J 
 
THE PAGAN 
 
THE PAGAN 
 
 BY 
 
 GORDON ARTHUR SMITH 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS 
 
 1920 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1912, 1913, 1914, 1915, 1916, 1917, 1919, 1920, BY 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER S SONS 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 THE PAGAN 1 
 
 THE PAGAN 3 
 
 CITY OF LIGHTS 38 
 
 THE BOTTOM OF THE Cup .... 67 
 
 FEET OF GOLD 100 
 
 THE END OF THE ROAD 138 
 
 TROPIC MADNESS 177 
 
 JEANNE, THE MAID 218 
 
 EVERY MOVE 249 
 
 LETITIA 283 
 
 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 315 
 
 THE RETURN . 345 
 
 CG2767 
 
THE PAGAN 
 
THE PAGAN 
 
 WHEN Maxime Taillandy, senior partner of 
 the firm of Taillandy, Mason & Co., had settled 
 himself comfortably in his bed to die he sum 
 moned to him Peter Mason, the son of the 
 junior partner. Previously, devout Catholic 
 that he was, he had summoned a priest. Peter 
 was an American lawyer in his thirties, whom 
 the firm employed to extricate it from legal en 
 tanglements, both in New York and in Paris, 
 for the company was international and not 
 averse from making money on both sides of the 
 Atlantic. 
 
 4 Maxime Taillandy, having lived honestly 
 though successfully for threescore years and 
 ten, was not afraid to die. If he regretted any 
 thing it was perhaps the fact that he was dying 
 in the midst of the firm s most prosperous year; 
 since the firm was to him as a babe to its mother 
 it had been born of his brain and fed by his 
 hands; he had tended it in its illnesses and had 
 rejoiced in its health. 
 
 ; Thus it followed that his daughter, Marthe, 
 although she kept his house and shared his 
 meals, was almost a stranger to him, while 
 Peter Mason, on the contrary, inasmuch as he 
 was intimately connected with the firm and its 
 fortunes, stood well-nigh as his son. 
 
 3 
 
THE PAGAN 
 
 "Peter," said Taillandy, from his huge, can 
 opied bed, "I have several things to say before 
 I become silent forever. God has granted me 
 a long life and a prosperous one, and a clear 
 brain at the last. Also, I am dying at home 
 and I shall breathe with my last breath the 
 air of my beautiful France. For all this I am 
 thankful. Nevertheless, few of us can leave 
 this pleasant world without an anxious thought 
 or two for the future of the persons and things 
 that have been dear to us." 
 
 The old man paused, and Peter, finding no 
 reply, nodded sympathetically. 
 
 "Peter," Taillandy went on after a little, 
 "I once had a son. You did not know that, 
 did you? Few do. He was not like me on 
 the contrary, where I was black he was white, 
 and where I was white he was black. Between 
 us we could have made a chess-board of virtues 
 and vices, and never have found ourselves on 
 the same square. His virtues were his mother s 
 whom may the saints cherish in heaven ! The 
 poetry that she thought and dreamed he wrote 
 down with pen and ink; the love of the beauti 
 ful that God deals sparingly to His creatures 
 God gave in abundance to him. Tempestuous 
 he was, yet gentle; self-indulgent, yet inspired. 
 There perhaps you have guessed his name. 
 Six years ago it was one of the greatest in 
 France." 
 
 Peter hesitated. 
 
 "Not Ferdinand Taillandy?" he said. 
 
THE PAGAN 
 
 "Himself," replied the old man. 
 
 Peter was not compelled to strain his mem 
 ory, for, unbidden, the names of two great 
 poems came to his lips and he uttered them 
 aloud. 
 
 "Le Triomphe de V Amour and Le Tombeau 
 de I Amour " he said. 
 
 "Yes," answered Taillandy, and his voice 
 was full of bitterness; "they well-nigh tell a 
 story, those two titles, do they not? What is 
 this love but a serpent that we clasp to our 
 beasts only to have it sting us ? It was the usual 
 tale; so commonplace that we have come to 
 shrug and to smile when it is told us. He fell 
 in love with a beautiful girl ah, but she was 
 beautiful, and gentle and I think she loved 
 him after her fashion. Her great-grandfather 
 had been brave with Bonaparte and had been 
 made a baron. My son s great-grandfather, 
 you see, was a peasant of Dijon and he, too, had 
 fought under Bonaparte; but an Austrian had 
 split his skull with a sabre at Austerlitz before 
 the little Corsican could reward him. And so 
 we are not of the nobility. Her parents op 
 posed the match, for they were seeking more 
 than my son had to offer. She gave him up 
 without a struggle and scarce a tear, and he 
 his tears are all in that last poem of his, in every 
 line, in every word!" 
 
 The old man choked and stopped. Peter 
 waited quietly. 
 
 "I have not seen my son for six years," Tail- 
 
THE PAGAN 
 
 landy continued, "but I believe that he is alive. 
 When he left us he said that he was going to 
 see if life was not something better than an ill- 
 natured practical joke on man. Let me see 
 he was then thirty-one years old. Now he 
 would be thirty-seven; just your age, Peter." 
 
 "You have not corresponded with him? He 
 has written no one ?" asked Peter. 
 
 "Not for six years six years, 1 * he repeated 
 slowly. "Six years is a long time, Peter; it 
 seems a lifetime when one has but six days or 
 six hours left to live." 
 
 "Ah," said Peter, "but you are not as near 
 the end as that" and then he stopped, for he 
 saw that his encouragement was useless. A 
 spasm of pain had shaken the old man s body, 
 and dimly the spark of life shone in his eyes. 
 That he had more to say was evident. The 
 nurse poured a stimulant into a glass and held 
 it to his lips. He continued haltingly, with 
 great effort: 
 
 "You must find my son, Peter. I have left 
 him all my fortune; all but enough to keep 
 Marthe comfortably. If you can t find him 
 within a year if he is dead it all goes to you. 
 You are to marry Marthe and become a mem 
 ber of the firm. It is in my will I will it so. 
 You understand? That is all." 
 
 His head fell back on the pillow, but his lips 
 still moved. Peter leaned close to hear his 
 last words. 
 
THE PAGAN I 
 
 "Peter they are cheating us on those silks 
 
 from Lyons the last ones low quality " 
 
 And so he died. 
 
 II 
 
 AFTER Taillandy s funeral a perturbed con 
 ference was held in his dark, echoing house in 
 the rue de Crenelle. Maitre Baresse, Tail 
 landy s personal lawyer, was explaining to those 
 directly concerned the terms of the will. Ten 
 sion was in the air. Even Maitre Baresse had 
 permitted himself to express a regret that the 
 document should be so quixotic. 
 
 "It is a little of the Middle Ages," was the 
 phrase he had used. 
 
 His audience consisted of but two people, 
 Marthe Taillandy and Peter Mason, and of 
 the two Peter was the more confused, for 
 Marthe was blessed with a temperament that 
 enabled her to believe that everything was in 
 variably for the best. At twenty-four she had 
 the sturdy cheerfulness that is the dowry of 
 every normal Frenchwoman. 
 
 "Thus," concluded Maitre Baresse, "you per 
 ceive that in any case Mile. Marthe receives 
 the house and an annuity of twenty-five thou 
 sand francs. Monsieur Mason is to be paid the 
 sum of sixty thousand francs at once to meet 
 the expenses he will incur during the year in 
 the search for young Monsieur Ferdinand Tail- 
 
8 THE PAGAN 
 
 landy, whom I may designate as the heir to the 
 residue of his father s fortune of twelve million 
 francs. Should, however, the heir not be found 
 or not present properly and in due form his 
 claim within one year, the aforesaid twelve 
 millions go to Monsieur Mason, but upon a 
 condition: that he first marry Mile. Marthe 
 and enter as a partner into the firm of Tail- 
 landy, Mason & Co. May I remark, Monsieur 
 Mason," the little old lawyer continued, peer 
 ing at the American through watery eyes, "may 
 I remark that this clause, especially, indicates 
 either the remarkable trust reposed in you by 
 the late Monsieur Taillandy or else the la 
 mentable condition of his brain preceding his 
 death?" 
 
 "You may so remark," returned Peter dryly. 
 
 Maitre Baresse cleared his throat and re 
 sumed. "There is a final clause," he said, 
 "which applies only in case Monsieur Ferdi 
 nand Taillandy should not be found and in case 
 no marriage should be arranged between Mon 
 sieur Mason and Mile. Marthe, as mentioned 
 before. In such circumstances the twelve mil 
 lion francs go entirely and unreservedly to Mile. 
 Marthe. Have I made myself clear? I trust 
 so. First, Monsieur Ferdinand; then, if Mon 
 sieur Ferdinand be not found, Monsieur 
 Mason, on condition that he marries Mile. 
 Marthe " 
 
 "Poor Peter," said Marthe, speaking for 
 the first time since the lawyer had held the floor. 
 
THE PAGAN 
 
 "Poor Peter, what a price father is making 
 you pay to become his heir." 
 
 "Nonsense," said Peter, flushing. "There 
 is no question of that. Your brother is cer 
 tainly alive, and it remains but to find him. 
 Your brother once found, the will is reasonable 
 and precise." 
 
 "Yes," said Marthe, "the complications 
 would arise only upon failure to find him." 
 
 "There shall be no such failure," said Peter 
 sturdily. 
 
 "I felicitate you, monsieur, on your generous 
 attitude," said Maitre Baresse, rising painfully 
 to his feet. "It remains for me now but to bid 
 you an revoir and bonne chance. This has been 
 a very sad affair for all of us especially for 
 you, Mile. Marthe and the added factor of 
 this er fanciful testament is not the least of 
 the disturbing elements. If I can be of any fur 
 ther assistance my card. Allow me. Good 
 day." 
 
 "Thank heaven !" said Peter, when the door 
 had closed behind the back of the lawyer s shiny 
 coat. "Thank heaven, we are rid of him. 
 Now, Marthe, perhaps you and I can come to 
 some conclusions. Have you any proposal to 
 make?" 
 
 "That," said Marthe, smiling, "is for you 
 to do if you want the twelve million." 
 
 Peter s face became very serious. 
 
 "Has it occurred to you," he said, "that the 
 conditions of this will are most annoying?" 
 
10 THE PAGAN 
 
 " Why?" asked Marthe. 
 
 "Suppose," said Peter, "that we do not find 
 your brother within a year." 
 
 "Suppose we do not," replied Marthe; 
 "what then?" 
 
 "Then," said Peter, "why then the twelve 
 million is to go to me " 
 
 "Not unless you marry me first," corrected 
 Marthe smoothly. 
 
 "Just so," said Peter; "you see the diffi 
 culty?" 
 
 "The difficulty!" echoed Marthe. "What 
 difficulty? Don t you want to marry me? 
 Wouldn t you marry me for twelve million 
 francs?" 
 
 Peter blushed mightily. 
 
 "You know I want to marry you, Marthe," 
 he said. "I have told you that often enough, 
 long before I was offered twelve million to do 
 it. That is just the difficulty that from now 
 on I am being offered twelve million to do it." 
 
 "I see," said Marthe. "You mean that you 
 feel you are being bribed. I should hate to 
 have you stop proposing, Peter; but perhaps," 
 she continued, visibly amused, "perhaps father 
 knew what was best." 
 
 "It s monstrous," Peter cried. "Of course 
 your father did it for the sake of the firm. I 
 know that he wanted the company that bore 
 his name to grow, to expand, to advance to 
 live long after he and his children and their 
 children had ceased to live. But me why did 
 
THE PAGAN 11 
 
 he choose me? He leaves me in such a posi 
 tion that I cannot ask you to marry me with 
 out apparently reaching for the twelve million." 
 
 "If my brother is not found and if I should 
 refuse to marry you," said Marthe, "why, then, 
 the money is mine, is it not?" 
 
 "Certainly," said Peter. 
 
 Marthe laughed. 
 
 "How amusing," she said. "Don t you see 
 that in such a case I could not refuse any offer 
 of marriage you might make to me without 
 appearing to be greedy for the twelve million 
 for myself?" 
 
 Peter started. 
 
 "By the gods," he said slowly, "that s true. 
 I had not thought of that." 
 
 "So you see, Peter," she continued, "there 
 is only one solution : we must find my brother 
 Ferdinand. Otherwise I should feel honor- 
 bound to marry you." 
 
 "Yes," said Peter, "we must. Otherwise 
 I should feel honor-bound not to ask you." 
 
 Ill 
 
 ALL the usual machinery employed in trac 
 ing lost persons was at once put into motion: 
 advertisements in most of the papers of France 
 and in many foreign ones; rewards for news 
 of the missing man; a corps of detectives who 
 
12 THE PAGAN 
 
 promised much, hinted much, speculated much, 
 suspected much, and accomplished nothing. 
 
 Thus, with no progress to report, winter 
 melted to spring and spring warmed to sum 
 mer and autumn was upon them. In the end 
 it remained for luck and Peter, abetted by a 
 suggestion from Marthe, to hit upon the one 
 clew that was obtained. 
 
 The suggestion emanated from Marthe in 
 this wise. It was a bronze October day, and 
 she and Peter were walking together in the 
 Avenue du Bois. Often they had dared this, 
 for Marthe had no one to elude but a myopic 
 spinster aunt; and Peter, being an American, 
 thought nothing of conventions. 
 
 It was October, I have said, and cold, with 
 a sharp little breeze that whipped Marthe s 
 skirts about in a lively fashion, and roused 
 bright color to her cheeks, and drove reluctant 
 clouds pell-mell across a serene sky like fat, 
 rollicking white puppies. Peter did not fail to 
 observe that Marthe looked very alluring in 
 the wind. 
 
 "Peter," said she, half-way to the Bois, "we 
 are not progressing. Something radical must 
 be done." 
 
 "Right," said Peter; "but what?" 
 
 "I have been thinking," replied Marthe, "of 
 the places my brother used to frequent before 
 he left us. Every true Frenchman, you know, 
 has his cafe, and I seem to remember that Fer 
 dinand s was called the Closerie des Lilas and 
 
THE PAGAN 13 
 
 was on the Boulevard du Montparnasse. Is 
 it not just possible that there you might meet 
 some of his old-time cronies who could give 
 you some hint?" 
 
 "It is worth trying," said Peter. "What sort 
 of folk go there?" 
 
 "Artists and writers in embryo, and men 
 with dreams or ambitions or both." 
 
 "I have both," said Peter. And he went. 
 
 He went not only once but several times, and 
 each time he came away empty-handed; which 
 was not strange. Still he persevered, for the 
 little cafe came to exert a certain fascination 
 over him. It seemed to him to be the Ararat 
 of a world flooded with lost illusions. Here, 
 as Marthe had indicated, was genius in em 
 bryo and youth to whom no tradition was too 
 sacred to be shattered. One day he was re 
 warded. 
 
 He had seated himself at a marble-topped 
 table, where the smoke was thickest, ordered 
 a vermouth a l y can, and started to look about 
 him. On his right ecarte was being played by 
 two and watched by half a dozen unkempt, 
 bearded artists. On his left it was backgam 
 mon. The odor of French tobacco was every 
 where. Opposite, across the narrow room, he 
 noticed a gaunt, sallow young fellow with some 
 thing of the glint of genius in his eyes and a 
 toothpick in his mouth. He was haranguing 
 a group of painters and writers, using many 
 superlatives and a liberal allowance of gesture; 
 
14 THE PAGAN 
 
 and his audience expressed their approval as 
 often as he paused for applause. Soon his voice 
 rose above the ordinary murmur of conversa 
 tion, and his fist banged the clattering table-top 
 as he emphasized his climax. 
 
