I had no breakfast, you know " ; and 
 through lunch she was lively and seemed happy and 
 even pleased when she recognised an admirer of hers 
 in the person of a French officer at the next table : 
 " I like him ; he's a good friend to me. Oh, and he 
 
198 BITTERSWEET 
 
 dances well : I taught him, you know." When they 
 were back in their places she took oft' her hat and lay 
 down, her head on Gerard's knee, one hand holding his. 
 And so she lay till they came to Lyons. 
 
 " How much longer have we, dear ? " 
 
 " Fifty-nine minutes." 
 
 At that she sat up, and went through the feminine 
 process of tidying her hair. " We have been happy, 
 Gerard ? Nobody can take this last month from me. Et 
 toi ? You won't forget your little Illona, even though 
 you never see her again. You won't be able to forget 
 me. I want you to remember, dear, but never to be sad 
 a cause de moV 
 
 He tried to cheer her, to assure her that whatever 
 happened to him she would never be without a place in 
 his heart, but she protested that she wished him not 
 to talk. She seemed content to sit, as she had so often 
 done, at his side, holding tight his hand. 
 
 The train besan to slow down. The air-brakes made 
 their familiar sound. Gerard busied himself with taking 
 her things out into the corridor and to the door of the 
 carriage. She followed him. "We only stop three 
 minutes, you know," he said. 
 
 The train stopped. He went down and helped her to 
 the platform. 
 
 " Gerard, kiss me once on my mouth and then go 
 back to your place. I don't want you to stand there. 
 Remember my ring, dear: but do not write to me. 
 Now ..." 
 
 Gerard went back to his seat as he was bidden, lowered 
 the window and held out his hand. She just touched 
 
BITTERSWEET I99 
 
 it and then stepped away from the train. Her eyes held 
 no tears, but to Gerard it seemed that they held an 
 infinite misery. She looked a poor little figure as she 
 stood there waiting for the train to go, and when it 
 started she followed it with her gaze. 
 
BOOK II 
 
 La vie est dure et amere, et les femvies sont cheres. 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 GERARD BLUNDELL fitted back into his 
 niche in London and his nest in Wimbledon 
 without either the pangs of regret or the 
 accusing of conscience. His partners were glad to see 
 him — the more glad indeed because his return meant 
 that now they could take their holidays, shake the 
 dust of Pall Mall off their patent leather and don the 
 brown boots of country gentlemen. And there was 
 work for Gerard to do. Pontifex and Mathews had, to 
 an extent that they had never realised, come to depend 
 on their younger partner's energy and initiative, and 
 they had during his absence sat supine in their separate 
 offices or festive in their separate clubs : " Blundell will 
 be back directly : he will attend to that," they had 
 said to one another and to the world. And, best of 
 all, they had not interfered with the projects that 
 he had put on foot. No scheme of his had become 
 disorganised owing to the officious meddling of another 
 hand. He found his desk as he had left it. His keys 
 had never been used. There was a welcome for him 
 and, for the rest, he was at liberty to begin to work 
 where he had left off. . . . 
 
 And at The Haven, Acacia Road, Wimbledon, 
 
204 BITTERSWEET 
 
 nothing was changed. Mary Blundell had turned a 
 deaf ear to the suggestion made to her from Aix that 
 she and the children should not hurry home from Bude 
 but should stop on at the sea through at least the first 
 hot weeks of August. Her sense of duty told her 
 that her place was in her own house. Otherwise her 
 husband would find a cold welcome, or he would have 
 to stop at his club. Either course was abhorrent to her 
 well-ordered mind. He had telegraphed from Dijon 
 the hour of his arrival in London, and she and Vivian 
 had come to Charing Cross to meet him. They had 
 never been apart for so long a time since their marriage. 
 Mary was a little tremulous ; Vivian was frankly ex- 
 cited, showing an eagerness for the arrival of the train 
 that had to be repressed again and again, until — twenty 
 minutes late — it rolled into the hot closeness of the 
 London station. 
 
 By every rule of fitness Gerard's mind should have 
 been elsewhere as he crossed Hungerford Bridge and 
 saw the blue-green waters of the Thames and the hard 
 outlines of the Clock Tower against the evening sky — 
 but it was not. He knew it was likely that his wife 
 and one of his children would come to meet him, and 
 he was unfeignedly glad at the prospect. He kissed 
 Mary on both cheeks and lifted V^ivian off her feet : 
 she clung to him in her delight at his return. The newly 
 acquired habits of five weeks were not however easily 
 shaken off. Mary BlundelFs plan had been that they 
 should go at once to Waterloo and hurry home, but 
 Gerard had become used to a more fluid life : '' No, 
 we'll have tea first. It's easy to leave these three things 
 
BITTERSWEET 205 
 
 in the cloak-room. Tell me, am I too shabby for the 
 Carlton ? Not at the end of July surely. Allans -y ! " 
 
 " Wh}', Gerard, youVe become quite a Frenchman," 
 Mary said, and he smiled down at her and squeezed her 
 arm and forgot everything but the pleasure of being 
 back in London again with his children and his wife 
 and the prospect of Pall Mall for the next morning. 
 
 The purchase of the ring that he had promised in 
 Aix embarrassed Gerard not a little. Buying jewellery 
 was not a habit to which he had ever succumbed. 
 Certainly he had bought two rings in his life — one at the 
 time of his engagement and another for his wedding — 
 but this must be a different affair altogether. When he 
 won Mary he was young and poor. He was not exactly 
 rich now — he was a great deal poorer than he had been 
 a couple of months ago, he thought with a grimace — 
 but he did feel that circumstances and propriety alike 
 demanded that if he was giving a ring to someone other 
 than his wife after a month — five weeks — of unpaid-for 
 happiness it should be a present worthy both of himself 
 and of the emotions of which it was to be the symbol. 
 " Une jolie, tu sais,'" Illona had said, and looking at him 
 roguishly she had added : " quelque-cliose de sicpcrbe '. " 
 denying her own addition immediately by: "a simple 
 ring, cheri, that I can wear always, always — I shall 
 never take it off all my life, je te jure.'''' 
 
 The first rings that Gerard had bought came from 
 the Army and Civil Service Stores. This new one came 
 from a jeweller in Bond Street, a jeweller of whom 
 Gerard was sure Illona would have heard. It was not 
 
2o6 BITTERSWEET 
 
 a gorgeous affair but it was costly : it would have made 
 Mary's eyes open wide with astonishment. But as a 
 matter of sober fact Mary's existence did not even cross 
 Gerard's mind in the hour of its purchase. He was living 
 over again, for the first and what was likely to be the 
 last time, the emotions he had felt, and the happiness 
 he had shared. Poor dear child — she had really loved 
 him, and he had really loved her, loved her now indeed, 
 although she had gone for ever out of his life, and although 
 he had no wish, no strong wish, even to see her again. 
 A wave of tenderness swept over him and he paused for a 
 moment at the corner of Burlington Gardens, irresolute, 
 deeply remembering. . . . 
 
 ^^ Aiv-Le Lavandou: 1 91 S," were the words that he 
 ordered to be engraved on the inside of his gift. He 
 refused to have it sent to him and the next day called 
 for it, satisfied himself that the inscription was correctly 
 spelt, waited while it was securely packed and then carried 
 it across to the little post-office in Grosvenor Street. 
 The eyes of the young lady who took it from him and 
 gave him a receipt embarrassed him. Surely she would 
 guess what the package contained. " Well, that's done," 
 he said, "and it's all at an end — but I wonder where 
 Illona is now." He looked at his watch. It was half- 
 past two. Was she careering about the country with 
 one or other of her English friends in some better car 
 than he had been able to provide ? Had she begun to 
 forget him ? He thought not. But she would forget. 
 Such things did not last. And it was just as well. 
 " Pauvre cMrie^ pauvrr enfant ! " he sighed and then 
 straightway determined to think of her no more. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 MARY BLUNDEIX thought that her husband 
 had never been quite so nice to her — no, not 
 even in the first months after their marriage 
 — as he was during that autumn and winter. He showed 
 a solicitude for her health, an anticipation of her little 
 wishes, a consideration for her habits, which made her 
 feel younger and happier than she had been for years. 
 The children too — their father seemed determined to 
 give them a good time. He and Mary went to more 
 theatres, they dined in London more often, even some- 
 times they went and returned all the way in the comfort 
 of a car. She supposed that he tnust be making more 
 money and that for some reason the cares of business 
 preyed on him less. Certainly he had the airs of a younger 
 man. She praised Aix to her friends, and would tell them 
 of her own stupid insistence on the economical advantages 
 of Contrexeville and of her husband's greater wisdom in 
 refusing to listen to her. Above all, it was good to have 
 a husband who showed a dozen times in the day that he 
 thought about her and thought for her. It was like 
 putting the clock back. . . . 
 
 Months reasonably happy followed one another. 
 
2o8 BITTERSWEET 
 
 Autumn waned, Christmas passed, the trade in wine was 
 remarkably good — in Pall Mall at least — Spring began 
 to show green in the black squares and dreary parks. 
 Gerard was content. So all his future should be if the 
 choice lay with him. In March, on a sunny day that 
 invited a riot of blood, that called for adventure, he 
 walked up to Cook's and brought away with him a 
 pamphlet about Circular Tours in Italy. Why shouldn't 
 he and Mary go to Florence for Easter ? Why not indeed ? 
 He had worked hard for six months. He could be spared 
 from the office. He kept the pamphlet on his desk ; for 
 the moment he forbore to speak of his project at home. 
 
 The next day, arriving at his work a few minutes 
 later than usual — there had been fog on the line — he 
 found Mathews regarding the more private residue of 
 the morning's post with a depressed air. 
 
 " Anything the matter, Mathews ? "" 
 
 " Yes, the deuce and all's the matter. There, look 
 for yourself." He tossed a letter, deeply black-edged, 
 across for Gerard's inspection. 
 
 Gerard read that their Paris representative was dead — 
 had died suddenly the previous day : a clot of blood 
 apparently. His widow was desolate, but she had had 
 the sense to write at once to inform her husband's em- 
 ployers. What was she to do ? 
 
 That Pontifex, Mathews and Blundell should have a 
 Paris representative and a Paris office, that they should 
 find it worth their while, was a continuing source of 
 wonder to their competitors. What useful purpose did 
 the Paris branch serve .'* Very little, it was supposed. It 
 was in a sense a survival. The firm was an old one and 
 
BITTERSWEET 209 
 
 it had found an agent very convenient several generations 
 ago, when the means of communication were neither so 
 sure nor so expeditious as they are to-day. One of the 
 first Pontifexes liked living in the Paris of the eighteen- 
 thirties. He had had a fine and vei-y English taste in 
 wine, a pretty wit, knew everyone and went nearly 
 everywhere ; and he had managed to do a considerable 
 trade in French wines among those of his countrymen 
 whom misfortune or duty kept in the French capital 
 and who preferred to do business with an Englishman 
 who understood their requirements, and in Spanish and 
 Portuguese wines, not only with the English colony but 
 with such foreigners as made it a point of honour to 
 follow the English fashions. He had also acted as a half- 
 way house between the growers and shippers of Dijon, 
 Bordeaux and Rheims and his firm in London. Now- 
 adays certainly, the old national prejudices were being 
 broken down and less actual sales were effected in the 
 Paris office in the rue Cambon, but it remained a 
 question of pride with the house to keep its flag flying 
 on the banks of the Seine. It was convenient to have, 
 a day nearer the sources of production, a man who 
 knew the business and who was generally able to secure 
 the first offer of any really promising bargains before 
 even their existence had been bruited about among the 
 firm's competitors in London. The Paris office could 
 have been closed and most of the displaced business 
 could have been transacted in London without any 
 great disadvantage ; but as it had been kept open 
 much routine and other work was done within its 
 doors, and especially was it used for the business that 
 
 14 
 
210 BITTERSWEET 
 
 the firm did with the French vineyards and the French 
 
 shippers. 
 
 Mathews waited until Gerard had finished reading : 
 " Now what shall we do ? " 
 
 " Don't ask me, my dear fellow. You know if I had 
 my way Yd shut down in the rue Cambon — I'd have 
 done it years ago. Ifs your funeral. You'd better go 
 over and bury Groves and console his widow and decide 
 what's to be done on the spot." 
 
 " What's the good of talking like that ? I'm sure 
 Pontifex won't hear of our closing the place even now, 
 although he knows I'm rather inclined to agree with 
 you that it costs more than it's worth. Groves at least 
 understood the business and he got on with everyone. 
 God knows what we shall do without him. One thing's 
 certain: we can't give his job to anyone who's there 
 now — we'll have to get a man from outside. It's 
 a hell of a nuisance." The telephone bell rang and 
 Gerard went to his own room. He knew all about the 
 Paris branch because more and more of the work of 
 the firm passed through his hands. Pontifex wore his 
 silk hat and his whiskers with an air and no doubt 
 helped the house along by his presence, but he no 
 longer paid any sustained attention to business ; while 
 Mathews was a good fellow but a little soft, hypo- 
 chondriac, sententious : he wore a striped collar and 
 had a high-coloured face ; he thought more of his 
 health and of his clothes than of his work in Pall 
 Mall. 
 
 On that day Pontifex and Mathews lunched to- 
 gether. They came back a few minutes before Gerard, 
 
BITTERSWEET 211 
 
 who had been hinching with his wife and had been 
 helping her to choose a new hat. " Mr Pontifex would 
 like to see you, sir — the moment you came in, he said," 
 the office boy told him. 
 
 Pontifex sat behind his big desk and smoked a big 
 cigar. Mathews had his back to the fire and sucked at 
 a cigarette through an over-long amber mouthpiece. 
 A curious and intelligent observer might have seen at 
 a glance to what weaknesses Gerard owed his growing 
 ascendency in the counsels of the firm. 
 
 " Blundell, my boy, I'm afraid this business in Paris 
 is going to be a nuisance. No sooner do we get over one 
 worry than we have another. Clot of blood ! Groves — 
 Good God ! — why couldn't he have taken care of him- 
 self.^ He was young enough too. Still, we can't help it 
 now. What's to be done ? Mathews and I have been 
 talking it over. We oughtn't to decide in a hurry. Let's 
 look about. But in the meantime — that's the question, 
 ril tell you what we'd better do : young what's-his- 
 name ? — Devereux — can manage the ordinary routine 
 work over there : he's been on the spot two years ; he 
 ought to know all about it. That'll settle the customers. 
 But the other work's more difficult to arrange. Look 
 here : you'd better go over once a week or so through the 
 summer. What do you say to that ? Perhaps it'll amuse 
 you. Gad, when I was a young fellow Fd have liked it ! " 
 
 " Well, / shan't, Pontifex ; don't make any mistake 
 about that. But Fll go, of course, if it's necessary. With 
 Groves dead though, and if we aren't going to have any- 
 one in his place, once a week won't be too often. My wife 
 will be pleased — I don't think ! " It may be observed that 
 
212 BITTERSWEET 
 
 with Gerard evil communications had corrupted his good 
 
 manners. 
 
 Pontifex had been married, but he had not much 
 sympathy with matrimony : " A wine merchant oughtn't 
 to have a wife," he proclaimed; "his job's a job for a 
 single man. How's a married man to keep his palate ? 
 How's he — oh, but it doesn't matter. We'll overcome 
 Mrs Blundell's reluctance — eh, Mathews ? Ladies like 
 Paris ; the house'll pay for some visits for Mrs Blundell 
 too. But we needn't decide about it to-day. Talk it over 
 at home, Blundell, and we'll see what can be done. In 
 the meantime I'll write to Mrs Groves and to Devereux, 
 and — yes, I think I'll go over to the funeral. I ought to, 
 I suppose ; he's been with us how long ? Nearly thirty 
 years here and in Paris. And there's Mrs Groves — we 
 may have to do something for her. Luckily she's French ; 
 she's among friends. If I go I'll be able to see if she's 
 provided for. And now I'm due at the Automobile. 
 Don't forget those Bordeaux bills, Mathews." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE idea that he would have to spend once a 
 week for the next six months the greater part 
 of a couple of days on the journey between 
 London and Paris did not attract Gerard Blundell, but 
 in the absence of any better way of coping with the 
 difficulty that had arisen he loyally determined to do 
 as his partners had suggested. He realised that of the 
 three he was the man for the job. It was true that 
 Mathews was unmarried, but he was very much older 
 and he was fussily dependent on his habits. Nevertheless 
 Mary was not likely to approve the plan. She preferred a 
 quiet and normal life. And what was to happen to 
 their Italian trip .f* He would have to give that up. 
 Mary did not like Paris, so it would not be a treat for 
 her to accompany him as Pontifex had suggested. 
 
 But when, over dinner that evening, Gerard told his 
 wife what had happened she cheered up instead of 
 becoming depressed. " It isn't often that things fit in 
 so nicely as this promises to do," she said. " I got a 
 letter yesterday from Clara, Gerard." (Clara was her 
 younger sister, married to a major in the Indian army.) 
 " Harry's got some sort of staff appointment and has to 
 
214 BITTERSWEET 
 
 be at home for the summer. They are starting about 
 now, and of course they'll bring the children. She asks 
 me to take a furnished house for them — near here, she 
 says. They want a house like this one. Why shouldn't 
 we let them The Haven .? " 
 
 " And what should we do ? " Gerard was not greatly 
 surprised at his wife's suggestion, for he knew that when 
 she formed some idea for his or the children's comfort 
 she usually kept it to herself until she saw some way of 
 putting it into effect. 
 
 "Listen: you've got, you say, to go to Paris practically 
 every week for the present. That means you'll be away 
 at least two nights out of the seven. We have both of 
 us thought how much we wanted the children to learn 
 French. They're not doing that at school. Why 
 shouldn't we take them over to France for the summer — 
 not to Paris itself but to some place quite close : 
 Versailles or St Cloud? I shouldn't like it very 
 much, but it would be good for them. We couldn't 
 afford it if we had this house on our hands, but 
 anyhow Clara will pay us more than a little house 
 in France would cost us. We'd leave the cook here, 
 but we'd take Ellen ; we can easily get a French- 
 woman over there." 
 
 " But what about their school ? " 
 
 " It won't do them any harm to miss the one term. 
 They're so young. Really being able to talk French 
 will make up for that, and we can get a day-governess 
 for them if necessary." 
 
 " But poor Dickie will miss his cricket ; he's so proud 
 of that." 
 
BITTERSWEET 215 
 
 Mary smiled. " Cricket isn't everything : hell get 
 lots of other things in exchange." 
 
 " And how long is this to last ? " 
 
 " Clara will prefer to come straight here. Fll have to 
 settle her in. . . . We could go to France in four weeks 
 from to-day and we could stop till the beginning of the 
 autumn term." 
 
 It was Gerard's turn to smile. " You're a wonder, 
 Mary : no doubt youVe had this idea in your mind 
 quite vaguely and as something quite impossible of 
 realisation, and then no sooner do I supply the miss- 
 ing link than everything falls into its place and 
 you have your scheme complete to its least detail. I 
 ought to be used to your efficiency by now, but I 
 never shall be." 
 
 Mary flushed with pleasure. She loved praise; she 
 liked recognition. " And as for you, poor dear, I 
 daresay you'll have just as much travelling, but it will 
 be to London instead of to Paris. You'll spend your 
 two or three days a week in Pall Mall instead of the 
 French office and the rest of the time you can be with 
 us. Of course, I hate the horrid going to and fro, but 
 that has to be anyhow. So tell Mr Pontifex that you 
 were quite wrong about me and that I am delighted 
 at the idea. All you need do is to find a house for us 
 when you go over. Fll write out a list of what we must 
 have and you can see a Paris house-agent about it, and 
 by the time you are there again he can have a lot of 
 places for you to look at." 
 
 Gerard had nothing to say against his wife's plan. 
 It was radical, but it had advantages. Perhaps it would 
 
2i6 BITTERSWEET 
 
 not be necessary for him to return to London every 
 
 week all through the summer. 
 
 When Mary Blundell took a thing in hand it was 
 invariably carried through. She liked detail and she 
 loved arranging. In Pall Mall they approved of Gerard 
 taking up his residence in Paris. It would show the 
 trade that the house had no intention of allowing its 
 French connection to weaken. It was not at all unlikely 
 that he need only come back once a fortnight : he 
 would be able to judge when he got hold of Groves's 
 work. Clara Warwick and her husband were delighted 
 that they were to have The Haven instead of the 
 home of some stranger. Gerard found almost at the 
 first attempt the very place to suit them : a bosky 
 little house just above the higher station at St Cloud, 
 with all the accommodation they needed, a bathroom, a 
 balcony that looked out through a curtain of trees 
 over a hundred gardens to the winding Seine, and a 
 garden of its own full of lilac and acacia. Mary had 
 no fault to find with his choice, and as for the 
 children, they ran to and fro exploring every corner 
 of house and garden and daring each other to pene- 
 trate into the kitchen, in which a pleasant-faced French- 
 woman was scouring her pots and pans and from which 
 they would return exploding with laughter at the effect 
 of their queer French phrases. 
 
 A steamboat took Gerard to his work in the morning. 
 He started earlier and returned earlier than had been 
 his habit in England. In the evening they all talked 
 French ; they tried to forget England and that they 
 
BITTERSWEET 217 
 
 were English. " Daddy wants us to learn French, so 
 we'd better be French children all the time we're 
 awake," Vivian had decided, and she had invented some 
 penalty to be imposed on herself and her brothers if 
 they lapsed back into their native tongue. Altogether 
 life was great fun. 
 
 Nor was the work in the rue Cambon uninteresting. 
 Gerard found it a change after the very different routine 
 in Pall Mall. He liked the Frenchmen who came to see 
 him, and they in their turn showed that they preferred 
 to do their business with a principal. Devereux too 
 proved very efficient. The journeys to London were a 
 bore, but they took place less often than he had feared. 
 Indeed there was plenty to do in Paris. Groves had died 
 unexpectedly and had been to the office regularly up to 
 the day of his death, but things had fallen sadly into 
 arrear and Gerard had much leeway to make up. In the 
 late afternoon Mary would sometimes meet him and they 
 would dine quietly chez Lucas or at a Duval and go to 
 the theatre. She did not like the plays but she put up 
 with the features that displeased her for the sake of 
 the good French of the actors. They had no friends in 
 Paris and they led an uneventful life. Later on things 
 would be more lively : people had promised to come 
 over to see them ; the Warwicks talked about a week 
 in Paris ; Gerard's brother, Gervase, had had the Paris 
 habit for years. 
 
 It was not Gerard's way to make friends easily. The 
 heads of the firms with which they did business called 
 on him and were quick to offer him hospitality. He 
 smiled pleasantly and asked to be allowed to put off 
 
2i8 BITTERSWEET 
 
 these pleasures until he had had time to settle in. Then 
 a day came when he had to accept an invitation. One 
 Henri Metivet, a Bordeaux merchant who came to Paris 
 once a week, insisted that Gerard must dine with him 
 and go to the play, and would take no excuse. Metivet 
 seemed a good fellow, intelligent, interested in other 
 things than his trade, hardly older than Gerard, but fat 
 and self-indulgent in appearance, a man who took the 
 easy things of life, things of good and evil repute, with 
 open hands, and to whom any self-denial seemed a lunacy, 
 a useless, unjustifiable deprivation. 
 
 "Well dine at ViePs and go afterwards to the 
 Marigny,"" he said ; and Gerard had told Mary, and 
 had added that he would take the train home from 
 the Gare Saint Lazare, that he would be back no 
 doubt soon after midnight but that she was not to 
 worry if he was later. It would not indeed have been 
 in Mary's character to worry. She knew that she 
 could trust her husband absolutely, that she could trust 
 both his conduct and his judgment in all that per- 
 tained to his work. Her sense of duty told her that 
 what he wanted to do he no doubt ought to do. She 
 confined her criticism to things about which she held 
 she had as good a right to an opinion as he had, things 
 in which they were jointly concerned, the matters of 
 their partnership, so to speak. So on the evening of 
 his dinner he went home to dress, came back by train, 
 met Metivet at the Chatham, drank a cocktail without 
 likino" it, and walked across the Boulevard to ViePs, 
 where they had a comfortable table and where the 
 dinner was of the kind a worldly Frenchman can com- 
 
 I 
 
BITTERSWEET 219 
 
 mand but the aspiring Englishman can only hope for. 
 Metivet made an amusing companion. His ideas of 
 life, his philosophy, were far, far away from his guest's, 
 but his conversation had salt : he could tell a good 
 story and did tell several, and he had a fund of gossip 
 about the people they were later on to see and about 
 that English-American-French world which lives in the 
 limelight of newspaper notices. " IVe got a box at the 
 Marigny," he told Gerard, " so we needn't hurry. A 
 man's going to join us there who'll interest you, I think : 
 he's a doctor. I wanted him to dine but he couldn't. 
 Afterwards we'll have supper somewhere and you'll see 
 whether he isn't a good fellow." 
 
 Gerard demurred at the idea of supper. " I can't 
 come to supper, I'm afraid," he said, " although it's 
 awfully good of you. You see I live outside Paris and 
 have to get home." 
 
 " That will be a pity — but we'll see. Where do you 
 live ? Far ? " 
 
 " St Cloud." 
 
 " My dear fellow, St Cloud is Paris. A taxi and 
 you're home in half an hour." Then he dropped the 
 subject of supper. 
 
 Only the fact that he had had a very good dinner 
 reconciled Gerard to the hours he was now to spend, 
 and he regretted the inanity of the performance the 
 more in that it prevented his talking to his fellow-guest. 
 Docteur Xavier Bedier was the kind of man whom he 
 liked to meet. But conversation in the Marigny was 
 impossible, and even between the acts when they strolled 
 up and down he found that to talk connectedly was out 
 
220 BITTERSWEET 
 
 of the question. Both Metivet and his French guest 
 were interested in the people they saw, in the women 
 who crowded the galleries and the terraces, some of 
 whom they seemed to have known years ago before they 
 had come down to this ante-penultimate rung on their 
 ladder of pleasure. . . . After a time Metivet looked 
 at his watch. " This is rather rot ; we needn't stay till 
 the end. What do you think, Bedier? My Enghsh 
 friend here says he won't come to supper as he's got to 
 get out to St Cloud. Help me to persuade him. Why 
 you live half way to St Cloud — you're still near the 
 Etoile, aren't you ?— and he can drop you on the way. 
 Now, Monsieur Blundell, please don't disappoint us." 
 
 Gerard seldom said no ; it was always easier for him 
 to do as he was asked ; and, on this occasion, he certainly 
 wanted to improve the doctor's acquaintance. To go 
 by train to St Cloud was a tedious, lengthy business 
 anyway. He could sup and, taking a taxi, could still 
 get home at not so very much later a time than he had 
 told his wife. He did not hear his host's directions to the 
 chauffeur, but later, after driving a few minutes, Metivet 
 asked him if he had been to the Trianon : " Of course 
 you have : it lives on English visitors ; there's hardly 
 room for a Frenchman. Sometimes it's amusing ; it's a 
 Friday, so it should be to-night." 
 
 The name of the place sounded familiar to Gerard 
 but he could associate it with no memory. Nor would 
 it make much difference : he wanted little to eat or 
 drink ; he wanted to hear Bedier talk ; and he did not 
 want to stop long. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 t a AHE Trianon stands in a Place in Montmartre, 
 ■ bathed in its own insistent lights and the 
 -«L competing lights of the similar, less fashion- 
 able establishments with which it is faced and flanked. 
 To-night the pavement outside its door was crowded by 
 a small knot of curious poor people who had come to 
 watch the ostentatious rich arrive in their gorgeous cars, 
 to identify some beauty of the amusing world and to 
 speculate on the value and reality of her jewels. As it 
 was Friday the door itself was closed by an iron grille 
 and guarded by a sturdy porter who recognised the 
 habitual visitor and the client whose tip had been worth 
 remembering, and who turned back with no uncertain 
 phrases those unknowing ones who had omitted to 
 clothe themselves for the evening. Metivet was recog- 
 nised immediately and the gate was flung back for him. 
 Gerard followed him up a few steps to where the patron, 
 Victor, stood sorting out his guests according to their 
 wealth and the beauty of the women who accompanied 
 them. The restaurateur expressed his joy at seeing 
 Monsieur Metivet and, pushing his waiters on one side 
 to make room, took him at once to a table at the either 
 
222 BITTERSWEET 
 
 end of the big room, against the wall. There was a 
 great noise and a great crowd ; tables were set side by 
 side ; the waiters hardly had space to move. Gerard 
 made a wry face to himself : he wouldn't be able to talk 
 here ; even the Marigny was better. Supper would be a 
 battle, not a pleasant recreation. He wished he had 
 kept to his first resolution and gone home. It was too 
 late now. But he did not like his surroundings and he 
 did not much like the look of the people he saw near 
 him, raucous and overdressed, and he certainly winced at 
 the atmosphere, loaded with ill perfumes and smoke. He 
 felt no curiosity about the place. Evidently it was the 
 supper restaurant of the moment and so, in consequence, 
 it was a place in which in effect you could not sup. He 
 insisted on his host and Docteur Bedier taking the inside 
 places, noticing with some amusement that they had 
 almost to sit in one another's pockets, so little room 
 there was. He preferred to have his back to whatever 
 was going on. He wished he could shut his ears to the 
 insistent singing of a horrid negro. 
 
 Getting anything to eat was a slow business. Cham- 
 pagne seemed to be the only drink — Gerard was 
 reminded of Aix-les-Bains and the Piccadilly — and it 
 came long before the food. Everyone talked at the 
 top of his voice and paid little attention to his plate. 
 Metivet had ordered oysters — April was not yet out — 
 and he was obviously in his element, greeting a dozen 
 friends, pointing out people to Bedier, chattering their 
 reputations away ; he was quite oblivious of the fact 
 that Gerard was not enjoying himself. 
 
 " You say you've never been here before, Monsieur 
 
BITTERSWEET 223 
 
 Blundell. That's odd. I thought every foreigner came 
 here on the first evening he arrived in Paris — and I 
 believe he does too : you're an exception, you know. 
 But anyhow it's too fashionable, too crowded : it won't 
 be amusing till half these people have gone home. 
 Then they'll dance. In the meantime the discomfort 
 begins." 
 
 Victor was making his way round the room with a 
 sheaf of banners, souvenirs of the Trianon, mounted on 
 high, gilded staffs. These he distributed to the ladies 
 of each party and returned after a while with a cluster 
 of balloons, gas-filled evidently, for they floated above 
 his head. His clients tied them to the back of their 
 chairs, to the rings of their champagne buckets. In the 
 smoky light they made the room look like some garden 
 of curious flowers. By now the wine had had its effect. 
 The noise was greater than ever, and the confusion 
 became worse confounded when little gelatine balls were 
 brought in and poured liberally on every table. In a 
 moment Gerard found himself the object of a lively 
 fusilade from two tables on the other side of the room 
 where his good looks and English air had attracted the 
 attention of a party of not too sober Argentines. He 
 was not pleased, and more than ever he wanted to get 
 away. . . . 
 
 Supper continued through this pandemonium. 
 Metivet insisted that they must take their time. 
 "Really the dancing here is good. Look, people are 
 going already. They'll clear away all those middle 
 tables in a minute or two. Half the dances in the world 
 begin here." He certainly was enjoying his evening, and 
 
224 BITTERSWEET 
 
 so too was Bedier, who would talk sensibly to Gerard 
 for a few minutes and then incontinently forget his 
 wisdom and start playing the fool. 
 
 " Ah, here they come, the darlings." Metivet told 
 Gerard to look round. From behind the orchestra were 
 drifting out into the room half a dozen dansetises, fairly 
 pretty some of them, young or youngish, but hard-faced, 
 worn. Thi'ee were Spanish ; there was a Spanish man 
 too. Gerard pretended interest and then turned back to 
 his plate. He had seen dancers in a restaurant before. 
 
 " Oh, there's Dedie — catch her eye, Bedier, if you can. 
 I want to talk to her." 
 
 " Don^t fear, old man, shell see you soon enough. 
 They have eyes in the back of their heads, that kind. I 
 bet she's known you are here for the last hour " ; and 
 sure enough, the girl at whom they had both been look- 
 ing turned at this moment as if she had caught her 
 name and came over, tossing from her ears the mane 
 of yellow hair that some careful hand had taken an 
 hour or so to fluff out, and smiling all over her rather 
 good-natured face. 
 
 " Why, Monsieur, it is an age since you have been 
 here. We thought you had forsaken us or were dead." 
 
 "Sit down, Dedie, and tell me how you are. You 
 won't mind, will you. Monsieur Blundell.'' Just move 
 an inch or two ; that's right." 
 
 " Well, how's business, Dedie ? " 
 
 " Rotten, my dear : Montmartre is finished. And any- 
 how nobody has any money, or if they have they don't 
 bring it here. I give you my word I haven't seen a 
 hundred-franc note for a month." 
 
BITTERSWEET 225 
 
 " Then you shall to-night, Dedie : there's one for you. 
 I'm inclined to think I owe it you anyhow. Now don't 
 lose it." 
 
 " No fear." 
 
 " Tell me all the news. Are all the old lot here ? 
 Where's Angele ? " 
 
 " In Russia — making heaps of money ; she went off 
 with the fat man from Odessa who got so mad about 
 her — I forget his name. But it didn't last, and now she's 
 in St Petersburg, and has a necklace worth a hundred 
 thousand francs." 
 