 "C est du chique" he cried; "cest du chique! 
 All all of it is a fraud! All of it is gilded 
 papier-mache. Literature and art, too, I tell 
 you, are ruined by your realists, your natural 
 ists, your symbolists. You here, Baptiste, you 
 that call yourself a realist, what good have you 
 accomplished; what can you point to? Double 
 species of idiot, you have studied the dirt in the 
 streets when you might have been studying the 
 stars in the skies; you have wallowed in filth 
 realistic filth, if you will when you should 
 have been seeking nymphs in the glades and 
 listening to the pipes of Pan. What we must 
 do to save ourselves is to revert. To romanti 
 cism? No; too sickly sweet. To classicism? 
 No, not quite; too artificial, too severe. 
 To paganism? Yes! a thousand times, yes! 
 There and only there do we see Beauty naked 
 but unashamed. The worship of Beauty, of 
 Beauty in the sky, in the hills, in the waters, in 
 the trees, in the eyes of women, and in the 
 hearts of men. Gautier approached it in Mile, 
 de Maupin ; an Englishman, Swinburne, came 
 nearer; and one of us, I tell you, one of us was 
 almost at the goal when his light was extin 
 guished. Yes, Ferdinand Taillandy, had he 
 stayed with us, would have been the leader of 
 
THE PAGAN 15 
 
 the greatest school of literature the world has 
 known." 
 
 There was a moment of silence succeeding 
 this grandiloquent oration, and then Peter s 
 right-hand neighbor, he who was playing at 
 ecarte, said with sincerity and real feeling: 
 "Ce pauvre Ferdinand! We miss him much, 
 we who knew him and loved him." 
 
 It was Peter s opportunity; a better he could 
 not have wished for. Turning to his neighbor 
 he said in his excellent French: u Monsieur, 
 you will pardon, I trust, the interruption of a 
 stranger, but I read in the earnestness of your 
 tone a true regard for Ferdinand Taillandy." 
 
 "But, yes," said the other, "you have reason 
 to say it, monsieur." 
 
 "I myself," said Peter, "while not one of his 
 family, share their interest and anxiety with 
 regard to his whereabouts; for his father, dy 
 ing, employed his last breath to urge me to 
 bring back his son into the world. You have 
 doubtless seen the advertisements and the re 
 wards. They have been useless, all useless. 
 It is eight months that we have been seeking 
 him in vain, and I no longer know what to do 
 or where to turn; so I came in here to-day, 
 knowing that here he also had been accustomed 
 to come and hoping to meet some one of his 
 friends who might help me. Am I to be dis 
 appointed? Is there nothing you can tell me?" 
 
 The man shook his head sadly. 
 
 "No, monsieur," he said, "I am afraid I can 
 
16 THE PAGAN 
 
 tell you nothing. None of us here knows any 
 thing that could be of help to you. But stop ! 
 Have you seen Germaine D Arcy, of the 
 Theatre des Capucines? No? Well, it is 
 just possible that if you approached her tact 
 fully and delicately she could tell you more than 
 any one else in Paris. She used to come here 
 with him often toward the last, when he was 
 desperate, you know. I believe she is the only 
 person in the city who knows where he dis 
 appeared to." 
 
 "Germaine D Arcy ?" repeated Peter. 
 
 "Yes," said the other dryly; "her name de 
 scribes her. When Taillandy first knew her 
 she was a couturier ~e and was called Zizi; but 
 you had best not remind her of those days: 
 autre temps, autres mceurs* " 
 
 "I understand," said Peter gratefully; "you 
 mean she has prospered since then?" 
 
 "Exactly," replied the other; "she has tri 
 umphed completely. But she has forgotten 
 us, her old friends, and her father is still a 
 floor-walker at the Bon-Marche." 
 
 Peter thanked him profusely, paid his check, 
 and left. 
 
 "Well," he said to himself, as he blinked 
 in the bright sunlight outside, "it seems as 
 though the great paganist school of literature 
 might recover its leader after all; for to-mor 
 row I hitch my wagon to a star of the 
 Theatre des Capucines." 
 
THE PAGAN 17 
 
 IV 
 
 MLLE. GERMAINE D ARCY was accustomed 
 to see her name in twelve-inch letters on the 
 Paris bill-boards. She was one of a score of 
 artistes (the term is flattering) who have risen 
 to glory by means of a taking face and a speak 
 ing leg. She could not act nor sing nor dance. 
 Dance ? she could not have bent to fasten her 
 slipper, but she possessed what the French call 
 la ligne. Also she had been frequently photo 
 graphed; she had worn the right clothes at 
 Chantilly and at Longchamps, and she had 
 advertised and recommended every known 
 toilet article but a safety razor. Nevertheless, 
 or perhaps therefore, Germaine D Arcy was 
 nobody s fool. 
 
 Peter, not being to that manner born, was 
 somewhat at a loss how he might best approach 
 her. Finally, abandoning better but more com 
 plicated methods of attack, he presented him 
 self at the Theatre des Capucines after the 
 evening performance and, having scribbled "A 
 Crazy American Millionaire" on his card, sent 
 it back to Mile. D Arcy. After an impressive 
 interval he was admitted to the presence of the 
 Queen. 
 
 Germaine was seated at her dressing-table, 
 clad in yellow silk and much white lace. She 
 was removing her stage make-up, and Peter 
 
18 THE PAGAN 
 
 was vouchsafed only a view of her back as she 
 leaned toward her mirror, patting her face with 
 tapering, white fingers fingers so patrician as 
 to be constant negations of her plebeian birth. 
 
 "Give yourself the pain to sit down," she 
 said without turning. "I shall be ready sud 
 denly. You see I speak the English." 
 
 "Astoundingly," said Peter, and seated him 
 self gingerly on an inefficient Empire chair. 
 
 A neat maid appeared, silks rustled, laces 
 flounced, slim arms clutched the air, a thousand 
 hooks clicked merrily, and Germaine arose, 
 dressed, radiant, and smiling. She held out 
 her left hand, heavy with pearls, and said 
 brightly: "Supper?" 
 
 u Ah," said Peter gallantly, "do goddesses 
 eat? How banal!" 
 
 "Dancing gives me the appetite," she re 
 plied with a smile that did credit to her den 
 tifrice. 
 
 Since she considered supper inevitable, Peter 
 took her to the Abbaye, a small restaurant in 
 the Place Pigalle, all green and white and elec 
 tric-light color. Crowds were seated at the 
 tables along the banquettes and in the middle of 
 the room; white shoulders and whiter shirt- 
 fronts gleamed through tobacco-smoke; more 
 crowds at the entrance waiting for tables; 
 waiters jostling indiscriminately; fantastically 
 dressed dancing girls, brandishing silken legs 
 and singing to castanets; frantic, red-coated 
 Hungarian musicians, pounding and scraping 
 
THE PAGAN 19 
 
 at delirious strings, and an all-pervading odor 
 of smoke, of champagne, and of expensive 
 perfumes. 
 
 Peter smiled grimly. 
 
 "This," said he to himself, "is not quite the 
 place I should have chosen for my purpose, and 
 yet ?" 
 
 Mile. Germaine D Arcy obtained a table 
 immediately. Mr. Peter Mason might have 
 emptied his pockets in vain bribes ; for the rule 
 at the Abbaye is "No favoritism except to the 
 favorites." 
 
 If the lady beside him entertained any 
 curiosity as to Peter or as to his motives in pre 
 senting himself, she did not choose to betray it. 
 Their conversation at first dwelt mainly on 
 what they should eat and drink. Germaine or 
 dered fastidiously and superciliously, choosing 
 by instinct or by experience the more expensive 
 dishes, and Peter could not but note, with some 
 amusement, that she ate enormously and with 
 little skill. Her Junoesque eyes travelled in 
 cessantly about the room, and she bowed and 
 smiled to several celebrities. Princes and poets 
 bowed low in return. The more recognition 
 she received the more condescending did her 
 manner toward Peter become, until in some 
 mysterious way she managed to convey to him 
 the feeling that she considered him socially her 
 inferior. With pains she named to him her 
 acquaintances: the Prince of Beringen-Schoen- 
 berg; the Conte Montalbi; Rene de Courcy, 
 
20 THE PAGAN 
 
 the famous young dramatist; the Marquis de 
 la Croix-Argentin ; Henri Saint-Giseaux, who 
 made the champagne they were drinking, and so 
 forth, et cetera. 
 
 At length, from being overbored, Peter be 
 came vexed. He played his ace of trumps and 
 waited to take the trick. 
 
 "By the way," he said in French, lazily and 
 casually; "by the way, Zizi, what do you hear 
 from our friend Ferdinand Taillandy?" 
 
 A large slice of a large pear, half-way to 
 Germaine s mouth, never reached its destina 
 tion; and Germaine s doll-like eyes narrowed 
 with suspicion not unmixed with anger. She 
 directed one sharp glance at Peter and then 
 kept her eyes from his face. Her reply, when 
 it came, was concise. 
 
 "Mon Dieu," she said, "you certainly are a 
 crazy American millionaire." 
 
 "Am I not?" said Peter smoothly; and then, 
 after a silence : "Do you never regret those 
 days of the Lilas sans princes et sans perles?" 
 
 For a brief moment Germaine s rouge was 
 superfluous. 
 
 "Why did you not tell me at once that you 
 were one of us that you knew Ferdinand?" 
 
 "Because," said Peter, "I knew better." 
 
 "You think I would have refused to see you, 
 refused to talk with you?" 
 
 "I do, ] said Peter. 
 
 Germaine nodded her head slowly. 
 
 "You were right," she said. "Nevertheless, 
 
THE PAGAN 21 
 
 I was very fond of Ferdinand; he was different 
 from these others. He was a great poet and 
 yet he had a chic he was presentable. I have 
 met but few clever men who dress themselves 
 well. It is strange, is it not?" 
 
 "Wrinkles in the brow and in the clothes go 
 hand in hand," said Peter. 
 
 "What?" said Germaine. "Oh, never mind; 
 do not explain it. What was I saying? Oh, 
 yes poor Ferdinand. He would not have 
 enjoyed it here. He liked better the Lilas, 
 where every one was a friend. Do you remem 
 ber the way he used to pound on the table for 
 my beer? Gargon, une brune pour cette petite 
 blonde! I always drank dark beer, you see, 
 and my hair was quite golden then. But you ? 
 I do not remember you. Did you go there 
 often?" 
 
 "No," said Peter, "I have been there very 
 seldom; but I am very anxious to help Ferdi 
 nand. You know, of course, that there is twelve 
 million francs waiting for him to claim?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Germaine; "I have heard." 
 
 "Well, he has not appeared to claim it. We 
 have been searching for him for eight nearly 
 nine months now. We do not know if he is 
 alive. Can you help us?" 
 
 Germaine was silent. 
 
 "If he wants the twelve million," she said at 
 length, "why does he not come forward and 
 claim it? He must have seen your advertise 
 ments." 
 
22 THE PAGAN 
 
 "Yes," replied Peter, "if he is alive. But 
 is he alive?" 
 
 "I do not know how should I know?" she 
 said quickly. Then, apparently veering, she 
 added : "Yes, he is alive. At least, he was two 
 weeks ago." 
 
 Peter was at some pains not to betray his 
 pleasure. "And where is he, then?" he asked. 
 
 "Oh," Germaine continued, "I will tell you 
 all I know because I hope it will benefit him. 
 Only I do not want you to think that you have 
 been exceptionally clever; that would be a mis 
 take. No, I tell you of my own free will. Also, 
 will you order me a Peche Melba? I have a 
 little hunger still. Yes, Ferdinand is of the 
 sort who should have money. For six years, 
 now, he has lived on nothing almost nothing. 
 He has written to me once every month during 
 those six years. I don t know why; perhaps 
 he likes me. Never has he allowed me to write 
 to him; never has he given me an address. But 
 I have followed him by the post-marks on the 
 envelopes. Wherever he goes he walks, and 
 in those six years he has been to Austria, to 
 Germany, to Greece, to Italy, and just now to 
 Spain. He is writing an epic; I do not know 
 what that is, but I think it is poetry. He is 
 sometimes very droll. He says he is seeking 
 the gods in their own haunts in the forests, he 
 means, and in the streams and the oceans. Con 
 stantly he is talking about these gods and god 
 desses: Jupiter and Neptune, and, of course, 
 
THE PAGAN 23 
 
 that marble one in the Louvre in the Musee, 
 I mean, not in the Grand Magasin. Especially, 
 though, he mentions one woman Diana. 
 Some day, he says, I, too, like Actaeon, shall 
 surprise her bathing. He is like that. Often 
 I cannot understand what he means. Now he 
 is walking from Spain along through France 
 by the Mediterranean. The last letter I re 
 ceived, two weeks ago, was from Marseilles. 
 By now he should be in the Riviera. You might 
 find him there. That is all I know all I can 
 tell you." 
 
 "I am very, very grateful," said Peter. 
 "Won t you have another peach?" 
 
 "No," said Germaine; "I am complete. I 
 hope you will find him. He deserves to be rich, 
 and it may help him with his epic." 
 
 "It may," said Peter. "And now," he went 
 on, "there is one thing more, if you will pardon 
 me for mentioning money in your presence. A 
 substantial reward has been offered for infor 
 mation leading to the discovery of Ferdinand. 
 This, of course, will be yours if I succeed now 
 in tracing him." 
 
 "How much is it?" asked Germaine. 
 
 "Twenty thousand francs." 
 
 She smiled abstractedly, playing with the 
 rings on her hands. 
 
 "Mon Dieu," she replied, with a shrug; "I 
 have that much on my little finger." 
 
24 THE PAGAN 
 
 V 
 
 PETER went to Monte Carlo. What per 
 haps was strange was that Marthe and her 
 myopic aunt went, too. 
 
 "I can be useful," Marthe declared, "in de 
 tecting impostors. You have never seen Ferdi 
 nand; I have." 
 
 The myopic aunt went apparently because 
 she had to; but inwardly she had a longing to 
 play the red and double. She had never gam 
 bled before. 
 
 During the first month of their stay Peter 
 saw a score of Ferdinand Taillandys, none of 
 whom, however, finally proved satisfactory. 
 At first he was cautious and discreet, employ 
 ing many circumlocutions in snaring his prey; 
 but later, becoming reckless, he startled several 
 honest, God-fearing people by asking them 
 point-blank if they were not the missing poet. 
 One or two, who had heard of the waiting fort 
 une, acknowledged that they were, and it re 
 mained for Marthe to assure them of their 
 mistake. 
 
 The end of the year brought with it the an 
 niversary of old Taillandy s death, and his son 
 was still at large. It was actually on the last 
 day of the term that Peter believed that he had 
 finally discovered the elusive heir. It happened 
 thus: 
 
 Peter, after a hasty glance through the 
 
THE PAGAN 25 
 
 gambling-rooms, had gone out to the sunny ter 
 race behind the Casino to smoke in peace a long 
 cigar. He settled himself on a bench and 
 blinked happily in the sunlight. The air came 
 fresh and salt off the sea, which rose beneath 
 him, a mass of gleaming lazulite, to meet the 
 sky at the unbroken bow of the horizon. Peter 
 sat back and enjoyed it, and tainted the breeze 
 with his cigar. 
 
 Then some one spoke at his elbow. 
 
 "Leisure for meditation," some one said, "is 
 the greatest gift the gods have to bestow. You, 
 monsieur, I perceive, are unusually blessed." 
 
 Peter turned to find that a shabby-looking 
 person, having appropriated the other half of 
 the bench, was sprawling luxuriously in his seat, 
 his long, lean legs stretched out straight in front 
 of him and a cigarette held debonairly in a pair 
 of nicotine-stained fingers. He was dressed in 
 an ill-fitting, much-patched brown suit, which 
 hung on his lank frame in baggy folds and 
 creases. His left hand was thrust deep in his 
 trousers pocket, and his coat, being thus thrown 
 back, revealed a blue corduroy waistcoat held 
 together precariously by occasional vermilion 
 buttons. His cravat, of green silk, was knot 
 ted around a low, soft collar, immaculately 
 white. A gray felt hat was perched jauntily 
 on one side of his head, and through a jagged 
 hole in its crown Peter could see a tangle of 
 hair, black as an Indian s, one lock of which 
 hung down straight over his right eyebrow. 
 
26 THE PAGAN 
 
 "You are regarding my hat with ill-concealed 
 admiration, I perceive. Doubtless you are 
 amazed at such excessive ventilation, which, 
 though not strictly fashionable, is excellent for 
 the hair. Men wear hats in order to remove 
 them for women. I know no women, so I 
 compromise." 
 
 Peter regarded the man blankly. He was 
 speaking excellent English, with scarcely enough 
 French accent to proclaim his nationality. His 
 linen, his hands, and his speech argued for his 
 refinement, and a glance at his face confirmed it. 
 A thin, delicate nose; a pair of brown eyes, 
 rather dull and listless, and hinting at suffering 
 undergone; heavy, black brows; a sensitive 
 mouth, curved crookedly in an amused smile, 
 which displayed his regular, white teeth; a nar 
 row, pointed chin projecting somewhat like that 
 of the notorious Punch all set in a thin, drawn 
 face, high as to cheek-bones, and bronzed as 
 dark as an Arab s. 
 
 Peter checked his first impulse to rise and 
 leave. Later he was exceedingly glad that he 
 had done so. He murmured something to the 
 effect that, since it was his first trip to Monte 
 Carlo, he was taking advantage of a leisure 
 hour to admire the view from the terrace. The 
 other stopped him with a motion of his hand. 
 
 "Why explain?" he said. "You Anglo- 
 Saxons are curious people; you actually are 
 ashamed to be idle physically idle, I mean. 
 Does it never occur to you that thinking is a 
 
THE PAGAN 27 
 
 praiseworthy occupation? Man is of the earth, 
 but his thoughts are with the stars. Did not 
 your Carlyle say that? Ah, there was a man 
 who knew how to think 1" 
 
 "Are you fond of Carlyle s work?" asked 
 practical Peter, amazed. 
 
 "Am I fond of Carlyle s work!" the other 
 echoed. "Is one fond of the Odyssey of Ho 
 mer, the Hermes of Praxiteles, or the Tris 
 tan of Wagner? You have ill-chosen your 
 verb. Carlyle was a man of beautiful mind, 
 of beautiful thoughts, just as were Homer and 
 Praxiteles and Wagner. I do not mean by that 
 that they saw everything the color of roses; 
 rather do I mean that they saw the truth and 
 that the gods gave them the power to reveal 
 its beauty." 
 
 "I see," said Peter vaguely. 
 
 "Yes," the other continued, "the beauty of 
 Truth and the truth of Beauty; they are two 
 strings that have been much fiddled on, but they 
 are still a-tune. Poor Beauty she is becoming 
 a shy goddess since the days of this " and he 
 waved a contemptuous hand toward the Casino. 
 
 "Surely," said Peter, "there is beauty spread 
 lavishly enough before us even here. What of 
 the sea?" 
 
 "Truly," said the other, "there is Beauty in 
 the sea. Are not half a hundred nereids there 
 to keep it smiling? But one s soul must be in 
 tune if the chords are to ring true. Do you 
 know what it is to be out of tune with Beauty? 
 
28 THE PAGAN 
 
 It is to have faith, hope, happiness, ambition, 
 and love turn to gray ashes in your heart. Six 
 years ago that happened to me in a day. The 
 senses that the gods give to poets in their fullest 
 perfection were torn from me. The sun -com 
 ing up in the morning, yonder in the east, trail 
 ing its delicate, golden-edged clouds like a gyp 
 sy s veils; the surge of the sea, the voices of 
 the birds, the eternal song of Nature; the scent 
 of the roses climbing smilingly about the stucco 
 walls the three senses on which my very ex 
 istence depended, sight, hearing, and smell, 
 were powerless to quicken my heart. That was 
 six years ago. My mind lay paralyzed and my 
 soul lay dead. Poetry bah ! I crucified my 
 talent." 
 
 He paused and a soft land breeze, bearing 
 the sound of violins from the plaza, stirred the 
 palms and the plane-trees in the groves behind 
 them. From below rose the incessant wash of 
 the sea. 
 
 When he spoke again all the bitterness had 
 left his voice. 
 
 "At first," he said, "I lived in a dream. 
 Animal-like, I shunned the cities and sought the 
 open to breathe. Gradually Nature drew me 
 to her and soothed me. I rested in the groves 
 where the dryads played; I bathed in the 
 streams of the naiads; I hunted in the forests 
 of Artemis, and Pan played to me on his pipes. 
 And one day I drank of the spring of the Ca- 
 menae and, behold, they gave me back my gift. 
 
THE PAGAN 29 
 
 Is there not an epic there? something re 
 gained that is perhaps greater than paradise?" 
 
 At the mention of the epic Peter s suspicions 
 were transmuted to certainty. His pulses 
 pounded wildly with excitement. 
 
 "Do you never read the newspapers?" he 
 cried. 
 
 The poet regarded him quizzically. 
 
 "I am sorry I have bored you," he said, 
 and rose as though to move away. 
 
 "No, no," said Peter ; "I must ask you to par 
 don me. You misunderstand." 
 
 "You asked me if I ever read the newspapers, 
 did you not? I fail to see any relevance, but if 
 you desire an answer: no, I do not." 
 
 "I did not intend to be rude," said Peter 
 hurriedly; "indeed, I have the keenest interest 
 in all that you have been telling me. May I 
 add that I think I know your name ? Are you 
 not Ferdinand Taillandy?" 
 
 "I am," said the other; "and what then?" 
 
 "Then," cried Peter triumphantly; "then, 
 may I shake your hand? You are the man I 
 have been looking for for twelve months." 
 
 "You may shake my hand with pleasure," 
 said the poet, "if that will console you for hav 
 ing wasted a year of your life. I am scarcely 
 worth it." 
 
 "My dear man," exclaimed Peter, "you are 
 worth twelve million." 
 
 "Twelve million what?" asked the other. 
 
 "Francs," said Peter. 
 
30 THE PAGAN 
 
 The poet shrugged his shoulders and asked 
 for further enlightenment. Peter was ten 
 minutes explaining, while the other listened 
 unmoved. 
 
 "What should I do with twelve million 
 francs?" he inquired at the end. "Suppose I 
 refuse them; what becomes of them then?" 
 
 "Then," said Peter, embarrassed, "they go 
 to me on certain conditions." 
 
 "In that case," said the poet, "you would 
 appear to be an honest man. You are actually 
 pleased to have found me and to lose a fortune 
 thereby. I congratulate you and I congratulate 
 myself, for Diogenes would have envied me 
 exceedingly. It is a delight to know that the 
 virtues still exist among mortals who live in 
 cities. And now, my friend," he continued, 
 "what is it you wish me to do? You wish me 
 first, I take it, to see my sister. Where is she ?" 
 
 "At the Hotel de Paris," said Peter. 
 
 "Ah, yes," mused the other; "purple and fine 
 linen. You perceive how impossible it would 
 be for me ? I wear clothes because the law re 
 quires it, and I prize my liberty; but you see 
 what they are ?" 
 
 "That," said Peter hastily, "is the least of 
 difficulties," and he pressed a bank-note into the 
 other s hand. 
 
 "After all, it is yours, you see, 1 he explained ; 
 "and in Monte Carlo you can at least find 
 clothes. Everything is for sale in Monte 
 Carlo." 
 
THE PAGAN 31 
 
 The poet hesitated a while, and then thrust 
 the note into a pocket of his ragged coat. 
 
 "You are right," he said; "in Monte Carlo 
 everything is for sale." And, he added bitterly : 
 "Everything even a man s freedom." 
 
 Peter, bursting with his discovery, sought 
 Marthe wildly about the hotel and the gam 
 bling-rooms, to find her at last, in company with 
 the myopic aunt, sipping lemonades through 
 hygienic straws on the terrace of the Cafe de 
 Paris. 
 
 "He is found," cried Peter from afar, wav 
 ing his hat. "There is no mistake this time." 
 
 "Bravo!" said Marthe, but coolly, for the 
 same tale had been told before. 
 
 "I am so sorry," said the myopic aunt, peer 
 ing at Peter through half an inch of glass 
 lorgnon. 
 
 "He is charming," said Peter, torrential with 
 news. "He is cultivated, refined, unworldly, 
 intellectual " 
 
 "Did you give him any money?" asked Mar 
 the practically. Several of the self-acknowl 
 edged Ferdinands that Peter had discovered 
 had received and spent considerable sums, bor 
 rowed from him on various pretexts, before 
 Marthe had had a chance to disclaim relation 
 ship with them. Peter hesitated and blushed. 
 
 "You see," he said, "he was not very well 
 dressed and, as he is to meet us here, I 
 thought " 
 
 "Much?" asked Marthe, smiling. 
 
32 THE PAGAN 
 
 "He didn t want to accept it," said Peter, 
 "but I forced a thousand francs on him for 
 clothes and things, you know." 
 
 "Mon Dieu," exclaimed the myopic aunt, "a 
 thousand francs! That is more than I have 
 won on the red in four weeks." 
 
 "But," continued Peter, "there is no doubt 
 this time he had absolute proofs; and he told 
 me all about himself before I hinted that I was 
 looking for him." 
 
 "What did he tell you?" asked Marthe, still 
 unconvinced. 
 
 "That he was writing a great epic poem; 
 that he had been living away from the world for 
 a long time ; and then he talked a lot about those 
 pagan gods of his, you know. Oh, he is gen 
 uine, right enough." 
 
 "Well," said Marthe, with a sigh, "I hope 
 so, since this is the last day of the year. If he 
 is not found to-day all that money is yours, 
 Peter, dear; that is, if you can make up your 
 mind to marry me." 
 
 "Such a shame," said the myopic aunt; 
 "but then, we will hope he is only another 
 impostor." 
 
 "I hope no such thing," retorted Peter stur 
 dily, "and I am sure he is not." 
 
 "How truly generous of you," sighed the 
 myopic aunt. "And now I think that I shall 
 leave you for a while. I feel that red is win 
 ning. How soon do you expect this person? 
 In an hour? Well, I may be back." 
 
THE PAGAN 33 
 
 "Bonne chance" said Marthe. 
 
 "It s that awful zero " said the myopic 
 aunt, shaking her head; and she collected her 
 sack and her gloves and her parasol, and 
 headed for the siren wheel. 
 
 "And now, Marthe," said Peter; "now that 
 your brother is found, we are free. I am very 
 glad; do you know how glad, Marthe?" 
 
 "Yes," said Marthe, playing nervously with 
 the straws in her glass. "Yes, I know." 
 
 "If we had not found him," Peter went on, 
 "it would have been horrible. As it is, I dare 
 to tell you once more how much I love you, 
 Marthe, and I can ask you to marry me with 
 a clear conscience. Marthe, will you be my 
 wife?" 
 
 "Peter," said Marthe slowly, "I would be 
 your wife if your conscience were as black as 
 the ace of spades. But you must not think that 
 I do not appreciate how unselfish you have been. 
 And Peter, dear, I think that father perhaps 
 knew best perhaps he was testing you. If 
 he was you have won your degree summa cum 
 laude" and she gave him her hand across the 
 table. 
 
 "God bless you," said Peter, kissing her fin 
 ger-tips. An interested waiter, counting his 
 gains, forgot his figures and was forced to be 
 gin again. No one else noticed them. 
 
 As the afternoon advanced the tables about 
 them filled rapidly with tea-drinking English 
 and beer - drinking Germans; a red -coated 
 
34 THE PAGAN 
 
 orchestra appeared, to drown at intervals the 
 babel of tongues; laughter mixed merrily with 
 the tinkle of glasses; waiters sprang into life 
 with flying napkins, and the air rose warm from 
 the ground, sweet with the scent of the neigh 
 boring flower-beds. Slowly tfite sun moved 
 down the sky toward the west and the red roofs 
 $f Monaco. And still no Taillandy. 
 
 Peter glanced nervously at his watch. Half 
 past four. 
 
 "He is late," he said. 
 
 "Yes, dear," said Marthe; "it takes time to 
 spend a thousand francs. But, doubtless, when 
 he comes he will be very beautiful." 
 
 At five o clock, like them of Darien, they 
 gazed at each other with a wild surmise. In 
 vain did Marthe strive to keep her laughter 
 down. It rang free and unashamed; and soon 
 Peter joined her rather hollowly. 
 
 "Never mind, Peter," said Marthe; "it is 
 only another Taillandy unmasked. And it is 
 the last impostor we shall meet." 
 
 "Yes," replied Peter grimly; "the last one." 
 
 "And Peter, dear, it is not going to change 
 anything between you and me. I will not allow 
 it to. Tell me that that conscience of yours is 
 quiet. You did your best, Peter." 
 
 "Yes," said Peter; "I did my best." 
 
 "And you deserve to win," she said. 
 
 "I think," said Peter softly, "that I have 
 won a saint." 
 
 "You have," said Marthe; "but your saint 
 
THE PAGAN 35 
 
 is filled with a very earthly love for this beauti 
 ful world and for you." 
 
 Down the steps of the Casino and across the 
 sun-swept plaza came the myopic aunt. 
 
 "Well," she demanded, peering about her, 
 "where is he?" 
 
 "He did not come," said Marthe. 
 
 The myopic aunt reached her chair with a 
 sigh. "He did not come, hein? Well, neither 
 did red." 
 
 VI 
 
 A SHORT half-hour later, about half past five, 
 when the long, wavering shadows were merged 
 into the neutral tint of dusk and the bronze sun 
 had died behind Monaco, the impostor stepped 
 cautiously along the terrace where Peter had 
 taken leave of him last. He was dressed as 
 before no better; but now he carried over his 
 shoulder a roll of blankets and a knapsack was 
 strapped to his back. He was accoutred like a 
 French soldier on the march. 
 
 He paused by the terrace railing to glance 
 at the quiet harbor below. Already, behind 
 him, the lights were lit in the Casino, and in 
 the Cafe de Paris the orchestra was playing to 
 the last loitering guests. It was the hour of 
 transition; the lull between the gayety of the 
 afternoon and that of the evening, when good, 
 fever-fearing people seek four walls and a roof. 
 
 But the shabby impostor, evidently fearless, 
 
36 THE PAGAN 
 
 rested his lean arms on the balustrade and 
 breathed long and deep of the soft, sweet air, 
 borne to him on the breeze from the sea s 
 scented islands. Far beneath him lights flashed 
 out by the harborside and, vaguely, he could 
 trace the silvery lines of a yacht riding smoothly 
 to the ground swell. 
 