 Gerard ceased to listen. He had been formally intro- 
 duced to Dedie and had bowed, and she had looked him 
 over and had come very suitably and evidently to the 
 conclusion that he was of no use to her, that he was too 
 serious, too English ; and now she ignored his presence. 
 He was glad. Somewhere in his heart, somewhere at the 
 back of his consciousness, there was a sore place. For 
 months he had forgotten that it had troubled him. To- 
 night he had a bitter reminder — the noise, the gold-foiled 
 wine in its frosted bucket, the mad music, and this girl 
 with her powdered face, her candid and calculating eyes, 
 brought back to him another face and other eyes. He 
 thought of the past without either pleasure or regret, 
 but with a sad sense of frustration, of waste. For a 
 moment he closed his eyes. He had again, and more 
 strongly, the wish to get away, to clear this foul at- 
 mosphere from his brain, to start for home, to be back 
 with his children and his wife. 
 
 "... We don't know what's the matter with her. 
 Ever since she came back she's been altogether different. 
 
 15 
 
226 BITTERSWEET 
 
 You know how gay she was. She isn't gay now. Victor 
 would put her out if it wasn't that people still ask for 
 her and if he hadn't known her ever since she began, 
 and liked her a great deal too, tu sais — more perhaps 
 because she would never have anything to do with 
 him. And she's getting laide — thin, my dear: you 
 should see. But she's here — she'll be out directly. 
 Someone said she was in love, but that's blague. She's 
 not in love. She's got a heart of steel. Something's 
 the matter with her though. All her cheek has gone, 
 and she gets angry for nothing. Oh yes, she dances 
 just as well, but — well, men don't want to dance with 
 her so much ; she isn't like before. Elk ne gagne pliis 
 aidant cVargent. It's a pity : she's been a good copine 
 to all of us, and she used — you remember — to lead 
 in everything. Elle est un peu plus fine que les autres^ 
 et je Faime heaucoup — fa fait mal au cceur de la voir 
 dans la puree.'''' 
 
 Vaguely Gerard heard Dedie's sentences about her 
 friend, and they interested him not at all. He was sick 
 at heart. . . . 
 
 Then Metivet spoke : " There she is — she's seen us. 
 Mon dien, fas raiso7i, Dedie ! How she is changed ! " 
 
 A slim white hand stretched over Gerard's shoulder and 
 Metivet took and held it for a minute : " How goes 
 everything, Illona ? Come here and sit down : we'll make 
 room somehow." 
 
 A sudden draught of ice-cold air seemed tc pass 
 through Gerard's heart. He could not see the new- 
 comer but he needed neither to see her nor to hear her 
 speak to know who she was ; he hardly needed to see 
 
BITTERSWEET 227 
 
 the ring that trembled for a moment in the light as 
 she drew back her hand. The blood grew bitter in his 
 veins. 
 
 "... ril come directly, my dear. You look well. 
 And Docteur Bedier too. How is the little Margot, 
 Docteur? You ought to have brought her. I return 
 at once " — and she tripped off. Gerard turned to look 
 after her. Indeed her friend had reason. Thin, thin she 
 was : the Illona he had known and loved and fondled 
 had lessened, had shrunk. What would her face be like ? 
 He feared to see her. Could he slip away now ? But 
 Metivet, speaking in English, claimed his hearing : 
 " Ah, Monsieur, Fd like you to talk to that girl. She 
 speaks English. She is the nicest of all on Montmartre. 
 She dances like an angel, but all the same she's out of 
 place here. The others — well, ifs their metier, but she's 
 diff'erent. She's altered now, and you perhaps won't see 
 how clever she is, and gay — although I have my doubts 
 whether she is ever very gay in her heart. I fell in love, 
 really in love, with her once, but she wouldn't have any- 
 thing to do with me, turned me down good and hard, 
 as you'd say. She's more serious than the others, ever 
 so much — and I used to think it was worth spending 
 night after night on Montmartre just to see her. I gave 
 up coming here when she got angry with me. She has 
 forgotten now, I hope. I'd like to help her if she is 
 really in a hole." 
 
 " I am sure she will interest me. Monsieur — but I 
 didn't see more of her just now than her back." Gerard 
 spoke lightly but he spoke with difficulty ; his mouth 
 was dry. 
 
228 BITTERSWEET 
 
 " Here I am. You are sure you^'e room for me ? 
 Dedie, your Austrian banker, redder and fatter than 
 ever, wants you. Va fen ! Ah, that's better. 3Ion dieu, 
 how tired I am ! Quick, give me something to drink — 
 waiter, a glass ! Oh yes, Docteur, I remember what you 
 told me, but what would you have me do ? I must keep 
 up. Perhaps Fm getting old. Champagne is all I take 
 anyway. Now, laugh ; don't look so grave : I'm not dead 
 yet — a voire sante, et a la miemie aussi ! " 
 
 " Illona, you must include my friend. Monsieur Blun- 
 dell, this is Mademoiselle Illona, the best dancer, the 
 prettiest girl, and the kindest heart on all Montmartre 
 — in all Paris." 
 
 Illona turned and looked at Gerard ; the name had 
 startled her evidently, had prepared her even. Gerard 
 saw her pale under her paint and white powder ; for a 
 moment he thought she would faint and he was glad 
 of it ; he liked to see that he had still power over her, 
 unhappy though he was to find her so changed and 
 still in the same world. 
 
 Quickly she pulled herself together : 
 
 " Why, I know Monsieur Blundell already ; we are 
 old friends, Ti'est ce pas, Monsieur ? But ifs long ago and 
 perhaps he doesn't remember me. Yes.^ I'm changed; 
 isn't that so ? " 
 
 Gerard answered with a suitable compliment. Indeed 
 though, he could see that she had changed. Her face 
 had not lost its youth, but it was more finely drawn ; 
 the clouded sadness of her eyes had grown even deeper 
 than in those days, now ten months ago, when he had 
 first been attracted by her sombre beauty ; her mouth 
 
BITTERSWEET 229 
 
 was set and her lips were pressed together hardly ; it 
 was as if sorrow had marked her for its own. 
 
 Evidently she did not wish him to talk even lightly 
 about the past for she quickly turned the conversation 
 from their old acquaintance to the things in which she 
 and her host were interested : the fortunes of Montmartre, 
 of the Trianon, her own doings, her friends. She pro- 
 fessed to be satisfied with life, content with what the 
 seasons brought her. On the previous day she had 
 been to Versailles. Her friend's car had been stopped 
 for furious driving. That amused her. " I tell him to 
 go faster and faster. That's what an auto is for. Taime 
 heaucoup la vitesse^ moi. He can pay the fine : he's 
 rich enough. And when we'd lunched we went into 
 the Musee. No, I hadn't been there before. I sat down 
 on all the chairs — I liked that. They told me not to, 
 but why shouldn't I ? I've sat in the chair of Marie 
 Antoinette now, and Louis Quatorze too. The guardian 
 wasn't pleased — oh, no indeed ! He said he'd put me 
 outside the door. I laughed at him and then it was all 
 right. Now, I must go. I must dance. // faut que Je 
 gagne beatwoup (Vargent ce soir. You dance with me, 
 Docteur.^ No. Blague fa: it's because Margot would 
 hear and be jealous. Not of me, she wouldn't. You 
 belong to her ; I know that. But she's right : never 
 trust a woman, not even your best friend — nor a man 
 either. I forget whether you dance. Monsieur Blundell ? 
 You should learn. Dedie will teach you. She likes 
 teaching Englishmen, and she's very pretty." 
 
 Metivet spoke : " We'll keep this place for you, 
 lUona. Come back quickly." 
 
230 BITTERSWEET 
 
 " Not to-night, my > dear. Fm busy to-night. To- 
 morrow perhaps." 
 
 Metivet made a further remark to keep her for a 
 moment and fumbled in his pocket. Gerard could see 
 that he had notes in the palm of his hand and that he 
 was trying to give them to her under cover of his 
 good-bye. She almost brushed aside the concealment in 
 pushing away his hand : " No, I wasn't serious. Really 
 I haven't any need. Not from you anyway. I told you 
 that before. You have a short memory. Monsieur 
 Metivet. It doesn't matter though ; it's better to have 
 a good heart. Now, au revoir — au revoir, Docteur ; 
 adieu. Monsieur Blundell." 
 
 " Fancy your knowing Illona, Monsieur. I won't ask 
 where. Sometimes it is well to be discreet." Metivet 
 laughed good-naturedly. 
 
 Gerard blushed. " It isn't a case for discretion. I 
 used sometimes to go to a place at Aix where your 
 friend danced ; that's all." 
 
 " Well you're lucky, for she's really a nice girl. But, 
 mon dien, she has changed ; she isn't exactly older, but 
 she looks as if she was eating her heart out over some- 
 thing, pauvre enfant. But, after all, it's none of my 
 business, nor yours either, Bedier. Waiter, another 
 bottle! I haven't been here since the night of the last 
 Grand Prix — and to think I used to come day after 
 day ! It's that girl's fault that I've been so serious. It's 
 finished now though." He sighed, and then, shaking his 
 head as if to dispel some hovering thoughts, looked 
 round to find some pretty woman at whom to throw 
 the little balls that had accumulated in front of him. 
 
BITTERSWEET 231 
 
 Bedier in the meantime had struck up or was continuing 
 an acquaintance with the people at the next table. 
 Gerard was left to his memories. 
 
 His memories were sad, and they were difficult to 
 arrange in any sequence which would make them more 
 pleasant. He tried to recall the happier hours at Aix, at 
 Talloires, at Le Lavandou, Illona's laughter, her gay 
 talk, her careless running to and fro in the sun. He 
 failed. All that came vividly into his mind was her 
 tear-stained face in that corner of the wood above Les 
 Charmettes, and her poor, sad, broken little figure on 
 the platform at Macon. How much he had loved her ! 
 How much he had longed to cherish her, to keep her in 
 his life ! . . . And now she had hardly a word for him. 
 All that had happened between them had become a 
 mere episode in her career. There had been others like 
 it perhaps. But no : she was broken still ; her face had 
 still the stricken look that it had when he left her. A 
 cry of hers came into his mind : " Oh, Gerard, what 
 shall I do, what shall I do, when you are gone ? I think 
 I shall die." Could it be that truly she had remembered 
 through all these months ? Had she been grieving for 
 him ? 
 
 Sitting now in this crowded, heated, noisy restaurant 
 Gerard tried to collect and arrange his thoughts. Yes, 
 he knew that he had been piqued, more than piqued, at 
 her seeming carelessness when she greeted him, but, after 
 all, he told himself, it was a carelessness of words only ; 
 she had paled when she saw him. That, though, might 
 mean much or little. One thing alone seemed clear : she 
 showed no wish to see him again, to draw him back to 
 
232 BITTERSWEET 
 
 her. Certainly this was all of a piece with her character, 
 with what she had said to him before they parted. 
 She had forbidden him to write to her. Still, if she had 
 truly loved him his hold on her should have been strong 
 enough to overcome all her hesitation. Yes, he wanted 
 her again — at least he wanted to learn the truth, to test 
 his power. And she had been ill, and she was dans la 
 jniree, whatever that might mean exactly. He must see 
 her again and be free to talk to her. At the least perhaps 
 he could help her. And he could find out, he must find 
 out, whether she yet cared for him. That learned, he 
 could rest content — and it should be easy to learn. 
 
 He moved in his chair so as to look for the girl in the 
 crowded room, in which men, women and colours swayed 
 to and fro, changed their partners, pulsated as in one of 
 the toy kaleidoscopes of our childhood. He saw her at 
 last : she was dancing in the arms of a tall Englishman 
 with a scrubby yellow moustache, a gentleman evidently, 
 but a rather drunk gentleman ; he talked as he danced 
 and as they swung round near Gerard's chair he gave the 
 impression of urging something on his partner ; suddenly 
 Gerard saw him bend forward and kiss her on the mouth, 
 and, although she drew her head back and shook it, she 
 seemed not greatly vexed. When they passed near him 
 again, Gerard fancied that she kept her eyes averted with 
 intention. He had the impulse to stop her dancing and 
 to claim her. . . . 
 
 The dance at an end, Illona retreated to a passage 
 behind the orchestra and disappeared. He wondered if 
 he could follow her and then, watching its entrance, he 
 realised that it led to some cloak-room or lavatory. 
 
BITTERSWEET 233 
 
 Everybody used it. Nothing need prevent his doing so, 
 and getting up, he walked across the room, his pulses 
 beating, anxiety in his heart. 
 
 At the end of the passage he found Illona. She was 
 powdering her face and her back was to him, but she 
 saw him in the glass at the moment he saw her. Quickly 
 she turned : " Why do you come here ? " They were 
 alone save for the presence of the old lady of the place, 
 the dame du lavabo, who is so essential a feature of the 
 night restaurant. " I don't want you. Please go ; go at 
 once." 
 
 She spoke with agitation and in English. The old 
 lady paid no kind of attention to his presence. Before 
 Gerard could reply another dancer came and a girl who 
 was not a dancer. They hardly looked at him. " Tiens, 
 Illona^ ma cocotte ; I want to see you — you'll be at the 
 Esqueline afterwards, eh ? " the girl asked. 
 
 Illona nodded in response and then turned again to 
 Gerard : " Go now ; don't talk to me. I am not fit to 
 talk to-night." 
 
 " But I must talk to you. Not here, though. I won't 
 go till you've told me when and where I can see you. 
 I insist on that. I needn't keep you. To-morrow it 
 must be — anywhere, anywhere you like, but I will have 
 it." 
 
 " I won't come ; I don't wish to see you again. If 
 it's an accident your being here to-night let it bo the 
 only time. I don't want you any more. I don't care for 
 you. I don't want to remember. Adieu . . . adieu ! " 
 
 Gerard answered with all the strength he could com- 
 mand : " I insist — we can't talk here, and I must talk to 
 
234 BITTERSWEET 
 
 you and learn how you are. A minute perhaps. And then 
 
 not again, I promise you. Now, where shall it be ? " 
 
 " Gerard, you are hriite, but this time if I must, I 
 must : you are stronger than me. Come — come to the 
 Brasserie Wepler, in the Place Clichy at — at one o'clock 
 to-morrow. Now go — oh, Gerard, go, go — please.'''' 
 
 That his will had conquered was a source of immediate 
 and infinite satisfaction to Gerard, but all the time pity 
 welled up in his heart, and he felt a brute. He felt too 
 that he was playing with fire, running risks, inviting 
 trouble. He looked at Illona and she looked at him — 
 defiantly, angrily, as if daring him to do his worst. 
 He went back to his table. Metivet and his friend 
 showed no sign of having missed him. After a little 
 while he felt that he could without impropriety take his 
 leave. Docteur Bedier seemed to have forgotten that he 
 was to accompany Gerard on the way home. 
 
 Illona had made no fresh appearance. Gerard went 
 out into the cool air of the Place and called a taxi. 
 That he should want to go as far as St Cloud seemed to 
 have no terrors for the chauffeur. Saying that he wished 
 to be dropped at the upper station, he sank back into 
 his corner. He felt shaken. His heart was not glad that 
 he had found Illona again, but now he knew that he 
 must learn how she was, what she was doing, whether 
 she was happy, whether she remembered him. Why was 
 she thinner ? Why did she look as if she had been ill .'' 
 Why had her friend described her as dans la purie ? He 
 would see her once and would learn the truth. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE restaurant at which Illona had given her 
 appointment was a thriving, bustling place, 
 and big too. Gerard searched through its 
 crowded rooms and then sat down facing the door, shy 
 that people should realise that he was waiting for some- 
 one, for a woman surely, who did not come. He watched 
 the entrance anxiously. Perhaps she would not come. 
 After all, he had forced her promise. From his seat he 
 could see the taxis approach and pass or stop and put 
 down or pick up passengers in whom he could take not 
 even a moment's interest. One o'clock went by and then 
 the quarter. Gerard sat on and on, eating his heart. At 
 last just before the half hour she arrived, arrived on 
 foot, almost furtively, inconspicuous, simply not smartly 
 dressed ; she drifted to his side, gave him her hand, and 
 smiled wanly. In the daylight he saw again how greatly 
 she had changed. Her eyes frightened him. Sombre 
 they had always been, and sad, but now sorrow and 
 anxiety and disillusion were all that they showed. It 
 was as if they had never known laughter. 
 
 And now that she was at his side Gerard knew not 
 what to say. He had so much to ask and was at a loss 
 
236 BITTERSWEET 
 
 for a beginning. It seemed monstrous that they should 
 meet in this manner after so long ; it seemed monstrous 
 that he should not put his arms round her, draw her 
 to his shoulder and kiss the anxiety from her eyes. 
 
 " Well, you wanted to see me. I am here. What 
 is it ? You promised it should be quickly over. I did 
 not want to come, Gerard : you know it. You forced 
 me to." 
 
 " I couldn't help it, Illona. My coming last night to 
 the Trianon was an accident ; I had no idea you were 
 there ; I wasn't searching for jou.'' 
 
 She smiled bitterly : " I am sure of that ; it was easy 
 to see : I know you weren't looking for me. But youVe 
 found me now and I'm here because you asked me to 
 come. And I am very, very busy and must go at once." 
 
 Here, with people on both sides of him, people who 
 he fancied were already beginning to regard them 
 curiously, it was impossible to talk. " Illona, I have so 
 much I want to say to you, but I can't do it in this 
 place. Cannot we go somewhere where we shall be alone ? 
 Have you had your luncheon, dear? Couldn't we go 
 to a real restaurant and have a private room.?" His 
 suggestion was thrown out with perfect frankness. He 
 wanted to be alone with her because only if they were 
 quite alone would he feel free to talk, unconstrained. 
 
 She looked at him inquiringly and narrowed her eyes : 
 " No, we won't have a private room, but we'll go close 
 here, if you like, to a place where it's likely to be quiet 
 — Au Pere Boivin. I have had all the lunch I want ; I 
 am only just out of bed ; but you can say what you want 
 to say while they are getting your meal ready, and then 
 
BITTERSWEET 237 
 
 I can go." Her voice had a note of restrained bitterness 
 which puzzled Gerard. 
 
 Pere Boivin has given his name to a little old- 
 fashioned eating-place of which too few remain even in 
 Paris. In the room to the right and at its end Gerard 
 found a screened-off corner. He begged Illona to share 
 his meal, but again she refused : " Gerard, understand : 
 I don't want to lunch with you ; I didn't want to see 
 you. You have something you must say to me. Bien ! 
 Say it quickly. Then let me go." 
 
 But Gerard did not understand. He looked at the 
 girl, and her very anxiety to get away from him, to 
 avoid him, fanned the flames of his old love, his old 
 passion, for her. If she had shown delight or even a little 
 pleasure at seeing him again ; if she had come running 
 to him ; if she had talked of the past with regret that 
 it was past — why then he might have let her go. But 
 her independence created in his heart a determ'ination 
 to break it down. She had loved him, and he had not 
 changed in this period of less than a year. He had not 
 treated her badly. She surely loved him still, or she 
 should love him again. If not, then he would learn the 
 reason for her altered mind. 
 
 " Illona, my dear little one : surely now that I have 
 found you you have more to say to me than that. I 
 am not an ordinary acquaintance. I loved you, sweet- 
 heart — and I love you still ; I have never forgotten you ; 
 I have never forgotten the hours we spent together. But 
 you told me not to write to you, and, later, I knew you 
 would have left Aix — or I would have written in spite 
 of what you said : I didn't know your address." 
 
238 BITTERSWEET 
 
 " If you had really wanted to write you could have 
 found out my address easily enough. But we need not 
 talk about that. You didn't write — because I told you 
 not to ! We had our amusement and it ended at 
 Macon. Leave me alone now. I am no longer amusing 
 to you. I don't feel like a jouet, but all the same that 
 is what I am. I won't be a Jouet to you though." 
 
 " Sweetheart, do not be bitter. Tell me, dear, what 
 has happened to you. Why were you ill ? Why are 
 you so much thinner ? Please, dear, tell me about 
 yourself — all that has happened since we parted." 
 
 "Nothing has happened. I am thinner — well, that 
 will pass. I went back to Aix and I danced and I came 
 back to Paris and I danced and now I am going to St 
 Petersburg to dance. Voild tout ! I have not been ill." 
 
 Her hands were on the table in front of her, nervously 
 tearing at the little silk bag that she carried. Gerard 
 took one of them between his own. " Why, your hand 
 is cold, Illona. And I can see, cherie, that if you haven't 
 been ill you haven't been happy. Your eyes look as 
 they did that day above Chambery, and as if you have 
 cried often. Tell me, dear, have you been unhappy ? 
 Don't you care for me enough still to let me be 3'our 
 friend ? " 
 
 " Your friend ! Oh — " She bit her under-lip. " Yes, 
 you might be my friend perhaps, but I have no room 
 and no time for men friends. So let me go. I am 
 starting at once for St Petersburg, so you can spai-e 
 yourself the trouble of looking for me at the Trianon ; 
 Marinelli has just arranged an engagement for me." 
 She seemed hardly to notice that he held her hand, 
 
BITTERSWEET 239 
 
 and Gerard could see that tears were collecting in 
 her eyes. 
 
 " Illona, you can't so easily forget all that we were to 
 one another ; it isn't possible." He seized her other 
 hand and held them both tight, compelling her atten- 
 tion, holding her prisoner. " I want to recapture all 
 those days, to live again all that happiness. Je faime, 
 Illona, beaucoup, heaucoup — plus que jamais, in sais " — 
 he broke into one of those artless French phrases in which 
 she had always taken a child's delight. 
 
 " If you had really loved me you would never have 
 left me there at Macon comme un petit chien ahandonne. 
 Pah ! — that for your love ! You never loved me. I 
 know what love is, me." 
 
 " But, dear, you told me not to write ; I had to do 
 what you told me." 
 
 " Had to — had to ! Well, you're English of course. 
 You loved me so much that you let me go ! " And then 
 suddenly her strength seemed to give way and her head 
 tumbled to the table between her arms, and once 
 again Gerard could see her shoulders shake with silent 
 sobs. 
 
 It was at this bitter moment that the Avaiter chose to 
 bring Gerard's first dish. He was not at all taken 
 aback at the lady's behaviour. He deposited his charge 
 without turning a hair. Such things happen in public 
 more often in Paris. Gerard who had ordered his meal in 
 desperation looked at the andouillettes on his plate and 
 wondered whether he should try to eat them. No, it 
 would be impossible ; he stretched out his hand to the 
 carafe of wine, poured out a full glass, and drank it. 
 
240 BITTERSWEET 
 
 Still Illona wept. He watched her, caressing her arm 
 
 the while. Then she looked up : 
 
 " Gerard, I am ill. Be kind to me. Call a taxi and 
 send me home. I am not strong enough now for such 
 scenes. You have learned all you wanted to know. Let 
 me go. Tai mal au cceur. Please, Gerard — please." 
 
 He called the waiter, ordered a cab, explained that 
 after all he would eat nothing, paid the bill and took 
 Illona out into the street. " I won't let you go alone, 
 dear. You say you're ill." 
 
 " You shall not come with me. I don't wish that you 
 know where I live. No, let me go." 
 
 " I'll take you, and I'll swear never to come to see 
 you unless you tell me to — I swear it, Illona." 
 
 ^^Bien; tell him Square Moncey — number 31. I 
 trust you, Gerard." 
 
 She had ceased to cry ; her eyes were dry. She 
 cowered rather than sat in her own corner of the cab 
 and looked fixedly at the street. Gerard tried to speak 
 to her, but she seemed not to hear. Arrived at her 
 house, she refused to let him take her to the door of 
 her apartment. He pleaded tq be allowed to see her 
 again. She shook her head. 
 
 " It is useless, my dear. It's all finished between us 
 now. Laisse moi tranquille. In three or four days I shall 
 be in Russia. No, I'm not really ill ; only tired. Now, 
 adieu." 
 
 He seized her hand and held it. " I promised not to 
 come here to you, but you must try to let me see you. 
 I shall be so anxious until I hear. Here — see : this is 
 my card, with my address ; I live in Paris now ; you 
 
 I 
 
BITTERSWEET 241 
 
 can telephone or you can write and I'll come anywhere 
 at once. It is my bureau." 
 
 Illona took the card and slipped it into her bag. 
 Then without another word she left him. 
 
 Gerard walked as in a dream down the rue Blanche, 
 across the Place de la Trinite and to his office. He had 
 been profoundly affected, stirred, by meeting the girl 
 again, moved far more than he knew, and chagrined 
 too by her apparent insensibility to his love. Somehow, 
 sometime, he must see her again and must make her 
 believe that he had loved and did still love her ; and 
 if it was possible he must cure her sorrow. But then 
 in a day or two she was off to St Petersburg, she had 
 said. Perhaps that wasn't true. . . . 
 
 16 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 FOUR days later Gerard found among the letters 
 that awaited him at his office one whose hand- 
 writing was strange to him but which he 
 opened with the certainty that it was from Illona. He 
 was right : 
 
 \ " Mon cher ami : I have tried not to see you but 
 c'est plus fort que moi. I will see you. You can 
 come here to-morrow if you will — at three o'clock. 
 I wish to learn about you before I go away. But 
 it is only to be this once, Gerard. I have been 
 ill, and I have not danced, and I rest in bed all day. 
 Be gentil with me when you come and do not permit 
 yourself to stop long. Illona." 
 
 The rather hard-faced middle-aged woman who 
 opened the door to Gerard showed him into a little 
 salon, clean and rather untidy. A small piano stood open 
 and some music was littered over the keys ; on a chair 
 were papers of a few days old. Some flowers were dying 
 on the mantelpiece, and on it stood also a pretentious 
 clock half an hour fast and a dozen photographs, mostly 
 of women, some in theatrical costumes, some in ordinary 
 dress, but all inscribed affectionately : " a ma meilleure 
 
BITTERSWEET 243 
 
 copijie,'''' and so on. There were not many books : a 
 volume of Verlaine's poems assorted oddly with " Les 
 Trois Legionnaires " and " La Petite Cady." On the 
 walls hung some bad flower paintings and a large 
 photograph of a beautiful woman in the clothes of 
 Victoria's time. The windows, curtained so that one 
 could hardly see into the courtyard, were tightly closed. 
 Gerard would have opened one of them, but he was 
 afraid ; certainly there was not enough air in the flat. 
 How could she expect to be well if she didn't keep her 
 windows open ! 
 
 For twenty minutes he sat or walked about the room. 
 Le Journal of five days ago had no interest for him. He 
 could hear noises and occasionally footsteps sounded in 
 the hall, but he heard no voices. The room in which 
 he was had three doors. He felt inclined to see where 
 they led, but he remembered how in his own villa at 
 St Cloud room opened into room, and he shrank from 
 the risk. 
 
 " Madame wishes you to come this way, Monsieur." 
 
 It was evidently a very small flat. The room next to 
 that in which he had been sitting was, he could see, a 
 dining-room : on the table were a sewing-machine and 
 a heap of material. Next to it was the room he was 
 to enter. It was a bedroom and Illona was in bed, her 
 face more pale, more ivory than ever against the white 
 of the pillow, her hair braided, her hands tired on the 
 coverlet. She had evidently kept him waiting while she 
 was made neat to receive him. 
 
 "Well, Gerard, you have had your way. You are 
 here, you see. I am ill, dear, but I shall go away on 
 
244 BITTERSWEET 
 
 Sunday. Before I went I wanted after all to see you 
 once more, to learn how you are. That's all. I tried not 
 to, but I couldn't help it." 
 
 Gerard felt tongue-tied. " The doctor — have you seen 
 a doctor ? " he managed to ask. 
 
 " A doctor — no, surely no. Jeanne wanted to fetch a 
 doctor for me but I said I should put him a la porte. I 
 have no confidence in doctors. They make love to you or 
 they are ignorant. Anyhow they are useless." 
 
 " And St Petersburg. Why are you going there .f^ Why 
 do you go so far ? " 
 
 " One makes much money in Russia, my dear, and I 
 must make money. I don't make money here in Paris 
 as I used. Cest ma f aide : I am no longer gay. All that 
 life disgusts me. Yes, in St Petersburg it will be the 
 same, but it will be different too : I shall forget there." 
 
 " Forget what, Illona ? " 
 
 She did not answer him, but her eyes searched his. 
 She had hardly moved her head since he had come into 
 the room. She looked too tired for movement. 
 
 " Forget what, Illona ? " 
 
 " I shall forget Paris and all that makes me miserable 
 here ; I shall forget my childhood and all that I looked 
 forward to ; I shall forget such happiness as I have had 
 — it has not been so very much, you know^ ; I shall forget 
 the money I owe. One goes to Russia and unless one 
 makes money one is lost, one vanishes, in effect one dies 
 — but I shall make money, hi verras'''' — for a moment 
 she spoke almost cheerfully — ; " I shall be a success ; I 
 shall become a real artiste : Russians always like me. 
 And I shall get well again and I shall no longer be so 
 
BITTERSWEET 245 
 
 thin, and then I shall find out once more what it is to 
 laugh." 
 
 " But why not stay in Paris, Illona ? Your friends are 
 in Paris." 
 
 " My friends — oh, la barbe ! I have no friends. I don't 
 want friends ; I want love. And I have never found love 
 in Paris." 
 
 " You found it once, dear : we both found it in Aix." 
 
 Two great tears collected in the corners of her eyes 
 and rolled slowly down her cheeks before she answered : 
 " Yes, I thought so, but I know now I was mistaken. It 
 was a happy dream, but it lasted too long." 
 
 " Too long ? I don't understand." 
 
 " Of course you don't. How should you understand 
 anything about a woman, you an Englishman ! You 
 found me an amusement, Gerard, and a distraction ; you 
 were ill a little and lonely, but I, I loved you as I had 
 never loved before, as I shall never love again. It lasted 
 too long, because I could never afterwards go back to 
 my life : you had made me used to something else, to 
 tenderness. You were not like other men I knew. . . . 
 Oh, Gerard, why didn't you let me alone ? Oh, Gerard, 
 Gerard ! " She broke down now entirely, cried bitterly 
 for a minute, raised her head a little, looked unseeingly 
 at him, and then sank back, her eyes closed, her lips 
 parted, her breast stirring not at all. For a moment he 
 thought she might be dead, so still she seemed ; he bent 
 over and listened in vain for her breathing, and then 
 softly kissed her lips. She moved ; her hand seemed to 
 feel for his ; he drew back, holding her fingers tightly in 
 his own. 
 
246 BITTERSWEET 
 
 Minutes passed ; she appeared to sleep. She drew his 
 hand to her side and pressed it against her heart. Once 
 she opened her eyes and looked at him as if she would 
 speak, but she closed them again. And then she spoke, 
 slowly, shyly ; the words seemed to come from her 
 soul : 
 
 " Gerard, why did you want to see me again after 
 you found me at the Trianon ? Was it curiosity or pity ? 
 Why was it ? It was not love, for you do not love me, 
 I know well. You went away and you forgot me. You 
 never looked for me ; even you never wrote to me. And 
 yet you must have known, you did know, that you left 
 me there at Macon, miserable, desperate, broken- 
 hearted." 
 
 She began again to cry, convulsively, and she held 
 his hand more tightly as if she feared that he would 
 run away. 
 
 Gerard knew not what to do. Softly he caressed her 
 forehead, drying her tears with his lips ; he felt himself 
 torn from his moorings, and there came back to him all 
 that she had been to him and the memory of how she 
 had loved him. It was true that he had never for- 
 gotten her ; he would love her always ; perhaps he 
 loved her now even more than in the past. He did not 
 feel that he merited her reproaches. But it would be 
 useless to try to explain. She would never understand. 
 Very quietly he slipped his arm under her head. She 
 made no resistance ; her strength was at an end. 
 
 " Illona, I do love you ; don't you know it ? Cannot 
 you see ? I wanted to find you again because I love you. 
 I could not stop away from you any longer. I had to 
 
BITTERSWEET 247 
 
 find you and to put my arms round you and to hold 
 you tight to my heart. And now, sweetheart, I have 
 found you and everything must be as it was before — 
 and as it shall always b^. I will never let you go again, 
 my darling, never. We will be so happy. You shall 
 forget all the unhappiness I have caused you. You shall 
 love me again as you used to do. You shall trust me 
 with all your heart. Forgive me for not having written : 
 I was a fool."" 
 
 As he spoke Illona grew calmer. He could feel that 
 she was yielding more contentedly to his embrace, that 
 she pressed herself to him ; but he could feel too her 
 heart beating wildly, and that the arms which she had 
 flung about his neck were trembling. 
 
 " Gerard, say that to me again. I can hardly believe 
 it, but I do want so much to believe it, tu sais. Is it 
 really true, cAm } Dis, tu rn'aimes vraiment sincerement? " 
 She searched his eyes with her own. 
 
 " It is true, Illona : I swear it," and, putting his arm 
 behind her, he drew her to his breast and kissed her lips 
 again and again, tenderly, passionately. 
 
 " Do not speak, Gerard. Oh, I am happy now," and 
 she hid her face in his shoulder. , 
 
 Gerard Blundell did not return to the rue Cambon 
 that afternoon. Illona, hardly moving, held him in her 
 arms or at her side and the time slipped by. She seemed 
 content to know that he was near her. At five she would 
 have it that Jeanne must make him tea ; at six she 
 sent him away. " I am still ill, dear, but I shall get 
 well now quickly. Don't ask me more questions to-day. 
 