 "Monte Carlo," he said aloud, u you are a 
 beautiful dream city; you are the devil s gilded 
 wonderland. Here men with lustful hands 
 have built a temple to the god called Gold, and 
 here daily they come to worship. I, too, might 
 have knelt in those aisles and bowed my head 
 beneath the gilded dome. Sing, O muse, of 
 Ferdinand Taillandy s sacrifice ! And yet was 
 it a sacrifice worthy the singing? They tried 
 to tempt me with their gold. Twelve million 
 francs, they cried, and waited for me to dress 
 myself appropriately to receive it. Twelve 
 million francs ! Bah ! Twelve million burdens 
 twelve million fetters to bind me to their 
 world. Ferdinand, you did well to escape them 
 and you are richer than they; for have you not 
 the sky and the sea and the hills and the sun 
 upon them, and twelve million stars to light 
 your way by night?" 
 
 He turned his back to the sea to face the 
 mountains, shining snow-crowned against the 
 unquiet sky. On the path to La Turbie a few 
 lights dimmed and glowed small as fireflies. 
 The hush of evening hung about him like a 
 heavy perfume, all-pervading, compelling. 
 
THE PAGAN 37 
 
 Of a sudden, through the dusk, came a figure 
 in white. It was the myopic aunt, feeling her 
 way along the terrace path. She was wringing 
 her hands and making great lamentation, for 
 she had lost much gold. As she drew near, 
 distress resolved itself into words, and, heed 
 less of who might hear, she complained to the 
 stars. 
 
 The shabby poet turned with a quiet smile 
 on his lips. Placing his knapsack on the balus 
 trade, he ran his lean fingers swiftly through 
 his pockets and drew out a thousand-franc note. 
 He presented it with a low bow. 
 
 "My poor, good woman," he said, "it is 
 plain that you are in distress. You have lost 
 everything. I give you this the more freely 
 because I, on the contrary, have all of this won 
 derful world. May it buy for you the hap 
 piness of a moment, for by renouncing it I shall 
 gain the happiness of the years." 
 
 He thrust the note into her hand. She 
 stopped, groped for her lorgnon, desisted, and 
 mechanically closed her fingers on the piece of 
 paper. Before she could speak he left her. 
 
 He turned and, slinging his sack once more 
 across his shoulders, stretched out his arms as 
 though reaching for his freedom. 
 
 "I will be true to the gods," he said, and 
 went up toward the hills where they were meet 
 ing the night. 
 
CITY OF LIGHTS 
 
 NOT far from Paris in miles, but leagues 
 away in spirit, is the village of Evremont-sur- 
 Seine. A line of silvery poplars marches by 
 it in single file, sentinels of the sleeping river; 
 and behind it stretch cultivated fields, green and 
 gold at harvest-time, rolling gently away to the 
 low horizon. December frosts and March 
 winds and April rains have pleasingly modified 
 the color scheme that man, in his arrogance, 
 originally decreed for the houses of Evremont. 
 The tiles of the roofs glow red in the sun, but 
 the walls that once were stark white have now 
 taken to themselves the subtler pastel shades of 
 a rainbow. They seem to have caught and held 
 the hues of the thousands of suns that have set 
 in their sight. 
 
 The cobbled streets twist at random through 
 the village, ending their haphazard careers se 
 dately enough at the Place de la Fontaine, the 
 public, square and market-place, which takes 
 the name from a watering-trough, and not from 
 the great French fabler. In this square, above 
 the watering-trough, an enterprising humane 
 society has placed the only touch of modernity 
 in Evremont an enamel sign bearing in white 
 letters on a green ground the warning: "Soyez 
 bon pour les animaux" I wonder if that ad- 
 
 38 
 
CITY OF LIGHTS 39 
 
 monition is necessary: I wonder if the in 
 habitants of Evremont are not instinctively 
 "good to the animals." My friend, Monsieur 
 Silvestre, assures me that they are. 
 
 Monsieur Silvestre is landlord of the Cafe du 
 Levant, which stands on the square and naively 
 faces the church. That the church does not 
 resent its proximity, however, is made evident 
 by the fact that Monsieur le cure is a frequent 
 client of the cafe; indeed, he and Monsieur Sil 
 vestre are very intimate friends. Differing as 
 they emphatically do in faith and in politics, 
 they are alike in that each has a big heart and a 
 fondness for dark beer. 
 
 I was not surprised, then, to find them, one 
 clean, cool day in late April, sitting together un 
 der the weather-beaten awning on the sidewalk 
 in front of the Cafe du Levant. I had been 
 talking with Madame Nicolas and her wistful- 
 eyed daughter, Veronique. Madame Nicolas 
 manages a little shop behind the church and 
 Veronique manages Madame Nicolas. At the 
 shop are to be bought all the tender, significant 
 symbols dear to the true believer of the Roman 
 Church crucifixes of ebony and of ivory; prie- 
 dieu intricately carved by hands both zealous 
 and devout; altar-cloths over the embroidery 
 of which convent sisters have wearied their eyes 
 that God might be the better glorified; rosaries 
 worn smooth by trembling, praying fingers; 
 madonnas gazing with prophetic eyes from 
 Gothic frames; missals bound in vellum as 
 
40 THE PAGAN 
 
 white as the souls of the children that have held 
 them; candlesticks of gleaming brass, polished 
 anew by Madame Nicolas or by Veronique; 
 small statues of angels, of martyrs, of prophets, 
 and of saints, and wreaths of artificial flowers 
 to honor the graves of the dead. Not all of 
 these objects are beautiful many of them, in 
 deed, the newer ones, are glaringly ugly. But 
 Madame Nicolas has no favorites; she yearns 
 over them all. 
 
 Living and loving and working in such sur 
 roundings, it is not strange that Madame 
 Nicolas has become imbued with something of 
 their gentleness and simplicity. She is a quiet- 
 eyed old lady, whose white hair is brushed 
 smoothly back under her white cap, whose 
 motherly bosom is crossed by the ends of a 
 black, knitted shawl, whose feet tread the dim 
 aisles of her shop in noiseless felt slippers, and 
 whose hands are worn and lined from serving 
 her neighbors and her Lord. 
 
 During my short stay at Evremont I had 
 been a frequent visitor at Madame Nicolas s 
 shop, sometimes making a trifling purchase, 
 more often acquiring nothing more tangible 
 than a certain serenity of mind which is not to 
 be bought. In my profession as artist Madame 
 Nicolas valued me overhighly, I fear; but I 
 console myself with the reflection that I was able 
 to point out to her several articles in her posses 
 sion, the real value of which (to an antiquarian, 
 at least) she had sadly underrated. Thus, per- 
 
CITY OF LIGHTS 41 
 
 haps, the benefits were not entirely on one side. 
 
 I had come, then, from the shop of Madame 
 Nicolas on an April day, and crossing the square 
 to the Cafe du Levant had discovered Mon 
 sieur Silvestre and the cure sitting behind two 
 tall glasses of dark beer. 
 
 "Good afternoon, Monsieur Craddock," said 
 the cure; "the day is fine and the beer is good; 
 will you not join us?" 
 
 "The beer is always good at the Cafe du 
 Levant," I answered, with a bow to Monsieur 
 Silvestre. 
 
 "That remark," observed the cure with a 
 smile, "will surely serve to cement the entente 
 cordlale" 
 
 Monsieur Silvestre indicated his pleasure by 
 placing an iron chair for me at the table and 
 calling loudly for the waiter. 
 
 "C est le patron qui pale" said he. 
 
 "You will ruin yourself," I objected. 
 
 "Bah! It is not every day that we have, 
 gathered here together, such an illustrious trio. 
 Commerce, the Church, and the Fine Arts !" 
 
 "You have reason to say it," agreed the cure. 
 "And in such a case, I may add without offence, 
 I hope, to Monsieur Craddock in such a case 
 it is usually Commerce that pays for the beer." 
 Saying which, he raised his glass to his lips, 
 emptied it, and set it back on the table with a 
 sigh of satisfaction. 
 
 "You have come from Madame Nicolas?" 
 queried Monsieur Silvestre. 
 
42 THE PAGAN 
 
 I admitted that I had. 
 
 u An excellent woman," said he. 
 
 "A sermon without words," said the cure. 
 
 "An unhaloed saint," suggested Monsieur 
 Silvestre. 
 
 The priest held up his hand. 
 
 "Rarer than that," he declared; "for she is 
 a saint that strives to live rightly rather than 
 to die nobly. That is the essence of Christian- 
 ity." 
 
 "I am no Catholic," said Monsieur Silvestre, 
 "but I know and respect a good woman when 
 I see one. Madame Nicolas has had a hard 
 life. It is well that she has a faith." 
 
 The cure smiled quietly and passed a hand 
 across his smooth chin. 
 
 "Must one be afflicted to believe?" he mur 
 mured. "Pray, then, Monsieur Silvestre, to 
 be afflicted." 
 
 "That does not follow " began the land 
 lord vehemently, when, foreseeing a dispute, 
 I ventured to interrupt. 
 
 "You say that Madame Nicolas has had a 
 hard life. Might I inquire how, and why?" 
 
 At this Monsieur Silvestre and the cure ex 
 changed questioning glances; and Monsieur 
 Silvestre nodded his head. 
 
 "Tell him the story," he said. 
 
 The cure, shifting his glass, studied the wet 
 ring it left on the iron table. Then he replaced 
 it carefully and accurately and crossed his hands 
 in his lap. 
 
CITY OF LIGHTS 43 
 
 "Yes," he said slowly, "there is a story." 
 
 I settled myself to listen. Monsieur Silvestre 
 drew a packet of tobacco from his pocket and 
 dexterously rolled himself a cigarette. Then 
 he, too, settled himself to listen, but as one who 
 has heard the story before and is prepared to 
 interrupt if the telling of it be not to his satis 
 faction. 
 
 "Madame Nicolas," began the cure, "is not 
 a woman who cries out her troubles from the 
 house-tops. She has never come to me to com 
 plain of her fate, but she has come often to me 
 for advice and counsel. The greater part of 
 what I am about to tell you I had from Veron- 
 ique; and I need not assure you that I am be 
 traying no confidences. All Evremont, alas! 
 knows the story. 
 
 "Madame Nicolas s husband, an educated 
 man, a government official in the post-office de 
 partment here at Evremont, died about ten 
 years ago " 
 
 "Nine," corrected Monsieur Silvestre. 
 
 "Died, then, nine years ago, leaving Madame 
 Nicolas with two daughters and a mere shadow 
 of a pension. The girls were nearly of an age 
 Veronique at that time was eleven and Diane 
 was a scant year younger." 
 
 "Eleven months younger," volunteered Mon 
 sieur Silvestre. 
 
 "Exactly," agreed the cure. "Well, they 
 were delightful little children, both of them. 
 I instructed them for their first communion 
 
44 THE PAGAN 
 
 how well I remember! Veronique was very 
 pious she wrapped herself up in her faith as in 
 a shining, white mantle; and she hid her eyes 
 that they might not look on evil. Such unques 
 tioning belief I had never before seen. I was 
 afraid for her; her feet were not fixed upon the 
 earth. 
 
 "Diane was different. Diane was a good 
 child, but she was more how shall I say it? 
 more mortal. Her little sins were like yours 
 and mine. She overate, she lost her temper at 
 times, she made malicious speeches, she lied 
 once or twice, she adored, but occasionally dis 
 obeyed, her mother you know, all harmless, 
 natural little offences which she instantly and 
 deeply regretted. I remember that she especi 
 ally enjoyed setting the dog after the cows 
 down in the pasture by the river. She told me 
 with tears streaming down her cheeks that in 
 spite of herself, in spite of her knowledge that 
 it was wrong, she derived a very unholy pleasure 
 from seeing the poor cows racing madly about 
 the field with the dog barking at their heels. 
 And she had no sooner confessed to this hor 
 rible depravity than she commenced to laugh 
 at the recollection of the scene. Oh, yes, she 
 was very human! She was a source of great 
 grief to Veronique, who feared for the loss of 
 her soul. But Madame Nicolas did not worry 
 or if she did it was not for Diane. Madame 
 Nicolas had started her shop, then, and was 
 earning enough to keep them all clothed and 
 
CITY OF LIGHTS 45 
 
 fed, with a little to set aside at the end of each 
 year as a dowry for the two girls. You see 
 she wanted them to be in a position to marry 
 well when the time should come. 
 
 "Veronique did not want to marry. She 
 wanted to enter a convent and take the veil. 
 Both Madame Nicolas and I God forgive 
 me discouraged her in the desire. At least 
 we urged her to wait to make no hasty de 
 cision. And she waited. And while she waited 
 there came, of course, a man. A man or the 
 devil always comes when a woman is waiting." 
 
 "Sometimes both," suggested Monsieur 
 Silvestre. 
 
 "In this case," said the cure, "it was both 
 the devil in the form of a man." 
 
 The cure hesitated and sighed. It was only 
 too evident that this part of the story distressed 
 him, that he shrank from putting the baseness 
 of the world into words. But I don t know 
 whether it was grief or anger that troubled his 
 voice when he continued. 
 
 "The man," he said, "was a lieutenant in a 
 Zouave regiment that was quartered near Evre- 
 mont during some manoeuvres. He was very 
 handsome in scarlet and blue with shining but 
 tons and epaulets. And he had large brown 
 eyes and a gallant black mustache. And he 
 ranged the world like a roaring lion seeking 
 whom he might devour. I will say no more. 
 He is dead, and de mortuis nil well, you know 
 the phrase. I forget my Latin." 
 
46 THE PAGAN 
 
 "De mortuis nil nisi bonum," supplied 
 Monsieur Silvestre, greatly to my surprise; and 
 then he added reproachfully: "You have never 
 forgotten it before." 
 
 The cure shrugged. 
 
 "Let us get on with the story," he said. "At 
 first Veronique met this lieutenant of Zouaves 
 his name was Max Tourelle openly and 
 with the knowledge of Madame Nicolas and 
 myself. But we mistrusted him from the be 
 ginning he was too handsome, too swaggering 
 for our taste. Veronique believed in him im 
 plicitly, and when he spoke of love to her she 
 hugged his words to her heart. And she gave 
 over her soul from God s keeping into his. Ma 
 dame Nicolas pleaded with her; I pleaded with 
 her; Diane cried herself to sleep every night. 
 But Veronique did not cry. She was eighteen 
 and very much in love, and we seemed to her 
 like mourners at a feast. She could not under 
 stand our attitude. 
 
 "One night the night the camp broke up 
 and the regiment was ordered back to the city 
 she stole out of the house, joined him, and 
 ran away with him to Paris to be married. . . . 
 Of course he did not marry her." 
 
 "He left her and she came back to Evre- 
 mont?" I asked. 
 
 The cure shook his head. 
 
 "No," he said, "he did not leave her, and 
 she did not come back to Evremont for a long 
 time." 
 
CITY OF LIGHTS 47 
 
 "Poor Madame Nicolas," I murmured. 
 
 "Poor Veronique," said Monsieur Silvestre. 
 
 "Poor Diane," said the cure, and seemed to 
 enjoy my mystification. 
 
 There was a short silence. 
 
 "Well," urged Monsieur Silvestre impa 
 tiently, "continue." 
 