248 BITTERSWEET 
 
 To-morrow, yes ; perhaps I shall be able to get up and 
 come out with you. And, Gerard, come here, eome close 
 to me ; je te dirai quelque-chose : chert a moi, I have 
 been faithful to you ; I have thought of no one but you 
 through all these long months ; and I have dreamt of 
 you — but then I have waked up and you were not 
 there ! But that's all finished now, pas ? Tu es a Tiwi 
 maintenant^ et je suis a toi seiil. Kiss me once more 
 and then go. Yes, come at midday to-morrow and you 
 will find me up and happy, I hope. OA, c'est bon 
 cT aimer, tu sals.'''' 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE train that carried Gerard to St Cloud 
 carried a man in whom happiness and content, 
 fear and anxiety struggled for mastery. He 
 had not planned what had occurred ; he had not even 
 thought of it as possible. One half of him pulled one 
 way, the other resisted — but with no great power. For 
 the moment he thought, or he believed himself to think, 
 only of Illona's unhappiness, of her sad face lying amid 
 her braided hair, of the great tears coursing down her 
 cheeks, of her shoulders shaken by her sobs, of her new 
 belief in him, of his own unworthiness. Could he live 
 both lives ? St Cloud came, and he walked slowly home. 
 He could, he would, postpone till the morrow any 
 decision as to what he should do. He still thought that 
 the choice lay with him. 
 
 And on the morrow Illona was waiting him, but 
 she was still in bed. She had tried to get up but her 
 legs had given way beneath her, and she had fallen : 
 " Feel here : there's a great bump on the side of my 
 head. But that will pass. Everything that is unhappy 
 will pass. I am going to be the happiest woman in 
 Paris. I ought to be. I was only ill and I only became 
 
250 BITTERSWEET 
 
 thin because all the time I thought of you, cheri. Now 
 you are mine once more, and the spring is here and I 
 can be gay. The sun shines for me too." 
 
 The St Petersburg project was knocked on the head. 
 Marinelli had found a good engagement for her, but the 
 contract was not yet signed and anyhow "j> 171671 jiche^'' 
 she said. She could go on dancing at the Trianon. 
 Luckily she had not told Victor of her Russian plan : 
 indeed it had been formed on the day of her seeing 
 Gerard. She confessed as much shamefacedly. She had 
 been sure that he didn't care for her but had suspected 
 that he might wish to see her again — lightly, to pass 
 the time ; and the thought had frightened her into 
 arrano-ing to leave Paris. Contracts, plans, were not 
 very binding in her world. Marinelli would find some- 
 one else. 
 
 Gradually Gerard was able to build up the story of 
 what had happened since he had left Illona at Macon. 
 She had returned to Aix and had danced — but not with 
 her old success. Piaci had complained, not without 
 reason, that all her gaiety, all her Ugerete^ had dis- 
 appeared. No longer did she cajole louis from the pockets 
 of her admirers, her would-be lovers, into his cash-box. 
 She still danced well, yes, but dancing was not every- 
 thing ; indeed it was very little. His clients did not come 
 and come again to see dancing ; they wanted more than 
 that. Still, she danced out the term of her contract and 
 then returned to Paris and for a while did nothing, 
 living on the little money she had saved, and on the 
 proceeds of such presents as she could put au clou. All 
 through those weeks she had never ceased to think of 
 
BITTERSWEET 251 
 
 her English lover, and to be sure that he would come 
 to find her again. She kept for him her life ; she kept 
 her lips for him. After a while she was forced to dance. 
 Naturally she drifted back to the Trianon where she 
 had, two years before, made her debut and where Victor, 
 the patron^ liked her more than any other of his girls. 
 Here the few sentences that Dedie had dropped about 
 her friend supplied what was missing in Illona's own 
 story. Every habitue of the Trianon knew Illona. She 
 was an institution of Montmartre, of Paris even. Her 
 gentillesse and her cheek, her something that no other 
 girl had got, had made her the queen of her world ; 
 men would dispute and almost fight for her presence at 
 their table. But in this autumn the vital spark had 
 died down. No longer was she at the beck and call 
 of anyone who could repay her with amusement or 
 with gold. Her spirit was gone. For hours she would 
 dance only with the dancer of the place ; refusing the 
 invitations of her old admirers, she would stand silent 
 in the background. She had no ambition, no gaiety, no 
 cheerfulness. She who used to make more money than 
 any other two girls on Montmartre would return home 
 with only forty or fifty francs. She forgot her habits, 
 was false to her technique, ignored all those qualities 
 that in the past had made her so great a success. Where 
 she had made two or three hundred francs a night now 
 she made hardly a couple of louis. And so, as Dedie said, 
 she was truly dans la puree. 
 
 But now everything was to be changed. Illona had it 
 all planned out in her mind. She was to go on dancing 
 at the Trianon but Gerard was never to come to see 
 
252 BITTERSWEET 
 
 her there, or rather he was never to come until an 
 hour at which she would be free and he would find 
 her waiting for him. Life was to spin happy hours for 
 them as it had spun them at Aix, She would dance ; 
 she loved to dance. He could trust her. She was his, 
 his only. " Covime je faime, mon Gerard^ comme je 
 faime ! I shall forget everything that is sad ; and oh, 
 my sweetheart, I shall not annoy you" — the word 
 " annoy " was the best translation that she could ever 
 achieve for " emiuie " — " I shall not be in your way : 
 you have your life and your work. I shall be content 
 if you come to me when you can. Cest hon d'aimer^'' 
 she said again. 
 
 It was a strange, odd world into which Gerard, 
 Englishman, public-school boy, wine merchant with 
 the Oxford manner, dweller in a London suburb, now 
 found himself introduced as a familiar. It was true : 
 through all the winter Illona's heart had been breaking 
 for love of him ; and now that she had found him again 
 she was loth to let him go. It had been a distressing 
 hour when she discovered that he was living in France 
 with his wife and his children, but for some odd reason 
 the fact that they were out at St Cloud made their 
 existence more tolerable : the few miles seemed to set 
 them in another world. 
 
 Almost every day — certainly on every day when he 
 had no business engagement — Illona would lunch with 
 him — generally at some place not so far from his office : 
 she tried always to remember that he had work to do. 
 But often she would forget that he was a man of affairs 
 
BITTERSWEET 253 
 
 and would ask him to take her further afield — to 
 the Bois, to Saint Germain. Almost always he would 
 give way. Still, he did not neglect his duties. The 
 hours that he took in the middle of the day for 
 pleasure he made up in the evening. At St Cloud they 
 became used to his being late for dinner, to his coming 
 home in time to go to bed, or to his not coming home 
 at all. He would plead work as his excuse. Mary took 
 it for granted that he had a great deal to do. She 
 would sit and sew in her own garden ; sometimes she 
 would take the children to the Park. She was not un- 
 happy. When he came home she greeted him affection- 
 ately. 
 
 Yes, it was a strange, odd world. In the middle of the 
 day Illona belonged to him, not to Montmartre, not to 
 Paris, but on the evenings, the nights, he gave to her — 
 and they were many and grew more numerous — he 
 seemed to share her with her world ; indeed he himself 
 became part of her world. The doorkeeper at the 
 Trianon came to greet him as an old friend ; Victor, the 
 patron, used to welcome him with a smile ; the chauffeur 
 who drove them to her work looked to him for orders ; at 
 the Esqueline, the more homely and recondite restaurant 
 de nuit to which at three or four o'clock in the morning 
 experienced revellers took their way, he became almost 
 a member of the family. 
 
 And she herself gradually recovered all that she had 
 lost. She grew stronger under his eyes ; the colour came 
 back to her cheeks ; no longer did she look thin and 
 drawn and sad. A few days passed and she was a different 
 woman. But still Gerard could see that everything was 
 
254 BITTERSWEET 
 
 not quite well with her : she was harassed by some 
 memory or by some fear. More than once he asked her 
 what it was, in what way he could help her ; but she 
 always answered that nothing troubled her now, that 
 since she had him she had none but happy thoughts 
 and happy hours, that she lived only for the time she 
 spent with him and in expectation of his coming. Almost 
 it was true. 
 
 During these days Gerard had ignobly to arrange his 
 life. At St Cloud he let it be understood that the cares 
 of the Paris office grew upon him, that it became more 
 and more necessary for him to spend his evenings in 
 Paris in the society of the people with whom he did 
 business. As far as was possible he allowed Mary to 
 jump to her own conclusions; he detested the necessity 
 of lying. And she, poor simple soul, was so easily de- 
 ceived. Ji never entered her head that her husband could 
 even in small things be disloyal to her. The life he led, 
 the hours he kept, took from his health, but that she 
 easily attributed to his hard work and to the fatigue of 
 his journeys to London, journeys which happened less 
 often than she supposed. Her home and the care of her 
 children occupied her mind and her time. Such hours as 
 Gerard gave her she enjoyed keenly ; she asked no more 
 than that he should be contented and that life should 
 proceed quietly, normally. 
 
 Illona went so late to bed that she seldom rose until 
 after midday. Sometimes she would come down to meet 
 her lover ; sometimes he would fetch her. Going one 
 day to the Square Moncey, Gerard discovered that what 
 
BITTERSWEET 255 
 
 troubled her peace of mind was no more than money. 
 Tli^ encaisseur from the Galeries Lafayette was waiting 
 in her hall, portfolio in hand, truculence in his speech 
 and his bearing. Jeanne evidently was doing her best 
 to placate him. For the moment Gerard did not under- 
 stand. He pushed past them and found Illona in her 
 room, finishing her dressing and looking furiously at her 
 own reflection in the mirror. 
 
 " What's the matter out there ? " he asked. " What 
 does he want, that fellow ? " 
 
 For answer she dropped her powder puff and flung 
 herself into his arms. "Oh, Gerard, I am so miserable ; 
 comfort me a little. Cest pas ma faute. Ifs the Galeries 
 Lafayette: he wants to be paid. Fd promised to pay 
 them to-day and I thought I would be able to. But I 
 can't — oh, dear, I didn't want you to know." She began 
 to cry, and her tears, Gerard could see, came from 
 chagrin, shame. 
 
 " That is nothing, my darling : you were stupid not 
 to tell me. How much does he want ? I can give it you 
 now, I'm sure " ; and he drew out his letter-case and 
 began to count the notes it contained. 
 
 " Look, there is the bill." 
 
 He took up the paper. It was an account for various 
 useless and useful articles. In all it came to 490 frs. 90. 
 To pay twenty pounds for things he had never even 
 heard of was not amusing, but on the other hand 
 he had as yet given Illona no money ; she had asked 
 for none ; it was miserable to see her cry. And he had 
 in his pocket more than the sum required. He had 
 learned in Paris, just as he had learned at Aix, that 
 
256 BITTERSWEET 
 
 it was well always to carry money in this world of 
 
 pleasure. » 
 
 " Oh, Gerard, will you really pay all that for me? 
 You are too kind to me. I do not deserve it. But I will 
 explain. . . ." Her face cleared as if by magic. 
 
 Gerard moved to the door to put an end quickly to 
 the altercation the echoes of which he could still hear, 
 but Illona stopped him : " No, not that. Let me tell 
 Jeanne. . . . Jeanne," she called, and then : " Jeanne, 
 tell him you will take them the money before four 
 o'clock this afternoon, sans faute.'" Then she turned 
 to Gerard : " Oh, la la ! Qa va mieux. But I didn't 
 want him to see that you had given me the money ; 
 I wouldn't have liked that." 
 
 Later on at lunch Gerard learned the truth, or as 
 much of it as Illona in her distress would tell him. 
 Indeed what had happened and was happening to her 
 was not entirely her own fault. His own quickness made 
 him see that much of the responsibility was his. Before 
 she had gone to Aix she had made money so easily ; 
 night after night she would return with two or three 
 hundred francs. She made more than she could spend, 
 more, often, than she troubled in her fatigue to count. 
 Jeanne would tell her when she woke how much she 
 had brought home. She had bought what she needed, 
 had lent money to her friends, had been the well from 
 which every unfortunate could draw ; she had taken 
 this expensive apartment and furnished it ; she had 
 taken almost as expensive a home for her mother ; she 
 had adopted a certain style of living and, coming by 
 money so easily, had in very fact forgotten its value. 
 
 1 
 
BITTERSWEET 257 
 
 But all the time she had saved nothing. Each day did 
 no more than pay for itself; sometimes indeed it left 
 things unpaid for the morrow. Gerard had seen how she 
 had come to Aix with nothing in her pocket. Where all 
 her money went she had no idea. It was tolerably clear 
 that she did not spend it on herself; she dressed plainly 
 enough ; her dancing dresses, her shoes, her stockings 
 cost a good deal, of course, but they did not run away 
 with all those thousands of francs. At one time she had 
 had a banking account and as much as ten thousand 
 francs had accumulated. She used to write cheques with- 
 out calculation — until one day Jeanne had come back to 
 say that the cashier would give her no more money, that 
 her account was exhausted. Since then she had kept what 
 she made in a drawer. 
 
 " Cetait bete ! Yxa stupid. Fll be sensible, tu verras.'''' 
 At Aix, because of Gerard's presence and because of 
 the restraints that her love for him put upon her, 
 she had made hardly as much as she spent. And even 
 when he had returned to England things did not im- 
 prove. When she got back to Paris she had rested 
 for as long as she could manage, and when she was 
 forced again to her dancing she had no longer her 
 old success. At first her admirers found her sadness an 
 added attraction ; it amused their perverse taste ; but 
 they came after a time to feel that it was allied with 
 dullness. She had lost her spirit, her cheek, her power 
 of attraction, her power of attracting men and money. 
 As Dedie had said, if it had not been that Victor was 
 fond of her she would have lost her place long ago. At 
 the Trianon one had to be a success ; Victor had no 
 
 17 
 
258 BITTERSWEET 
 
 room for girls who did not amuse and provoke his clients. 
 And Illona had become a prude. There was no room 
 for prudes at the Trianon either. Within limits — no 
 one had ever discovered where those limits were !— the 
 dancers had to supply their admirers with whatever they 
 were willing to pay for. It was an ugly world but a very 
 simple one. Victor was not a bad sort. His girls kept 
 all they could make and he paid them something in 
 addition. He was content if they attracted clients and 
 if they called for champagne and peaches, peaches and 
 champagne. 
 
 In short, Illona was in debt, and very much in debt. 
 When she had come back fi*om Aix and had begun 
 once more to dance she had not realised, had not 
 stopped to realise, how much less she was earning than 
 in the spring and early summer. She had made no sort 
 of alteration in the way in which she lived nor in the 
 way in which she disposed of such money as she did 
 earn. Still she sent her mother money, much more, as 
 was her wont, than she had arranged to send ; still her 
 purse was at the disposal of her friends ; still she kept 
 up her little extravagances and her little generosities — 
 for instance she told Gerard that she had never been on 
 the Metro : " Qa fait mal a la tete ; it isn't for people 
 like me anyhow ; je pref^re un taxi, moi " ; and she would 
 take a taxi even if she was going into the next street, 
 and generally she would give the chauffeur a franc for 
 himself: '"'' Pauvre gosse; he's got children at home, I 
 dare say." And so, ever since the autumn her diffi- 
 culties had tightened round her ; she had been to money- 
 
BITTERSWEET 259 
 
 lenders ; she was constantly dunned by the shops with 
 which she dealt. 
 
 She told Gerard much of all this but only in general 
 terms. He asked her the amount of her debts and what 
 sort of sum would free her from her anxieties, but he 
 received only evasive replies. The fact was, she was shy 
 of telling him, and, just because of her love, she was 
 reluctant to take money from him, hating to feel that he 
 was paying her. And she was sanguine : every night she 
 hoped to redress the balance. It was an accident surely 
 that lately she had had so little success. She refused to 
 see that money did not fall into her hands for the very 
 simple reason that she no longer cajoled it out of her 
 admirers' pockets in her old manner. 
 
 However it was clear that she had instant and insistent 
 preoccupations, and Gerard, hearing her talk and realising 
 the source of some of her hesitations, made her accept 
 three thousand francs. He hoped, but was by no means 
 sure, that she would now be able to deal with all that 
 worried her most. She promised to attend at once to the 
 payment of her more urgent bills, and he had no reason 
 to suppose that she did not keep her promise. Before- 
 hand the necessity of taking money from him had been 
 for her a veritable nightmare, but directly it had 
 happened she began to forget. Money had no import- 
 ance for her. Three thousand five hundred francs was 
 after all no great sum in her world. If she lacked it 
 now and had to take it from him it was just because she 
 had been careless, trop depensiere ; she would be more 
 careful ; and in the meantime she loved Gerard more 
 than ever and felt herself more than ever dependent on 
 
26o BITTERSWEET 
 
 him for her happiness. The idea that he might be 
 inconvenienced by the result of her extravagances never 
 crossed her mind. She took it for granted that he was 
 rich ; he had never seemed to lack money. Visitors to 
 the Trianon had their pockets well lined, and that a 
 man of his sort should really be so poor as to have to 
 live with some care was entirely outside her experience 
 of life. 
 
 Gerard, when he allowed himself to consider the 
 matter at all, suspected all this, but he was in love and 
 he was carried along on a stream in which the current 
 was strong. Certainly now he was spending a great 
 deal more than he made. One does not hang about 
 Montmartre for hours night after night without getting 
 rid of a lot of money ; and Illona had many friends to 
 whom to offer champagne a dozen times of an evening 
 seemed the natural thing. Then at the Esqueline, after 
 the Trianon was closed, she wished still to dance. Her 
 appetite for dancing was never sated. He resented her 
 dancing with other visitors, with the men who knew 
 her and who seemed to wish always to make love to 
 her, and she was forced to dance with the professional 
 dancer of the place — and that meant a louis at the 
 least. Still Gerai'd did not stop to think. Some day it 
 would end no doubt, and in the meantime he was more 
 than content. 
 
 And certainly Illona never imposed on him — never 
 imposed on him herself, and refused, after a while, to 
 allow him to be imposed on. That day marked a new 
 stage in her affection for him. Her passion lived now 
 side by side with tenderness, with a wish to protect him. 
 
BITTERSWEET 261 
 
 If he was sad, her face too became clouded ; if he seemed 
 annoyed, she would try to provide some distraction for 
 his thoughts. She wished in every way to delight and 
 help him — and he had never the heart to tell her either 
 that this amusement she suggested or that was too 
 costly, or that he was tired and wanted to go to bed. 
 She had the true spirit of the daughter of Montmartre : 
 she hated the idea of going home until the day was well 
 aired. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 WHEN one is in love intelligence suffers a 
 temporary eclipse. To Gerard Blundell how- 
 ever was left just enough perception, just 
 enough humour, to enable him to take pleasure in the 
 study of the strange, the odd types with whom now he 
 found it necessary to be familiar. Fortunately too he 
 had that rare quality, rare especially among Oxford men, 
 of being a " mixer." He was interested in people. The 
 more diverse they were, the more they differed from the 
 people of his experience, the more they interested him. 
 At Aix, Champion and Mrs Goddard and her daughter in 
 those three weeks had attracted him not at all because 
 he had met their kind before ; and, besides, they were in 
 an unfair competition : he had no time to think of any- 
 one else than the girl who had bewitched him. 
 
 At first Illona*'s friends, her copines, had observed 
 him curiously. He learnt from her, and indeed it became 
 sufficiently obvious, that on Montmartre she had a 
 reputation all her own. Not to put too fine a point upon 
 it, she was not to be bought, and such virtue is rare in 
 the neighbourhood of the Butte. Her friends and her 
 rivals had never known her defaire un miche ; that she 
 
BITTERSWEET 263 
 
 had admirers, heaps of them, everyone knew, but she had 
 never before given so much of her time to any one of 
 them. Gerard's appearance was something very new and 
 strange. But Illona was a favourite ; even in the days 
 of her greatest success she had been liked, and now, 
 when she was thought to be on the down grade, she had 
 disarmed jealousy. Her friends gave her lover a welcome ; 
 they made him free of their world. She was frank about 
 him too : " mon amant,'''' she called him. " Mince alors ! " 
 they answered ; " but he's so English ; he's like a stone. 
 Oh, no ; ifs not possible ! " All the same they treated 
 him gently and drank his wine and were always willing 
 to amuse him in the long hours during which he had to 
 sit and wait. Nor were they more expensive to him than 
 they thought reasonable. If they were hard up they 
 would complain : " Dis; ma petite Illona, fai pas de 
 pognon ; tell him to give me a louis." Louis became un- 
 important in Gerard's exchequer : he quickly ceased to 
 keep any account. 
 
 It was in its heart a very simple and domestic society, 
 that of which Illona was one of the queens. Perhaps 
 she shared that ruling distinction with a girl a little 
 older who also could call herself an artiste, for she sang 
 in music halls and was the favourite of half Paris. 
 Ferrat was very much a child of the quarter; her 
 mother was a concierge ; she had the carriage and the 
 head of a princess ; she had also a carriage with two 
 horses ; she had given herself a name after one of the 
 headlands of France ; she had diamonds and was some- 
 times without a penny ; she it was of whom it was said 
 that having discovered cocaine in the Latin Quarter 
 
264 BITTERSWEET 
 
 she had brought it to Montmartre and had debauched 
 and ruined the whole venal world that bases itself on 
 the Place Pigalle ; immorality interested her as an art ; 
 she carried vice to every extreme of which she could 
 read or hear or think ; and withal she had the heart of 
 a child, the appearance of a jeune fille, and she would 
 have given the shift off her back to warm any poor 
 bego-ar in the street. All Montmartre knew her and 
 adored her, 
 
 A different type, a girl who had never any claim to 
 being an artiste, was Fleurette Mayer. She made her 
 money where she found it, was very pretty, attracted 
 men by the turn of her little finger, chose her lovers 
 for their wealth but treated them well, was rich beyond 
 the dreams of Montmartre avarice, had her own car 
 and her own chauffeur, was violent and vicious comme 
 tout but had nevertheless so sweet an air, so virginal a 
 face, that Gerard when he first saw her thought she 
 must that very night have strayed into this world and 
 that there might still be time to rescue her from 
 it. " 0/i, que tu es innocent!'''' Illona answered to his 
 suggestion. 
 
 Yes, it was simple and domestic this society that 
 held its court morning after morning at the Esqueline. 
 As surely as three o'clock struck so surely one or all 
 of these girls and their followers were to be found in 
 that little stuffy room up those dirty stairs in the rue 
 Notre Dame de Lorette. Gerard used also often to 
 go there with Illona, to the ground floor, at eleven 
 o'clock, after they had dined and she had dressed in her 
 dancino; costume. At that hour it was even more 
 
BITTERSWEET 265 
 
 domestic. There they would sit and Dedie would drink 
 un jus de viande, and if any stranger did happen to 
 come in he would look with astonishment at the sober 
 EngHshman and at the two girls with their silk stockings, 
 their dancing shoes, and their spangled skirts peeping 
 from under their cloaks. Illona had an abhorrence of 
 cocaine, and it was at this hour that often she had 
 cause to rally her friends on their idiocy : " Dedie, tu 
 es degoutante — deja pleine de coco ! How are you going 
 to dance hke that .^ Victor will throw you out one 
 of these days." And Dedie would go on drinking her 
 stimulant and smile with that fatuous face that cocaine 
 gives. 
 
 On such an evening Ferrat came in. It was Gerard's 
 first introduction to her and he looked at her with 
 curiosity, for Illona had spoken much of this friend of 
 hers. She was dressed in a tailor-made gown of the 
 severest and simplest cut but whose every line was a 
 provocation. " She's not thin ; she's a fausse maigre,^^ 
 he was told afterwards, and her face had the bloom of 
 perfect health and something of the jeering grace of a 
 young faun, and her eyes, deeply set, were green, the 
 eyes of genius. And indeed she had genius. 
 
 " Ferrat, they're mocking me because of my cocaine," 
 Dedie said. 
 
 " Oh, Us sont piques : they don't know what is good. 
 You'll finish by taking it, Illona ; tu verms ! " 
 
 And three sinister men and a rather battered woman 
 who were playing cards with a greasy pack at the next 
 table looked up and laughed. The argument, however, 
 did not continue, for Illona and Dedie discovered that 
 
266 BITTERSWEET 
 
 it was time to go to the Trianon and they went off 
 
 up the hill, all four of them, in Illona's taxi. 
 
 Ferrat had been singing at the Gaiete Rochechouart ; 
 for once in a way she had not disappointed her public ; 
 she was annoyed that Illona would not let her lover go 
 into the Trianon ; she wanted to go herself. " Then 
 ril take him off with me, eh, Illona ? I'll take him to 
 Delmas' and he shall hear me sing. That'll amuse him, 
 111 warrant, and when I go round with the quete he shall 
 start it with a louis. Fll give it back to him : it's only 
 that other people shouldn't give silver. Mon dieu ! they 
 get meaner and meaner ! Oh, we'll enj oy ourselves, and I'll 
 bring him to you at — three? Bien. A TEsqueline^ pas ? " 
 
 Gerard felt like a shorn lamb as he jolted down the 
 rue Pigalle in the company of this orchidaceous lady 
 who seemed so willing to take him in her charge. He 
 wasn't altogether pleased that Illona was so little jealous 
 and he didn't at all understand what was expected of him. 
 However, Ferrat soon put him at his ease. 
 
 " Dis done, that Illona of yours is the best girl on 
 Montmartre. Ah, she has a heart of gold. You are 
 lucky, tu sais. And she's serious. Here we are. Stop, 
 we won't go in yet : we'll go into Ermine's first." 
 
 So far Gerard had not seen very much of the night- 
 world. His waiting on previous evenings he had done at 
 the Esqueline or miserably dragging his feet up and down 
 the floor of the Tabarin. Ermine's was an odd little 
 place with a bar and a couple of small rooms in which 
 dissipated Frenchmen sat about, and astonishing ladies. 
 When Ferrat entered they sent up a chorus of welcome, 
 calling on her to sing. She surprised him by paying not 
 
BITTERSWEET 267 
 
 the slightest attention, making her way to the best of 
 the vacant tables. 
 
 " Gargon, champagne — du sec, vous savez, et la carte, 
 vite; depechez-vous!"" Then she turned to Gerard: "This 
 pleases you, mon chert ? We have time. Til sing for 
 Delmas at one, when I've finished my supper. He can 
 wait." Then she saw across the room a lady whom 
 Gerard took to be the patronne, a woman of parts, 
 corsetted and neat as a mistress of a school should be, 
 and good-looking too in a matronly way : " Ermine, 
 come over here ; sit down : this is a friend of Illona's ; 
 he's a good fellow. But why isn't there any music ? 
 You don't know how to manage your boite. I start one 
 myself next week. Finished then with you and Delmas. 
 Chin, chin ! " And forgetting all about Ermine and 
 forgetting all about Gerard too, she fell on her supper, 
 only stopping when music at last appeared and she 
 jumped up, cried for a danseur, threw herself into a 
 tango which she carried though with the long-limbed 
 lithe grace of a panther and then ran out of the place, 
 saying quickly to Gerard as she went : " Pav the bill 
 and come after — across the road it is." 
 
 Gerard did pay the bill and felt rather proud of the 
 notice his companion had attracted ; and he had drunk 
 enough chanipagne not to be shy when, pushing through 
 Delmas' narrow door, he found himself in a room so 
 crowded and so full of smoke that for a moment he 
 could see nothing at all. And then he saw Ferrat : she 
 was standing behind a piano ; she had got rid of her 
 hat ; her short beautiful hair stood out round her head 
 like a cloud ; her face had all the humour and wit and 
 
268 BITTERSWEET 
 
 malign gaiety of Paris ; she was singing a song of 
 which he could make out but few of the words ; her 
 audience helped her with the chorus. Suddenly she 
 saw him. " Hush — hush ! " she said as if she were in 
 church, holding up her hand to compel silence. " Voild, 
 un nouveau! A chair for Milord, a good place for 
 him." For a minute she paused while two waiters 
 hurriedly fitted up a table which they seemed to produce 
 from under their napkins, and then she started her 
 song again from the beginning, and Gerard had time 
 to look around and see where adventure had brought 
 him. 
 
 The Trianon was sometimes smart, but it was big; 
 and held all sorts ; the Esqueline was not smart at all : 
 it was Montmartre at ease ; Ermine's was intimate and 
 professional : one had the feeling that strangers were 
 not admitted into its secrets ; Delmas' was, at least on 
 that night, so smart that Gerard wondered how so 
 many people of the kind could be induced to crowd 
 themselves into so cramped a room. As Ferrat went on 
 singing he wondered no longer. Hers was the comic 
 genius, but her voice had pathos and tragedy too in 
 its deep tones — and then just at the moment when she 
 wrung your heart she would break off and burst into 
 laughter ; and her audience, betrayed and delighted, 
 would laugh with her, and she would swing from her 
 platform, seize a napkin, twist it into the shape of a 
 bag, and go round and collect money, making a face at 
 a franc, smiling at a big coin, and giving value in some 
 kind for every gold piece that fell into the quite, value 
 in words, for she had a devil's wit. 
 
BITTERSWEET 269 
 
 This evening, as if remembering what she had said 
 to Illona, she came first to Gerard. His duty done, 
 she quickly held his louis up for all the world to see : 
 " Regardez ! Milord did I say ? He's a prince, this one. 
 He shall be my lover ; well go to Japan together, pour 
 rendre visite au Mikado. N^'st-ce pas, mon beau hrun ? " 
 and she ruffled his hair with her hand. 
 
 Gerard smiled and blushed and looked up and caught 
 the eye of Monsieur Metivet, who had a lady with him, 
 a lady of his own world, and who beckoned for Gerard 
 to go across to him. The lady proved to be his sister, 
 and they both teased Gerard about his success with 
 the singer and asked him to come to the Cafe de Paris 
 with them for supper. He refused, but refrained from 
 telling them that he had arrived with Ferrat and that 
 he must leave with her ; when they rose to go he 
 breathed a sigh of relief. He was still at the stage of 
 feeling awkward at being discovered in the apparent 
 pursuit of pleasure. 
 
 The worst of Delmas' was that Ferrat did not sing 
 all the time. Delmas sang himself — oh, such senti- 
 mental songs, songs that he had himself written ; and 
 various young women sang who had not a tithe of 
 Ferrafs success and not a hundredth part of her 
 talent and who had the misfortune to believe that 
 obscenity was a sufficient substitute for wit. And all 
 the time one had to drink champagne and every few 
 minutes one had to dip down into one's pocket to give 
 to the singers, and fresh people would come in and 
 crowd the place worse than ever, and the smoke would 
 become thicker, and Delmas would become more atten- 
 
270 BITTERSWEET 
 
 tive to his clients. Then suddenly Ferrat, who had dis- 
 appeared, appeared again dressed for the street. She 
 had no hesitation about claiming Gerard : 
 
 " Allans, mome : on monte d Montmartre. It's time "'■' ; 
 and before he really knew what he was doing he had 
 paid his bill and seemed to be in a private carriage — it 
 was Ferrates own carriage as a matter of fact— and was 
 driving up the Chaussee d'Antin. 
 
 " It's too early for Illona : she won"t be ready for 
 you. We'll go and see the Gitana danced. (Test nouveau 
 a Paris.'''' 
 
 But Gerard had had enough. He followed her into La 
 Festa with unseeing eyes. He was too tired even to see 
 Spaniards. They might have been Hottentots for all the 
 pleasure he took in their measures, and he poured his 
 champagne into the ice bucket when his companion was 
 not looking. There he had to sit however, fatigue or no 
 fatigue. He was almost asleep when Ferrat jumped up : 
 
 " Payez vite ! On va chcrcher IllonaT 
 
 And the worst of it was that Illona would not let 
 him go to bed either. " Now I want to amuse myself," 
 she said. " I've been working while you\e been having 
 a good time, pas ? " 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 IT was a good thing for Gerard Blundell that on 
 the following day he had to go to England. For 
 the sake of Illona, for the sake of his family, he 
 arranged to travel by the train that, leaving at half 
 an hour past midnight, landed him in London at just 
 about the time that his partners settled down to their 
 work. Gerard tried to be just, to hold the scales evenly. 
 He went home on that afternoon earlier than was his 
 wont, met Mary and the children in the Park, walked 
 about in the sun, looked at the fountains, drank 
 grenadine with Vivian, talked to Dickie about the 
 importance of not forgetting his cricket, dined in his 
 own garden, and returned alone to Paris in time to 
 catch the evening train from the Gare St Lazare. Yes, he 
 was in time to catch that train, but what he really did 
 was to drive from the Etat station to the Square 
 Moncey, to sit with Illona while she dressed, and then 
 to go to the Esqueline until it was necessary for him 
 to hurry to the Gare du Nord : she insisted on driving 
 with him, and at the station entrance she clung to him 
 as if they might never meet again. 
 
272 BITTERSWEET 
 
 The train that, after two days, brought him back to 
 Paris arrived so late that Illona had already gone 
 to her work. He had left London at half past four ; 
 Mary thought he was travelling by night : he could not 
 go back to St Cloud. So, after drawing blank at the 
 Esqueline, he had to invent for himself a way of spend- 
 ing the next three hours. Almost unconsciously he 
 gravitated down the hill and to Delmas\ Ferrat greeted 
 him as an old friend : practically no one had arrived 
 yet, and she, some woman friend of hers, and Delmas 
 himself were sitting in a corner drinking coffee, and 
 Ferrat was amusing herself by blowing soap bubbles 
 and laughing like a child, and with all a child's simple 
 pleasure, at the results of her energy. When two o'clock 
 came Gerard looked to her to take him once more under 
 her wing, but to-night her mood was different and she 
 said frankly that she wasn't free. 
 
 He had still an hour to kill, and he wandered back 
 up the hill and dropped into the Pagoda, where his 
 fame seemed already to have penetrated, for the patron 
 greeted him by name and asked him why he had never 
 before favoured his humble restaurant with his custom 
 and begged that he might see him often again in the 
 future : " And don't forget to bring Illona with you ; 
 we all like her." 
 
 Gerard realised then for the first time that the whole 
 of Montmartre is a sounding-board, that everyone 
 knows everybody else's business, that, granted the social 
 differences that separate the interests of such places as 
 the Trianon and the Abbaye from the less ambitious 
 boites like the Royal and the Monico, it is quite 
 
BITTERSWEET 273 
 
 impossible to be at all a constant visitor to the Butte 
 without becoming a character of whom every obvious 
 fact is immediately known. And he began to learn 
 then that Victor at the Trianon was only one of a 
 family, the second of five brothers, all of whom were 
 equally concerned in the same nefarious business and 
 each of whom, \\ith one exception, ran a restd,urant 
 of his own, casting between them a net which covered 
 Paris from the dance-hall at the Empire on the Boule- 
 vard to the Trianon on the Place Gerando. They were 
 Jews, Algerians : Victor had been the first to come to 
 Paris ; he w as a waiter and knew how to please his 
 clients ; he knew also the commercial value of pretty 
 women, and he collected them, rescued the Trianon 
 from desuetude, and became a Paris character. Then 
 he sent for his brothers. Balzac should have written 
 about that family. Victor himself had something of the 
 air of a man of the world, became so rich that he even 
 owned race-horses, and ultimately married the daughter 
 of a Jewish banker ; Edouard, his elder brother, ran 
 the Esqueline, had a wife and several beautiful children, 
 looked as if he might be a prosperous rentier in a 
 provincial town, and, as he stood at the head of his 
 dirty stairs and welcomed the girls Avho made his 
 place their home, seei^ied indeed the incarnation of 
 domestic respectability ; Gustave had the Empire after 
 the theatrical performance was over, and was the only 
 one of the five who had not the secret of atmosphere ; 
 Jean, the youngest, a large and oily person who 
 imitated his brother's graces without having his 
 brother's technique, did his best with the Pagoda and 
 
 18 
 
274 BITTERSWEET 
 
 indeed at times made it more fashionable than the 
 Trianon, for Victor paid the penalty of success and his 
 place was often crowded with moche nobodies ; Henri, 
 the fifth, drifted about and was used by his brothers : he 
 did their odd work : he had the least attractive character 
 of the five. They made a strange group. A girl who was 
 loved by one was loved by all. Their comparative 
 charms and prowess in such adventures were discussed on 
 Montmartre. When they were not despoiling their 
 clients they were generally to be found playing cards. 
 Their success lay in their unity. When the Trianon 
 closed you were told to go down to the Esqueline, and 
 if you had grown tired of both places then you were in 
 effect forced to go to the Pagoda or the Empire. Girls 
 who had outlived their period of usefulness at the 
 Trianon were passed on to the Pagoda, and, in any case, 
 while they had admirers who could pay for champagne, 
 were induced to finish up their nights at the Esqueline. 
 The Brothers Assisi were in short a very ingenious and 
 successful combination. And for three years Illona had 
 been Victor\s favourite ; and she was none the less his 
 favourite for having refused his favours. She had become, 
 so to speak, the child of all the brothers. 
 
 Walking across from the Pagoda to the Esqueline, 
 Gerard met Ferrat on the doorstep. They went in 
 together and found themselves at once on the edge of 
 some excitement. 
 
 " Q'est-ce que c'est ? " Ferrat asked. 
 
 " Just a battle," a waiter answered ; " only Fleurette : 
 she's fighting with Magda." 
 
BITTERSWEET 275 
 
 Gerard, who knew neither name, wanted to stop 
 where he was, but Ferrat seized his arm and hurried 
 him up the stairs, shoved and pushed her way through 
 the door and reached the centre of the crowd, a crowd 
 of women and men who were watching with some 
 amusement and excitement and with no particular 
 anxiety a sight that made him sick. On the floor a 
 girl lay kicking and struggling, her clothes almost off 
 her back : she was a big girl, but two other girls were 
 holding her down and another held her feet. "Yes, thafs 
 Fleurette, all right,"" Ferrat said, as if she saw nothing 
 unusual — " the one with the shoe. Ifs too much, this I " 
 And she ran forward and tried by gentle words to 
 restrain her friend, who looked angrily at her and re- 
 turned to the pleasant task of bringing down the heel 
 of the shoe she carried on her victim's head, till it 
 seemed to Gerard that it could be nothing but a mass 
 of blood and hair. 
 
 Everything passed in a second. Gerard felt like a stone; 
 he had never seen women fight before ; it was impossible 
 for him to move ; and then suddenly someone pushed him 
 on one side and, almost before he realised that it was 
 Illona, he saw that she had her arms round Fleurette, her 
 strong arms, and was crying to Ferrat to help with the 
 others. Perhaps Fleurette's rage u as sated ; suddenly 
 she sank down and began to cry. " Va fen, Magda," 
 Illona cried to the girl who had been the victim ; " for 
 God's sake clear out and don't come back to-day " ; and 
 the girl, struggling to her feet with difficulty, and with 
 her face streaming with blood and tears, surrendered 
 herself to the dam£ du lavabo, who, like the second in 
 
276 BITTERSWEET 
 
 the prize-ring, washed and smoothed her. But Magda 
 would not go away. " Je reste ici ; Fm not afraid of 
 her," she kept proclaiming, and after a minute she found 
 a seat in a corner, ordered champagne, and surrounded 
 herself with all the poorer girls in the place. In the 
 meantime Fleurette Mayer had also picked herself up, 
 and Illona and Ferrat had carried her to a table, where 
 she sat between them and explained her grievances. 
 Gerard, who felt the effect of all this excitement more 
 even than the chief actors, gathered that Magda had 
 been the aggressor : she had actually looked at 
 Fleurette's lover, had surely tried to take him away in 
 effect, that afternoon at the races. Ferrat, after hearing 
 the full recital, turned a droll face to him and winked. 
 He felt restored. 
 
 That was Gerard's ffrst actual introduction to Fleurette 
 Mayer. She and Ferrat were Illona's best friends, and 
 Illona and Ferrat refused to let Fleurette leave their 
 side even for a moment during what remained of 
 the night. They gave her supper and champagne — for 
 which Gerard had to pay — and ultimately the three of 
 them took her home to the Avenue de Messine in her 
 own magnificent automobile, the driver of which, 
 although he had heard that his mistress had been 
 murdering someone upstairs, showed not the slightest 
 sign that anything untoward had occurred. 
 
 Gerard liked Ferrat ; he had been told no harm of 
 her : Illona was slow to give away her friends. He was 
 sure he did not like Flem-ette. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THAT spring and summer were the heyday of 
 the tango. In England the papers had been 
 full of it ; in Paris it occupied everybody's 
 attention. It had even been seen, in a very maimed and 
 mitigated form, at dances in Wimbledon. Mary, who 
 had given up dancing after Vivian was born, had been 
 interested in seeing the amateur efforts of her young 
 friends, and one evening she asked Gerard whether, now 
 that she was in Paris, she could see the tango really 
 well danced by professionals. " Fd like Vivian and Dickie 
 to see it too, if it really is proper as they say. Isn't 
 there some place where they have a the dansant which 
 it would be quite nice for us to go to ? It would do 
 them both good to see really fine dancing. I want 
 them to dance well, and they might get more interested 
 in their lessons if they see how pretty it can be." 
 
 Gerard caught his breath a little at his wife's idea. 
 It was trenching on dangerous ground, but after all he 
 could advance no reason why it should not be carried 
 into effect. It would be all right if he did not have to 
 accompany them, and he made that unlikely by explain- 
 ing that at tea time he was generally at his busiest — the 
 
278 BITTERSWEET 
 
 night mails had to be caught : " You can go very well 
 
 by yourselves ; Dickie will be as proud as Punch to 
 
 be the man of the party — or you might wait till the 
 
 Warwicks come. It's the sort of thing they are sure 
 
 to want to see. In the meantime I'll find out the best 
 
 place." 
 
 In normal circumstances or in London nothing would 
 have pleased him better than such an excursion with his 
 family. He delighted in giving his wife pleasure, and 
 even more did he delight in seeing his children's fresh 
 young interest in any new experience. But he knew so 
 many of the professional dancers, and a number of 
 them worked in the afternoon as well as at night, not 
 so much for the sake of the money they could make as 
 for the sheer love of dancing and for the possibility of 
 adventure. From four to seven they taught and danced 
 at the innumerable thes tango which had sprung up all 
 over fashionable Paris. He would almost surely be 
 recognised, and he felt that he would be shy at being 
 seen in the character of a family man. Besides it would 
 be mixing cabbages and baskets. No, Mary and the 
 children should go by themselves or they should go with 
 the Warwicks. 
 
 And they went with the Warwicks, who turned up 
 several days earlier than they were expected, and who, 
 knowing Paris very little, were anxious to do anything 
 and everything that was in the movement and which 
 was not of the kind they had already tired of in India. 
 Indirect inquiry had taught Gerard that the place for 
 them to go to was the Philadelphia Palace, a semi- 
 American hotel near the Etoile. Every Friday there 
 
BITTERSWEET 279 
 
 was tea and an exhibition of dancing arranged by a 
 swarthy, handsome and graceful gentleman of Latin 
 extraction, under whose auspices one could for five francs 
 not only gain admittance but drink tea or chocolate and 
 eat cakes and watch, as his card had it, " Tango, 
 Maxixe Bresilienne, Boston, etc.,'' danced by himself and 
 his danseuse and also, with more error and energy, by 
 his fashionable pupils. Indeed the Friday teas at the 
 Philadelphia Palace were both fashionable and select. 
 They were hardly advertised. 
 
 The fact that their afternoon''s amusement was to 
 cost each of them five francs gave Mary pause ; but they 
 were already on the doorstep. " Hang it, Mary, we can't 
 disappoint the kids now. And if we don't go here, where 
 the deuce are we to go ? " her brother-in-law asked. After 
 all, she remembered, they were carrying out Gerard's 
 instructions. 
 
 On that particular morning, long before her usual 
 hour for waking, an urgent call came for Illona to go 
 to the telephone. Not that she had a telephone herself, 
 but a neighbour had one and her friends knew that 
 on special occasions they could summon her. It was 
 Jeanne who disturbed her. 
 
 " Madame, Monsieur Berger wants you on the tele- 
 phone ; he says he must speak to you." 
 
 Illona turned over in bed, pushed her bedclothes 
 away, rubbed her eyes and sat up : " What's that ? Oh, 
 la harhc ! What cheek to wake me ! Ask him what he 
 wants." 
 
 A minute passed, and then : " He wants to know 
 
28o BITTERSWEET 
 
 whether you'll be very kind and dance for him this 
 afternoon at the Philadelphia Palace. His danseuse has 
 hurt her ankle and he doesn't know what hell do if you 
 won't help him." 
 
 " No, I won't ; I'm not free ; I've an engagement. 
 Stop, Jeanne : tell him politely that I wish I could, but 
 that as it's impossible, he'd better ask Sybil. He'll know 
 who I mean. By the way, ask him who his danseuse is. 
 Perhaps I'd manage it if she was a friend of mine 
 rather than let her get into trouble. But hurry." 
 
 Monsieur Berger was not so easily denied. " Madame, 
 he says that Sybil's no good, that she's not chic enough, 
 that she's too gmnine. Miarka GerbhofF — or some such 
 name — it is who's hurt herself." 
 
 "Oh, very well; tell him he must fetch me at three 
 or as soon after as suits him. I must do it for Miarka's 
 sake, pauvre enfant. And now quick, my coffee and Le 
 Journal.'''' 
 
 And so it happened that while he was lunching at 
 Voisin's with a champagne magnate Gerard, too, was 
 called to the telephone and was told by Illona that after 
 all she could not meet him that afternoon, that she had 
 some work to do for a friend, and that she would tell 
 him all about it that night when he came to fetch her 
 at the Trianon. 
 
 A large hall set round with little tables ; silent 
 waiters ; sideboards covered with cakes ; in the centre 
 a clear space for dancing. Most of the tables were 
 occupied by English and American dowagers and their 
 daughters. There were a few young men, French and 
 
BITTERSWEET 281 
 
 Spanish, too neat, too well groomed, and with boots 
 of absurd length. Monsieur Berger, whose appearance 
 did his profession credit, had not yet begun his exhibi- 
 tion ; he stood in the background talking to his danseiise. 
 He had already had to explain a dozen times why a 
 change had been rendered necessary. The dowagers 
 had expressed their sympathy. 
 
 It was not the kind of function that Illona liked. 
 She did not approve of being patronised ; she did not 
 find herself in sympathy with old and fat ladies, or 
 with their daughters either for the matter of that. 
 However, friendship was friendship and she was 
 prepared to do her best. She did like the look of one 
 little party of people, very obviously strangers to Paris, 
 who had arrived too early and were now showing their 
 anxiety that the show should begin ; or rather she liked 
 the look of the three children. She loved children, and 
 she had asked that her own table should be next to 
 theirs so that while she was waiting between the dances 
 she could look at them and hear them talk. They were 
 not very smart, this group, and they had not been given 
 a good place. 
 
 The dowagers had to their astonishment to confess 
 that the new danseuse was an improvement on her 
 predecessor. "I hope he'll keep her. Mamma," the 
 young girls said ; but luckily Illona did not hear 
 or, much as she loved praise and appreciation, she 
 would have danced ill on purpose rather than do her 
 friend harm through comparison. She knew that she 
 herself was the better dancer, but she was not to-day 
 trying to dance particularly well. Berger, though, was 
 
282 BITTERSWEET 
 
 a dancer in a thousand and it was difficult not to enjoy 
 
 dancing with him. . . . 
 
 Major Warwick had insisted that the three children — 
 after all they had had to bring Basil — should sit in 
 the front. As she circled the room Illona could see 
 Dickie"'s wide eyes and open mouth. He looked, she 
 thought, as if he would like to eat her. He reminded her 
 of somebody, of something. Once when her steps took 
 her near him she caught his glance and smiled kindly ; he 
 blushed and looked away. She thought him an adorable 
 little boy, and Mary who had seen her smile wondered 
 how so nice a girl could be doing such unimportant 
 work. 
 
 The dance over, Illona went to her table and sat 
 fanning herself and sipping iced coffee. It was very hot. 
 Dickie was just behind her, and in the glass she could see 
 that he kept turning to look at her and she heard his 
 whispered sentence : " Uncle David, that pretty lady will 
 dance again, won't she ? She's much prettier than any- 
 thing I saw in the pantomime, much. Fd like to watch 
 her for hours and hours." 
 
 Major Warwick was not greatly a man of the woi'ld. 
 His small nephew's so openly expressed admiration made 
 him nervous, shy. " Have another cake, my boy ? " he 
 asked. " No ? Why, you're not half a man. I used to 
 eat twice that number when I was your age. Tell me 
 
 some other things about your school " Illona heard 
 
 no more ; she had to dance again. 
 
 When she came back Dickie was still talking about 
 his school, but it was in relation to his cricket, a game 
 that he loved so much that he failed to notice the return 
 
BITTERSWEET 283 
 
 of the pretty lady to whom just now in his inmost soul 
 he had been vowing a lifelong devotion : 
 
 "... No, the first six balls I didn't get anything, 
 and then I got one for a leg ball ; and then for another 
 four balls I didn't get any, and then I hit a two with a 
 leg ball ; then for another three balls I didn't get any- 
 thing, and then I got out on a straight ball that wasn't 
 pitched up so much. Wasn't it bad luck ? " 
 
 " It was indeed, my boy. I only hope I'll stop in 
 England long enough to see you play. Mary, when did 
 you say Gerard thought his work over here would be 
 finished ? I shouldn't think you'd anyhow want to stop 
 on at St Cloud into the autumn. It must get damp." 
 
 . . . Illona looked again at the boy and caught her 
 breath. So this was Dickie of whom his father loved 
 to talk, and that girl was Vivian, and the baby was 
 Basil ! Of course. She might have known it. How like 
 they were to him ! But Dickie was the most like. He 
 had his father's eyes, and his father's way of holding his 
 head. And that woman was their mother ; she was the 
 mother of Gerard's children, that cold Englishwoman 
 who could never have loved him as she loved him. . . . 
 
 Yes, that boy was Gerard's. And she had longed and 
 had hoped and had prayed to have a son of his, a boy 
 who should be like that, clean and straight and strong, 
 with happy eyes and smiling face, a boy of her very 
 own, who, whatever happened, would recall his father, 
 and who would be for ever a link with those days that 
 had passed at Aix and Le Lavandou and those days 
 in Paris that were passing so quickly. Illona had in 
 her heart of hearts no illusions. Her life, her training. 
 
284 BITTERSWEET 
 
 had almost killed the power of self-deception. She had 
 come to know Gerard, to understand him, but she loved 
 him nevertheless. . . . 
 
 And that boy was Dickie and she could not speak to 
 him ! Oh, how she longed to put her arms round him, 
 to take him to her heart, to talk to him of his pleasures, 
 to talk to him of his father ! All that she could do was 
 to look at his back in the glass, to see where the short 
 light hair grew in tiny curls to his neck, to see his little 
 pink ears, and the fine lines of his shoulders under his 
 black coat and the funny white collar that made him 
 look such a man. What would she not give to call the 
 child her own, or such a child ? But she had ceased to 
 hope. It was her fault surely. And soon, to-morrow, in 
 a month, in a year, her new happiness would pass from 
 her life. 
 
 Gerard should never know that she had seen his 
 children. 
 
 That night Gerard dined at home. His wife, her sister, 
 and his brother-in-law thought very highly of the tango. 
 " My dear, what there is to be shocked at I can't 
 see. They danced so well." The two women gave the 
 man the palm, but Major Warwick was sure that the 
 girl was the better of the two. " You should have seen 
 Dickie : he couldn't keep his eyes off her. You'll have 
 trouble with him, Mary, mark my words," he added. 
 
 " What were they called .'' " Gerard asked more from 
 politeness than for anything else. They could not tell 
 him. They did not know. And they sat on in the garden 
 and talked about dancing and the two boys' future and 
 
BITTERSWEET 285 
 
 what the Warwicks were to do in Paris, until it was 
 time to go to bed. " Gerard has so many late nights 
 in Paris ; he doesn't like to have them here too," Mary 
 explained. 
 
 " Late nights in Paris ! H'm ! I think if I were you 
 I should look into the matter," her brother-in-law said, 
 with a good-humoured laugh. Gerard did not laugh, but 
 he smiled pleasantly and said nothing. He had been 
 vexed at Illona's failure to spend the late afternoon 
 with him. He was not used to such independence on 
 her part, and, being vexed, he had on getting back from 
 lunch sent her a petit hleu to say that he would not be 
 able to see her until the next day, that he must spend 
 the night at home. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 THERE was a letter from Illona waiting for 
 Gerard at his office in the morning. It was 
 short and it was affectionate enough, but it 
 had an unusual air and it asked him after all not to 
 come and fetch her for lunch and not to see her that 
 night. " Fm not doing any harm, mon cheri. You may 
 have confidence in me. I shall go straight home after 
 IVe danced and I want to be alone. I love you more 
 than ever and I'll write and ask you to come to- 
 morrow or next day." 
 
 Gerard did not like the tone of the letter ; he had 
 begun the day with an impatient thought about her 
 and now he shrugged his shoulders. . . . But that mood 
 did not last very long. As the morning drew on he 
 began to fret ; he lunched alone and unhappily ; he 
 spent a depressed afternoon, and going home early 
 he pleaded a sick headache and went to bed. He had 
 not wTitten to Illona, and no sooner did his head 
 touch the pillow than he was ashamed of his own 
 carelessness, his own impatience. But it was too late 
 
 to write now. 
 
 286 
 
BITTERSWEET 287 
 
 Her work at the Philadelphia Palace finished, 
 Illona had been taken home by Monsieur Berger, and 
 had listened to his offer to engage her permanently 
 as his danseuse, and had refused it. Indeed her mind 
 was set on other matters than dancing and she dis- 
 missed him curtly at her door. She went at once to 
 her room, told Jeanne that in no case was she to be 
 disturbed until it was time for her to dress — no, not 
 even if her lover came to see her — locked herself in, 
 flung herself on the bed, hid her face in her pillow and 
 cried and cried, softly at first and then with less 
 restraint, so that her maid, hearing, wondered what had 
 happened and guessed that her mistress had discovered 
 that " ra?iglais "^ was unfaithful. " Oh, tons les hommes 
 sont les rmmes ; que les femmes sont betes de leur dormer 
 leurs coeurs ! " she said — and she had had experience. 
 
 But Illona — no experience would lessen for her the 
 heart-sorrow that she felt. She was like a mother 
 who has lost her child. She had seen that day all the 
 happiness that could never be hers. She bit at the 
 sheets and the tears rolled throuf^-h her fineers. For 
 a while she was as one distraught ; and then she 
 slept. 
 
 That night at the Trianon she reminded her friends 
 of the Illona of a year ago. She danced with her 
 old spirit ; she laughed and drank champagne with all 
 the world ; she raised wild hopes in a dozen breasts. 
 Victor was delighted with her ; but Dedie knew better 
 than to believe that all was well with her copine. She 
 smelt trouble, and, like Jeanne, attributed it to some 
 stupidity of her friend's lover. Once or twice she wished 
 
288 BITTERSWEET 
 
 to restrain her in her wilder moments, but Illona shook 
 her off: '"'' Laisse-moi tranquille ; Jiche-moi la paix ! I 
 want to amuse myself, to have a good time to-night. 
 Why not ?" But all the same, when the Trianon closed 
 she went home. Dedie drove with her and was glad that 
 her friend was safe in bed, for she too liked Gerard and 
 did not want anything to happen. 
 
 Illona did not sleep. She tossed from side to side. 
 Something had broken in her heart, she thought. 
 
 In one day more Illona had come to the end of her 
 endurance. She bade Gerard meet her at the Restaurant 
 Ledoyen, and sat there with him under the trees and 
 laughed and denied absolutely that anything had been 
 the matter with her. "No, I just wanted to be alone ; 
 c'est tout; ifs natural. You're not jealous, are you? 
 I told you once before that you don't know how 
 to be jealous. But you needn"'t be, cheri a moi, you 
 needn't be ; Fve done no harm, jg te jure. And here we 
 are together again. Don't I laugh enough ? " She had 
 chosen Ledoyen because it had no corners, because they 
 could be seen by everyone. She could not allow herself 
 to cry. 
 
 " Dis, Gerard : doesn't your boy, the oldest one, 
 doesn't he miss his English games ? But he's only a 
 baby. He can't play cricket, can he ? He's so young. 
 What does he do ? " 
 
 Gerard explained that Dickie was not too young to 
 play cricket, and that he regretted the game all day 
 long, regretted it even when he was drinking grenadine 
 in the park at St Cloud ; and he explained how 
 
BITTERSWEET 289 
 
 very little boys are taught games in England, that in 
 many ways their cricket and football are the two most 
 important items in their preparatory school education, 
 and so on ; and then he had to explain what a prepara- 
 tory school was. " Hell be going to a real school by 
 and by, of course." 
 
 " What school ? All that interests me, Gerard. Eton 
 or Harrow?" Illona had heard a great deal about 
 Eton and Harrow from the Englishmen she had known, 
 young men at the Embassy, officers in the Guards : 
 Chisholm had been at Eton and had continually assured 
 her that Harrow was inferior. 
 
 Gerard laughed : " You are rather odd, nion enfant. 
 No, he won't go either to Eton or to Harrow. There are 
 other schools, yoa know ! I did put him down for a 
 house at Harrow — but I've changed my mind. He's 
 going to Charterhouse." 
 
 " But why ? I thought that a gentleman's son had to 
 go to Eton or Harrow. I'm sure it's true. No, don't 
 laugh, Gerard ; I'm not a fool. I've often talked about 
 schools in England ; they are not so very good, any of 
 them, I think, but those are far the best, now aren't 
 they.?" 
 
 " Yes, they're supposed to be the best, but they are 
 not so much the best that one need worry if one's son 
 goes to Charterhouse or to one of a score of others. 
 There's Winchester for instance." He smiled. 
 
 " But if they're best why don't you send him to one 
 or other of them ? " 
 
 " Oh, for all sorts of reasons. If you want to know 
 the truth it's because I've got to think of two boys, and 
 
 19 
 
290 BITTERSWEET 
 
 I can't afford to send them both to Harrow. It would 
 
 make a good deal of diiference." 
 
 " How much difference ? " 
 
 " Two or three thousand francs a year each, I dare 
 say. But I don't care. In many ways Charterhouse will 
 suit Dickie much better than Harrow," 
 
 Illona was not convinced. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 THEIR meal finished they drove together as 
 far as the corner of the Boulevard de la 
 Madeleine and the rue Cambon, and there 
 Gerard alighted. He was well satisfied. It was true that 
 lUona had not been very gay, had been, indeed, 
 unusually preoccupied, but now certainly his little 
 resentment was dead. He was to see her again that 
 evening. 
 
 Illona's taxi pursued its way eastward ; there was 
 much traffic and it went slowly. Suddenly she heard 
 her name called. A long, low, grey racing car, wicked 
 in its lines, had come up beside them ; its owner was 
 driving it himself and he had so manoeuvred as to be 
 able to talk to the girl as they proceeded. " Well, 
 Illona, what are you doing ? I bet you've been 
 lunching with that Englishman of yours. He's too old, 
 my dear, and rather a dull dog. Why won't you ever 
 lunch with me nowadays ? You haven't given me an hour 
 since we went to Versailles. It isn't very nice of you." 
 
 The Due de Villanera certainly had many of the 
 qualities that Gerard lacked. He was youthful and slim 
 and he had that unusual air of extreme smartness that 
 
292 BITTERSWEET 
 
 the London tailor achieves always for the young 
 Italian. His hair was brushed back, in his buttonhole 
 was a carnation of exactly the right shade of colour to 
 go with his brown suit ; he drove as if his car was a 
 living thing, with seeming carelessness but with admir- 
 able skill ; he was, in fact, the embodiment of Latin 
 elegance. Illona and he had been great friends. She 
 had liked him for a dozen reasons : he was rich and 
 heedless, a perfect dancer, gay and always amusing, and 
 above all, his car had been at her disposal whenever he 
 was in Paris. She looked at him now rather moodily. 
 
 " What you think of my Englishman, as you call 
 him, doesn't interest me, Paul. Why haven't I lunched 
 with you ? I don't know. . . . That's not your old car." 
 
 " It's not ; I only got it last week. Isn't it a beauty ? 
 Get out of that thing of yours and come for a spin. 
 I've nothing to do. We might go out to St Cloud for 
 tea. Come along. You owe me some kindness — and I'll 
 never tell him ; oh, and I'll be very good too ! " 
 
 " No thanks ; I'm not going to drive with you. But 
 I tell you what ! You say you've nothing to do. You 
 get out and lend me the car for a couple of hours or so. 
 The chauffeur can drive till we get outside Paris and 
 then I'll drive myself, eh ? " 
 
 Paul Villanera made a wry face. " Oh, you can drive, 
 if you like ; I always say you drive as well as you dance, 
 or would if you had enough practice. But what do you 
 want to go alone for ? What's the matter with me ? " 
 
 "Nothing, my dear. I'm very fond of you, tu sais 
 bien^ but I j ust don't want your company to-day ; I want 
 to be alone ; and I want to go fast, as fast as I can. I 
 
 i 
 
BITTERSWEET 293 
 
 want to think, and you don't assist thought, Paul. Here, 
 pull up ! You shall drive me home first as a treat. I 
 can't go as I am." 
 
 Illona, when they reached her door, refused to let 
 Paul Villanera get out of the car. " No, wait for me. 
 ... I know that, my dear, but je ne iwux pas ! You are 
 too enterprising. I shall be down again in two seconds." 
 
 " I haven't been long, have I ? " she asked, having 
 extended her two seconds into twenty minutes. " Well, 
 I'm sorry, na ! Give the chauffeur the wheel and come 
 and sit here, and I'll let him drive you home first." 
 
 " But I don't want to go home. I don't know where 
 I do want to go. Oh, very well ; I'll go home. I do look 
 tired, I suppose." 
 
 When, having dropped the car's owner, they were at 
 last outside the gates and in the Bois, Illona and the 
 chauffeur changed places. It was true : she did know 
 how to drive, and it was so long since she had driven 
 that at any other time she would have taken delight in 
 her charge. But to-day, save for a certain satisfaction 
 in extending the machine to the limit of safety, she 
 thought very little of the car. Her brain was working 
 too hard. Try as she would to press down the thoughts 
 and doubts and questions that arose she failed dismally. 
 Speed and the necessity of prudence, the singleness of 
 purpose that driving demanded, helped her a little ; but 
 all the time care sat by her side, and anxiety, indefinable 
 but insistent. 
 
 Ever since she had seen Gerard's children her mood 
 had altered. Her love for him had not lessened, but it 
 
294 BITTERSWEET 
 
 had suffered a change. The passionate jealousy that they 
 were another woman's and not hers had almost left her. 
 Long ago she had ceased actively to resent the absence 
 from her life of just those things which alone would 
 have promised her happiness for the years that were to 
 come. Long ago she had become reconciled to the know- 
 ledge that nothing of good in her life, neither love nor 
 joy nor comfort nor success, could be other than fleeting 
 companions. Never until she had seen Gerard had she 
 known what love really was ; never had she known 
 content and happiness. Now she saw that both were to 
 be taken from her even more quickly than she had feared. 
 All the doubts that vaguely filled her head after the 
 dance at the Philadelphia Palace had come back to 
 her with quadrupled force since her conversation with 
 Gerard of an hour ago. Before that she had thought, 
 when she had seen his children, of how much he must 
 mean to them, how necessary he must be, and, vaguely, 
 of the way in which she was taking him from them. 
 About what she was doing to his wife she troubled not 
 at all. A woman was a fool who could not keep her man. 
 She had looked for one second at Mary Blundell, had 
 seen the manner of woman she was, and pitied and re- 
 sented her — that was enough. She had borne Gerard's 
 childi'en, and Illona hated her and tried to forget 
 her existence. But the children : they were so dear, so 
 like Gerard, especially the boys ; her heart yearned for 
 them. Always she had longed for children of her own, 
 and these seemed to her a little her own — and yet she 
 could not claim them ; it was likely she would never see 
 them again. 
 
BITTERSWEET 295 
 
 Dickie it was who most had won her heart. He, she 
 thought, was quite absurdly hke his father; he had 
 nothing from his mother ; so even he might have looked 
 if in fact he had been her child, her own and Gerard's ; 
 so she would have wished him to look. And it was 
 Dickie now who gave her the miserable fears that she 
 could not repress. 
 
 Illona had thought Gerard Blundell sufficiently rich. 
 She had taken it for granted that, like so many other 
 men she had met, men who had courted her and whom 
 she had rejected, but whose affairs she knew, he was 
 rich enough for all ordinary purposes. Poor men, or 
 men who had to think before they spent a thousand 
 francs, had not come very much into her world ; she had 
 not encouraged them. She liked her admirers to have 
 well-lined pockets, or to seem to have them ; she liked 
 to see them spend money, to make them spend it indeed. 
 It was a sign of her power : it amused her. And if she 
 had not made Gerard spend it was not because she 
 thought that he was not rich, but because he was not 
 like the others, because she loved him and wished now 
 to protect him a little : he was her own, and she did 
 not play with him. 
 
 Now suddenly she had discovered that he was far 
 from being wealthy, that he had indeed not enough 
 money to keep him from care, to provide him with 
 what she had always supposed were for a man of his 
 class the essentials of his life. His sons were to go to 
 a school less expensive than Harrow or Eton because he 
 could not afford the extra cost. Six or seven thousand 
 francs ! Already she had spent from his pocket more 
 
296 BITTERSWEET 
 
 than that sum in the last two months. And what had 
 she to show for it ? Nothing almost. No longer did her 
 creditors render her life so miserable, but that was all, 
 and it accounted for no more than a half of what he 
 had given her. In some things Illona was methodical. 
 She had recently started to keep an account of what 
 she made in her work and of what Gerard gave her ; 
 and, more roughly, of the way in which she spent it. 
 How many hundreds of francs she had thrown away, 
 lending or giving them to the girls at the Esqueline, 
 squandering them on flowers to give a moment's pleasure 
 to the woman who was selling them, or on sweets ! Now 
 other debts would be falling due almost at once, and 
 in a few days there would be her rent again and her 
 mother's, Gerai'd would have to give her more, much 
 more, and always he would have to give her money while 
 she remained as devoted to him as she was now. For in 
 these days it was as it had been through the winter, 
 although with a difference. Now she made hardly a 
 third of what had been her income a year ago, before 
 she went to Aix. With Gerard's return her gaiety had 
 come back and her health, but her easiness had not 
 returned with them. So many men disgusted her, so 
 many things — men and things that a year ago she took 
 as all in the night's work. Nor could she bring herself 
 nowadays to ask for money. A man would dance with 
 her or call her to his table. If he gave her a louis or 
 two or five, good ; if not, taut pis ! 
 