 "I continue," said the cure. "The next morn 
 ing Madame Nicolas came to me at sunrise. 
 I am ashamed to say I was still in bed; but I 
 threw on my soutane in haste and received her. 
 She was very white, I remember, and she was 
 trembling; but she did not break down. 
 
 " I have lost my daughter/ she said I have 
 lost Veronique. And then she repeated it 
 again : I have lost my daughter I have lost 
 Veronique. 
 
 "That was all she said; but I knew, of course, 
 what had happened. I had feared it. 
 
 "I quoted no scripture to console her, al 
 though a hundred phrases came to my lips. I 
 took her by the hand and led her out to my 
 little garden where we could see the sun com 
 ing up behind the hills and the morning breeze 
 stirring the poplars by the river. And I said: 
 Madame Nicolas, do you see the sun? and she 
 answered : Tes. And I said : Madame Nico 
 las, do you see the river and the trees and the 
 grass with the wind upon them? And she an 
 swered: Yes. And I said: Do you see the 
 clouds, rose and mauve and gray, and the stars 
 
48 THE PAGAN 
 
 paling up there in the sky? And she again 
 answered: Tes. 
 
 "Then I said: Madame Nicolas, God is 
 watching over the sun, and it is His will that it 
 shall rise ; and God is watching over the river, 
 and it is His will that it shall flow to the sea ; 
 and God is watching over the trees and the 
 grass, and it is His will that the wind shall be 
 upon them; and God is watching over the 
 clouds and the stars and as they are, so He wills 
 that they shall be. Do you not, then, believe 
 that God is watching over your daughter and 
 that His will shall be done?" 
 
 The cure paused and Monsieur Silvestre, 
 much affected but eager to prove his iconoclasm, 
 said: "That is all very well, but, after all, the 
 sun and the river and the trees and the clouds 
 and the stars are coming to no harm. It is 
 only we poor mortals that have to look out for 
 ourselves. Where should we land if we did 
 not? I ask you." 
 
 The cure regarded him scornfully. 
 
 "I was speaking at the time to a Catholic," 
 he said, "not to a heretic. Heretics must look 
 out for themselves ; for I am not sure just how 
 much interest le Bon Dieu takes in them." 
 
 Perceiving that Monsieur Silvestre had a 
 spirited retort at his lips, I interposed quickly, 
 begging the cure to proceed. 
 
 "Well, Madame Nicolas went home com 
 forted, and in ten days she received a little note 
 from Veronique. I remember the words of it 
 
CITY OF LIGHTS 49 
 
 as well as I remember the Pater Noster. She 
 said: I am in Paris with Max and am very 
 happy. Yesterday we went up the Eiffel Tower. 
 We are to be married very soon. I adore Paris 
 and I worship Max. Do not worry about me, 
 for I am completely happy. That is to say, I 
 shall be completely happy if you forgive me. 
 
 "Madame Nicolas tried to obtain comfort 
 from the assurance that they were to be mar 
 ried soon. As for me, I fear I was not so trust 
 ing; for I saw in Veronique s repeated assertion 
 that she was happy merely a defiant endeavor 
 to persuade herself that she was not horribly 
 unhappy. There are times when I am no op 
 timist. That is perhaps because it has been my 
 blessed privilege for many years to minister 
 unto misery. 
 
 "Poor Veronique had not dared to give her 
 address in the letter, and it was a long time be 
 fore we were able to locate her. Paris is a 
 large city, and the Veroniques in it do not make 
 themselves conspicuous. Finally, at the request 
 of Madame Nicolas, who was only too willing 
 to forgive, I myself went in search of the girl. 
 It was not my first visit to Paris, messieurs. 
 No, indeed, I have travelled a great deal : I 
 have been three times to Paris and twice to Ly 
 ons and it was but six years ago that I should 
 have journeyed to Rome had not my neuralgia 
 come upon me the day before I was to leave. 
 
 "Diane begged to accompany me. She was 
 sure that if she might see her sister and talk 
 
50 THE PAGAN 
 
 with her she could persuade her to return. 
 Veronique had always loved Diane and had 
 never been able to say no to her in anything she 
 desired. But I thought it better for her not 
 to come. I think that I was wrong. If I was 
 I can only plead that it was an error in judg 
 ment, not in intention. 
 
 "I went alone, then, and after three days I 
 found Veronique. She was living in a little 
 room in the house on the rue des Saints-Peres; 
 and Max had not married her. During the day 
 she worked in a confiserie, selling cakes and 
 sweetmeats and earning two francs a day. That 
 seems good pay to us here in Evremont, but I 
 am told that it is nothing in Paris. She ex 
 plained that Max was not rich and that she 
 did not wish to be a burden to him. I was able 
 to perceive immediately (although she tried 
 bravely to conceal her misgivings) that she 
 doubted if he would ever marry her. The sur 
 prise of seeing me broke down her guard and 
 she wept on my shoulder. She had come at last 
 to realize the importance of what she had done; 
 but, quite naturally, she still clung to Max as 
 her salvation. Her only hope lay in him. And 
 it was against this hope that springs eternal 
 that I was forced to fight. I lost the fight." 
 
 "That was but natural," observed Monsieur 
 Silvestre. "Max had it in his power to make 
 her an honest woman by marrying her : he could 
 undo what he had done, but you could not. You 
 
CITY OF LIGHTS 51 
 
 could but offer her consolation and spiritual 
 absolution." 
 
 u Precisely," agreed the cure. "I came to 
 her either too soon or too late. Had I come 
 sooner I might have been in time to save her; 
 had I come later she would have had oppor 
 tunity to become convinced that Max was a 
 scoundrel, and I could have won her away from 
 him. As it was I came back to Evremont, my 
 hands empty, but my heart full to overflowing. 
 
 "A year passed, and two years. Madame 
 Nicolas, uncomplaining and dignified in her 
 sorrow, tended the little shop with Diane; and 
 every night they prayed to the Mother of God 
 to be kind to Veronique and to remember that 
 she was very young. And Madame Nicolas 
 suddenly seemed to grow very old. 
 
 "On a certain night Madame Nicolas had a 
 dream. At the time we both thought it a divine 
 revelation, but subsequent events caused us to 
 doubt that it emanated from heaven. So we 
 have since called it simply a dream." 
 
 "Ha !" exclaimed Monsieur Silvestre, "you 
 pretend to claim " 
 
 "I claim nothing," interrupted the cure 
 severely. "I state our belief no more. I have 
 a right to a belief; you, who are an agnostic, 
 have not; you cannot even believe that you are 
 an agnostic, for an agnostic is one who believes 
 nothing." 
 
 Monsieur Silvestre found no answer and the 
 cure continued. 
 
52 THE PAGAN 
 
 "Madame Nicolas dreamed that night that 
 she saw Veronique and Diane together, clasped 
 in each other s arms. Veronique was weeping 
 bitterly and Diane was soothing her and com 
 forting her and stroking her bright hair with 
 gentle, sisterly hands. And Veronique was cry 
 ing because she had lost the little silver cross 
 that had hung on a slender chain at her breast 
 since the day of her first communion. Then, in 
 a dream, Madame Nicolas saw Diane unclasp 
 her own little silver cross and give it Veronique. 
 And when she had done so she went very white 
 and buried her face in her hands and wept. But 
 Veronique, seeing her sister s distress, refused 
 at first to take the cross; and it was not until 
 Diane, between her sobs, had urged her and 
 pleaded with her for a long time that she con 
 sented to do so. Then she clasped the chain 
 at her neck and peace came into her eyes and 
 she was comforted. 
 
 "Madame Nicolas the next morning told 
 Diane of her dream and they agreed that it had 
 come from le Bon Dieu, that it clearly meant 
 that Diane should go to Paris and see her sister 
 and cheer her and prevail on her to come back 
 to Evremont and be forgiven. Diane, con 
 scious of her power with Veronique, was en 
 thusiastic and eager to start at once. She had 
 no fear of the city, nor would she hear of Ma 
 dame Nicolas or myself accompanying her. She 
 pointed out that in the dream she had been 
 alone with Veronique, that this was obviously 
 
CITY OF LIGHTS 53 
 
 the desire of le Bon Dieu, and that to disregard 
 His manifest wish would be to show ourselves 
 ungrateful and might well displease Him. In 
 the end she convinced us that she was right. 
 
 "The next day we put her on the train for 
 Paris. I gave her minute directions how she 
 should find Veronique, but she scarcely heeded 
 them. Le Bon Dieu, she said, would show her 
 the way and guard her steps. She was so happy, 
 so confident of her success, that we could not 
 but share some of her elation." 
 
 The cure paused to moisten his lips and drain 
 his glass. Monsieur Silvestre, for once, made 
 no comment. 
 
 "What happened in Paris," the cure resumed, 
 "I had from Veronique. Diane, arriving at the 
 Gare Saint-Lazare at ten o clock " 
 
 "At ten-seven," corrected Monsieur Silvestre. 
 
 "Diane, arriving at ten-seven, went straight 
 to the confiserie and found her sister with no 
 delay whatever. I can imagine the meeting. 
 It is certain that there were many kisses and a 
 few tears. It is good for the young to cry a 
 little. 
 
 "Veronique immediately requested and ob 
 tained a half-holiday. The patronne was big- 
 hearted and had a sister of her own, in Dijon, 
 whom she had not seen for seven years. I think 
 the patronne shed a few tears, too, from 
 sympathy. 
 
 "Veronique and Diane walked out of the 
 shop, with their arms about each other s waists, 
 
54 THE PAGAN 
 
 just as they used to walk to the pasture down 
 here by the river, when they were little girls. 
 And it seemed to them, for a while, at least, as 
 if nothing had changed, nothing had come be 
 tween them since those far-away days. But 
 once or twice Veronique would stop short in the 
 middle of a laugh and once or twice her fingers 
 would seek Diane s and press them so hard 
 that it hurt. 
 
 "Veronique led the way to her room in the 
 rue des Saint-Peres, for she wanted to change 
 from her working-clothes into her best dress. 
 She wanted, you see, to make it a jour de fete. 
 
 " You will stop the night here with me, 
 Diane, will you not? she asked. 
 
 "Diane did not hesitate an instant. 
 
 " It will be better, Veronique, if we both go 
 back to Evremont this evening. I have come 
 to bring you home. 
 
 "But Veronique shrank away. 
 
 " No, she said slowly, I cannot go home. 
 
 "Diane threw herself to her knees in front 
 of her sister. 
 
 " We are breaking our hearts waiting for 
 you, she said. It is for our sake that we ask 
 you to come. Have pity. 
 
 "But Veronique shook her head. 
 
 " I cannot leave Max. 
 
 " Our mother is getting old, urged Diane. 
 She needs you. The two years that you have 
 been gone have seemed very long and bitter 
 to her. 
 
CITY OF LIGHTS 55 
 
 " So have they seemed to me, said Veron- 
 ique, but so low that Diane scarce heard her. 
 Come, she continued, let us not spoil our one 
 day together. We will discuss it to-morrow. 
 Meanwhile I shall show you many wonderful 
 things, for Paris is a beautiful city especially 
 in April when the sun is shining. 
 
 "Diane then saw that for the present she 
 could gain nothing by persevering. So she de 
 termined to bide her time patiently. She did 
 not despair for an instant. 
 
 "While she washed her hands and face her 
 sister got into a beautiful gown. It was blue, 
 I think, and had some marvellous lace at the 
 neck and wrists. Max had bought it for her in 
 a shop on the rue de Rivoli. Diane had never 
 seen its equal before, and I am afraid that she 
 looked on it with covetous eyes. Diane, as I 
 told you, was very human. 
 
 "When they were ready Veronique took her 
 sister s hand and they went out into the streets. 
 They walked for miles. They saw the Louvre 
 and the Vendome column and Notre Dame. 
 When they stopped in front of Notre Dame, 
 Diane gave a little gasp and the tears started 
 to her eyes. It was so beautiful that it made 
 her cry. And, without thinking, she begged 
 that they go in to pray. 
 
 "Veronique drew sharply away that Diane 
 might not see her face. 
 
 " Come, she said; we will not go in. 1 
 
56 THE PAGAN 
 
 "But her voice trembled so much that Diane 
 understood. 
 
 "They turned and walked up the quai beside 
 the swollen river. 
 
 " Look, said Diane, it is the same dear old 
 Seine that flows by the pasture at home where 
 the cows are. Do you remember how one could 
 see the reflections of the poplars marching along 
 in it upside down? Do you remember how 
 blue it was at noon, and how silver it was at 
 evening? 
 
 " Yes, 1 said Veronique. In Paris it is neither 
 blue nor silver very often. 
 
 "They purchased a lunch at a bakery and 
 ate it under the trees in the Tuileries, like the 
 midinettes. Then they crossed the Place de la 
 Concorde and Veronique pointed out the monu 
 ment of Alsace-Lorraine and the wreaths with 
 which a bereaved nation had dressed it. 
 
 u There are flowers in front of your picture 
 at home, said Diane. But Veronique answered 
 nothing. 
 
 "They walked slowly up the Champs-Elysees, 
 watching the automobiles and carriages go by, 
 filled with gay people in beautiful clothes. 
 Diane s eyes sparkled with excitement. It was 
 all very strange to her and beautiful and daz 
 zling; and, as you know, the Champs-Elysees 
 has a great chic in the afternoon. Before they 
 had reached the Rond-Point a troop of the Re 
 publican Guard rode by great giants of men, 
 with plumes waving and cuirasses gleaming and 
 
CITY OF LIGHTS 57 
 
 horses fretting and tossing their heads. It was 
 a sight to stir one s blood. Diane, in her ex 
 citement, clung close to her sister; and Ve- 
 ronique, who had seen it all before, laughed at 
 her and teased her for being line petite pro- 
 vinciale. 
 
 "Then they went to a guignol oh, they saw 
 all the wonderful sights of Paris! And they 
 both laughed a great deal and chattered merrily 
 and enjoyed themselves just as they used to do 
 when the circus came to Evremont. 
 
 "Presently Veronique stopped short in the 
 middle of a laugh, caught her breath sharply, 
 and said: Come, we must return to the rue 
 des Saints-Peres. Max will be waiting. He has 
 promised to take me to dinner, and if I am late 
 he becomes impatient. 
 
 "It was the first time that Veronique had 
 alluded to Max, and Diane felt suddenly em 
 barrassed and ill at ease. She did not know 
 quite what to say. Veronique must have mis 
 understood her sister s confusion, for she said : 
 You will have dinner with us, too, of course. 
 
 "But Diane hung back. 
 
 There is a train for Evremont, she said. 
 I can catch it if I hurry. Oh, Veronique, we 
 can catch it if we hurry! 
 
 "Veronique shook her head. 
 
 " Not yet, she said gently. I cannot go yet, 
 Diane. Perhaps to-morrow. We shall see. 
 Wait until to-morrow. 
 
 "So they returned to the rue des Saints-Peres. 
 
58 THE PAGAN 
 
 Max was waiting, and he seemed not at all dis 
 pleased to have an addition to their dinner 
 party. He was very gay and dashing and 
 cracked a great many funny jokes that set Diane 
 laughing in spite of herself. And he appeared 
 to have plenty of money to spend. 
 
 We will dine this evening en prince! he 
 cried. Nothing is too good for our little coun 
 try sister. Behold! I have twenty-two francs! 
 We will spend it all every centime. 
 
 "I have forgotten the name of the restaurant 
 where he took them to dine; but no matter, I 
 should never have occasion to go there, myself 
 it is far too expensive. I know, however, 
 that it was near the Gare du Montparnasse. 
 A dinner cost three francs-fifty, vin compris. 
 Think of the extravagance, messieurs ! And 
 Max gave a franc to the waiter as a pourboire. 
 Truly, Parisians care nothing for their money ! 
 
 "There was an orchestra and a great mu 
 sician that played divinely on the violin. Max 
 asked Diane if she did not want him to play 
 some favorite tune of hers, and she clapped her 
 hands, delighted, and begged for Fenite Adore- 
 mus. Max laughed very loudly, but the mu 
 sician had heard her and he played it. He must 
 have played it very wonderfully, for Veronique 
 tells me that it made her cry, although she did 
 not want to because it always made Max angry 
 when she cried. 
 
 "Every one in the restaurant looked around 
 at Diane, and smiled and nudged each other and 
 
CITY OF LIGHTS 59 
 
 laughed because she had chosen a tune that is 
 not played in restaurants. But the musician saw 
 them laughing and became furious and cried: 
 Canaille! If you have no respect for good 
 music I shall play no more. And he packed 
 up his violin and went out. 
 
 "There followed, of course, much excitement. 
 The proprietor was vexed and the clients were 
 vexed and Max was in a rage and hurried Ve- 
 ronique and Diane out of the cafe. 
 
 "He took them then to a music-hall, where 
 they sat in the very front row of the gallery. 
 Diane loved the performance, although she 
 could not understand much that was said be 
 cause it was mostly in the Parisian argot. But 
 there was a tableau of Napoleon bidding fare 
 well to the Old Guard that was extremely beau 
 tiful and, doubtless, of great historical interest. 
 But the Old Guard were women in very close- 
 fitting uniforms which seemed strange. 
 
 "In any case the representation put Max in 
 a good humor again, and he suggested that they 
 go to the Pantheon for supper. At first Diane 
 thought that he meant the Pantheon with the 
 big dome she had pictures of it on postal cards 
 and she was surprised to think that people 
 went there for supper. But Max explained 
 that he meant a different place altogether; he 
 meant the Taverne du Pantheon, which is a 
 cafe with music and dancing. 
 
 "Diane enjoyed herself hugely. Max met 
 some friends from his regiment and brought 
 
60 THE PAGAN 
 
 them up and introduced them to her ; and they 
 asked her to dance. She danced the polka very 
 gracefully, but they taught her some new steps 
 that we do not dance here at Evremont. Before 
 they knew it, it was two o clock in the morning. 
 Think of it, my friends ! 
 
 "As they walked home by the side of the 
 Luxembourg Gardens, Diane was quiet and sad. 
 She felt, you see, that she had been too easily 
 led to forget the object of her mission. She was 
 very glad when Max said good-night to them 
 and left them at the door of the house in the 
 rue des Saints-Peres; and she determined that 
 she would not sleep that night until she should 
 have had a long talk with Veronique and used 
 all her persuasions. 
 
 "Veronique, holding a candle, lighted the way 
 up the five flights of twisting stairs, and with 
 every step Diane s heart grew heavier, for she 
 knew that if she did not succeed in making Ve 
 ronique listen to her that night, she should never 
 succeed at all. 
 
 "When they reached the room Veronique 
 immediately started to undress; and it was then 
 that Diane noticed that her sister no longer 
 wore the little silver cross about her neck. This 
 discovery startled her and awed her, for she 
 recalled Madame Nicolas s dream and she was 
 sure that she saw in it the hand of God. 
 
 " What are you looking at, Diane ? asked 
 Veronique. 
 
 " You have lost your silver cross, faltered 
 
CITY OF LIGHTS 61 
 
 Diane or is it that you no longer care to 
 wear it? 
 
 "Veronique instinctively put her hand to her 
 breast, searching with her fingers. Then she 
 desisted and nodded her head sadly. 
 
 u I have lost it, said she. The chain broke 
 and I lost it two years ago the night I left 
 Evremont. But even now I cannot realize that 
 it is gone. Always I am feeling for it; and al 
 ways it is not there ; and always I am surprised 
 until I remember until I remember. Oh, 
 Diane, I wish that I might never remember; 
 I wish I were of those that can forget! 
 
 "With that she threw herself on the bed and 
 commenced to sob bitterly. Diane went to her 
 and took her in her arms and soothed her and 
 comforted her and stroked her bright hair with 
 gentle, sisterly hands. And, even as Madame 
 Nicolas had dreamed, she unclasped her own 
 little silver cross from about her neck and gave 
 it to Veronique. And when she had done so she 
 went very white and buried her face in her 
 hands and wept. But she did not know why 
 she wept, for she was really glad that Veron 
 ique should have the cross. 
 
 "Then, again, as in the dream, Veronique 
 refused at first to take the gift. Diane urged 
 her and pleaded with her to do so, and at last 
 Veronique clasped the chain at her neck and 
 peace came into her eyes and she was com 
 forted. 
 
 "That night, as they lay side by side in the 
 
62 THE PAGAN 
 
 narrow bed, Veronique said in a whisper: 
 Diane, are you asleep? 
 
 u No/ answered Diane, I was praying. 
 
 " Were you praying for me? asked Ve 
 ronique. 
 
 " For you and for myself, 5 " answered 
 Diane. 
 
 " Tell me more about home, Diane, whis 
 pered Veronique. Tell me about the shop. Is 
 the image of Sainte Veronique still unsold? Tell 
 me about mother. Is she is she very bitter 
 against me? And tell me about the cure and 
 Monsieur Silvestre and the church and the Cafe 
 du Levant and the Place de la Fontaine. Do 
 the sparrows still come to drink at the water 
 ing-trough ? 
 
 "So Diane told her everything she wished 
 to know. She told her of the little humdrum 
 affairs of the village ; she told her of the shop 
 that the image of Sainte Veronique still stood 
 in the corner and that Madame Nicolas, re 
 membering how fond Veronique had been of it, 
 had refused to sell it; she told her of myself 
 and of Monsieur Silvestre here; and then she 
 told her of the peace and the calm that lie over 
 the village like a benediction. And when she 
 had finished Veronique sighed and kissed her 
 and said: To-morrow, Diane, I will go back 
 with you to Evremont! Then Veronique lay 
 back and slept like a child. But Diane slept 
 very little. 
 
 "When Veronique awoke the next morning 
 
CITY OF LIGHTS 63 
 
 the first thing she did was to feel for the lit 
 tle cross at her breast. Her fingers found it 
 and she smiled. Then, while she bathed and 
 dressed, she sang very low that she might not 
 disturb Diane. But her heart was singing 
 loudly. She packed the few trifles that she had 
 brought with her when she left Evremont two 
 years ago nothing more and when all was 
 ready she called Diane. 
 
 "Diane awoke and the first thing she did was 
 to feel for the little cross at her breast. Her 
 fingers found it not and she sighed. But Ve- 
 ronique was so happy that the sigh passed un 
 observed. 
 
 " Come/ said Veronique, There is a train, 
 is there not, at half past eight? 
 
 "Diane delayed her dressing long enough to 
 throw her arms about her sister s neck. 
 
 " It is, then, really true, 1 said she; and she, 
 too, seemed very happy. . . . 
 
 "Well, they took the early train. I had fin 
 ished my breakfast and was in the Place, taking 
 a breath of the fragrant morning air when I 
 saw them coming up the street from the station. 
 I ran to them and embraced them both. Mon 
 Dieu, how I rejoiced at the miracle, and I re 
 membered, but did not repeat, the parable of 
 the sheep that strayed from the fold. Instead 
 I cried aloud: God is good! I could have 
 gone on my knees in the dust of the street and 
 given thanks " 
 
 "It would have attracted attention," inter- 
 
64 THE PAGAN 
 
 rupted Monsieur Silvestre; but I noticed that 
 more than once he had furtively rubbed his 
 sleeve across his eyes, and so I judged that his 
 irony was but a mask. 
 
 "Yes," agreed the cure, "it would have at 
 tracted attention to Veronique. That is why 
 I did not. But might I, in this connection, re 
 call to your mind, Monsieur Silvestre, what you 
 yourself did on that day? You took every 
 centime that was paid in at the Cafe du Levant, 
 and when you thought no one was looking you 
 dropped it all into my poor-box." 
 
 "Bah!" said Monsieur Silvestre. "That 
 indicates nothing. One does not have to be 
 religious to be sorry for the poor." 
 
 The cure smiled and shook his head. 
 
 "Monsieur Silvestre," he said, "in spite of 
 yourself you are one of the best Christians in 
 the diocese." 
 
 "Then God help the church !" said Monsieur 
 Silvestre, determined to have the last word. 
 
 "He will," said the cure with conviction. 
 
 "Now, Monsieur Craddock," he continued, 
 turning to me, "I now come to the end of the 
 story. That was, indeed, a day of rejoicing 
 the day that brought Veronique back to us. 
 She seemed to fit at once into the niche that we 
 had held for her in our hearts during her ab 
 sence. She was quiet she did not cringe, she 
 held up her head; but one could see how grate 
 ful she was for any kindness." 
 
CITY OF LIGHTS 65 
 
 "And Madame Nicolas?" said I "Madame 
 Nicolas, I presume, was very happy." 
 
 The cure shifted in his chair and gazed stead 
 fastly across the square, far above the tower of 
 his church into the clear April sky. 
 
 "Madame Nicolas," he said slowly, "was 
 very happy for twenty-four hours." 
 
 "But " I began, and then stopped, waiting 
 in silence for him to proceed. 
 
 "On the very night of her return, while Ve- 
 ronique slept smiling beside her, Diane arose, 
 tossed a few garments into a little cloth valise, 
 and just as Veronique had done before her, 
 stole from the house out into the great vast 
 night. The city, I suppose, had got into her 
 blood. They traced her as far as Paris, and 
 then they lost her. They have never heard 
 from her since. The world has her now, and 
 the world, alas ! is not gentle." 
 
 Monsieur Silvestre cleared his throat loudly 
 and turned his back. 
 
 "Poor Madame Nicolas," he said, and there 
 was a break in his voice. 
 
 "Poor Diane," said the cure. 
 
 But a different thought came to me. I 
 thought of Veronique and the burden that she 
 bore on her slender shoulders, and, remember 
 ing the tragedy that lay dark in her eyes, I said : 
 "Poor Veronique." 
 
 Then, for a space, we fell silent, each busy 
 with his own thoughts. The shadow of the 
 church tower stretched its blue length across 
 
66 THE PAGAN 
 
 the square, edging ever nearer to us as the sun 
 descended the sky. The village was dreamily 
 still, save for the voices of boatmen calling to 
 one another on the river. 
 
 At last the cure stirred in his chair. I think 
 that he had been praying for one in peril on 
 uncharted seas. He raised his head slowly, and 
 his eyes, sweeping the west, rested on the gold 
 cross above his little church. Behind the cross 
 lay Paris and the setting sun. 
 
THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP 
 
 I 
 
 DIANE NICOLAS, having run away from 
 home and thus, on an impulse, upset all her own 
 and other people s plans for her future, found 
 that Paris was not quite the radiant city of lights 
 and romance which one brief former visit had 
 led her to expect. The lights were there, to be 
 sure, and doubtless the romance, but two are 
 necessary to achieve romance even of the most 
 tawdry sort and Diane was alone. It is not 
 gay to be alone in Paris, especially when one is 
 young and a girl, and has been bred to be shy 
 in the presence of strangers. 
 
 Why, then, she asked herself, had she come? 
 Why had she abandoned Evremont-sur-Seine 
 and her mother, and the little shop where her 
 mother sold the crucifixes and the images of 
 saints, and above all, why had she abandoned 
 her sister Veronique, whom she herself had 
 brought back, tear-stained and wretched, from 
 the City of Lights? 
 
 Diane, I repeat, posed these questions to her 
 self, but she could not answer them, nor can I. 
 Certainly that one amusing, rather riotous night 
 in Paris had had a great deal to do with her 
 returning to live it again; and certainly she had 
 been well aware that if she were to return ever 
 
 67 
 
68 THE PAGAN 
 
 to Paris, it could not be with the consent of 
 Madame Nicolas. Psychologists and students 
 of heredity would no doubt claim that her action 
 was the result of the presence in her character 
 of some strain of wilfulness and passion in 
 herited from a remote rake of an ancestor an 
 excellent solution, of course, but pure nonsense. 
 Had she taken the veil instead, these same 
 authorities would just as convincingly have 
 credited it to the presence of a strain of asceti 
 cism and mysticism inherited from an early 
 saint or martyr. 
 
 In any case she had run away from every 
 thing that she loved and reverenced to come to 
 Paris, of which she knew next to nothing. She 
 did not know why she had done it, and she knew 
 many reasons why she should not have done it, 
 and yet I do not believe that at first she regret 
 ted at all having done it. That makes the action 
 almost comprehensible. You see what I mean? 
 The impulse was so powerful and so dominat 
 ing that it left no room within her for regrets. 
 She was able to rise above her disappointments. 
 Also Paris, experienced even at its worst, was 
 a change from Evremont and Diane belonged 
 to the restless sex. 
 
 On the occasion of her previous visit to Paris, 
 she and Veronique had dined with some young 
 Frenchmen at the Taverne du Pantheon. There 
 had been a man a young zouave and a friend 
 of Veronique s friend who had danced with 
 her three times and who had assured her ar- 
 
THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP 69 
 
 dently that for him she was a glimpse of Para 
 dise. She remembered with some confusion 
 and a certain unavowed but very real pleasure, 
 how closely during the dances he had held his 
 Paradise. ... So for three days in succes 
 sion, at the end of her search for employment, 
 she went to the Taverne du Pantheon. Be 
 sides, she argued, she had no reason to go 
 elsewhere. 
 
 On the third day she encountered him. It 
 was in the late afternoon, and she was alone at 
 a table drinking a strop. He came in laughing 
 with two friends, stared at her a moment, and, 
 when she blushed and smiled, went over to her 
 and shook her cordially by both hands. 
 
 "But it is the little sister of Veronique !" he 
 cried. u The little sister from the country; what 
 does she do here alone, the little sister from the 
 country?" 
 
 Diane was immensely and tremulously 
 pleased. 
 
 "She drinks a strop" she explained, with a 
 gesture. 
 
 "Excellent," he laughed, "we shall all drink 
 together, if you permit. I will present to you 
 my two friends an artist called Bruno and a 
 would-be architect called Ro-been-son. He is 
 an American the passionate-looking one with 
 the beard. And you you are Mademoiselle 
 Diane, are you not?" 
 
 "Yes," she agreed, "you have a good mem 
 ory, monsieur." 
 
70 THE PAGAN 
 
 "One does not forget Paradise," he mur 
 mured, looking her in the eyes. "As for me 
 my name is " 
 
 "Your name," she interrupted, "is Monsieur 
 Raoul." 
 
 "I thank you 4 a thousand times for deigning 
 to remember," he said magnificently, with a 
 slight smile and his eyes ever on hers. Then he 
 motioned to Bruno and Robinson, and they 
 made places for themselves around the table. 
 