 Indeed her character was altering. Gerard un- 
 wittingly had taught her much, and, loving and 
 respecting her, had taught her also to respect herself 
 
BITTERSWEET 297 
 
 more than she had ever done before. What she had 
 come to look upon as the ordinary technique of her 
 Hfe was now repugnant to her. Sometimes even it had 
 been on the tip of her tongue to ask him to let her 
 cease working, but then she would remember that it 
 would mean that she would almost have to relinquish 
 dancing too. She loved dancing so much. In the 
 old days the dancing gave her pleasure, but so did it 
 give her pleasure to make fools of men, to make them 
 pay for their stupidities and their caprices. Among 
 her comrades her ability to get money, much money, 
 out of the meanest men had become a byword. If 
 Dedie, or Angele, or Carmen failed, sometimes they 
 would appeal to her for assistance. She looked upon 
 such episodes as games of skill. She matched her 
 brains and her wit against the men who came and it 
 was a sad day when she did not emerge victorious. 
 She had become a connoisseur of men, a rare judge 
 of their capacities for meanness and generosity. There 
 was no end to her cunning ; her devices were never 
 exhausted. Sometimes, if everything else had failed, 
 she would produce a louis and suggest playing heads 
 or tails. " Fcxe " the victim would say ; it was 'pile and 
 Illona was a louis the richer, or it was face and she 
 pushed a louis across the table with a pout. Naturally 
 it would be refused, and they would play again : it 
 was inevitable that she should win ! For every type a 
 different method. Englishmen were the least difficult 
 as in effect they were the most generous. " Ifs the 
 fete of St Joachim to-day ; give me a louis or you'll 
 have no luck till the year's over." That was the 
 
298 BITTERSWEET 
 
 ^simplest of her contrivances. Or the unwary German 
 would call her to his table. Nothing loth she would 
 sit down and amuse him for ten minutes, and then, if 
 he showed no signs of generosity, she would fix her eyes 
 on his shirt studs or his cuff-links : " Comme Us sont 
 
 joUs ! "" she would say ; " I should like those ; they are 
 just what I want for my new corsage." And generally 
 she would get them — especially if the man had com- 
 panions befoi'e whom he did not wish to appear mean. 
 Such considerations she knew how to turn to account. 
 The whole thing became a game that she played far 
 more for the sake of playing it than for the actual 
 money it brought her. The louis once in her hand she 
 as often as not lost it or gave it to her less clever sisters ; 
 the links or the studs she would keep for a few days — 
 and then forget or give them to some musician who had 
 done her a good turn. Men appeared to her to be 
 fools and worse. It was a delight to her to feel she was 
 getting a little even with them. Fiercely she resented, 
 had always resented, that she was a plaything for any 
 man who cared to spend a few louis on his evening's 
 amusement. She saw her life as it was, without illusion. 
 When it was possible to make men pay heavily she smiled 
 with satisfaction ; she would make them spend money 
 just for the fun of it. Always, for instance, she would 
 finish her supper with a demand for cigarettes. Her host 
 would offer his case. She would look at its contents 
 suspiciously : " No, no, je veiuc les Royal Derby ^ moi^'' 
 naming the cigarettes which were the most costly in the 
 house. And in a minute or two, when she had left the 
 table, her host would see that she had given the ten- 
 
BITTERSWEET 299 
 
 franc box to the negro singer or the Spanish male dancer. 
 It was no use with Illona to plead that von had no 
 money : she would point out that a cheque would do. . . . 
 And at the back of everything she did was a passionate 
 dislike of men, and an eager desire to punish them. 
 There were exceptions of course ; she had her friends, 
 her favourites, young men who danced well, old men who, 
 like Metivet, had kind hearts and amusing faces and who 
 would treat her like a daughter. Perhaps she disliked 
 women even more, the women who came with their 
 husbands and who looked at her and spoke to one another 
 about her and smiled patronisingly and sometimes offered 
 her five francs. When the husband of such a one came 
 back alone on the next night — as he so often did — she 
 took good care that he went home with empty pockets. 
 But now all this cunning was half abandoned, and if 
 half-heartedly exercised was far less effective than it 
 had been. For nearly a year Illona had carried the 
 memory of Gerard in her heart, and, while the thought 
 of him and of his neglect of her through autumn and 
 winter had fed her resentment, yet she had never found 
 it possible to drift back into her old easy habits, and 
 even her dancing meant less to her. AVhen she danced 
 she gave herself to her partner and since Aix she had 
 nothing to give : all was for Gerard. She had no 
 thought for anyone else. Her little excursions with 
 Villanera and his like were experiments, and they were 
 not successful. . . . 
 
 As she drove Illona thought of all these things 
 and of the past and of the future. The past was her 
 
3O0 BITTERSWEET 
 
 own ; no one could take it away from her, not Gerard 
 himself, nor his wife. The future — it was of the future 
 that she thought most. If what he had told her was 
 true — and she knew that it was — then surely she was 
 hurting Gerard's life, hurting his children whom she 
 loved, standing between them and their happiness and 
 the full lives he had planned for them. What should 
 she, what could she, do ? Her duty was clear ; it had 
 seized her by the throat ; it was because of its clearness 
 that now she was driving like a fool in the quiet ways 
 of the Bois, risking her life— and her friend's car, she 
 smiled to remember. If only she could escape from her 
 duty, escape from the knowledge of it, evade it even. 
 But she was no fool. She had to give Gerard up. She 
 knew it. 
 
 How could she, though.? She had to give him up 
 because she loved him, and she could not give him up 
 because she loved him. If she left him now, fled from 
 him, he would never know the reason ; he would think 
 always that she was unworthy of him, that she had 
 found another lover, that she had tired of him, of his 
 caresses, his words, his tender thought. That she 
 could not face. He must never believe her unfaithful 
 to him ; he must never suspect that, after all, the months 
 of happiness they had had together were false. She 
 had determined already that she would in some way 
 put an end to everything that was between them — of 
 that she was sure — but she must protect the past ; she 
 must contrive a separation that would leave his early 
 memories of her unspoiled. He loved her, she knew ; 
 he should cease to love her, but he should still love 
 
BITTERSWEET 301 
 
 the Illona of Aix, of Talloires, of Le Lavandou. 
 She must cure him of his present love ; gradually she 
 must wear it down ; she would so manage that he 
 would leave her because she was altering, had altered 
 from the girl he had made his own. He should go 
 away content, satisfied, without regret, and yet without 
 thinking badly of her, without really losing his faith. 
 
 Suddenly she turned the car, too suddenly : almost 
 she wrecked it. Then she tore back through the Bois 
 and by the Boulevard de Clichy to her home. She had 
 made up her mind. Nothing should shake it. A little 
 happiness she was still to have ; she would count every 
 minute of it, and press it to her heart. But all the 
 time she would be undermining her lover's patience. 
 He should come to feel that for both of them the end 
 of happiness was being reached. The break should be 
 his. All that troubled him now she must repeat and 
 increase. Better that he should lose patience and money, 
 and that his present love for her should change and 
 lessen, than that she should harm for ever his life and 
 his sons'' lives. She loved him too deeply, too sincerely. 
 Better perhaps it would be that she should die ; and she 
 had thought of that way out — but she knew that she 
 had not the courage. No, it was simple, the plan she 
 had formed : Gerard should be sure that the Illona 
 he met in Aix was the true Illona and that for a 
 little while she had been worthy of all his love, but 
 he should be sure too that in those happy months had 
 flamed up the last heat of her real character but that 
 she had been too long in her world to recapture per- 
 manently her young simplicity. 
 
BOOK III 
 
 . . . tout lasse. 
 
n 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 " 'l^ /f^ dear Gerard, there are some things I do 
 I ^L/ g understand : woman is one of them — no, 
 -^ ▼ A that's ridiculous ; you can't understand 
 women, but you can understand the right way to treat 
 women, and that is what I claim to have mastered. I 
 give you my word that I'm ashamed of myself when I 
 have to appear before Sam Evans and plead the case 
 of a woman. No, it doesn't matter a damn whether 
 she's the offender or the poor victim, she's almost always 
 in the wrong ; she's generally not played fair. Women 
 would be all very well if one kept them in their place — 
 but that's impossible nowadays. You know that stuff' 
 of Coventry Patmore's : ' Ah, wasteful woman, she who 
 may on her sweet self set her own price ' ? 1 don't think 
 I ever read the whole poem and perhaps he draws some 
 other moral when he gets to the end, but he's right 
 enough at the beginning. Woman sets her own price 
 on what she's got to sell — and she gets it. It's not our 
 fault that every now and then she makes a bad bargain. 
 My point though is that she drives her bargains with 
 her eyes open — and makes a fuss afterwards. She's not 
 a gentleman ; she hasn't the sporting instinct ; she's 
 
 305 20 
 
3o6 BITTERSWEET 
 
 deceptive through and through. Oh yes, you may say 
 ifs the result of ages or of the way she's been brought 
 up. I dare say : I only deal with the facts. She doesn't 
 play the game. Your badly treated little woman is also 
 practically always a perfect little devil. Mild — oh yes, 
 but you don't have to raise Cain to be a devil. No, 
 Gerard, don't talk to me about women : they're an 
 imposition, a fraud. Your conception of women, every- 
 one's conception, is dictated by them : it's a graceful 
 fiction." 
 
 It was Gervase Blundell who held these extreme 
 views and he was expounding them to his elder brother. 
 He had arrived in Paris without giving any notice and 
 had descended on the rue Cambon and had told Gerard 
 that he must come to dine that night at Paillard's : " We 
 see too little of one another, old chap, and I've got 
 a lot to talk to you about." Gerard was enjoying his 
 dinner but he had long ago grown tired of hearing 
 Gervase's views about women. He remonstrated gently 
 and Gervase started again : 
 
 " Yes, of course ; I know : you're married — we'll 
 come to that directly. Incidentally it puts you out of 
 court. Marriage is one of the ways in which women 
 tie men up, so that they are absolutely prevented from 
 telling the truth. Anything one says about women 
 that isn't entirely complimentary might be considered 
 a reflection on one's wife — so one must keep quiet. If 
 one is not married they remind one that one has got, 
 or that one had, a mother. Well, I'm not married 
 nowadays and I never remember seeing my mother, 
 so every now and then I choose to tell the truth. I 
 
■ BITTERSWEET 307 
 
 know a great deal about wives, and something about 
 mothers. I never met a wife whose first move if she 
 met a pleasant man was not to get him to sympathise 
 with her ; and as for mothers — well, I can tell you that 
 a mother's love is not all that it's cracked up to be. 
 But I didn't get you to come here to tell you my views 
 about women : you know them already. What I wanted 
 to talk to you about was the way in which you're 
 behaving. Do you know, old chap, you're getting talked 
 about and you're running a considerable risk ? " 
 
 " Whatever do you mean, Gervase ? " Gerard felt 
 staggered at this sudden attack. It could only point 
 to one thing, and he was absolutely unprepared. He 
 put however a bold face on it. 
 
 " I mean, my dear boy, that you can't spend night 
 after night going about Paris with a dancer from the 
 Trianon, you can't allow yourself to be described in 
 that world as her lover, without its getting back to 
 London." 
 "Well?" 
 
 " As a matter of fact I saw it all with those very 
 eyes before I heard a word about it. I was over here a 
 week ago — just for a couple of nights — and I went into 
 the Esqueline — that's the name of the place, isn't it ? — 
 and found you there. You didn't see me : your back 
 was turned to the door ; but I saw you and I wondered 
 what you were doing in that galley, and I came out 
 rather than embarrass you and didn't think much more 
 about it. But the next day going back in the train I 
 met young Walker of the Embassy. He dotted the i's 
 for me. No, he didn't say much — incidentally he hadn't 
 
308 BITTERSWEET 
 
 heard you were married — but I'm not a fool and I know 
 
 what you are doing as well as if I were doing it myself." 
 
 Here, before him and not to be evaded, was a position 
 which Gerard had never contemplated. That he might 
 be seen by people who would recognise him he had known 
 was possible but he had hoped that it was unlikely. He 
 had gambled on that chance, and, very clearly, he had 
 lost. " Well ? " he asked again. " Certainly, my dear 
 Gervase, you do seem to know a great deal about my 
 movements. And then ? " 
 
 " There isn't any ' and then ? ^ about it, Gerard ! You 
 are not like me : you are domestic and devoted to your 
 wife and family and all that sort of thing. I drew a 
 blank ; you didn't : Mary's a good sort. Really, you 
 know, she doesn't deserve that you should play her this 
 kind of trick. Why the devil you're doing it I can't 
 think. You've got your children to consider. I don't 
 see much of you and Mary nowadays, but I'm pretty 
 sure she wouldn't put up with what you're doing if she 
 found out — and I'm quite sure that she's never given 
 you any excuse " 
 
 " She hasn't : you're right there." 
 
 " Of course. But she might divorce you and you 
 wouldn't like that, and it wouldn't be good for Vivian 
 and her brothers. So do pull up. You're too old to 
 start sowing your wild oats. I suppose you've been so 
 jolly respectable all your life that you're breaking out 
 now. However, I'm quite serious, Gerard. I came over 
 on purpose. No, not altogether disinterestedly — it 
 wouldn't be good for me if there was a second 
 Blundell scandal. I didn't see the girl you were with 
 
BITTERSWEET 309 
 
 the other night — but I don't suppose youVe in love, 
 are you ? " 
 
 Gerard looked at his brother and Gervase looked at 
 some old brandy he was drinking and at the ash of his 
 cigar. There was a minute's silence, and then Gerard 
 answered : 
 
 " 111 be quite frank with you, Gervase. At present 
 I feel that if there's a scandal I can't help it. But there 
 won't be, I am what you'd call ' in love.' I can't help 
 that either." 
 
 " In love with a dancer from the Trianon ? " 
 
 " Certainly. Why not .'' There are dancers and 
 dancers. But we won't talk of that if you don't mind. 
 I'm in love, or I love very much — you can put it either 
 way." 
 
 " I suppose you think she's in love with you." 
 
 " I don't think, Gervase ; I know. With your beastly 
 cynical and rotten way of looking at women you 
 wouldn't believe it — but it doesn't matter whether you 
 believe it or not : it's true." 
 
 " And I suppose she costs you a lot — eh ? " 
 
 " No, she does not cost me a lot." 
 
 " I admire your evasion of my question, Gerard, and 
 after all it isn't my business. But do I understand that 
 you're willing to be divorced for her and lose your 
 children for her and marry her ? " 
 
 " No, I am not willing to be divorced for her. I don't 
 love Mary any the less because of this affair. Frankly, 
 that's one of the odd things about it. I don't altoirether 
 understand myself. And I certainly am not willing 
 to lose my children for her. And as for marrying — 
 
3IO BITTERSWEET 
 
 well, I never considered marriage in connection with her 
 
 because it was out of the question any way; but if I 
 
 were free I don't suppose I'd be able to help marrying 
 
 her." 
 
 " And you won't give her up — for Mary's sake and 
 the children's ? " 
 
 " No, I won't give her up, Gervase : I couldn't. Per- 
 haps she'll give me up some day but I couldn't give her 
 up. She depends on me — and I depend on her too. I 
 tried once and it didn't work. It's an accident that she's 
 a dancer " 
 
 " It always is, my dear Gerard ; but don't let's talk 
 any more about it. I've done my duty in warning you. 
 And to-morrow I shall go back to London. I wish you 
 well out of it all. . . . And now as it's only nine 
 o'clock you'd better take me somewhere that'll amuse 
 me for a couple of hours or so. What about the Grand 
 Guignol — or, if it's fine enough, the Ambassadeurs ? At 
 midnight you'll be free to go home — but you won't go ! " 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 IT is presumably a question of mood and of tempera- 
 ment. There are men to whom Gerard's manner 
 of life would be quite incomprehensible. To each 
 his folly. They would pardon no doubt his first devia- 
 tion from what is considered the moral norm, but they 
 would describe his abandonment to happiness in Aix 
 and in Provence as an idiocy, and they would have no 
 words for his stupidity in walking again with open 
 eyes into the entanglement from which circumstance had 
 apparently freed him. The truth is that Gerard did not 
 stop to think, could not stop indeed. Vaguely he knew 
 that to continue in this way of life was impossible, that 
 somewhere, some time, something would crack. But for 
 the present he was in love and enslaved, enslaved by 
 passion and follv, and what would happen next week or 
 next month or next year he did not pause to consider. 
 To Mary and the children he tried to be fair : he did 
 not neglect them ; Mary did not need deceiving : she 
 deceived herself. Such preoccupations as he allowed 
 himself were not concerned with the household at St 
 Cloud but with money. He was spending ever so much 
 too much. He determined that this should not continue. 
 
312 BITTERSWEET 
 
 He would stop it, if not to-day then soon. And in the 
 meantime it was a considerable consolation to remember 
 that he had had no period of extravagance in his youth, 
 that he had been sobriety and respectability personified, 
 and that, after all, he was not, not yet at least, actually 
 embarrassing himself financially by what he was doing. 
 In fact with regard to the present his eyes were open, 
 and the future he refused to take into account. Things 
 would surely come right. 
 
 Of course he was worried that his brother should have 
 heard of his infatuation. That he should know of it was 
 bad enough, but that he should have heard of it was 
 worse. But perhaps it was natural that Gervase should 
 have heard of it just because he was his brother: for 
 other people he had no particular interest ; he was just 
 one of several thousands of Englishmen in Paris with 
 names that meant nothing very much to people who 
 heard them. He had not any distinctions that made 
 it likely that he would be talked about — and at the 
 worst there were very few people who could talk. He 
 had long ago realised that the world that frequents 
 Montmartre is not a big one. After all, vice has not 
 so many votaries. One sees again and again the same 
 people, the same men and women at Fysher''s and 
 Delmas', at the Trianon and the Abbaye, at Aix 
 and at the races, and by now most of them would know 
 him by sight ; but they had their own preoccupations 
 and it was certain that they would not have enough 
 curiosity about him to inquire into his identity or 
 to discuss his behaviour. It was a small circle, an 
 intimate circle, and although now and again a strange 
 
BITTERSWEET 313 
 
 Englishman drifted through it, he did not stop long 
 enough to be dangerous. 
 
 Gervase Blundell had proved right : his brother had 
 not gone home. 
 
 The low ceiling of the narrow small room at the 
 Esqueline sent back the acrid heat in waves ; it was 
 four in the morning. An undersized Italian was singing 
 a sentimental ballad with all the airs of a favourite of 
 grand opera to an audience that paid no attention to 
 his efforts. Why should they indeed ? He did not sing 
 well, and his predatory eyes were already wondering to 
 what fools he could sell the little printed sheet of his 
 music at a price one hundredfold what it cost him. Not 
 many fools came to the Esqueline but those that did 
 come were fair game. 
 
 It was a strano;e crowd. It sat round the room in 
 couples, drinking champagne and here and there staying 
 its appetite with poached eggs floating in consomme. 
 Most of the women looked as if they never went to bed, 
 their companions as if dissipation were the business of 
 their lives. If one wished to see this gay world as it 
 was when it was not posturing for the amusement of 
 the money-bringing visitor, the Esqueline was the very 
 place. . . . 
 
 Suddenly the little Italian ceased and in place of his 
 indifferent notes a divine voice floated into the room. 
 " That's Sammarcagno, Gerard," Illona said, and ex- 
 plained that Sammarcagno was a star of opera. The 
 singer was amusing himself. The song was one of his 
 own favourites and he could not resist the pleasure of 
 
314 BITTERSWEET 
 
 startling the air with the beauty which was at his com- 
 mand. The room stilled — for a minute. Only one 
 stanza would the. singer give, and when it was over 
 everyone took up his affairs, his conversation, just 
 where he had dropped them, as if such episodes were 
 of everyday occurrence — as indeed, in one shape or 
 another, they were. 
 
 At one of the tables sat Fleurette Mayer with a 
 young Frenchman. She looked sad and had moreover a 
 bemused air. " That's ether,'' Illona said ; " she'll finish 
 herself one day with it." 
 
 " Illona, I don't like her." 
 
 "That's a pity, my dear: / like her though, and 
 perhaps that's enough. She's a good sort when she's 
 not fighting, and she's generous — she can afford to be, 
 you know. Did you ever hear how she began to be 
 rich .'' It's amusing. It was two years ago. We were 
 all here and it was nearly five o'clock. Jacques Mayer 
 was sitting over there in the corner with a crowd 
 of boys — men, I mean" — she clapped her hand to 
 her mouth and looked comically ashamed — " and two 
 or three girls. Fleurette was a poor little shrimp 
 then, pretty if you will, but very good in her air, and 
 she and Ferrat and I were quite close : we could hear 
 everything that was said — and it wasn't very nice, I 
 can tell you, most of it. After a while Mayer, who 
 was a little drunk, got up and stretched himself and 
 said he was going home, that he was tired. ' But I 
 won't go home alone,' he said ; ' isn't there some nice 
 girl here that I don't know already who'll go home 
 with me .'' ' At that Ferrat nudged Fleurette and 
 
BITTERSWEET 315 
 
 whispered : ' Quick, there's your chance ! Offer your- 
 self. But when the morning comes and he wants to 
 give you money don't take it : say you went with him 
 because you liked him. Tu verras ! It's young Mayer. 
 Now quick and be careful.' Fleurette, whose air of 
 goodness was not very serious, jumped up in a moment 
 and ran across to Mayer — you know who the Mayers 
 are ? — and took him by the arm and looked up into his 
 eyes. I could have laughed. She had the appearance of 
 a young girl who had never seen a man before. ' Who's 
 this ? ' Mayer said rather drunkenly ; ' why it's that 
 little girl from the other side of the room. You want 
 to come with me ? Bien. You'll do as well as another. 
 Viens vite!'' and in a minute they were gone. Well, 
 everything came about as Ferrat had planned. Mayer 
 produced a thousand francs, Fleurette told her, and 
 although she hadn't a dress to her back and owed for 
 her rent she had the intelligence to remember what 
 Ferrat had said and refused to take them. She pre- 
 tended that she had always loved him, and so on. 
 Well, he wasn't used to girls who refused money like 
 that, and he believed her, and afterwards he bought her 
 a house and an automobile and he kept her and actually 
 fell in love with her. There wasn't any secret about it. 
 Then his family got frightened and made him marry 
 someone in his own class quickly, but before that 
 happened he gave her an income of thirty thousand 
 francs a year for her life, so that he could be sure she 
 wouldn't need for anything." 
 
 " And who's she with now ? That Frenchman I mean. 
 Is he Mayer's successor ? " 
 
3i6 BITTERSWEET 
 
 " Oh no, my dear : thafs some miche. Since Mayer's 
 time she's been in love — with an Argentine boy ; really 
 a boy this time. But she has no chance, cette pauvre 
 fille. He was actually going to marry her; he had 
 first to get his parents' consent though, so he went off 
 to Buenos Ayres and told her to follow by the next 
 boat. She did follow, and when she got there the 
 police wouldn't let her off the boat. They just sent her 
 back. You see, the boy's father was a highly placed 
 personage and he wasn't going to have his son marry 
 that way, and he arranged things so that they didn't 
 let her land. Poor Fleurette ! " 
 
 " She soon got over it, I expect." 
 
 " No, my dear ; she never will get over it. A woman 
 like that is so disillusioned, so disgusted with men, that 
 if she does fall in love the man is an idol for her. But 
 if he deceives her everything is finished for ever. That's 
 what has happened to Fleurette." 
 
 " Well, I don't like her all the same. Look at the way 
 she behaved the other night — and you say she's always 
 drunk with cocaine or ether." 
 
 " Oh, that fight with Magda. That's nothing. They 
 all fight ; I fight myself sometimes, hi sais. And as for 
 her cocaine, how can she help that ? Her mother takes 
 ether ; that's how she learned ; she began as a child 
 almost. When she was with Mayer, and afterwards with 
 her Argentine, she didn't take it much, but since she 
 came back she's got worse and worse." 
 
 " What'll happen to her ? " 
 
 " Heaven knows. She spends too much money and 
 she doesn't make much, and in spite of her 7-ente she'll 
 
BITTERSWEET 317 
 
 get into trouble, pauvre gosse. I was with her yesterday 
 for lunch and it wasn't amusing." 
 
 " Illona " 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " Illona, how can you be friends with a girl like that ? 
 She doesn't even dance. She doesn't even pretend to do 
 any decent work for her living ; she never did dance, 
 you say ; she's just a " He paused. 
 
 " Oh, I could find you the word, my dear. You're 
 right, but what would you ? She never had a chance. 
 And she's brave and generous and — yes — good in her 
 way. If Mayer had married her, or that Argentine, I 
 think she might have made a good wife — as good as 
 most women do anyhow. All that's too late now. Some 
 day she'll take too much ether by accident or on 
 purpose, and that'll be the end." 
 
 " But why should you be friends with her .? Why do 
 you go and see her .'* I always thought that you kept 
 yourself a little apart from these women who are like 
 Fleurette and live on men." 
 
 Illona's eyes grew even more serious than was their 
 wont. She waited before she answered : " Gerard, you 
 think too much of me ; you believe in me too much. 
 Je ne suis pas grand'' chose, men. I'm not so very 
 different after all from Fleurette, or from any of these 
 girls. All fond I make my money in just the same way, 
 only I'm more careful and less generous." 
 
 " Don't say that, Illona — and it isn't true. And if it's 
 true it's true also of every woman who dances and acts 
 in musical comedy and things like that both here and 
 in London." 
 
3i8 BITTERSWEET 
 
 •' YouVe becoming too clever for me, dear, and 
 anyhow fa ne me regarde pas. But you mustn't believe 
 me better than I am. I don't give men all they want, 
 but I give them just enough to get money out of them. 
 If I don't sell myself it isn't because I'm better than 
 Fleurette — no." 
 
 " You wrong yourself, Illona, and you only say that 
 because you wish to vex me and because you're depressed 
 to-night for some reason." 
 
 " No, I mean it all. You've seen me. You remember 
 how I was with you when you came first to the 
 Piccadilly. That's my life. Everyone in Paris knows it 
 is. I do it better than the others, that's all — or I did 
 do it better, for you have altered me a little, Gerard, 
 tu sais bien.^'' 
 
 Gerard took her hand and pressed it : " Illona, I wish 
 I could alter it all." 
 
 " You can't, dear ; I know it well. But I want you to 
 be more with me. After all, I don't want to prevent 
 your coming to see me dance. I was silly at Aix. You're 
 my lover ; you have the right. Pauvre chou, it must be 
 dull for you hanging about Montmartre till I'm free. 
 Now you can come to the Trianon whenever you like ; 
 I'll try not to do anything that'll make you angry, but 
 anyhow I want you there. And I can sit down and talk 
 to you every now and then." 
 
 Ferrat stopped their conversation. She had drifted 
 into the room and paused for a moment to talk to 
 Edouard, the patron, who had been standing at the 
 door regarding his clients, smiling and rubbing his 
 hands and looking more than ever a respectable 
 
BITTERSWEET 319 
 
 bourgeois, the father of a family. Then she had come 
 to their table, had called for a glass and had helped 
 herself to Gerard's champagne. 
 
 " Bonjour, mes evfants. We'll go now to the Pre- 
 Catalan. It's a lovely morning. Oh no, you don't 
 want to go home. You're becoming too respectable, 
 lUona ; you'll grow fat. That lover of yours will ruin 
 you. I always said he was too old. It'll make him young 
 to see the cows and to drink milk." 
 
 Illona was ready always for any semblance of a lark, 
 and she stilled Gerard's protest even before it was 
 uttered : 
 
 " Good idea ! Gerard, you've never been to the Pre- 
 Catalan except for lunch. I like it ever so much. Come, 
 pay and let's go." 
 
 " No, wait 'arf a mo," Ferrat interrupted. She had 
 once sung in London for a month — at the Coliseum — 
 and she had brought back with her not a word of 
 ordinary English but a good deal of slang, which she 
 used as often wrongly as rightly, and a choice string of 
 oaths which, she explained, had been taught her by 
 that young English actor who had found her her en- 
 gagement and who had been one of the first to recognise 
 her talent. Now she looked in her silk bag and pro- 
 duced a printed leaflet. For a moment she held it in 
 her hand : " You remember Jacqueline, Illona ? You 
 asked about her the other day. I saw her to-night at 
 Gerny's. She's been very ill — you know all about it — 
 and then she went away to Brittany and she's just 
 back ; but she's no use any more, pauvre gosse, and 
 she's starting a shop. She had the sense to save money. 
 
320 BITTERSWEET 
 
 Now listen : ' Aux Fleurs de Provence ' ifs called — she 
 came from Grasse, you know — and it opens to-morrow 
 and weVe to get all our things there : ' manucure, 
 pastiches, parfiimerie, maroquinerie — tout est neiif, tout 
 est frais ! ' It's that place in the rue de Moscou, but 
 she says that she's taken none of their old truck over. 
 Now, Illona, youVe got to bring him to-morrow after- 
 noon and he shall cheer Jacqueline up by buying a lot 
 of things for us both. Listen again : ' Tout le monde 
 voudra projlter de cette aubaine en allant s''approvisionner 
 mi ravissant Magazin de Mademoiselle Jacqueline 
 Vaillant.'' She says: '' un gentil vaporisateur sera offert en 
 prime d tout acheteur de 25 francs ! ' — we'll have at least 
 two of those ! Jacqueline was bonne camarade and she 
 helped everyone, and we must help her — pas ? Now you 
 go and find an auto while I give this to Fleurette. I 
 want all the world to be there to-morrow," And she 
 went off on her ready errand of charity. So here, 
 Gerard thought, was the way in which the girls in this 
 world eked out their livelihood when their youth failed 
 them, when they had come to the end of their power 
 of attraction. In effect, they took in each other's wash- 
 ing, clinging still to the edge of gaiety, but as servants, 
 servers, rather than as principals, priestesses. 
 
 By the time Ferrat came downstairs and rejoined her 
 friends on the pavement she had a middle-aged man 
 in her train, an American of a cheerful countenance 
 whom Illona evidently knew although upstairs she had 
 paid no attention to him : " Hullo, Ferdie, when did 
 you come over ? I thought you were safe in Chicago — 
 
BITTERSWEET 321 
 
 isn't it ? — selling stockings. And that reminds me I 
 
 want some more. I've worn out or given away all those 
 
 six dozen pairs you sent me. One wears stockings out 
 
 quickly when one dances, you know." 
 
 Ferdie smiled : " You shouldn't wear the best grade 
 • . . . 
 
 of our Osiris silk stockings costing five dollars a pair 
 
 except on special occasions, should she, Ferrat ? You 
 shall have some more, all the same. But won't you 
 introduce me to your friend and explain why he's going 
 to be so crowded ? It's Ferrat's fault, and I'll sit with 
 the chauffeur." 
 
 However, they all packed into the taxi and in a 
 minute or two they were running up the Avenue de 
 Villiers. People of the common sort were already going 
 about their duty ; men were watering the roadway ; 
 the milkman and the baker were on their rounds: 
 Paris was preparing herself for another day. All the 
 town was flooded in eager sunshine. As they darted 
 into the Bois they met cars that were coming back 
 from the same morning revelry that they were seeking, 
 and yet other cars, more swift than their own, overtook 
 and passed them : Gerard recognised their occupants. 
 He had seen them before on this same night ; he seemed 
 to have seen them on so many nights. For the moment, 
 remembering that this was the road to St Cloud, he 
 wondered what he was doing in this world. . . . And 
 then he looked at Illona, whose dancing dress only 
 partly hidden by her cloak and whose uncovered head 
 gave her a bizarre air. Through half-closed eyes and 
 with a tolerant smile she was regarding her American 
 friend, and her ivory face, flushed a little by the sun, 
 
 21 
 
322 BITTERSWEET 
 
 seemed to him more beautiful and more pitiful than it 
 had ever been. Forgetting the resentment that he had 
 been carrying vaguely in his mind against her, he put 
 out his hand and took one of hers and then bent 
 forward and kissed her on the lips. He thought that 
 tears came into her eyes. 
 
 With a jerk the taxi drew up at the door. Jumping 
 out, Gerard told the man to wait. In the huge half- 
 glass pavilion lights still hung eerily. Not many people 
 remained but they were evidently bent on making up 
 with their noise and gaiety for their lack of number. 
 The orchestra still played, dancers were fitfully dancing. 
 Most of those present were English, Americans and 
 Argentines, young men with tired, knowing faces, old 
 men vice-marked, young girls commercially intent on 
 an appearance of pleasure, and young-old women with 
 yellow hair and powdered fatigued skins. It was the 
 hour of drunkenness or of disillusion. The very waiters 
 were soiled and worn ; the air was oppressive, heavy 
 with smoke ; dust seemed to hover over everything, the 
 dust of decay. And yet with all these qualities the 
 scene had beauty, the faded, corroded beauty of a 
 Toulouse-Lautrec whose background had been repainted 
 by Le Sidaner. 
 
 To Ferrat at least everything was as it should be. 
 She exchanged nods of greeting with half the people in 
 the room, found a table, settled her party and then in 
 answer to the waiter's mute inquiry indicated Gerard 
 as the host. The American however had his own ideas : 
 he intercepted the wine list and called for a magnum of 
 champagne and some biscuits. " This is on me," he said, 
 
BITTERSWEET 323 
 
 and he refused to listen to Gerard's protests. " Fve onlj 
 just arrived in this old burg and Hive so quietly in Chicago 
 that I've got money to burn. Over there I'm a regular 
 tight- wad and so jolly respectable that they want me to 
 be trustee of the girls' school. Paris is where I get 
 my fun. Hullo, there's the Judge. I'll call him over ; 
 may I.?" 
 