 Bruno was a large man with a large mus 
 tache and a fatherly manner toward little 
 women. Robinson was a gaunt, long American, 
 who spoke French slang freely with a good ac 
 cent and bad grammar, and who during the 
 six months that he had studied his profession 
 at the Beaux Arts had grown a beard and 
 learned to neglect his nails and use a toothpick. 
 Also he had learned to tutoyer every one 
 especially little women. 
 
 Over the glasses the conversation became 
 rapid if not sparkling. They discovered that 
 Diane haid come alone to Paris; that she was 
 seeking an opportunity to earn money in some 
 dressmaking shop; that she embroidered, she 
 had been told, with considerable skill, but that 
 thus far she had found no employment. 
 
 "Why not pose for Bruno?" suggested 
 Robinson. "He is doing a sort of imitation 
 Chabas at present. Green, still pool; large 
 tree; young girl shivering underneath." 
 
 But Robinson received no encouragement; 
 
THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP 71 
 
 for Raoul scowled at him disapprovingly, and 
 Bruno resented hotly the imputation that he was 
 copying Chabas. 
 
 Diane, not being an authority on art, did not 
 venture to intrude in the discussion that ensued. 
 Indeed she scarcely understood a word of what 
 they said no great loss to her, for she would 
 without doubt hear it all repeated as often as 
 she should be in their company. 
 
 Raoul being a good deal of a materialist, 
 took advantage of the argument to whisper an 
 invitation for dinner to Diane. Just the two 
 of them, of course. She neither refused nor 
 accepted; and she was amused and a little per 
 plexed when both Robinson and Bruno fol 
 lowed suit at short intervals, the former hold 
 ing out a truly regal entertainment as his bait, 
 and the latter suggesting a very modest dinner 
 over which they should discuss her future and 
 devise means for securing her employment. 
 This he offered her in his most paternal manner, 
 and, as it happened, the paternal manner won 
 the day. Of Robinson and of Raoul she was 
 afraid. As for Bruno why, Bruno was al 
 most as old and therefore almost as harmless 
 as Monsieur Silvestre who kept the inn at Evre- 
 mont. 
 
 And so she dined with Bruno, not only that 
 night but several nights thereafter. 
 
 And he pretended to find work for her in the 
 quarter, but never somehow succeeded. When 
 her small capital was exhausted and she was 
 
72 THE PAGAN 
 
 starving, he fed her. And gradually her grati 
 tude turned to affection and, as he had patiently 
 planned, to what she thought was love. When 
 that moment arrived Bruno pointed out to her 
 how they might economize if she gave up her 
 room and came to live with him. She could not 
 deny the reasonableness of his argument, so she 
 packed up her few little belongings and moved 
 into his studio, where for a while she was very 
 happy. 
 
 II 
 
 BRUNO was always kind to her, and there is 
 no reason to doubt that he loved her as well as 
 he knew how. She, knowing nothing of men, 
 was filled with a great respect for him and his 
 work and his friends and, above all, his con 
 versation. He talked a great deal of things 
 she did not understand, but with such a pro 
 found air of conviction that she came to share 
 his belief in the brilliancy of his intellect. This, 
 of course, was gratifying to him, and tended to 
 increase his affection for her. All males like 
 to inspire a certain amount of awe in their 
 womenfolk, and, when they succeed in this, they 
 credit the woman with a comprehending nature 
 and she rises correspondingly in their esteem. 
 
 So when Bruno discoursed in his studio to 
 three or four of his disciples, Diane sat quietly 
 in a corner, all eyes and ears and, moreover, 
 very pretty eyes and ears, Bruno would smile 
 
THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP 73 
 
 kindly upon her if she ventured to intrude a 
 remark, wave his pipe and answer her in words 
 noticeably of one syllable. Then he would 
 murmur half aloud, "Elle est gentille" or "Est- 
 ce qii y elle est mignonne!" and resume his 
 harangue. She was referred to constantly both 
 by him and by his friends as "la petite," and his 
 friends were very polite to her and in no way 
 surprised at her presence in the studio. Later 
 she suspected from this that she had had pre 
 decessors, but later she asked herself who had 
 not? 
 
 For the time being her happiness depended 
 entirely on Bruno s affection on its manifesta 
 tion and on its prospect of enduring. Quite 
 naturally, no doubt, once she had committed 
 herself, the thought of another man never en 
 tered her mind. And, so firm was her faith 
 in Bruno that the possibility of his leaving her 
 seemed out of the question. They were not 
 married that, of course, was very regrettable 
 but they loved each other and would grow 
 old together and never separate. That, to her, 
 was a certainty. She often made plans for their 
 old age, so sure was she that they would reach 
 it together plans that comprised children and 
 a possible marriage to legitimize them. In 
 cluded among these plans was a triumphant re 
 turn with her husband to Evremont and to her 
 mother and her sister. There would be Mon 
 sieur le cure and Monsieur Silvestre, the inn 
 keeper, rushing over to Madame Nicolas s shop 
 
74 THE PAGAN 
 
 to greet her, and Monsieur le cure would bap 
 tize the children in the little church on the 
 square. Probably there would be three chil 
 dren. Two would be old enough to walk, and 
 the baby she would carry in her arms. It would 
 be summer, so she would be dressed in white 
 with a crimson belt at her waist and a broad 
 straw hat with roses in it. Bruno, who, of 
 course, would receive a tremendous welcome, 
 would lay down the artistic law of an evening 
 to the wide-eyed cure and Monsieur Silvestre, 
 and he would paint charming landscapes of the 
 clean little red and white village and of the 
 murmuring Seine with the poplars swaying in 
 line beside it. These, after they had been ex 
 hibited at the Salon, he would doubtless sell 
 for fabulous sums to rich Americans. . . . 
 She was young, you see, and a dreamer of 
 dreams, which made her less able to support 
 the blow that reality was to deal to her. It 
 seems strange (and yet such strange things 
 happen continually) that she who had seen her 
 sister Veronique disillusioned should have had 
 no fears for herself. 
 
 Meanwhile her menage with Bruno had not 
 gained her the friendship either of Raoul or of 
 Robinson, both of whom considered themselves 
 to have been shabbily treated. Raoul thought 
 she should have been his by right of discovery, 
 and Robinson was unpleasantly surprised that 
 she should have scorned him in spite of his 
 offers of expensive entertainment. 
 
THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP 75 
 
 Now it was unfortunate that at the time that 
 Bruno offered Diane a share in his possessions 
 and in his life he had been assiduously court 
 ing (always in his paternal manner) another. 
 It was equally unfortunate that Bruno, who de 
 tested a row, had not had the courage to inform 
 this other that her seat on the throne beside 
 him had been very adequately filled. 
 
 The girl whom Diane had supplanted was 
 called Madeleine Brissonet, and was known by 
 those who knew her as Madelon. Living with 
 her father at St. Cloud, she was not either by 
 birth or by residence of the quarter; but she 
 came daily to draw in an atelier off the Boule 
 vard du Montparnasse. There Bruno had met 
 her and had condescended to criticise her work, 
 which was deplorable. He had assured her, 
 however, that she showed promise, and had 
 given her several dinners at the Closerie des 
 Lilas, during which he had wooed her with his 
 eloquence and a rather heavy Burgundy. Ma 
 delon, a little flaxen-haired hypocrite, had 
 played him like a fish until she had reduced him 
 to a condition where she had but to reach for the 
 landing net. Very demure and saint-like she 
 was, and as hard as nails. Accordingly, men 
 admired her, and the women students at the 
 atelier disliked her intensely and consoled them 
 selves by telling one another that she was knock- 
 kneed (which was not true) and that, of course, 
 she dyed her hair. The latter accusation she 
 admitted, offering them the recipe. 
 
76 THE PAGAN 
 
 It is obvious, then, that Raoul, Robinson, and 
 Madelon were a formidable trio, each with a 
 spoke ready to thrust into the wheel of Diane s 
 happiness. That the three of them met one 
 afternoon at Lavenue s was not, however, the 
 result of a conspiracy it was an event that 
 sooner or later was bound to occur. Poor 
 Bruno would have trembled had he seen their 
 three heads together over the foaming bocks. 
 
 "Have you ever seen her, Madelon ?" Robin 
 son began maliciously. 
 
 "Whom?" asked Madelon. 
 
 "The little friend of Bruno," said Robinson. 
 "She is quite lovely young, slim, graceful, 
 adorable and, I believe, adoring. Old Bruno 
 is most fortunate. He appears to know it and 
 is as happy as a cat before the fire. Have you 
 met him recently and noted his rejuvenation?" 
 
 "You are always disagreeable," said Made- 
 Ion "even when you do not try to be. So why, 
 I wonder, do you try?" 
 
 Robinson smiled like a man of the world and 
 blew out a cloud of cigarette smoke. 
 
 "I am trying to arouse you," he said lan 
 guidly. "I am bored and I should like to see 
 a little action in the quarter. Life is dull, isn t 
 it, Raoul?" 
 
 "Life is very dull," agreed the zouave. "I 
 could have loved that girl. Indeed, I am not 
 sure that I did not and do not. What eyes 
 like those of a saint giving in to temptation! 
 I wish I had married her." 
 
THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP 77 
 
 "Imbecile," observed Madelon briefly, and 
 sipped her beer. 
 
 Raoul smiled at her a shade pityingly. 
 
 "You do not understand," he said. "You 
 have not seen her." 
 
 "But yes, I have seen her," she retorted im 
 patiently. "And what then? I saw a thin lit 
 tle provincial in an abominable gown and hat 
 of the early Fallieres period. Do you think I 
 allow myself to be perturbed by such a com 
 petitor. Bruno will tire of her in a week, and if 
 he does not. . . . Order me another bock, 
 Robinson, you who are rich." 
 
 "It is just as well that you are not jealous," 
 said Robinson, giving the order "it is just as 
 well that you are not jealous, because I have 
 never before seen a menage that promised to be 
 so enduring. I understand that Bruno intends 
 to marry her shortly. That, at least, would 
 be a marriage made in heaven." 
 
 Robinson leant back in his chair to witness 
 the effect of this, his supreme blow. Machia- 
 velli would, I think, have been pleased with 
 Robinson. 
 
 That Madelon was perturbed was instantly 
 apparent to one who knew her. Her childish 
 little mouth lost something of its childishness, 
 the eyelids narrowed over her large blue eyes, 
 and suddenly she ceased to be pretty. Framed 
 by her coy yellow curls, her face seemed for 
 an instant almost old. . . . She pretended 
 to be busy with a cigarette. 
 
78 THE PAGAN 
 
 "Who told you about the marriage?" she 
 asked at length "or are you lying?" 
 
 His point gained, Robinson could afford to 
 feign indifference. 
 
 "Naturally," he said lazily, "I am lying. I 
 always lie. But if you don t believe me, my 
 dear Madelon, there is nothing to prevent your 
 finding out for yourself." 
 
 Raoul, who was hampered by certain decent 
 sentiments, interposed. 
 
 "Come," he said, "leave her alone. It is 
 not Diane s fault that she made us miserable, 
 and at least she has made old Bruno happy." 
 
 Meant well, it was nevertheless a most un 
 fortunate speech and put Madelon into a rage 
 that she made no attempt to conceal. 
 
 "Happy!" she said, "that little fool from the 
 country that dresses herself like a chambermaid 
 on Sunday that ignorant little toy doll make 
 Bruno happy! Bah! Je m en fche d elle com- 
 me de ma chemise!" 
 
 She went on to say even more phrases, I 
 fear, that she had not learned from the good 
 sisters in the convent. Robinson listened in 
 silent approval. 
 
 "You do not understand human nature, 
 Madelon," he interposed at length. "This lit 
 tle Diane does not dress expensively nor does 
 she act expensively. She is simple and natural 
 in clothes and actions. That is why Bruno will 
 marry her. The contrast, . , ," 
 
THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP 79 
 
 "The contrast with me, I suppose," sneered 
 Madelon. 
 
 "Precisely. What are you going to do 
 about it?" 
 
 Madelon clutched tardily at her lost dignity. 
 
 "I will beckon with my finger," she said 
 grandly, "and Bruno will come." 
 
 "Very well," said Robinson. "Beckon and 
 good luck." 
 
 Ill 
 
 MADELON lost no time in beckoning with her 
 finger. Arming herself with a "Manual for the 
 Writing of Letters of Passion," which she pro 
 cured from a book-stall on the quai, she retired 
 to a remote table in a cafe and set to work. The 
 result was the following masterpiece, of which 
 the phrases were culled from the book, but of 
 which the many and elaborately formed capital 
 letters were her own. 
 
 "Mv LOVE: 
 
 "It is a long time that one has not seen you. 
 Is it that you have tired of me so soon of me 
 whom you swore to Love for always ? I cannot 
 believe it, and yet I am frightened at your Cool 
 ness. During these three weeks I have waited 
 with Patience for a word from you, and my 
 Heart is broken and torn with a Supreme An 
 guish. What have I done to you that you scorn 
 the Bleeding Heart I have placed in your 
 
80 THE PAGAN 
 
 hands? Am I then nothing to you but a Toy 
 which you have broken and thrown aside? 
 One time you called me Beautiful and all that 
 was adorable. Is that time so long ago that 
 you have forgotten, or is it that I have ceased 
 to be Beautiful and adorable? Come to me 
 once more that I may prove to you how Beauti 
 ful and adorable I yet can be. Your Madelon 
 who forgets not." 
 
 And then she added, of course, a postscript 
 and this without the aid of her manual. 
 
 "Meet me Thursday at five at the Musee 
 du Luxembourg. If not, I shall kill you, 
 dirty pig I" 
 
 She reread the letter with deep satisfaction. 
 It seemed to combine passion and dignity, and 
 the postscript robbed it of a certain humility 
 which to her mind had rather marred the letter 
 from the manual. 
 
 "Now," she said, when she had stamped and 
 mailed it u now, we shall see." 
 
 But as a matter of fact she saw nothing re 
 sultant for several days; for during those days 
 Diane had been guilty of a dishonorable act: 
 she had opened the letter and read it before it 
 reached the hands of Bruno. And this, again, 
 had been the result of Robinson s Machiavel 
 lian touch. 
 
 The day after Robinson had sown the seed 
 of jealousy in Madelon s fertile brain, he had 
 decided that Diane ought to be aroused to her 
 
THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP 81 
 
 danger, otherwise the combat would be too one 
 sided and Madelon might well steal Bruno away 
 without a struggle. For complete vengeance 
 a struggle surely was necessary a three-cor 
 nered struggle in which each of the combatants 
 should be rendered thoroughly miserable. Such 
 men as Robinson exist, but as a rule they are 
 not allowed to reach their prime. 
 
 Accordingly, in order that Diane might have 
 her fair portion of misery, Robinson presented 
 himself at the studio at an hour when he knew 
 Bruno was away. Diane received him, clad in 
 a long apron. She was preparing to cook the 
 dinner and had just finished polishing the floor. 
 
 "The perfect housewife," said Robinson, 
 eying her with open admiration. "Spotlessly 
 neat, cool in spite of the heat, and no trace of 
 that unbecoming flush so often bred of the kit 
 chen stove. In you Bruno has a jewel. I can 
 but hope that he knows it." 
 
 "Come in," answered Diane, "and sit down. 
 Or, no help me rather with the coals, if you 
 will be so kind." 
 
 "I can stay only an instant," declared Robin 
 son quickly, for he had no desire to help with 
 the coals. "Postpone the dinner preparation 
 for five minutes, my dear, as I have something 
 of great importance to tell you." 
 