 " The Judge " was another American, very old, very 
 thin, clean shaven, with a bald head and a neck like a 
 chicken's after all the feathers have been pulled out. 
 He did not at all come up to Gerard's conception of 
 what a judge should be, but he was clearly introduced 
 as Judge Merchison. On what kind of bench he sat 
 Gerard never learnt. It was, he said, his first visit to 
 Paris, and he had seen the Louvre and Notre Dame and 
 had spent hours in Henry's Bar — " You'll find me there 
 any day at twelve o'clock," he announced proudly — had 
 dined at the Tour d' Argent, had been to the races and 
 had won six hundred dollars, and the thing which 
 mostly stuck in his memory was the " Scotch high-ball " 
 that someone had given him on the top of the Eiffel 
 Tower. Gerard, although he made his living out of 
 alcohol, took some time to discover that a Scotch high- 
 ball was American for an ordinary whisky-and-soda ! 
 
 The Judge and Ferdie were evidently great friends. 
 They talked at one another. Ferdie rallied his country- 
 man on the way he spent his time now that he had left 
 New York on the other side of the ocean. The Judge 
 looked at him with serai- tipsy gravity and adjusted his 
 horn-rimmed spectacles : " Ish ki bibble ! " he said. 
 " What does that mean ? " Gerard asked. 
 
324 BITTERSWEET 
 
 They both laughed. " It's good American and it 
 means a lot " ; but they would not explain what that lot 
 was. They were like two schoolboys, gay, irresponsible, 
 stupid. Ferdie evidently had no reverence for his friend's 
 judicial functions. " You know his name's William,"" 
 he told them. " In the old days he had a little hair ; 
 it was white of course. He had a row with one of the 
 papers and they came out with a fine caricature of him 
 taking bribes or making money in some discreditable 
 way. Isn't that right, Judge ? " 
 
 The Judge preened himself and nodded, adding : 
 " Don't you believe him, my dear, he's a champion 
 jollier." 
 
 Ferdie went on : " Under the picture were these 
 words : — 
 ' You are old. Father William,'' the young man said, 
 ^ And your long hair is fast tia'ning white — 
 
 Yet they say you've got nothing but hone in your head, 
 And I strongly suspect they are right.' 
 Now you know the kind of man he is. The older they 
 get the wickeder they get, and if I were you two girls 
 I should fight shy of him." 
 
 Judge Merchison looked more than ever senile and 
 also very delighted. Clearly he resented the fact that 
 the conversation veered away now from his record and 
 personality, and he devoted himself to the champagne. 
 In a minute or two the bottle was empty. He drew 
 Ferdie's attention to the fact : 
 
 " Say, isn't that hell to tell the Captain ! " Ferdie 
 answered. " We'll have another — here, boy." 
 
 But Ferrat had other views. " You two are not going 
 
BITTERSWEET 325 
 
 to have any more champagne. We've only one taxi and 
 I don't want to carry two drunken men back to Paris. 
 Illona and I intend to dance and then we'll go out and 
 have some milk. You pay the bill in the meantime, 
 Ferdie." 
 
 The Judge looked now at Gerard: "Say, young 
 fellow : do you really know this man .? " 
 
 Gerard answered that the pleasure had been a short 
 one. 
 
 "Well, so much the better. I want to warn you 
 against him. He isn't respectable. He knows me 
 because I once sent him to the penitentiary for stealing 
 a brace of ducks and he always presumes on the 
 acquaintance. But I'm going to stop it. I'll have him 
 arrested when he gets back for going about Paris with 
 a woman who isn't his wife. Say, Ferdie, that wasn't 
 exactly a peach I saw you with at the Cafe de Paris 
 to-day." 
 
 Ferdie looked resigned : " You don't buy a watch for 
 the case ; you buy it for the works," he answered. 
 
 Gerard had tired of their chaff and was watching 
 the two girls. They were dancing together. Illona 
 with her long hair and short dancing dress made a fit 
 companion for Ferrat, whose gown as usual was tailor- 
 made, severe, clean of line, and whose hair — for she had 
 taken off her hat — was tossing gaily in the wind. It 
 was almost the hour at which respectable people take 
 their breakfast, but these two girls danced as if they 
 had never known fatigue, exquisitely, with every step 
 expressed faithfullv, with no movement shirked. Gerard, 
 who should have had his fill of dancing, yet watched 
 
326 BITTERSWEET 
 
 them with dehght, and he realised more than he had 
 ever done the hold that Illona had on him and the 
 love that he had for her. Too soon the music ceased, 
 and the girls came back to the table. The Americans 
 were still quarrelling humorously, but Ferrat refused 
 to sit down. " Please yourselves," she said ; " Illona and 
 I are going to see the cows. You'll come, won't you, 
 Gerard ? " 
 
 Gerard had hardly realised that they were real cows 
 that he was being taken to see, but they were real 
 cows and in a real stable smelling of cows and of 
 bovine things. Ferrat claimed to know them all, and 
 certainly the cowman knew her, and he knew Illona 
 too. " I used to come here every morning nearly last 
 year, tu sais,^'' she explained ; and then she demanded 
 the whereabouts of a monkey that she had promised to 
 show Gerard. ..." There it is, on the grass by the 
 window," the cowman told her, and she ran out and 
 came back with the little animal on her arm. He also 
 recognised her, it seemed, and was content to let her 
 play with him. Children and animals succumbed to 
 Illona at sight. 
 
 In the meantime Ferrat had tucked up her skirt and 
 was actually milking one of the cows : " I learned to 
 do this in Brittany," she said. Gerard, looking at her, 
 wondered wiiether she was irredeemably of the night 
 world they had left on the other side of the wall 
 and in Paris, vicious, corrupt, destined for death, or 
 whether she was what she so often looked : simple, 
 young, happy, irresponsible, a flower. . . . The two 
 Americans broke into his thoughts. They arrived arm- 
 
BITTERSWEET 327 
 
 in-arm and the Judge demanded that a cow should at 
 once be prepared for his ministrations. But when it was 
 ready he looked at the animal with a tipsy gravity and 
 announced that it had too ill-tempered a face to give 
 good milk. Ferdie appealed to him to set to work : 
 " Shoot, Luke, or give father the gun,"" he exclaimed, 
 but in the end the cow remained unmilked. It was a 
 patient creature and did not even protest when the 
 younger of the two men insisted on attempting to ride 
 it astride. Nor was the cowman ill-pleased. He knew 
 very well that the animaPs hairs would come off on 
 the black suit of Monsieur and that the trouble he 
 would then take to brush them off would be worth at 
 least a louis. , . . 
 
 It was a quarter past eight when they got back to 
 Paris. The Judge was so pleased to have made Gerard's 
 acquaintance that he almost embraced him at parting : 
 " Say, young fellow, you come round to Henry's and 
 fetch me. Any day. We'll lunch together then and 
 ril introduce you to my little piece. She was ill last 
 night so she let me out alone. She's all right, ain't she, 
 Ferdie ? " 
 
 Ferdie looked at him and then looked at Gerard and 
 winked : " You're right, Judge : she certainly is all the 
 birds in the tree." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE night which had passed was not one which 
 Gerard remembered with any satisfaction. He 
 felt himself too good, and too old for the 
 matter of that, to spend his time day after day, and to 
 wreck his health, for the sake of such dull and dusty 
 pleasures. He had seen by now both sides of the picture ; 
 he had been to a great measure admitted behind the 
 scenes ; and while he was not young enough to be carried 
 off his feet by the glitter and sordid excitement of it all, 
 he was at the same time too young to be sucked into it 
 as by a maelstrom — as Ferdie evidently had been and 
 his egregious friend, to both of whom Montmartre and 
 all that it stood for represented not only an escape from 
 life but an actual intoxication, a form of drug-taking. 
 His own interest in the world in which he was becoming 
 so well known began and almost ended with his love, 
 his infatuation, for Illona. If she were no longer his 
 he could leave it and never again pass through those 
 portals of the devil. But while she remained his he 
 knew that half his tastes and habits, his interests and 
 normal affections, would be suspended. His love of her 
 held him in sure bondage. He was powerless to free 
 
 himself. 
 
 328 
 
BITTERSWEET 329 
 
 But he was not powerless to realise his folly. More 
 and more was it being forced upon him that he was 
 playing ducks and draices not only with his health but 
 also with such resources as he had saved or had kept 
 apart from his investments in Pall Mall. He could not 
 understand Illona. Thoughtful, responsible even, in 
 everything else, where money was concerned she seemed 
 entirely without wisdom, prudence, or consideration. 
 Her early regret and awkwardness about asking him 
 for money had almost disappeared, and her difficulties 
 seemed endless, the difficulties that had piled up during 
 the winter and early spring before he had arrived in 
 Paris. In large part no doubt it was his own fault : 
 never, since that day in Aix station Avhen she had an- 
 nounced her dislike of trains, had he attempted to check 
 her, to thwart her whims ; he had refused her nothing 
 for which she had asked ; he had, as far as he knew, 
 given her no idea that all these notes and gold pieces 
 that she caused him to throw about so heedlessly were 
 in truth of consequence to him. Here, too, he had 
 drifted : if he had had any clear notion of what was to 
 happen in the future he would no doubt have acted 
 differently, but he was in love, and conscience, passion, 
 loyalty, prudence and love made ill housemates in his 
 brain. Yes, no doubt it was his own fault. He ought 
 to have counted more on her aff^ection. In his heart he 
 never doubted that she cared for him far, far too deeply 
 and too sincerely to allow him to be troubled by the 
 result of her whims. He ought, he knew, to take some 
 step ; but when and what ? Oh well, people would be 
 going away from Paris directly ; the season would be at 
 
330 BITTERSWEET 
 
 an end ; something would suggest itself ; and in the 
 meantime he must do the best he could. After all it 
 was still true that if he was spending his capital now he 
 was in a sense only making up for his past carefulness. 
 
 And through these days Illona was miserable ; when 
 she was alone she would cry herself to sleep ; she had 
 now to act a part, to pretend ; and, all the time, she 
 knew that she was harming her lover, rendering him 
 unhappy, hurting his belief in himself and, which was 
 worse, his belief in her. If she had never seen his 
 children and if she had never stumbled on that question 
 of the expense of sending his boys to school she might 
 not have guessed that Gerard was poorer than the men 
 she had known ; and now that she had discovered that 
 he was not rich and now that she could see, by a 
 thousand little hitherto unheeded signs, that money 
 was of consequence to him, now she could not set 
 herself to work to help him, to save him trouble, but 
 she had, according to her plan, rather to redouble her 
 demands and her exactions, to belie her character, to 
 seem more thoughtless and more exigent and lighter 
 than she really was. And yet she knew that she could 
 have made him happy. If only he had been single, if 
 he had had no ties, no wife, no children, she could 
 have taught herself to help him, she could for him have 
 learned everything that at present she lacked, she could 
 have brought so much of comfort and delight into his 
 life. Her love for him was more now than it had been. 
 She saw his faults and his weaknesses, his selfishness 
 above all, and she loved him none the less. Sometimes 
 
BITTERSWEET 331 
 
 she felt towards him as a mother might, and sometimes 
 as a daughter. She was never content save in his 
 presence, never happy save on his shoulder. And she 
 had to kill all his love for her. He was to see her as the 
 world might see her, light, foolish, wasteful. He was to 
 lose patience with her, to say to himself that she was 
 not worth his love, not now at least, whatever she might 
 have been during those golden weeks in Savoy and 
 Provence when for both of them the hours, the days, 
 passed quickly and London and his duty and Paris 
 and her life were so far away that they were scarcely 
 remembered. Of these things she could not bear to 
 think, but she could never get them out of her mind. 
 Gerard in a little while would be hers no longer, and it 
 would be her fault, it would be through her wish. But 
 it was better so. She saw through her tears the eyes of 
 Gerard's boy. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 PARIS, sun-baked and sun-tired, was emptying 
 fast. The Grand Prix over, everyone who 
 counted himself of importance had gone away 
 to rest for a few days before starting again on a new 
 round of pleasure and dullness at one or other of the 
 half-dozen Parises by the sea. Illona had received 
 and had refused several offers. Even Piaci had asked 
 her to come back ; they wanted her at Ostende, at 
 Deauville, at Dieppe. If Gerard had not existed she 
 would have gone to Deauville, but he was hers still, her 
 lover, her servant, her master. He had to stop in Paris 
 and she would not leave him. It might be possible for 
 him to take a few days' holiday now and again, he told 
 her, and she was content to wait on his movements, 
 dancing the while at the Trianon. Victor became in the 
 hot months more polite to the casual visitor. In the 
 absence of his regular clients, the tourist and the casual 
 American were both worth cultivating. Delmas and 
 Fysher, Palmy re and Gerny closed naturally : their clients 
 scattered themselves ; but Montmartre remained Mont- 
 
 martre, and it was always worth while to keep open at 
 
 332 
 
BITTERSWEET 333 
 
 the Trianon, the Abbaye, the Rat Mort — to keep open 
 and to be a little less particular as to the kind of visitor 
 who crowded their rooms. 
 
 Edouard at the Esqueline never thought of taking a 
 holiday. His upper chamber remained always a haven 
 of refuge for those poor souls who could not get away, 
 those daughters of folly and of joy who were held in 
 Paris either by the exigence of their lovers or the 
 emptiness of their purses. Ferrat was at Beg-Meil with 
 Delmas ; Magda had gone to Ostende ; Dedie, Marie 
 Blanche and la petite Alice were at Vichy. Gerard grew 
 more than ever tired of the place, and yet nowadays he 
 had to sit in it night after night. Mary and the children 
 had taken themselves off to Font-Aven for a fortnight or 
 so, and the villa at St Cloud was closed. It was undei'- 
 stood that he would go to Brittany for week-ends if 
 he could, but this was unlikely ; it was still necessary, 
 he said, for him to go often to London. Mary never 
 questioned his decision nor doubted that it was reason- 
 able. The children Avere learning French and that was 
 worth the sacrifice. In the meantime he had a room at 
 the Grand Hotel. 
 
 No, it was dull for him at the Esqueline. That one 
 of Illona's friends whom he liked least, Fleurette 
 Mayer, was almost the only girl he knew in the place. 
 And she certainly was growing neither more sensible 
 nor more prudent. Illona was frankly troubled about 
 her and her drugs. She would disappear for days 
 together and would come back smelling so rankly of 
 ether that the windows had to be opened, and people 
 who did not care for her and who had the courage 
 
334 BITTERSWEET 
 
 refused to sit down in her neighbourhood. Not that 
 she grew less pretty. She looked sad. tired, beautiful 
 and good. 
 
 And then one day came the end. 
 
 Illona, who always proclaimed that she was never 
 hungry in the morning, had refused even to touch her 
 roll. That and other things had put Gerard in bad 
 humour. He was late too for his work, and he hated 
 being late. But Illona hated even more to have him 
 leave her, and day after day she would invent some 
 new pretext for keeping him a few minutes longer at 
 her side. Now at length he was prepared to start and 
 he had his hat and stick in his hand and had bent down 
 to kiss her for the last and twentieth time when the 
 electric bell in the hall sounded. He drew back, startled 
 a little. A caller of any kind at so early an hour was 
 unusual. They could hear Jeanne open the front door 
 and some muttered conversation, and then, almost with- 
 out knocking and looking white and troubled, she burst 
 into the room. 
 
 " Madame, it is a letter from Meudon. It is about 
 Madame Fleurette ; read quickly, Madame." 
 
 Someone was sobbing in the hall and, leaving 
 Illona for a moment, Gerard went out to look. A 
 young girl, evidently a bonne, was leaning against the 
 wall, crying. She had brought the letter. Going back he 
 looked to Illona for an explanation, but she was still 
 reading, turning and re-turning the page. "Jeanne,"" 
 he said, " I don't know what the matter is, but go into 
 the kitchen now and give that child some coffee, or 
 
BITTERSWEET 335 
 
 better still, some tea. Shell be ill if you don't " ; and 
 he turned again to the bed. 
 
 Illona looked up with a grey and troubled face : 
 " Gerard, Fleurette is dead. Oh, oh, I am so unhappy ! " 
 " Fleurette dead ! It's impossible ! Why, we saw her 
 only yesterday morning." 
 
 " It's true, dear, and they've sent for me to go out 
 there. I must dress at once. Here, look ! " And she 
 tossed the letter across for him to read, and began to 
 cry softly to herself. 
 
 The letter was short. Fleurette was dead. Her maid 
 had found her dead in her bed that morning when she 
 had gone into the room to fetch her mistress's clothes. 
 That was all. She had had one friend with her in the 
 house, the girl with whom she shared it, Suzanne 
 Hettinger, of whom Gerard knew vaguely, and it was 
 she who had written to Illona begging her to go imme- 
 diately, for j ust now when all the world was away there 
 was no one else on whom she could call for assistance. 
 
 " But you needn't go, Illona. I don't want you to go. 
 After all, neither Fleurette nor this girl who writes 
 to you was so very much your friend. Surely she can 
 look after things without dragging you in. You don't 
 know what Fleurette Mayer died of. There may be all 
 sorts of talk, too, and then you'd be sorry." 
 
 " I must go, my dear. Besides, I do know what 
 Fleurette died of. It was ether. She used to inhale 
 or drink it every night and every morning. I knew it 
 would happen — and so really did she." 
 
 " That is all the more reason, Illona, for your not 
 going." 
 
336 BITTERSWEET 
 
 " I know best, Gerard : I shall go. Pauvrejille^ she 
 had not so many real friends ; Ferrat is away ; her 
 relations are nothing. I would never deserve to be 
 happy again if I did not go to help her now that she 
 is dead. They send for me because I am a little more 
 serious and more responsible, I suppose. Now, go off 
 quickly, cheri, and I will dress and I shall be there in 
 less than an hour. Mais ecoute : where will you lunch .^ 
 ril telephone to you if I can and tell you if I shall be 
 back for dinner." 
 
 Gerard went away in no very good temper. He was 
 shocked at Fleurette's death because it was so sudden 
 and because she was both young and pretty, but he 
 had never liked her and he could not pretend to share 
 Illona's distress. There was no reason at all, as far 
 as he could see, why she should mix herself up with 
 the matter. All the care in the world would not bring 
 her friend back to life. Common sense demanded that 
 she should keep away. 
 
 When Illona telephoned to him she could only explain 
 that there were " complications," and that she wanted 
 him to come down later in the day and meet her at 
 the station so that they might dine together before 
 she went back for a little to the villa ; after that she 
 would return to Paris with him. He gave a reluctant 
 assent. 
 
 At the station Gerard gave up his return ticket by 
 mistake and insisted on going back for it. Illona pro- 
 tested : " What's the use ? I've got a car here and we 
 should motor back anyhow." 
 
 " Motor back ! Whose car ? Fleurette Mayer's ? " 
 
BITTERSWEET 337 
 
 " No, she hadn't a car any more. I took one to come 
 down. I was in such a hurry to get here. I couldn't 
 wait for a train. And I told the man to stop for me." 
 
 " And how much is that going to cost ? " Gerard's 
 face grew stormy. This was really too much i>f a good 
 thing. 
 
 "I don't know. You know what they charge for a 
 day. I got it at the place we always go to." 
 
 " Well, I don't think it was at all necessary." 
 
 She looked at him in astonishment ; he had never 
 spoken so before. Then she took his arm and pressed 
 it : " Gerard, te fache pas ! I am so, so unhappy. 
 I never thought you'd mind my taking a car." She 
 began to cry, and he looked angrily about for fear she 
 might be seen. But it was a quiet road. 
 
 Illona continued : " It was a good thina; I did come 
 quickly. All was in confusion. Suzanne thought the 
 doctor would say that death was due to heart failure, 
 but apparently he got frightened and changed his mind 
 and — well, anyhow I found the police here." 
 
 " The police ! Why the police ? " 
 
 " Because of the ether and the opium and what 
 people said about the house. They are examining 
 everybody and everything. Suzanne has been arrested 
 and two of the servants, and they only didn't arrest me 
 because I wasn't there when they arrived and because 
 I could show that I had been sent for. Besides, I was 
 able to swear I had never been in the place before." 
 
 " I told you not to go, Illona. Why were you so stub- 
 born and stupid ? But you can leave now, I suppose — 
 and you needn't come back ? " 
 
 22 
 
338 BITTERSWEET 
 
 " I need. They have no one else to help them. I 
 must do what I can. I found the address of Flem-ette's 
 mother and she came, but — would you believe it ? — she 
 was drunk when she arrived, drunk with ether too. I 
 must arrange everything — everything that the police 
 will allow to be done."" 
 
 Gerard listened while Illona told her story. 
 
 It seemed that Fleurette and her friend, tired of the 
 Avenue de Messine and the rue Marbeau, and thinking 
 to combine at Meudon the delights of the country and 
 the habits of the town, took this tree-embowered villa 
 in which Fleurette was now lying and came down to it 
 from time to time and rested or, more often, gave 
 parties, parties which scandalised their neighbours, 
 beginning at midnight or later and going on often till 
 long after the sun had risen. Strange stories were told. 
 Nothing actually transpired as to what went on, for the 
 servants were discreet, but on such occasions almost a 
 fleet of motor-cars would bring the guests from Paris, 
 cars that certainly belonged to some of the best-known 
 and richest names in France. When they had gone the 
 villa would relapse into the utmost quietude. Its in- 
 habitants were thought to be sleeping off the effects of 
 their dissipation. Later the doors would open and the 
 two girls would go back to Paris, and nothing would 
 happen until they returned. . . . Last night there had 
 been no visitors. Fleurette's maid was at the theatre 
 and, coming home soon after midnight, had gone to 
 see if her mistress needed anything. She found her in 
 bed and, not for the first time, in a state of stupe- 
 faction. A litre bottle of ether stood on the table by 
 
BITTERSWEET 339 
 
 her side. Taking out of her mistress's hands the two 
 spirit-steeped pads of cotton-wool from which evidently 
 she had been inhaling, the maid had watched for a little 
 and then, satisfied that her mistress slept, had gone 
 off to her own bed. Nothing had happenet^ which had 
 not happened before. She had not even called her 
 mistress's friend ; there was no need. At seven o'clock 
 in the morning she woke up and went almost at 
 once to her mistress's room. She found her dead. In 
 some terrible crisis of her drunkenness Fleurette had 
 rolled her sheet round her head ; the bottle of ether 
 was three parts empty : the poor child, finding no 
 longer the cotton-wool from which to inhale, had 
 drunk and drunk the poison. There had happened at 
 last what her friends had foretold, and that at which 
 she herself had laughed. " I will never believe it was an 
 accident," Illona added; "always she thought of her 
 Argentine. I think she died for him. It is easy to do 
 that when one loves, tu sais.'" 
 
 Then the whole house was aroused. The doctor 
 was summoned. He had attended both Fleurette and 
 her friend before. He was no stranger to their rooms 
 and must have guessed something of their habits. 
 Suzanne had been beside herself, but when she sent 
 her messenger off to Illona she believed that no one 
 need know that Fleurette had died of anything more 
 unusual than heart failure. ..." But the good man 
 changed his mind and the magistrate came and his 
 assistants and all day they have been examining and in- 
 vestigating. They've found enough cocaine and ether 
 and opium in the house to poison a couple of regiments. 
 
340 BITTERSWEET 
 
 And I think theyVe even found out where Fleurette 
 got it from — Montmartre will have something to think 
 about if they're right. However, 1 shan't be sorry. Oh, 
 how I detest the stuff! " 
 
 " And I suppose they can't make any plans about the 
 funeral yet ? " 
 
 " Yes, I've arranged everything — the funeral will be 
 in three days. You see they've — the doctor has — taken 
 all that he wants for his autopsy." Illona broke down 
 at the thought and cried again. Evidently she felt 
 bitterly the death of her friend, and Gerard forbore 
 from arguing with her when, after a little, she declared 
 that she must go back to the house, and that then they 
 would return to Paris together. She must dance that 
 night whatever happened. Victor was counting on her. 
 
 When they were in the car she was in better spirits. 
 The details of the funeral ceremony had occupied and 
 were interesting her. It was to be a grand funeral. 
 Fleurette's mother wished it, and Fleurette would have 
 wished it herself. All Montmartre that was in reach of 
 Meudon would surely come or would send flowers. There 
 would be a procession of mourners half a mile long. 
 " She was such a brave pile and so kind and generous. 
 All the world loved her and they will all want to pay 
 her respect " ; and in her absorption in the work that 
 the arrangements would entail it was clear that Illona, 
 woman-like, was for the moment forgetting her sorrow. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE papers next morning were full of Fleurette 
 Mayer. Gerard abandoned himself to hearing 
 of nothing else for days, but he was not pleased 
 when he found that Illona had to go back to Meudon 
 and proposed in effect to spend all and every day 
 there until the funeral was over. He saw no sufficient 
 reason for this. It meant that he would either have to 
 go to Meudon himself in the late afternoon to fetch her 
 or that he would spend his evenings alone. It was hot 
 and tiring in Paris and he did not feel that he deserved 
 this extra irritation, nor did he think that Fleurette 
 Mayer deserved so much attention and affection from 
 her friend. However, he saw that it had to be. 
 
 That day passed without further complications. 
 Illona went and returned. She was full of what the 
 examining magistrate and his people had to say of 
 Suzanne Hettinger's plight and of her own sorrow that 
 she had taken no more serious steps to wean Fleurette 
 from her vice. Gerard did his best to reassure her, but 
 in his heart he was willing to consign the whole Meudon 
 household to the devil. 
 
 It was the next morning and he was in his office, suffer- 
 ing from the heat and from the lack of enough to do. 
 
 34 1 
 
342 BITTERSWEET 
 
 " You are wanted on the telephone, sir."" 
 
 There was no instrument in his own room, and Gerard 
 looked up in disgust at the interruption. " Who wants 
 me?^' 
 
 " I don't know, sir : ifs a lady, but she won't give 
 her name." 
 
 Now it was thoroughly understood between Gerard 
 and lUona that she was never to telephone to his office. 
 It was a restriction that she neither liked nor under- 
 stood but had loyally obeyed. He knew, however, that 
 it must be Illona who was calling him now, and he 
 forgave her in advance, for he was sure that something 
 must have occurred that made it essential that she 
 should speak to him without delay. 
 
 " Hullo, who is that ? "" he asked. 
 
 " Is that you ? "" He recognised her voice. 
 
 " Yes — yes — what is it ? " 
 
 " Gerard, I can't speak on the telephone, but I must 
 see you at once. If I take a train now can you meet me 
 at the station ? ^ 
 
 " It's not very convenient but I will come — under the 
 big clock then. When ? At one five. All right. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 Illona arrived white and trembling. " Gerard, dear, 
 you must help me. Ecoute, mon cheri : you know 
 that Fleurette's funeral is to be to-morrow. Everything 
 was arranged. Oh, Gerard ! I find she has no money 
 left. She spent all she had. A lawyer was there this 
 morning and she's even spent her next quarter's rente. 
 He wants it back, poor man : I don't know how she got 
 it out of him. But first let me tell you what happened 
 
BITTERSWEET 343 
 
 when I got there. Of course, except in Meudon, no one 
 knew of her death till yesterday, and this morning there 
 are letters from half the people who used to supply her 
 with things — her dressmaker, her lingere, her garage, and 
 so on. They all want money. Indeed I was right when 
 I said — you remember — that she spent more than she 
 had and was getting into trouble. At first I didn't 
 worry so very much, because I thought of her jewels — 
 they were worth a lot, especially her pearl necklace. Of 
 course the police had them all in the meantime, but we 
 looked at them and when I took the necklace in my 
 hands I knew at once : it is false. And then soon after 
 we found in her desk papers which showed she had sold 
 practically everything that she had of value and had 
 replaced it with a copy which no one would give any- 
 thing for. Poor little Fleurette ! Now everyone will 
 be angry, and I don't know what will happen to her 
 mother."" 
 
 " But what has it got to do with you and me, dear ? 
 We haven't anything to do with her bills." 
 
 " No, of course not. But there's the funeral, Gerard. 
 I ordered it all, and although I'm not responsible, yet 
 they've made all the arrangements. That man came this 
 morninff too. He'd heard somehow that she left a lot of 
 debts — I suppose he'd been making inquiries — and he 
 wanted to be sure about his money. It was going to 
 cost altogether nearly three thousand francs. So I had 
 to tell him the truth, and I told him too that he must 
 make a much simpler arrangement. He was angry to 
 begin with, but now it's settled. It's going to cost nmch 
 less — only a thousand francs for everything. Pauvre 
 
344 BITTERSWEET 
 
 gosse, she wouldn't be pleased. All the coach will be 
 covered with flowers, Gerard — there will be enough 
 flowers for two or three coaches, I think. I never saw 
 such flowers. All sorts of people have sent them. One 
 big wreath has come from Mayer — I know it's from him ; 
 and the waiters at the Esqueline have sent one, and one 
 of the best is from Victor : he has a good heart, that 
 man, after all." 
 
 Gerard was not greatly interested, "Well, I don't 
 see anything in all that for you to come to Paris about 
 and least of all can I see why you should have telephoned 
 to me : you know I didn't want you to do that." 
 
 " Gerard ! " Illona looked as if he had struck her. 
 For a moment she put her hand up to her face : " But, 
 Gerard, I came because I want your help, and the 
 matter wouldn't wait." 
 
 " My help ? What in ? " His voice was hard, un- 
 sympathetic, 
 
 " About the funeral, Gerard, I had to promise to 
 give the man the thousand francs myself, and to-night. 
 Otherwise he would do nothing at all, would not even 
 begin any work for to-morrow," 
 
 Gerard looked at her — they were seated opposite one 
 another at a table in a little restaurant near where they 
 had met — and then slowly shook his head, "No, my 
 dear, 1 won't give you a thousand francs for that. You 
 seem always to think I am made of money. I'm not. A 
 thousand francs is a great deal. In reason I'll give you 
 what you want both for yourself and for your mother — 
 although I wish you'd remember occasionally that you 
 can overdo things — but I see no reason for burying 
 
BITTERSWEET 345 
 
 Fleurette Mayer. I hardly knew her ; I didn't like her ; 
 I didn't like your knowing her ; she wasn't your sort. 
 What has happened is her own fault, and you have 
 nothing whatever to do with it. Now be reasonable, 
 Illona; let's telephone to the man and teU him you 
 can't do it. Really, it isn't sensible." 
 
 Illona had grown paler. " Gerard, do you mean that 
 after all you have given me and after all we are to 
 one another you refuse to give me a thousand francs for 
 Fleurette ? " 
 
 " Yes, my dear, I do, and I shall continue to refuse : 
 the fact is, if you want to know, I can't afford it." 
 
 " But I'll make economies, dear : I'll be sensible, 
 tu verras ! But give me this money, Gerard : I want it 
 so, and it isn't for myself, you know." 
 
 " I do know. If you wanted it for yourself I dare- 
 say I'd give it you ; I always do. But if you can 
 make economies why haven't you made them ? You 
 promised you would. You said ' tu verras ' long ago — 
 but I haven't seen that you've been more careful. No, I 
 haven't got a thousand francs to spare, and that's all 
 there is to it." 
 
 Illona leaned back in her chair. The ground had 
 given way beneath her feet. That Gerard whom she 
 loved and who loved her should refuse her anything 
 that she could ask seemed to her impossible. It was 
 true that she had not been economical ; she had not 
 tried to be. Indeed for the last weeks she had asked for 
 money more and more often, had asked for it of 
 intention and had spent it wantonly. It was part of her 
 programme. And now at the moment when money was 
 
346 BITTERSWEET 
 
 really essential to her he was refusing it, was failing her. 
 She could not know that he was really worried about 
 money, that he had only that morning been examining 
 his passbook and that he had been shocked at its state. 
 She could not know that he had that morning written 
 to his bank asking them to place another two hundred 
 pounds to his credit on the strength of securities of 
 his that they held. She could not know all this, but 
 even if she had known she would have been astonished 
 none the less at his refusal. Until thirty-six hours ago 
 when he had spoken impatiently of her having taken an 
 automobile he had never scolded her for her extrava- 
 gance. Why should he now when she was asking not for 
 herself but for her friend ? 
 
 Illona knew men. She knew when to take no for an 
 answer. "Very well, Gerard," she said, "I must find 
 it elsewhere. No, I am not angry, dear. Perhaps you 
 have reason : I don't know. I shall find the money and 
 go back to Meudon, and I shan't come up to-night. I 
 shall sit up with the sister who is with Fleurette. Victor 
 doesn't expect me ; he's let me off. Au revoir, Gerard ; 
 I shall see you at the Trianon to-morrow." 
 
 Gerard let her go. He was angry. She had put him 
 in the wrong. If he had seen into her heart he would 
 have given her the money. Now she was going to get 
 it elsewhere. How would she do that.'' From whom 
 would she get it ? If it were not too late, if he knew 
 which way she had gone, he would go after her and 
 take her to the bank. But it was too late. His resent- 
 ment mixed itself with jealousy. From whom would 
 she get the money ? 
 
BITTERSWEET 347 
 
 And in the meantime Illona was in her room going 
 through her poor little store of jewels. Everything 
 she had, save the ring Gerard had given her, she took 
 to the pawnbroker. He would only give her six hundred 
 francs. The day was getting on. She kn^^w hardly 
 anyone who would be in Paris now. At last she was 
 forced to go to Victor. Luckily she found him at his 
 work. It was a mere chance. Certainly she could have 
 the money and she could return it when she liked. He 
 still had a beguin for his dancer and could not forbear 
 asking her why she had not got the money from her 
 lover : " He's not so very generous, is he ? " he asked. 
 
 Illona flared up at once. " I couldn't see him. He's 
 gone to London, and I wanted it immediately. He'd 
 have given me ten times as much if he'd been here — 
 so there ! " 
 
 She did not like talking about her affairs or about 
 Fleurette's folly. She had even avoided telling Victor 
 for what purpose the money was wanted. She knew 
 that if she had done so he would have insisted on paying 
 the thousand francs himself or at least half of it. But 
 that would have vexed her. She had shouldered the 
 burden and she would have thought it wrong to share 
 it with anyone else. 
 
 All the same she took back with her to Meudon a 
 heavy heart. She had come near to quarrelling with 
 Gerard, and she was not yet ready to quarrel with him ; 
 she had not yet the strength. Still, she hoped, she 
 might have a few happy weeks. And then she thought 
 of Fleurette and of Fleurette's fate. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 GERARD learned very little more about Fleurette 
 Mayer's funeral than the papers told him. 
 It was a subject that both he and Illona 
 avoided, Illona because she felt sore at his refusal of 
 what after all was no very great sum of money, and he 
 because he had in his heart an idea, unconfessed even to 
 himself, that he had not behaved well, that he had 
 chosen the wrong moment to tighten his purse strings : 
 the thousand francs had not been wanted for some 
 extravagant and uimecessary luxury ; Illona, poor child, 
 had really felt herself bound to provide it ; at any 
 rate the impulse he had done his best to thwart was a 
 generous one. And then he wondered how she had 
 managed. He presumed that in some way she had 
 raised the thousand francs, but he was too proud to ask 
 her how. People did not talk to him much about the 
 ceremony. Even Ferrat, who had come back from Beg- 
 Meil for a couple of days and who spent her nights in 
 the Trianon and the Esqueline, was unwilling to talk 
 about her dead friend. . . . 
 
 Illona's idea that after all she did not object to 
 
 Gerard coming to see her dance at the Trianon was not, 
 
 348 
 
BITTERSWEET 349 
 
 from his point of view, a success. At first he had 
 welcomed it, but he soon found that what he had hoped 
 would be a pleasure was in truth an ordeal. She had 
 regained her old supremacy, and, to him at least, she 
 seemed to have got back most of her gaiety. Every 
 night she made new admirers, and old ones returned to 
 their allegiance. She had hardly a moment to herself, 
 and his remonstrances effected nothing at all. 
 
 " Illona, can't you pick and choose whom you talk to ? 
 It can't be necessary to spend time with everyone who 
 calls you or to dance with all those scoundrels." 
 
 She looked at him and answered quietly, with a certain 
 patience : " My dear, it isn't necessary in one way, but 
 it is in another. I have to live. Victor pays me to be 
 pleasant with everyone who comes. And they pay me too. 
 I must have money. I don't want to ask you for money 
 every day, tu sais. And perhaps they are not so bad as 
 they look. I have experience ; 1 can keep them from 
 going too far," 
 
 " But, my pet, it makes me imhappy to see you danc- 
 ing with some of these men. . . . And then the people 
 you sit and talk to ; I can see the sort of things they are 
 saying to you. The girls too, the other dancers and the 
 women who aren't dancers " 
 
 " You're a little exigent, Gerard ; that's not fair. 
 You know well that I am only for you, and, after all " — 
 she shrugged her shoulders — " if you are in the same 
 society with a lot of pigs you must be nice to them — 
 otherwise they'll eat you up, tu sais. Now I must go 
 and dance again. Be patient a little ; at three I shall 
 be free." 
 
350 BITTERSWEET 
 
 Gerard tried to be patient, but, by what seemed the 
 irony of fate, after her dance Illona was called to the 
 table next to him and sat there laughing and talking to 
 a young-looking but elderly American with a double 
 chin and a pink face whom she evidently knew but who 
 to-night was accompanied by his wife, a pretty woman, 
 gentle and shrinking, who looked as if she was 
 frightened out of her life by the world in which she 
 unexpectedly found herself, Gerard did his best not to 
 listen to their conversation, but it was impossible not 
 to hear its drift. The American was from Philadelphia. 
 Gerard recognised his name ; he belonged to one of those 
 families whose riches have given them an almost feudal 
 importance, and really he didn't seem a bad fellow. 
 He explained to his wife that in the year before he had 
 come here often, that he had learned to dance here — 
 " It's quite true, Madame," Illona interrupted ; " and 
 he's very generous, your husband ; we were always 
 glad to see him come " — and that Illona was the best 
 dancer he knew. "• You ought to come to America 
 and start a school," he went on ; " Mrs Capern would 
 help you, wouldn't you, my dear .'' But you wouldn't 
 have to dance in that costume. No ; America wouldn't 
 stand for it." 
 
 Illona, who was wearing her Russian dress, looked at 
 the wife and asked if she found it so very shocking. 
 
 " Not at all, my dear ; not at all. It suits you very 
 well ; and it must be very convenient to dance in — 
 except for those high loose boots." 
 
 " You don't know why she wears those high boots, 
 Julia. I'll tell you. She might have known that I was 
 
BITTERSWEET 351 
 
 coming. They're high and loose like that in order that 
 old fools like me may drop gold pieces into them. Isn't 
 that so, Illona ? There's a louis anyway." 
 
 Illona smiled and Gerard winced. 
 
 " It'll be lonely, that louis. Monsieur ; and it'll be so 
 loose by itself that it'll hurt me when I dance." 
 
 Mrs Capern laughed and her husband dropped 
 another louis into the boot. 
 
 " Two — and then ? " 
 
 " Three — and then .'' " 
 
 But the American had come to the end of his gold. 
 He offered a five-franc piece with a smile of derision. 
 
 " No, no, no," Illona said ; " <^a ne maixhe pas. But, 
 Monsieur, my other boot ! It is jealous. What will 
 you do for it .'* They live together, you know, these two 
 boots, and they'll quarrel like anything if one has made 
 a lot of money and the other has nothing at all." 
 
 '' She has you there, Jim," Mrs Capern said ; " you've 
 got some bills, haven't you ? " and the American, 
 nothing loth, dropped a hundred-franc note into the 
 other boot. 
 
 Illona jumped up. " il/em. Monsieur^ et bonsoir — cm 
 revoir, Madame. I hope you will come again " ; and 
 she ran off to the lavatory to put the money she had 
 earned in some safer place. 
 
 And in the meantime Gerard bit his nails. 
 
 Such scenes irritated Gerard but they did not dis- 
 gust him. What often disgusted him was not the frank 
 commerce of the place but the commerce that went 
 on beneath its surface. He had learned — for Illona 
 
352 BITTERSWEET 
 
 had told him and he had seen for himself — that all 
 this glitter, this noise, this sprinkling of fine ladies, 
 this flingins: to and fro of balls and distribution of 
 souvenirs hid things that were ugly, mean, vicious ; he 
 had learned what Victor's young women were supposed 
 or allowed to do for his clients and their admirers. 
 He had heard them talking together. He had seen 
 them go upstairs to the private rooms, the existence 
 of which most of the clients did not even suspect, and 
 he had listened to what they had to say when they 
 came down again. He had been made free of their 
 councils, and his blood would sometimes cease to run 
 in his veins as he listened. And this was the centre 
 of the gaiety of Paris, itself the gay centre of Europe, 
 of the world. The truth as he learnt it was that 
 there existed no vice so degraded that Victor and 
 his kind would not wink at if it brought them a few 
 francs, and that they would not assist if they could 
 make a few louis. Kindly men, yes ; good fathers of 
 families, perhaps ; but men of business first, trafficking 
 in wares that all the world wanted, and trafficking so 
 skilfully that only those who bought need see or hear 
 the truth. 
 
 Gerard used to wonder whether in Montmartre any- 
 one ever paused to consider what they were doing for 
 Paris, for France, for the world, with their gay inven- 
 tions ; whether they realised that they were eating out 
 their country's vitals, corroding all its fair metal, 
 poisoning its blood. Illona, he knew, hated it all ; he 
 knew too thai if she had her way she would leave 
 her world for ever, would exchange it for almost any 
 
BITTERSWEET 353 
 
 work in which she could keep herself and her mother 
 in tolerable comfort. " But in France what else is there 
 for a girl to do Avho hasn't any money of her own ? I 
 keep myself better than the others, yes — but after all, 
 am I so very different ? It can't be helped ; ifs always 
 been and always will be. Et voila ! You can't take me 
 away — and so I stop. Perhaps it is all I am good for." 
 As much as anything Gerard worried himself over the 
 way in which ladies, curious or unsuspecting, went to a 
 place like the Trianon. The Esqueline was frankly for 
 a class and did little harm ; but the Trianon was smart : 
 it was the thing to go to it if you belonged to the world 
 that amuses itself and spends money. Perhaps no one, 
 not even English or Americans, brought young girls, 
 but young husbands took their young wives, and danced 
 with them ; in the first hours after midnight the room 
 held as many ladies as it held women who were not 
 ladies. Did they, did their men, know what it was all 
 about.? It was picturesque and amusing, yes, and gay 
 much of it, and very human, but underneath there was 
 a clotted mass of foul happenings, a degraded, ugly, un- 
 natural world. 
 
 And Gerard, who was no puritan and who cared very 
 little for what happened to his fellows, holding that 
 every man should learn to look after himself, watched 
 and questioned. Sometimes indeed he would feel in- 
 clined to interfere, to warn. He would see young 
 Englishmen, young Americans, clean, healthy of body 
 and of mind — he would see them drift into this world 
 and he knew where almost of a certainty their curiosity 
 
 would lead them. 
 
 28 
 
354 BITTERSWEET 
 
 " Don't talk to me about all that," Illona would say ; 
 "fa me degoute ! They needn't come if they don't 
 choose. Yes, they'll often be sorry : that's very likely. 
 Look round : you know most of these girls almost as 
 well as I do ; you know what they are au fond — some 
 of them anyhow, I told you once before — in Aix — that 
 we all laugh at young Englishmen, but tout de mime I'm 
 sometimes unhappy for them. The best of them, and 
 the youngest, fall in love. Tant pis pour eux ! " 
 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 GERARD knew that something had gone awry 
 in his relations with Illona. He could see that 
 she was not happy as she had been ; he was 
 not happy himself. What had possessed her when she 
 had suggested his coming to the Trianon to see her 
 dance, to see her at her work ? Perhaps it was that 
 which was at the root of his disquiet. He hated to see 
 her at everyone's beck and call, the plaything of every 
 tourist with enough money to pay for a couple of bottles 
 of champagne ; he detested her dancing with clients, 
 and even more he detested the way in which people 
 looked at her when she danced alone or with one of her 
 comrades. Often he was tempted to believe that she was 
 careless of what he thought or even that she did things 
 on purpose to hurt him, to make him jealous. She seemed 
 through some unholy coincidence to choose always for 
 her attentions the very men who had most the power of 
 disgusting or infuriating him. She appeared sometimes 
 to carry her comedies far further than she need, as if she 
 took pleasure in the society in which she found herself. 
 . . . Yes, he saw and suspected all this, but still he 
 loved her so much, still her dark beauty held him so much 
 in bondage, that he never thought of quarrelling with 
 
356 BITTERSWEET 
 
 her. For hours he would sit and watch her, having 
 occasionally a crust of her regard thrown to him, and, 
 although he was not content, he seldom put his resent- 
 ment into words. But the resentment was there all the 
 same. 
 
 And then too he resented the fact that he had himself 
 behaved meanly, stupidly, in the matter of Fleurette 
 Mayer's funeral. He knew that he had an excuse, but 
 he knew also that it was not a very good one, and that 
 in any case Illona did not believe in it. He suspected 
 too, although she had assured him that she was not 
 angry at his refusal, that it had gone very much against 
 her grain, had shocked her, had hurt her and had made 
 her bitter. One day he tried in a half-hearted sort of 
 way to win her forgiveness. 
 
 " Illona, I want to tell you something : you re- 
 member about Fleurette. I wish I had not been in such 
 a hurry ''' 
 
 " Oh, don't let us talk about that, Gerard, je fenprie. 
 Ifs finished now. Let's talk about something else." 
 
 " No, dear, I will talk about it. You were in a hurry 
 too and went off without giving me time to change my 
 mind. I'd have done what you wanted if you'd asked 
 me again " 
 
 " I believe you would, Gerard — but it's nothing noAv. 
 I was unhappy for a little ; that's all." 
 
 " But how did you arrange ? " 
 
 " I did arrange — that is enough, Gerard." 
 
 " But I want to know, sweetheart." 
 
 " I dare say, my dear, but want must be your master. 
 I won't tell you." 
 
BITTERSWEET 357 
 
 " Will you let me give you the thousand francs now 
 so that you can pay it back if you did borrow it ? " 
 
 "No, I will not. You may keep your thousand 
 francs ; you said you couldn't spare it, you know. But 
 don't talk about it any more, please, Gerard. ' 
 
 There was somethinoj feminine and illogical about 
 her refusal to take the money he offered, but that did 
 not at the moment occur to him, and it certainly never 
 occurred to her. Since the episode of the thousand francs 
 she had asked him to pay several bills ; she had shown 
 no signs of making those economies which she had been 
 so ready to promise ; she had proved as expensive to him 
 in the weeks that had just passed as at any time in their 
 acquaintance. It was true that she had already paid 
 Victor back his four hundred francs out of the proceeds 
 of her own work, but that was from a stubborn and super- 
 stitious determination to accept no penny of Gerard's 
 money for Fleurette, and from a wish to rest not a 
 moment longer than was necessary under an obligation 
 to her too attentive employer. Her jewels could remain 
 for the moment cm clou. She did not need them. 
 
 Defeated in his attempt at putting himself right with 
 his self-esteem and at wiping out of Illona's memory 
 the one mean passage in his relations with her, Gerard 
 bethought himself, not unselfishly, of another way of 
 pleasing her. 
 
 " Illona, you are dancing too much. You ought to 
 have a holiday. The hot weather is telling on you. 
 Listen, sweetheart : I could get away now. I could take 
 you for a fortnight to the sea. It would be almost like 
 July last year. The only thing is we'd have to go 
 
358 BITTERSWEET 
 
 near Bordeaux. They'd understand my being there ; 
 they'd think it was for business " — Gerard always spoke 
 to Illona of his wife as " they " — " but Fve heard of some 
 jolly places with good bathing. Let's go at once." 
 
 She made no reply and Gerard, not looking at her, 
 called for the time-table. 
 
 " Soulac's the place to choose, I think. It's near enough 
 to Bordeaux. We'd go there naturally sometimes, and 
 we'd be making trips about the neighbourhood, so it 
 would be all right for my letters. When could you start, 
 my pet ? Wait a minute, though : let me see how the trains 
 run." And he became immersed in a page of figures. 
 
 Illona the while was suffering as she had never suffered 
 before, no, not even when Gerard had left her at Macon. 
 The idea of going away with him again, of having him 
 entirely to herself for weeks together, of living over 
 afresh the happy days at Le Lavandou, tempted her to 
 forget all her plan, to forget everything indeed, to give 
 herself up once more to such joy as she could snatch 
 from fate. Surely she would be able to take this last 
 chance of happiness and yet come back unweakened, 
 strengthened perhaps, to carry out what she intended. 
 But even as she thought of this she knew that she was 
 deceiving herself. If she gave way now, if she faltered 
 at all, then she could never get strength again. She sat 
 for a minute watching Gerard. Her heart went out to 
 him, to his qualities and his faults, to his generosity and 
 his meanness. She must leave him. // le fallait ! There 
 was his boy, his boys. If now she went away with him 
 she knew in her heart that she would stop with him 
 for ever — no, not for ever, for some day he would tire 
 
BITTERSWEET 359 
 
 of her, but for so long that he would be harmed too 
 deeply, for so long that all the mischief that she feared 
 would have come to pass. Nowadays she read his mind 
 like an open book. She could anticipate his moods and 
 his wishes ; and she knew that money was becoming for 
 him really an anxiety and a care. If they had been 
 alone she would have gone to him now and put her arms 
 round him and drawn his head down to her breast and 
 have kissed his hair and his eyes. Oh, if she could keep 
 her arms round him for all his life, cherish him, protect 
 him ! She knew so well how to make him content and 
 happy ; she knew so well how to answer to his moods ; 
 even she had begun to share his interests and his simpler 
 pleasures. But there was his wife, and there were his 
 children, the children that should have been hers, that 
 she could have loved. . . . 
 
 " Well, Illona, what do you say ? How quickly can 
 you be ready ? We'll travel by night, eh ? " There was 
 a hard, practical note in his voice, and there leapt 
 to her mind, unbidden, the memory of Fleurette and of 
 his meanness and the idea that this excursion that he was 
 suggesting was intended to make her forget, to cancel, 
 the past. A hot resentment came to her aid. 
 
 " Gerard, what would all that cost ? The j ourney and 
 all our expenses down there ? "" 
 
 " Oh, I don't know, pet. About a thousand francs 
 perhaps — it depends on what we do, of course." 
 
 " A thousand francs — that is the amount I asked you 
 to give me for Fleurette, Gerard." 
 
 " I know ; but what has that to do with it .'*" 
 
 " In my mind it has a lot to do with it. I can't help 
 
36o BITTERSWEET 
 
 remembering that you couldn't give me the money. It 
 wasn't really for myself: it was for my friend, and I 
 haven't so many friends, tu sais. I told you how much 
 it was wanted, but you couldn't afford such a sum then, 
 Gerard, and it wouldn't be reasonable for you to spend 
 it now. No, I won't help you spend a thousand francs 
 on me just because you fancy I'm not looking well — 
 although it would be spending it on yourself too, of 
 course, and on your own pleasure. You are like every 
 other man ; you think first of yourself ; you are too 
 ego'iste^ Gerard — it would be a good thing for me to go 
 to the sea, but, what is far more important, it would 
 amuse you — hern ? I love you, my dear — but I under- 
 stand you too." 
 
 He looked at her with astonishment. What did all 
 this portend ? What did it mean ? He had realised, of 
 course, that his refusal to pay for Fleurette's funeral had 
 hurt Illona, but her sudden onslaught amazed him. It 
 was not of a piece with her character as he conceived it. 
 Surely she was overdone : her dancing and the hot 
 weather were making her neurasthenic, hysterical. Well, 
 he must humour her : 
 
 " There, there, Illona sweetheart ; of course you under- 
 stand me. Who should if you don't ? I know you want 
 a holiday — you shall have one, and you shall forget that 
 I didn't do what you asked me to do, that I was mean 
 if you like, and that I am so selfish and horrible. We'll 
 enjoy ourselves just as much as we did at Le Lavandou, 
 more perhaps, for we know each other better. But how 
 soon can you be ready ? " 
 
 " Gerard, I tell you truly : I could be ready to-morrow. 
 
BITTERSWEET 361 
 
 But I won't go. No, I won't : ifs useless your asking me. 
 I'd be ashamed if I did. I'll stop in Paris — you go away, 
 if you like : go to Pont-Aven ; go anywhere. I dare say 
 I want a holiday, but I'll do without one. Perhaps later 
 on I'll go, but not now. It's a punishment for me not 
 to go, and it's a punishment for you too. Poor Fleurette ! 
 I did so little for her when she was alive : perhaps I 
 could have saved her ; and then, when she was dead, I 
 could hardly bury her." 
 
 Gerard neither understood Illona's mood nor the logic 
 of what she had been saying. He had been annoyed at 
 her refusal to listen to his half-hearted apology and at 
 her refusal to take his thousand francs. Her objection 
 to going away with him and her bitter accusation of 
 selfishness turned his annoyance into anger. What right 
 had she to talk to him like that ? It was because he had 
 put his foot down — once ; he would have been justified, 
 have been far more sensible, if he had put it down long 
 ago. He had given her thousands of francs, much more, 
 certainly, than it was reasonable for him to have given 
 her. She knew no moderation, and now apparently she 
 had no gratitude. Yes, perhaps what she said was just : 
 he did want to go away as much for his own sake as for 
 hers. Her refusal was a disappointment to him. He had 
 the right to expect her to come — more, he had the right 
 to tell her to come. But he would not exercise it. He 
 would take her at her word, and she should learn that 
 she could not afford to treat him with caprice, that she 
 could not play fast and loose with impunity. 
 
 These thoughts coursed through his head, and Illona 
 sat and watched him, longing for him to persist. She 
 
362 BITTERSWEET 
 
 wanted so much to give way : she wanted so much to 
 fling all her pride and resentment to the winds. But she 
 knew herself to be at the parting of the ways. If she 
 yielded now she would yield always. She did nothing 
 and she said nothing to show him how near she was to 
 capitulation, nor how false and weak was the attitude 
 that she had adopted with so brave a front. And she 
 kept back the tears from her eyes. 
 
 Then he spoke : " Very well, Illona ; you know your 
 own business best. As a matter of fact I didn't think 
 of a holiday for myself; I don't want one — but after 
 all August is jolly dull in Paris, and I will go down 
 to-morrow to Pont-Aven for a week. Perhaps by the 
 time I'm back you'll have forgotten how selfish I am 
 and you'll be in a better temper. I'm not so bad as 
 you think me all the same. But I must go to my office 
 now. You can drop me at the corner, if you like." 
 
 It was as if he had struck her. That he would resent 
 her refusal, her double refusal, she expected, and she 
 wished him to be resentful, but that he should actually 
 be willing to go away to Pont-Aven and to leave her 
 alone in Paris, that he should not remember that after 
 all she had stopped in Paris for his sake, that he should 
 already be so careless of their love— these things seemed 
 to her unthinkable, an outrage. She had hardly the 
 strength to answer : 
 
 " No, I'm not going home ; I shall go for a drive in 
 the Bois. I don't want you to come with me. And 
 Gerard, don't look for me to-night — go to-night to 
 Pont-Aven. I would rather not see you till you come 
 back — truly I would." 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 WHEN she reached the Bois, Illona dismissed 
 her taxi, found a seck:ded seat and gave 
 herself over to the unhappy consideration 
 of what had occurred. The fact that it fitted very 
 well into the plan she had prepared made it none the 
 less miserable for her to think about. The scene had 
 been unpremeditated ; the storm, if it could be called 
 a storm, had come out of a calm sky. Everything she 
 had said she regretted bitterly ; she would have given 
 all she had to recall the phrases in which she had 
 arraigned her lover"'s selfishness. They were all true, 
 but — but she had hurt herself in saying them, hurt her- 
 self, she knew, more than she had hurt Gerard whose 
 complacence was a triple armour. Now she was tempted 
 to go quickly out of the Bois, to find a telephone and 
 to beg him to forgive her, to forget what she had said, 
 to take her away from Paris as he had planned. She 
 sat for an hour fighting her battle. She knew so well 
 that if she did telephone he would laugh at her, 
 would speak to her as if she were a spoilt child, and 
 would forget the incident. Then they would go to 
 the sea, and in their happiness everything she had 
 
 363 
 
364 BITTERSWEET 
 
 schemed would crumble, her own heart would grow 
 soft again in her lover's arms, and the little resentments 
 that she knew he carried against her, her extravagance, 
 her way of life, would all of them vanish. Once more 
 she would have over him her old power and she might 
 never again have the heart to eat it away. She knew -^ 
 
 her strength ; she knew that if she chose she could hold | 
 
 Gerard for years to come ; perhaps she could hold him i 
 
 for ever. All that angered him in what she did was \ 
 
 not really a part of her character ; so much of it was S 
 
 intentional, invented at the moment to vex him, to 
 lessen his affection, to destroy his confidence. Her very 
 extravagance she could, if she chose, put away so easily. 
 She owed now little or nothing ; she had no need of 
 more money than she earned. Gerard had loved her 
 most when she had been most natural, most simple, 
 at Aix and in the weeks that followed. She asked so 
 little of life. To see her lover sometimes, never to 
 quarrel with him, to know that soon his arms would 
 be round her, that she might wake to find her head on 
 his shoulder : so would she be content. Perhaps he 
 would take her to London, and, even remembering her 
 mother, she could live there on less money than she 
 cost him now. . . . 
 
 Of a sudden she jumped up. " Tm a fool," she said. 
 " I forget his boys ; I forget everything. No, Fve 
 begun now, and I will, I will go on " ; and for a 
 moment she paused and prayed to her God to give 
 her strength. 
 
 Meanwhile Gerard was wasting no time. If he was to 
 
BITTERSWEET 365 
 
 go away he had better go at once. To-night, certainly, 
 would be as easy as to-morrow. He had left Illona 
 in a mood of considerable resentment, and as he tidied 
 up his desk at the office, ate his solitary dinner and 
 packed his bag, he thought of her with little kind- 
 ness. Her attitude was incomprehensible to his intelli- 
 gence except on the easy ground that she was ill and 
 not herself, and he sincerely believed that if he went to 
 her now he would find her crying and ready enough to 
 fall in with his plans. In his heart that was what he 
 wished to do. But she had wounded his pride ; it 
 would be as well to teach her a lesson ; and his mind 
 began unconsciously to search about for fuel for his 
 anger. After all, she had sent him away herself. She 
 had not even asked for his address. Well, she would 
 not be able to write to him and she should do without 
 his letters. It was strange this difference. They had 
 not been two days apart since he had found her again 
 at the Trianon four months ago. He began to think 
 of her love, of the way in which she tended him when 
 they were alone, of her deep sombre eyes, of her dear 
 bands and her quick wish to please him. . . . And 
 then he fell asleep in his berth, and, arriving the 
 next morning at Pont-Aven, forgot Paris and his 
 business, Illona and all that had been his habit, in his 
 pleasure at being with his children. Not a corner of 
 that countryside did they leave unvisited and unex- 
 plored. Picnics, bathing, fishing, sailing made up the 
 tale of his seven days. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 AT first Illona could hardly bring herself to 
 / \ believe that her lover had gone away. It 
 X ^ was true that she had said she did not wish 
 to see him, but surely he would come to bid her 
 good-bye, or he would write to her. But when hour 
 after hour of the night passed without his appearance, 
 and when the next morning no letter arrived and no 
 message to summon her to lunch, why then she gave 
 up hope. Did her love count for so little ? Had she 
 so small a place in his life? They had quarrelled a 
 little ; she had said to him some of the bitter thoughts 
 that had risen unbidden in her mind — but was that 
 enough to make him go off without a word ? Her first 
 forenoon was a chain of bitter minutes. She did not 
 dare to telephone to his office. If he was there he 
 would be angry. If he had gone away her calling 
 might compromise him — or so he seemed to think. 
 The day dragged itself away. She had not the heart 
 to get up and dress ; she wished to see no one. When 
 the night came, when the last post had passed her 
 door and she was ready to go off to her work, she felt 
 
 far nearer breaking down in a passion of tears than 
 
 366 
 
BITTERSWEET 367 
 
 dancing, laughing. . . . Where was Gerard ? How 
 could she write to him when she had not even his 
 address ? Well, she would write all the same — the 
 letter could go to-morrow, for surely in the morning 
 there would be something for her. Jearne should 
 bring it to her the moment it arrived. She would not 
 want to sleep. 
 
 " Gerard, chert a moi, why have you gone away 
 and left your little Illona all alone with her heart 
 pressed together and broken ? I want you so much, 
 mon amant, so much more than ever before. I want 
 your arms round me ; I want to rest my little head 
 on your shoulder. I could not believe you had 
 gone. Be not fdche with me, Gerard. I shall die 
 if you leave me. You are all I have in the world, 
 more than my mother, more than anything. For 
 me you are a religion. I would die to do you good. 
 And here I am like a little dog who has lost her 
 master. All the iivnefai envie de pleurer. Oh, I am 
 so miserable ; I did not know there was so much 
 misery in the world. . . ." 
 
 She broke off suddenly. What good could come of 
 her writing such a letter ? It told the truth but it told 
 more of the truth than it would be well for her lover 
 to know. He was everything in the world for her but 
 it was necessary that he should value her love for him 
 at a far lower rate. Rather must he think her exigent, 
 wilful, capricious, light. He must never again suspect 
 that separated from him she could welcome no future, 
 could draw no breath of content, imagine no happiness. 
 She read over what she had written, and then, lighting 
 a match, slowly burnt it, watching its phrases shrivel 
 
368 BITTERSWEET 
 
 away in the flame until there was nothing left but a 
 heap of black ash. Oh, how she loved him ! How much 
 every fibre, every pulse of her being cried out for his 
 presence ! Why, why, she asked herself, should this man 
 have such power over her ? It was not only that at the 
 beginning he had treated her as if she was a human 
 being rather than a plaything, that he had dealt with 
 her as if he respected her — no, it was more than that : 
 her heart was his for some deep reason that she could 
 not fathom, could not guess. If he were ill, she would 
 be ill with him ; were he to die, she would die at his 
 side ; should he starve, then willingly would she share 
 his crust and count herself content. She stretched out 
 her hands as if to call him back ; a sob burst in her 
 throat. "Gerard, Gerard, understand me, in spite of 
 everything ; see with your heart, Gerard, that I am not 
 what I make myself appear, that I am worthy of you 
 and of your love ; never let me go out of your life ; 
 hold me to you so that I may serve you always. I ask 
 so little of you, Gerard : I will be a little dog at your 
 door; I will grudge none of your happiness; I will 
 forgive your wife — oh, Gerard, never leave me." She 
 sank on her couch, weeping bitterly, and then dry sobs 
 took the place of her tears. After awhile she fell on 
 unconsciousness. . . . 
 
 " Madame, Madame, wake up, wake up ! Here it is 
 one o'clock and you have fallen asleep and Monsieur 
 Victor has sent a chasseur for you. Wake up ! " 
 
 Jeanne, looking very ridiculous without her false hair 
 and in one of her mistress's discarded dressing-gowns, 
 had no easy task. Illona came slowly to consciousness. 
 
BITTERSWEET 369 
 
 She had fainted rather than fallen asleep, and as she 
 opened her eyes she felt for her lover and held out her 
 arms to draw him to her. . . . 
 
 " Why, Jeanne, where am I ! What has happened ? 
 Why are you there ? " 
 
 Jeanne hastened to reassure her. Monsieur Victor did 
 not like his dancers to disappoint him. " There, youVe 
 dressed ; all you need is to bathe your eyes — they look 
 sleepy — and to powder a little. Wait — " and she ran 
 out to tell the chasseur that he should be followed in 
 less than five minutes. 
 
 Illona's chauffeur, tired of waiting, had already taken 
 himself off; there was no time for Jeanne to dress and 
 go out to find another taxi. Luckily the Place Gerardo 
 was no far cry and the walk through the cool night 
 brought back Illona's control. She was too great a 
 favourite both of his own and of his clients for Victor 
 to be really angry with her. He scowled at her arrival 
 but she laughed him out of countenance and in a minute, 
 having tossed her cloak to an attendant, she was in the 
 most complicated figure of a maxixe. Misery gnawed 
 at her heart, but no one of her companions, no one of 
 her admirers, knew or suspected that she was anything 
 else than what she seemed, the soul of irresponsible, 
 wayward gaiety, a figure of caprice. 
 
 So passed the week. Through the day Illona would 
 lie on her bed, staring at nothing, refusing to be com- 
 forted, refusing to see her friends or to talk to Jeanne ; 
 at night she would dance and dance, and as long as she 
 could carry half-a-dozen friends in her train she would 
 
 24 
 
370 BITTERSWEET 
 
 refuse to go home. Every morning found her at the 
 Pre-Catalan. Any place, any madness was better than 
 her own room, the solitude of her own thoughts. But 
 when at last she was forced to return she would creep 
 up her stairs, fearful of her own footsteps, and would 
 let herself furtively into her hall with a heart beating at 
 the hope that there would be a letter for her and at the 
 fear that once again she would find herself forgotten. 
 
 And on the ninth night, just as she had taken her 
 place at the side of an elderly admirer and had demanded 
 the most expensive supper that the Trianon could 
 produce, she looked up and saw Gerard standing in the 
 door. He caught her eye at once and smiled and 
 beckoned. She shook her head and turned to her host. 
 Poor man, he had his hopes encouraged that night for 
 the first and last time in the history of his siege of 
 Illona's affections. He hardly knew whether he was 
 standing on solid earth. She put up with him ; she 
 cajoled him ; she looked into his eyes ; she allowed him 
 to hold her hand ; she fed him with sections of her own 
 peach. And all the time she knew that Gerard was 
 watching her, that he was near enough to hear most at 
 least of what she said and what was said to her. To the 
 suggestion that she should come to dinner on the follow- 
 ing night to the Chateau Madrid she seemed to give a 
 delighted assent — " but Tm not sure ; give me your card 
 and if I can't come Til send you a message." Then she 
 took herself off from the table, saying as she went : " No, 
 I won"'t go anywhere else to-night — to-morrow perhaps ; 
 I was out this morning till ten and Fm tired. A71 revoir 
 and good dreams ; dream of me, mind ! " 
 
BITTERSWEET 371 
 
 Gerard expected her to come at once to him, but 
 before he could realise what was happening she was 
 dancing again, this time with an Englishman whom 
 she had every reason to know he particularly disliked 
 and distrusted ; and it was not until that dance was 
 over and its successor that she walked slowly across the 
 room to where he was seated and held out her hand : 
 
 " Bonjoiir, mon ami, covmient fa va ? And where 
 have you been ? And was it pleasant ?" 
 
 " Sit down, Illona, sit down at once: I haven't come 
 here to see you playing the fool " 
 
 " ' Playing the fool,' my dear ! you are not very 
 polite. Your holiday — if you have been away — hasn't 
 improved your manners. No, I can't sit down ; later on 
 perhaps. I'm busy now." And she kept Gerard waiting 
 for half an hour before at last she took the seat that he 
 had kept for her, asked for a peach and, looking at him 
 with laughing eyes, remarked that the sun at Pont-Aven 
 had made him rather moche and heavy. " It doesn't suit 
 you to look like a black man, tu sais.'''' 
 
 " Haven't you missed me, Illona ? " 
 
 " Missed you — of course I have. But that doesn't 
 mean that I haven't enjoyed myself. I've had a splendid 
 time. So have you, I hear. Why didn't you send me 
 some postal-cards ? " 
 
 '* I ought to have written to you, Illona, but " 
 
 " Oh, pas la peine, my dear : 1 was quite content. I 
 only wanted postal-cards for my collection. I hear you 
 made a perfect father. Ferrat told me all about it " 
 
 " Ferrat ! What does she know about what I was 
 doing ? " 
 
372 BITTERSWEET 
 
 " Oh, she was at Beg-Meil, not far from you, and she 
 ran across you one day. You didn't see her. Oh, I 
 laughed so at her description of you with your gosses ! 
 A little too much sans gene^ I thought. Fm glad I 
 didn"'t see it. However, as long as you were happy it"'s 
 all right. When do you go back ? " 
 
 " Go back ? Tm not going back. We arranged that 
 I should go for a week. Surely you remember ? "" 
 
 " I remember nothing, my dear, except that you went 
 off without being polite enough to come and say 
 good-bye." 
 
 " That wasn't my fault, Illona — you told me not to ; 
 you haven't forgotten that .'' " 
 
 " And of course you believed me ! You are not very 
 intelligent, Gerard. That is the second time youVe 
 done that. Fd be afraid of doing it a third if I were 
 you." 
 
 " Illona, did you want me then, after all ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes — I wanted you ; or perhaps I wanted you 
 to be polite rather. It wasn't polite and it wasn't kind 
 to go off like that. But it's done now. We won't talk 
 of it. Why didn't you send me some cards ? Why for 
 the matter of that didn't you write to me ? I didn't even 
 know your address." 
 
 " Because I was a proud and stupid fool, my pet. I am 
 sorry — there ! I love you too much not to want to write 
 to you, Illona, but this time I rather supposed you 
 wouldn't want to hear from me — but I did think of you 
 all the time, you know." 
 
 " Well, that's dejd quelquechose. And now I must go 
 and dance again. I shan't be long." 
 
BITTERSWEET 373 
 
 ' Illona " 
 
 " Yes ? " 
 
 " Ask Victor to let you oiT now : ifs already two." 
 
 " No, I wouldn't do it." 
 
 " But rd like you not to dance any more o-night. I 
 want you to myself, sweetheart. It is so long that we 
 have been separated. Now do — please ! " 
 
 She examined him carefully, as if what he had sug- 
 gested was some ordinary proposition that required 
 reflection before she could decide. " Well, I will, cheri ; 
 but it isn't because I love you, tu sais ; ifs because 
 Fm tired and I want to go home." The little caress 
 with which she accompanied her words belied their 
 unkindness. 
 
 In the minute that Illona kept him waiting, while 
 she went ostensibly to fetch her cloak, she gave herself 
 up to despair. What could come of all this ? How 
 would she have the strength ever to let him go ? . . . 
 But she came to him with a smiling face and as they 
 drove down the hill she nestled into the hollow of his 
 shoulder. He wondered how he could ever have left her 
 alone for so many days, how he could have forgotten 
 her. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 SEPTEMBER was wearing itself away. Paris was 
 welcoming back its children. After all Gerard 
 and Illona had been to Soulac, but only for a 
 week. For her they were seven days of ecstasy and of 
 agony. For Gerard they were sometimes spoiled by her 
 peevishness, the play of her nerves, her capricious un- 
 willingness even to attempt to capture the lover's mood 
 in which their days at Le Lavandou had passed. He 
 also was preoccupied a little. Things in the Paris office 
 were now in order again ; Pall Mall could really spare 
 him no longer ; his lease of the St Cloud villa was nearly 
 up ; the children must return to school. In less than 
 three weeks now he was due back in London. How near 
 their separation was he had not told Illona. But he 
 supposed that she had some idea of the truth. In May 
 and in June, when September seemed so far away, they 
 had spoken often of the length of time they had before 
 them to be happy in. He caught himself wondering 
 whether it was well or ill that their life together was to 
 come to an end. Her beauty, her eyes, her mind, simple 
 and happy like a bird's, drew him still. . . . But there 
 
BITTERSWEET 375 
 
 were ways in which she seemed to have hardened, to 
 have become calloused, less fine. In the matter of money, 
 for instance, she seemed to have groAvn less and less 
 shy ; indeed such diffidence as she had shown at first 
 had disappeared almost entirely. For hsr to see some- 
 thing that attracted her was actively to want it. He 
 had shown impatience often but she had brushed away 
 what he had to say on the plea that he was ill-tempered, 
 and had laughed and cajoled him back into a temporary 
 acquiescence with her wishes. And yet he had told 
 her frankly that he was not rich enough to satisfy all 
 these whims and she had promised to be more careful, 
 less extravagant: "^m verras^'' she would say, and he 
 would see — would see that she forgot her promise almost 
 as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She had 
 grown more exigent too. Her idea that after all she 
 liked him to come to the Trianon had borne no pleasant 
 fruit. Now, as far as she could, she insisted on his 
 constant presence. And when he was there, instead of 
 remembering him, instead of coming to him often and 
 spending much of her time at his table, she seemed 
 entirely to ignore his existence. To watch her at her 
 work distressed him almost beyond the limit of endur- 
 ance. Often he felt himself on the point of jumping up, 
 plucking her from her place, and carrying her out of 
 the restaurant in his arms. . . . But it was no good. 
 " YouVe stupid, Gerard, and jealous about nothing : ifs 
 my work, my dear,'' she would answer him, and he had 
 perforce to be quiet. 
 
 Jealousy was not perhaps the wrong word to use. 
 Gerard was jealous, but he was not jealous in any 
 
376 BITTERSWEET 
 
 ordinary sense. He had no doubt of lUona's faithfulness 
 to him. He would have sworn to it. He believed in his 
 heart that she loved him not less but more than she had 
 ever done. He was jealous of her work ; he had become 
 intolerant of her life, of the method of her life, of the 
 people, foul or stupid, that she had to know. He had 
 begun to hate it all, the whole thing, the whole surround- 
 ings and atmosphere. " Well, take me away ; I ask 
 nothing better than to leave it," she would say in answer 
 to his protests, and he would sigh and tell her that she 
 knew very well it was impossible. 
 
 They went to Soulac with the idea of staying there 
 a full fortnight. To Gerard the idea of varying this 
 plan never occurred. After all Illona was sometimes the 
 Illona of Aix and of the South. In those golden Biscayan 
 days he would often forget all his doubts, and his 
 troubles would fade away into so far a distance that it 
 seemed as if they never were. But for Illona there was 
 no forgetfulness. She had come south with her conscience 
 plucking at her sleeve. She had consented in a moment 
 of weakness and had then failed to summon up strength 
 to say that she had changed her mind. Even when her 
 trunk was packed and she was ready to go to the station 
 she hung back, asking herself whether she should not 
 send her lover a message that after all she preferred to 
 stop in Paris. . . . No, she would go, but she would 
 keep a grip on herself; she would not allow herself to 
 slip back into the happiness of the past and into forget- 
 fulness of all that she had planned. 
 
 And to some extent she had succeeded. 
 
 They were lying on the sand under a pine-tree and 
 
BITTERSWEET 377 
 
 looking out to sea to where in the distance a solitary 
 sailing-ship hung, poised like a bird, in the blue of sky 
 and wave. Suddenly Gerard, plucking up courage, 
 turned and took her hand in his : 
 
 " Illona, I am so happy, but it makes me miserable 
 when I remember that everything must end so soon," 
 
 " Why think of it then, my dear ? Tu es bete, tu sail. 
 Anyhow we have at least another week." 
 
 " I meant more than that, cherie. I meant that I must 
 so soon leave France." 
 
 She caught her breath, and one hand went up to her 
 heart — but now he was not looking at her, and she 
 answered bravely : " ' Leave France ' ? AVhat do you 
 mean ? Oh, I know : yes, it was about now you said 
 you'd be going back to London. Well, my dear, we 
 must make the best of the time we have. And after all, 
 even when you go away I shall see you sometimes. 
 Youll make excuses to come to Paris — pas ? You won't 
 want to leave your little Illona altogether. But when 
 have you to go ? " 
 
 He paused a minute to recollect the day they had 
 reached : " In fifteen days ; on the 23rd." 
 
 " Why then particularly ? " 
 
 "My boy' — Dickie, you know — has to start school 
 again on the 25th." 
 
 Illona did not speak for a while. She held back her 
 tears lest if one escaped she should break down alto- 
 gether. Of course she had known he would be leaving 
 Paris, but somehow she had not thought it would be so 
 soon. He had said September, but she had deceived 
 herself into thinking that he had said autumn, and 
 
378 BITTERSWEET 
 
 autumn might mean October or November. Now the fact 
 was forced on her. Fifteen days ! Half a month ! What 
 remained to her of happiness she could count in hours. 
 It seemed to her that her heart stopped beating. Her 
 blood ran cold. A weakness seized her. Minutes passed 
 before she could command herself. 
 
 " Gerard.^' 
 
 « Yes." 
 
 " I thought you must be asleep as you didn't speak. 
 If you have to leave Paris on the 23rd oughtn't you to 
 go back earlier than we planned ? I should be willing 
 if you wanted to." 
 
 Gerard turned and looked at her. She did not flinch 
 under his gaze. 
 
 " Aren't you happy here, Illona "^ I thought you 
 were, and that you would be sorry to go. I thought we 
 were very happy." 
 
 " Oh yes, happy enough. I like Soulac and it's good to 
 bathe and to sit in the sun. But if you want to go back 
 we'll go ; it wouldn't break my heart, you know." 
 
 It was his turn to pause and think. What did she 
 mean by this new tone she had adopted .-* She spoke 
 as if she were indifferent to whether they stopped or 
 went away, as if Soulac and Paris were equally amus- 
 ing and pleasant to her, and as if, moreover, even the 
 idea of his leaving France was of no very great import- 
 ance. Was he, could he have been, mistaken in her .? 
 Did she love him as much as he supposed .'' Or was her 
 love a fleeting caprice that habit alone kept alive "^ The 
 questions made him more resentful than unhappy. 
 
 " Very well, perhaps you're right : I ought to be look- 
 
BITTERSWEET 379 
 
 ing after things a little. We'll go back to-morrow. You 
 can i:top here and read and Til go and telephone to 
 Bordeaux to get a compartment in the wagon-lit.'^'' 
 
 But next night he woke to find Illona's tears wet on 
 his face. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 " ^"^ ERARD, you go away so soon now — tell me, 
 ■ -w- how often shall I see you afterwards ? Shall 
 
 ^.— ^ I ever see you ? " 
 
 " Of course, pet ; you will see me very often : I shall 
 have to come to Paris occasionally, and I can make an 
 excuse to come every two or three weeks, I hope." 
 
 " But you will be so far away, darling. What shall I 
 do without you ? 1 don't think I shall find it possible. 
 I feel that when I have you no longer I shall die." 
 
 For answer he drew her head down and kissed her lips. 
 She sank closer to him and he could feel a thrill of con- 
 tent run through her body. 
 
 " No, Illona, you will not die. London is not far off. 
 We shall be so happy when we do meet that it will make 
 up for the time when we are not together. Perhaps we 
 shall love each other all the more because of the separa- 
 tions — you were getting a little used to me, you know, 
 and that's why you are so often cross and impatient." 
 
 "You are so, so good when I am like that. You 
 understand me so well. Be patient with me always, 
 Gerard. Remember always what I have been to you, 
 
 380 
 
BITTERSWEET 381 
 
 that I have loved you more than mv life, more than all 
 the world, more than I had ever dreamed that it was 
 possible to love. Remember that ever since I have known 
 you I have been yours and only yours, that I have never 
 had a thought for another, that you have been my king 
 and my master as well as my lover.'"' 
 
 " I know, I know, Illona sweetheart. Be quite sure I 
 shall never forget. But you speak as if we were going 
 to be parted for a long time instead of for a few weeks." 
 
 " I am so afraid, Gerard." 
 
 " There is nothing to be afraid of, little one. I shall 
 think of you always, and you will think of me a great 
 deal, and you won't do the things I don't like — will you ? 
 You'll be good." 
 
 " You can be sure of that, Gerard. Oh yes, I'll be 
 bien sage. Have no fear. You know my life ; you know 
 what I have to do. I shall have no secrets from you ; I 
 shall tell you everything just as I have always done — 
 pas^ You do know everything about me, Gerard. I 
 have kept back not even a little secret. Better than my 
 own mother you know me, dear. There are so few days 
 left though before you go." 
 
 They were silent for a while. Then Illona spoke 
 again : 
 
 " Gerard, I want something from you. I have never 
 had your photograph. I want one, dear ; now at once 
 I want one. No, I can't wait until you get back to 
 England. Give it me to-morrow. I ask you, sweetheart ; 
 do not refuse me." 
 
 "But I haven't got one that's at all like me. I'd 
 better get done in London directly I have a moment's 
 
382 BITTERSWEET 
 
 time. Why, the last photograph I had taken was at 
 
 Oxford — and that's years ago. I wasn't twenty-two." 
 
 " No, I shouldn't like that ; I want one that shows 
 you as you are now. I didn't know you then ; I am 
 jealous of those years before I knew you, and I don't 
 even want a picture of you from that time. I'll wait 
 after all. You shall get photographed in London and 
 you shall send me the only copy; you mustn't let 
 anyone else have one ; you mustn't even have one for 
 yourself. Promise me that ; promise me that if you do 
 send one it shall be the only one." 
 
 " If I send it, Illona ! Of course I'll send it. Be sure 
 of that ! " 
 
 " I'm sure of nothing, dear, not even of you, not even 
 of myself. But I hope — " She paused a moment. 
 " Gerard." 
 
 " Yes ? " 
 
 " There is another thing you must give me. I am a 
 little afraid of asking for it. You will give it me; 
 promise ! " 
 
 He laughed good-naturedly. " I promise — of course 
 it's something I can give you ; it's not a motor-car or a 
 sable coat "i " 
 
 Her eyes reproached him, but he was not looking 
 at her. 
 
 " No, it's nothing like that. I want — I want a photo- 
 graph of your boy." 
 
 " Of Dickie ? Whatever do you want that for .? " 
 
 " I want it, Gerard. And you promised, you know. 
 I remember you told me once that he'd been taken 
 just before he came to Paris — you always said you'd 
 
BITTERSWEET 383 
 
 show it me, but you forgot and I didn't like to remind 
 you. When may I have it — to-morrow ? " 
 
 " I can't think what you want it for, Illona, but I 
 promised and you shall have it. Yes, Fll bring it to- 
 morrow. No, I won't forget." 
 
 The photograph of Dickie which Gerard brought to 
 Illona the next day showed him exactly as she had 
 seen him at the Philadelphia Palace ; he wore the same 
 clothes ; he had the same tidy, English air. She took 
 the picture and looked at it while Gerard occupied 
 himself with the question of what they should eat. It 
 was as well that his attention was distracted. By the 
 time he was free she had recovered her control. 
 
 " Do you think he's like me ? " 
 
 " Naturally. He's very like you. // est mignon et ires, 
 tres gentil, tu sais. J^aime beaucoup les petits gar^ons, 
 moi. But we won't talk of that. It's useless. . . . 
 Gerard, are you quite sure you do not mind my having 
 his picture ? '* 
 
 " Mind your having it ? Of course not. Why ? " 
 
 " Oh, nothing — I only thought. He's your boy, et 
 moi^Je suis seulement ta maitresse " 
 
 " Illona ! " 
 
 " Pardon, Gerard. Je suis bete — pas ? I'm happy with 
 it, you know, so, so happy. Now we'll talk of some- 
 thing else." 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 IN two more nights Gerard was to start for 
 England. The minutes seemed to Illona to 
 pass away Hke drops of her own blood, taking 
 with them all her strength, all her will. Yet she was 
 gay ; she refused to steal even an hour from her work. 
 Gerard reminded her how little was now left to him 
 and begged that she would at least stay most of the 
 time with him, that she would sup with him, and 
 spend with him all the intervals between her dances. 
 
 " It's not possible, my dear ! You forget : as you 
 are going it is all the more necessary for me to keep 
 my friends. I can't let them hefdcMs with me. I have 
 my living to make. It will be three o'clock soon and 
 perhaps we won't go to the Esqueline to-night, if you'd 
 rather not — there ! " 
 
 " And you won't take your supper with me .? " 
 
 "No, I can't; I'm going to sup with George." 
 George was a Russian prince, large and good-natured 
 and not very rich, whom she had known for years and 
 for whom in consequence Gerard had a strong dislike. 
 
 "But, Illona, that isn't kind of you. It's my last 
 384 
 
BITTERSWEET 385 
 
 night but one, dear. And anyhow you know I don't 
 hke that man.'" 
 
 '^ Naturally you don't like him, Gerard : he's a friend 
 of mine. But he's a good friend, tu sais, and I promised 
 to have supper with him and I won't alter. He's come 
 here for me ; he wants to dance all the time." 
 
 "Then I think I'll go home." 
 
 Illona's face grew hard. Her eyes narrowed. So 
 much he could see ; he did not look carefully ; he did 
 not look into her eyes ; he did not see that gradually 
 her lips began to quiver and her hand to tremble. 
 
 "Please yourself, my dear. Perhaps it would be 
 better. I shall be very busy." She turned then quickly 
 and left him. It was time. Many minutes passed 
 before she came back into the restaurant, and when she 
 came, Gerard, who had been watching for her, found 
 something new and strange in her appearance. Perhaps 
 it was because she had been angry. Even in this 
 surrounding, even as she danced and laughed an 
 answer to what was said to her, she had an air so 
 remote, so finely serious, that more than ever before 
 he vexed his spirit with questions of what she was 
 doing in this world of the devil, by what infernal 
 mischance or wanton trick of destiny she had been 
 dedicated to such a mockery of joy and pleasure. But he 
 knew better than to encourage such thoughts. After 
 all, you could not be in this world without being of 
 it. Illona was of it surely. ... He was still bitterly 
 resentful of her refusal to spend these hours with him, 
 of the method of her refusal, and of her reason. If he 
 had had the strength of character he would have done 
 
 25 
 
386 BITTERSWEET 
 
 as he had threatened — or no, perhaps he had better 
 be frank with himself: if he must quarrel with her, then 
 it should be at some moment when he could make her 
 feel the bitterness of his anger. Here in the Trianon 
 she had only to walk away from him, as indeed she 
 had just done. It would be a poor satisfaction to leave 
 her so. 
 
 He sat on and smoked cigar after cigar and was 
 almost impolite to such of Illona's camarades as came to 
 talk to him. 
 
 At three o'clock punctually she came herself. Till 
 then she had ignored his presence and he had resolutely 
 avoided looking at her. 
 
 " Ym ready, if you like. Fm glad you didn't go home 
 after all. You are stupid, Gerard, sometimes." 
 
 They walked out on to the Place and Gerard gave the 
 chauffeur the address in the Square Moncey. 
 
 " Oh no, oh no, alors ! I don't go home yet," Illona 
 interrupted ; " you nearly spoiled my evening and now 
 I wish to be a little cheered up. We'll go to the Pagoda 
 first for a while. I want to dance some more." 
 
 They spent an hour at the Pagoda and an hour at 
 the Esqueline before Illona would consent to go home. 
 He was patient with her ; he hid his resentment. But as 
 the hours passed his anger grew. Why should she treat 
 him in this way .^ Why, indeed, did he ^llow it ? No 
 doubt she thought that as he was going away he would 
 no longer be of much use to her. At the moment she 
 was dancing and he had leisure to encourage his black 
 thoughts. Perhaps after all her story of spending the 
 last winter hoping and longing for him, faithful to 
 
BITTERSWEET 387 
 
 her memory of him, was a he. Perhaps he too was a 
 michS Hke all the other men he had seen to-night. 
 Well . . . 
 
 Driving from the Esqueline to the Square Moncey 
 neither Gerard nor Illona spoke. The nights were 
 lengthening and it was still dark, Gerard could not 
 see his companion's face. For the moment during which 
 they waited for the door to open he had an impulse 
 to leave her and she turned to him as if expecting him 
 to go, for she had learned in these months to respond 
 to, to anticipate, his moods. He saw her movement 
 and the impulse to go died at once. His nerves were 
 on edge. He followed her up the staircase, allowed her, 
 for the first time for weeks, to unlock her own door, 
 and followed her into her room. 
 
 Illona's first movements were to throw off her cloak 
 and to put it carefully on a hanger. Then she rubbed 
 her eyes, yawned a little, and spoke : " We stopped too 
 long : I'm tired this morning. So are you, my poor 
 dear. We go to sleep quickly, eh ? "" 
 
 For the moment Gerard made no answer. He looked 
 at her moodily, and taking off his overcoat and opera 
 hat and laying them on one side, he sat down, 
 
 " If you are so tired why didn't you come home 
 sooner .'' " 
 
 " Because I didn't want to, my poor Gerard." 
 
 " Stop brushing your hair, Illona ! Come here a 
 minute : I want to speak to you," 
 
 " Well ? " She came obediently to his side and looked 
 down at him. 
 
388 BITTERSWEET 
 
 " Illona, it is time that you and I came to an under- 
 standing. I am going back to England to-morrow," 
 
 " I know it, Gerard." 
 
 " Well, ever since you've known it youVe altered in 
 your way of treating me. Never before have you 
 behaved as you did to-night." 
 
 "Why, what did I do?" 
 
 " You know very well what you did. Shall I tell you 
 frankly what you made me feel .? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " You made me feel that as I was going away, that 
 as I could no longer be of use to you, you had better 
 waste no more time with me, that it would be well to 
 find someone else to take my place " 
 
 " Oh, Gerard ! " she moaned. 
 
 " If I am wrong it certainly is not my fault. You 
 are responsible for making me think it. You have been 
 going on in that way for weeks." 
 
 " And I really make you feel that I should do that — 
 that I should give anyone else your place ? Gerard, how 
 can you even say that ? You can't feel it. Ifs im- 
 possible after these months we have been together. 
 Sometimes Fve heenjautive, I know, but Fve loved you, 
 Gerard, and you've loved me — pas ? Tell me you didn't 
 really mean what you said." 
 
 " But I have felt it, and feel it now. What else 
 could I feel 'i And after all, need I be surprised 't " If 
 she had cried, if she had broken down, he would have 
 understood better, but she showed no signs of breaking 
 down: she was perfectly calm, watching him with eyes 
 wide open as if fascinated. Her self-possession irritated 
 
BITTERSWEET 389 
 
 his nerves still more. " YouVe let me see more of your 
 life in the last month or two than Fd seen before. I 
 understand more now. You live on fools." His voice 
 rose a little. " WTiy should I believe that I am not one 
 of them ? You've liked me and Fve been useful, and 
 to-morrow I go away. Look at to-night. Is that 
 Russian to be my successor ? " 
 
 " Stop ! " Illona bent forward and covered his mouth 
 with her hand. He seized her wrist and forced it away. 
 " Why should I stop ? He's rich, I suppose, richer 
 than I am anyhow," 
 
 For answer she drew herself back. "Say no more, 
 Gerard. It isn't necessary. Cestjini maintenant.'''' 
 
 He got up : "I know that phrase : you have used 
 it before. Yes, it is finished and Fm going." He 
 bent dov/n and flung his coat over his arm. " It means 
 less to you than it does to me, Illona." 
 
 " If you go you will never come back again, Gerard. 
 You understand that ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, I understand ; but it is time I went all the 
 same." He laughed. " Indeed I won't come back again. 
 Don't be afraid. But I want you to know the truth 
 nevertheless. I have loved you, Illona : I have always 
 told you the truth about that. I loved you more than 
 I ever loved anyone. There was almost nothing I 
 would not have done for you. Well — " he raised one 
 hand and opened and closed it as if to show that every- 
 thing was at an end — " Well, I'm not sorry : through 
 six months I've been a fool, but a happy fool, and 
 luckily the end has come just as I am leaving Paris and 
 can try to forget you. You have played with me. 
 
390 BITTERSWEET 
 
 lUona, played with me — and worse. But it doesn't 
 matter : I forgive you, for I didn't know it until to- 
 night. And now good-bye — adieu ! "" 
 
 His hand was on the door but before opening it he 
 paused as if expecting her to speak. She made no 
 movement but stood watching him, her eyes wide open, 
 her face set. 
 
 In a moment he was gone. 
 
 Gerard strode out into the rue Blanche and looked 
 about for a taxi. One came immediately and he told 
 its driver to go to St Cloud. It was light now% but the 
 sun had not yet risen. The cold air was grateful. 
 
 He had expected Illona to reply, to defend herself, 
 to attempt to prove that he was mistaken, to protest 
 her love, to break down. She had done none of these 
 things. She had seen him go without protest and un- 
 moved. He had never meant to leave her so quickly 
 and in such a way. Perhaps it was better so. . . . 
 
 The driver was making for the Pont de Suresnes and 
 as they neared it the sun rose, flooding all the avenues 
 of the Bois with its pale gold. Gerard stopped the cab 
 and dismissed it. He would walk home. After the 
 hours he had spent the exercise would do him good. 
 The cold sunny air would wash away the foul scent and 
 the clinging memories of Montmartre. He had finished 
 with all that life. He would never go back to it ; no, 
 he would never go near it. He had had enough. And 
 it had cost him enough too, had cost him enough in 
 money, and in health perhaps. Yet he regretted nothing. 
 Certainly it had been interesting, this experience ,• and 
 
BITTERSWEET 39^ 
 
 after all it was impossible that he should really have 
 done himself any harm : he had not felt so young for 
 years as he had felt during the last six months, so 
 young and so alert. He supposed it was because he had 
 been in love. He smiled. He had been in love ; he had 
 made a fool of himself. But it had been worth it. The 
 fact that he had been played with, that Illona had 
 proved unworthy in the end of all the affection he had 
 given her, had after all not so very much to do with 
 the matter. He had believed in her during all those 
 weeks, and he had cared for her, had lived in a kind of 
 golden haze of delight. Nothing could destroy those 
 memories. But she had become very strange. Surely he 
 was well out of it all. If it had gone on, heaven only 
 knew where it would have led him. He might have 
 taken her to London. In any case he would have seen 
 her affain and ag-ain in Paris. There had been a time 
 when she had been worthy of everything he had been 
 able to give her, his love, his affection — yes, and his 
 respect. There had been a sort of Indian summer of 
 what was fine and unspoiled and honest in her character. 
 But it had not lasted. It could not withstand the 
 influence of the life she led. Now he was to have a 
 successor. But she would never care for any successor 
 as she had, for a few brief weeks, cared for him. Poor 
 little Illona ! There was nothing he could do for her. 
 Some years of youth she had still before her. . . . 
 
 Why should he allow her fate to weigh on his spirit ? 
 He had treated her well. In effect it was she who had 
 dismissed him. She had thrown him aside like a squeezed 
 orange. It was the habit of her class. He drew a deep 
 
392 BITTERSWEET 
 
 breath of the air of the hillside, determined to forget 
 all that had been ugly in what he had done in the last 
 eighteen months, and let himself into his house. 
 
 It was nearly seven o'clock. In the kitchen regions 
 the cook was stirring. He made his way quietly up- 
 stairs, hoping not to wake his household, but Mary's 
 door opened and she came out to him : she had heard 
 his step on the gravel and his key in the door and had 
 hastened to welcome him. On that sun-flooded landing, 
 in her English dressing-gown and with her hair down 
 her back she looked strangely girlish. The contrast 
 between his home and the world he had just left flashed 
 across his mind as she came to him and put her arms on 
 his shoulders and kissed him : 
 
 "This is jolly, Gerard, your coming back when I 
 didn't even hope for you. But what brings you home 
 at such an hour ? Fm really rather ashamed of you — 
 still in evening dress too ! *" 
 
 "I'm ashamed myself, Mary, but it's the last 
 time." 
 
 " I don't like your being away so much ; you know 
 that, Gerard. But it's almost over, this visit to Paris. 
 I'm glad of it : I've seen so much less of you than in 
 London. I thought I should see more. But I know you 
 couldn't help it. Anyhow to-morrow we shall be gone. 
 I am counting the minutes till we're home again. So 
 are the children " 
 
 " I thought they liked being in Paris." 
 
 "Only at the beginning. But we always said we 
 wouldn't tell you. They didn't like it because they saw 
 so little of you ; and then Dickie misses his cricket. Oh, 
 
BITTERSWEET 393 
 
 I had a letter from Clara last night. Everything is 
 quite ready for us, she says, and she's sure I shall like 
 the cook — it is more important that you should like 
 her; after the way in which you have been living in 
 restaurants in Paris, Fm afraid you'll be difficult to 
 please, dear ! " 
 
 " Not a bit of it, Mary, and, to tell the truth, I shall 
 be delighted to get back to English ways." 
 
 " Come and see the children. They're not awake yet. 
 Basil looks such a little darling. The first thing we 
 must do in England is to have his hair cut, and Dickie's 
 too." 
 
 Gerard followed his wife into the children's rooms. 
 Vivian they could hardly see. She had rolled herself up 
 in the bedclothes and only the tip of her nose was 
 visible. Gerard drew back the sheet a little. She was 
 breathing regularly, her mouth a little open, her hand 
 under her cheek. He bent down and kissed her, and 
 she stirred happily and smiled. 
 
 Dickie woke as they entered his room and sat up in 
 bed. " Hullo, Daddy ! What time is it ? Why are you 
 dressed like that? It is to-morrow, isn't it, that we go 
 away ? I shan't get any cricket but there'll be footer, 
 won't there ? " 
 
 They turned to Basil. He was still asleep, fat, placid, 
 contented. 
 
 Gerard's heart reproached him that he had seen so 
 little of these children of his since they had been in 
 France. All the plans he had made when they first 
 came over had gone by the board. He had meant to 
 take them about and to show them the churches, to 
 
394 BITTERSWEET 
 
 teach Vivian and Dickie something about painting and 
 architecture. He would try to make up for his neglect 
 when they were settled again in Wimbledon. " We 
 must make the most of them now : they won't be babies 
 very much longer, Mary," he said, turning to his wife 
 and putting his arm round her shoulder. 
 
 She smiled with pleasure. Gerard's caresses had been 
 rare recently. " You'll want a bath now, poor dear. 
 How tired you must be ! Fll go and light the geyser 
 and it'll be ready when you are. But I wish you could 
 go to bed and have a good sleep." 
 
 Gerard too wished that he could go to bed and sleep. 
 He felt that then when he woke he would have been able 
 to cheat himself into believing that the last six months 
 had been a dream. " It's all over now though," he 
 thought. He stepped out on to the balcony of his room 
 and looked over the Seine towards Paris. " Yes, it's 
 finished, thank heaven ! There shall never be anything 
 more like that in my life " ; and he tapped on the boys' 
 window and called Dickie to talk to him while he 
 shaved. 
 
 And Illona ? 
 
 When the door of the room closed, and then the door 
 of her apartment, she stood for a moment as if she had 
 been changed to stone. She listened for the door of the 
 house to slam and, hearing it, ran to her window. She 
 knew that for a second as he crossed the road she would 
 be able to see her lover. It had been his habit to look 
 up and wave his hand to where she watched him from 
 behind the blind. To-day he passed the corner without 
 
BITTERSWEET 395 
 
 turning. She moaned and went back to where she had 
 been standing. Her strength had gone. Hardly know- 
 ing what she did she sank on her knees before the 
 chair which Gerard had just left and which was still 
 warm from his body. Her fingers caressed the cushion 
 and she laid her cheek upon it. What should she 
 do now ? What could she do ? The light had gone 
 out of her life. He had abandoned her. It was certain 
 that she would never see him again. She had willed 
 it — yes. She knew that she could have kept him, have 
 kept him for ever perhaps. But he despised her now, 
 despised his own love for her. He believed, really 
 believed, that she was what she had made herself 
 appear : a wanton, a woman who had played with his 
 love for the sake of what he could give her, and who was 
 ready now to give his place to another. She had loved 
 him so much, had loved him with all her force. If only 
 she could die. She had not the courage to take her own 
 life. Perhaps God would take pity on her and let hef die. 
 But there was her mother : what would her mother do 
 if there was no one to support her ? Her heart seemed 
 ready to split asunder with the misery it carried. Tears 
 came slowly to her aid. " Aidez-moi, mon petit bon D'wii, 
 aidez-moi ; laissez-moi woMn'r,'' she cried. She slipped, 
 moaning, to the floor. Words came incoherently to her 
 lips : " Come to me, Gerard, come quickly. Take me in 
 your arms. Warm my heart. Console me. I shall die, 
 dear, if you cease to love me. Tell me that it is not 
 true, that it is only a dream. Oh, my heart, how it 
 pains ! Do not leave me, Gerard. . . . A-ah ! I feel 
 better now. My darling Gerard, it was all a mistake of 
 
396 BITTERSWEET 
 
 your little Illona — pas ? She was a fool. Now kiss me 
 
 again, Gerard." 
 
 So Jeanne found her three hours later and thought 
 that she was dead. But Illona was at odds with fortune, 
 and her God had forgotten her. 
 
 THE END 
 
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