 "Oh!" she exclaimed, "let me guess! It is 
 that you have been admitted to the Beaux- 
 Arts?" 
 
 He shook his head, smiling, watching her. 
 
82 THE PAGAN 
 
 "No; not so cataclysmic as that." 
 
 She pondered and finally said tentatively: 
 "You have perhaps bought that pipe you so 
 admire in the shop of the rue de la Paix?" 
 
 Still he shook his head. 
 
 "More epoch-making than that." 
 
 "I know, then," she cried "it is that you are 
 to be married?" 
 
 He ceased smiling and laid his hand on her 
 arm. 
 
 "No," he said, "but it is that you are in 
 danger of being divorced." 
 
 The shot was too abrupt for success. She 
 did not at once grasp his meaning, and so she 
 looked at him to ascertain whether or not he 
 was joking. One never knew with that Robin 
 son. But no, he was not joking. On the con 
 trary, he was very grave. Then, slowly, the 
 color left her face, and she turned her head 
 away and pretended to busy herself with the 
 kettle. He watched her without pity, while she 
 fumbled about aimlessly and blindly, and he did 
 not relent when she secretly put the sleeve of 
 her apron to her eyes. 
 
 "What do you mean?" she whispered at 
 length. "Tell me what you mean." 
 
 "I mean that Bruno is meeting Madelon al 
 most every day, and that soon he will leave you 
 for her." 
 
 "Who who is Madelon?" 
 
 It was Robinson s turn to be astonished. It 
 had not occurred to him that she knew nothing 
 
THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP 83 
 
 of the existence of Madelon. Every one else 
 in the quarter knew of Madelon every one 
 at least who knew Bruno. 
 
 "Come," he said harshly, "do not pretend 
 ignorance. Madelon is was well, Madelon 
 will soon be cooking old Bruno s dinner, just 
 as you are doing now only better than you are 
 doing now, for you appear to be doing it very 
 badly." 
 
 "Ah," said Diane, "I understand what you 
 mean. I detest you 1" 
 
 "That, I suppose," murmured Robinson, 
 "would undoubtedly follow. But a kind action 
 is its own reward, so I ask for nothing more. 
 I can but urge you to keep your beautiful eyes 
 open his correspondence, for example. Watch 
 it closely. Open it, if it appears suspicious. It 
 is often done, and a woman in your position 
 should and must defend herself. Men are 
 brutes untrustworthy brutes. I am one, my 
 self." 
 
 "You," cried Diane "you ! You are shame 
 ful, you are ignoble ! Go away you have made 
 me miserable." 
 
 "I am sorry," said Robinson, "and I go. 
 Only remember watch the letters he receives, 
 and if some day you should need the air, fol 
 low Bruno on one of his walks. You will doubt 
 less find it interesting and er illuminating. 
 Dear madame, I say to you adieu." 
 
 His work done, he left her. Magnificent 
 Robinson ! 
 
84 THE PAGAN 
 
 When he had gone, she threw herself on her 
 bed and cried, and for the first time wished 
 that she was back home at Evremont-sur-Seine. 
 And then, gradually, she ceased to cry, and 
 since she was very human, her dismay turned 
 to anger. As I have said, there was always the 
 trace of a devil lying latent in Diane; and if 
 any woman has within her a latent devil it can 
 most easily be aroused by the whip of jealousy. 
 
 It was unfortunate that at this moment the 
 elderly bearded lady who served as concierge 
 panted up the stairs bearing Madelon s letter 
 to Bruno. 
 
 Diane took the letter, studied the writing on 
 the envelope, turned a little white and breath 
 less, and went slowly to the kitchen where the 
 kettle was steaming on the stove. The kettle, 
 the steam, the insecurely sealed envelope, and 
 a jealous devil within her the combination tri 
 umphed and the angels wept. 
 
 She read Madelon s literary effort grimly 
 and scornfully, and as Madelon had been con 
 temptuous of her, so now she became contempt 
 uous of Madelon. An illiterate little creature 
 who culled her phrases obviously from a Man 
 ual ! all except the postscript, of course, which 
 might have been the work of the daughter of a 
 cab-driver. 
 
 Surely Bruno, the great artist, the intellect 
 ual, the wise man of his circle, could not be 
 lured by such a one. Her reasoning, of course, 
 was fallacious, for she did not understand the 
 
THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP 85 
 
 inconsistencies of men, and moreover, she 
 sadly overestimated the refinement of Bruno s 
 nature. But an older, more sophisticated 
 woman might have well made the same mis 
 take, for few women can see any virtue in their 
 rivals. 
 
 Before resealing the letter, she hesitated. 
 Should she destroy it, should she deliver it to 
 Bruno apparently intact and unread, or should 
 she frankly confront him with it? Determin 
 ing on a compromise, she took pen and ink and, 
 in carefully executed block letters added one 
 more postscript: "J y suis, j y reste" Then 
 she resealed the envelope, placed it on Bruno s 
 desk and hastened to cook the dinner. 
 
 IV 
 
 THE two days that intervened between the 
 receipt of Madelon s letter and the Thursday 
 for which had been set the rendezvous with 
 Bruno, were for Diane days of indecision, of 
 despair, and of wrath. 
 
 Bruno s reception of the letter had been a 
 trying moment. He had glanced at the address 
 and had retired immediately to the bedroom to 
 read the contents unseen and undisturbed. On 
 emerging from this seclusion, he had cast her 
 a sharp, inquisitorial glance from under his deep 
 brows. She had simulated unconcern and noth- 
 
86 THE PAGAN 
 
 ing had been said; but the postscript must have 
 intrigued him must have unsettled him a lit 
 tle. Still, there was no means by which he could 
 be certain that it was Diane who had added the 
 challenging phrase : "J y suis, j y reste" The 
 fact that it applied in no way to Madelon s 
 position would not have prevented that bor 
 rower of phrases from having appended it as 
 a gem of purely rhetorical value. So Bruno, 
 wisely, or unwisely, had decided that the less 
 said the better. He, at any rate, would not 
 broach the subject. 
 
 Thursday, at five, at the Musee du Luxem 
 bourg. Madelon was there, of course, and 
 Bruno, looking furtively behind him, arrived 
 at five minutes past the hour. And Diane, 
 hating herself for spying, but hating Madelon 
 more, saw them meet. She saw Madelon throw 
 her arms around Bruno s neck and kiss him; and 
 then she went home, hating not only herself but 
 all the world. 
 
 This time there were no tears. There was, 
 rather, a blinding rage, a hot rage that flamed 
 in her cheeks and that burned her tears dry. A 
 man in her mood would probably have com 
 mitted murder and been acquitted, but she, be 
 ing a woman, planned a more subtle revenge. 
 
 The information she needed was easily ob 
 tained. Madelon Brissonet lived with her 
 father at St. Cloud and came daily to an atelier 
 in the quarter, supposedly to paint. She was 
 seemingly a respectable little bourgeoise, daugh- 
 
THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP 87 
 
 ter of a respectable old bourgeois a govern 
 ment employee. Now, no one in France is so 
 eminently respectable as a government em 
 ployee, especially one who holds a minor posi 
 tion, and no one is so proud and so careful of 
 his respectability. Employment by the govern 
 ment is for the honest bourgeoise the ambition 
 of his youth, the glory of his prime, and the 
 solace of his age. 
 
 Diane, consulting a Bottin in the nearest to 
 bacco-shop, read: 
 
 "Brissonet, Adolphe Clerk in the Bureau 
 des P. T. T., 8 bis rue Legrand, St. Cloud." 
 
 That made it very simple. She would go 
 to St. Cloud and call upon Monsieur Adolphe 
 Brissonet, and suggest that his daughter, Made- 
 Ion, hie herself to a convent for her soul s sake. 
 True, Monsieur Brissonet would doubtless be 
 heartbroken at the revelation she would make, 
 but well, other hearts were being broken with 
 impunity, and Diane was in a rage. For the 
 time being hell had no fury like unto her. 
 
 Late on the following afternoon she dressed 
 herself in her Sunday clothes black with a 
 white lace collar and boarded a train for St. 
 Cloud. Alighting at the square by the Pavilion 
 Bleu, she inquired the direction of the rue Le 
 grand, and was informed that it was ten min 
 utes on foot, up the hill to the right. 
 
 "It is wet and the road is muddy," added the 
 gallant sergent de viHe, "but madame will find 
 taxis opposite the Pavilion." 
 
88 THE PAGAN 
 
 "Thank you," she answered, "but I prefer 
 to walk." 
 
 The preference was pretense, for her purse 
 contained only a franc and some coppers. 
 
 The rue Legrand was a neat enough little 
 street that ran at an acute angle from the main 
 road along the side of the hill. It was lined 
 with detached villas, fenced off carefully from 
 each other and from the street by stone walls 
 and by iron grilled gates, on each of which hung 
 a plaque bearing the grandiose name of the villa 
 to which it gave access. Number 8 bis was 
 called Villa Marie Antoinette a strange name 
 for the habitation of an employee of the Third 
 Republic. Doubtless Monsieur Brissonet had 
 purchased the name-plate along with the villa 
 and had been too thrifty to buy a new one. 
 
 Diane rang the bell beside the iron gate. She 
 was a little frightened and her heart was beat 
 ing overfast, but rage had not left it. More 
 over, once her mind was made up to a project, 
 it was of her nature to see it through. Witness 
 the fact that she had run away from home 
 surely a far more daring adventure than this. 
 
 After an interval, a thin, neat old woman 
 came down the gravel path to admit her. 
 
 "I desire to see Monsieur Brissonet," said 
 Diane firmly "on a most urgent matter." 
 
 "If mademoiselle will enter," replied the neat 
 old woman. 
 
 She stepped aside to let Diane through the 
 gate, and then preceded her up the walk be- 
 
THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP 89 
 
 tween the closely clipped hedges. When they 
 reached the house it was at no great distance 
 the neat old woman said: "If mademoiselle 
 will be so kind as to give her name, I will inform 
 monsieur. He is in the garden at the back, 
 watering the geraniums." 
 
 "Say that it is Mademoiselle Nicolas. I I 
 know his daughter." 
 
 Instantly the neat old woman s face bright 
 ened, and she broke into a kindly smile. 
 
 "A friend of Mademoiselle Madeleine," she 
 said. "Monsieur will be so rejoiced to greet 
 you." 
 
 Diane answered nothing. 
 
 They traversed a narrow hallway which led 
 through the house to the garden in the rear. 
 It was a symmetrical little garden laid out with 
 precision on geometrical lines. A bed of gera 
 niums on one side balanced a bed of geraniums 
 on the other. A path ran down the middle and, 
 exactly in the centre of the garden, made a 
 circle around a small pool of water where 
 floated six lily-pads, three on a side. Admirers 
 of the pool were supposedly accommodated by 
 six green iron chairs, also three on a side. At 
 the far end of the garden, in the corners of the 
 wall, Monsieur Brissonet had planted two plum- 
 trees, one of which was not doing well and 
 caused him much anxiety. It probably caused 
 him more anxiety than anything else in his life 
 at that time. The year before, of course, had 
 been different: he had been greatly upset and 
 
90 THE PAGAN 
 
 very much excited, for it was that year that he 
 had determined to have new tiles put on the 
 coping of the garden-wall. True, the new tiles 
 were not yet in place, but at least the decision 
 had been made. That and the death of the cat 
 had made it a very feverish year. 
 
 When Diane stepped into the garden Mon 
 sieur Brissonet was, as the neat old woman had 
 foreseen, watering the geraniums. His back 
 was turned at the moment, so all that Diane 
 could see of him was a thin stooping figure in 
 a brown linen duster and a broad-brimmed, 
 black felt hat 
 
 "Monsieur!" called the neat old woman 
 shrilly, and obtaining no response, again : 
 "Monsieur! There is a lady!" 
 
 The stooping figure straightened up and 
 turned inquiringly, and then Monsieur Bris 
 sonet, rather reluctant to leave his task un 
 finished, advanced toward Diane. 
 
 "It is Mam selle Nicolas, a friend of 
 Mam selle Madeleine," explained the neat old 
 woman. 
 
 Monsieur Brissonet immediately quickened 
 his pace and came to Diane, his face beaming, 
 his two hands outstretched. He was short and 
 slight, and agile as a restless bird. He had a 
 round red face and a smart white mustache, 
 and, when he removed his hat, Diane saw that 
 he was quite bald save for a scant semicircle of 
 white hair like a beard put on the back of his 
 neck. His gray eyes sparkled alertly behind a 
 
THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP 91 
 
 pair of spectacles. In short, he appeared to be 
 a very kindly old man. 
 
 "I come Alphonsine," he cried. "I cornel" 
 And come he did, so effusively that Diane 
 feared he was about to embrace her. Instead 
 he took her hands and drew her to a bench near 
 a round table. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he said, "I am greatly 
 honored. Any friend of my Madeleine is wel 
 come to whatever I have. Give yourself the 
 trouble to sit here and Alphonsine will bring 
 us some cakes and a glass of wine. Alphon 
 sine, the old port, and whatever cakes there 
 are. We will sit here where we can see the 
 garden, and mademoiselle and I will talk a lit 
 tle and become acquainted while we wait for 
 the return of Madeleine." 
 
 Alphonsine, greatly excited, hurried off to 
 obey. 
 
 "But, monsieur " began Diane, and 
 stopped. 
 
 "I expect Madeleine at any moment," he 
 pursued when he noticed her hesitation. "Some 
 times she is detained at the atelier with her 
 painting-lessons. But I do not complain. She 
 has talent undoubted talent all her profes 
 sors say so. And I think it is good to encourage 
 it. And she loves the work, does she not? 
 Ah, that must be wonderful so wonderful 
 to be an artist and to have the means to study. 
 But you, yourself, mademoiselle, doubtless you 
 are also an artist. Tell me about yourself and 
 
92 THE PAGAN 
 
 your work Madeleine tells me so little. She 
 is very modest and will not talk. But I know 
 she is doing well perhaps you will tell me all 
 about it. You see, I am so far away from 
 everything here at St. Cloud, and all day long 
 I sit at my desk, so that I never, except on Sun 
 days, have an occasion to go down to the city. 
 But mine is good work, I think. It is steady 
 work and it is for the country and the republic. 
 Ah, yes, for the republic! I served under the 
 empire when I was a lad but I am a staunch 
 republican. The republic has given me my 
 little house and my garden and my daily bread, 
 and I am grateful to it, for what else does a 
 man desire? And more, it has given me the 
 ability to set aside a little money for Madeleine. 
 But the empire " he stopped and smiled wist 
 fully "the empire gave me only a bullet in my 
 arm and this to wear in my buttonhole." 
 
 He drew back the collar of his linen duster 
 and pointed proudly to a red ribbon in the lapel 
 of his coat. 
 
 "The Legion!" murmured Diane. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "And yet we surrendered 
 to them. I wish we had it to do over again with 
 the First Napoleon to lead us. It would have 
 been different very different. . . . But I 
 am talking about myself, and that I can do any 
 time to the old Alphonsine. It is you who 
 should talk and I who should listen. Tell me, 
 now, do you study in the same atelier with my 
 Madeleine?" 
 
THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP 93 
 
 "There is a mistake, monsieur," stammered 
 Diane. And then she steeled herself and con 
 tinued: 
 
 "I do not work in the atelier with Madeleine. 
 I am not a painter." 
 
 "Ahl" exclaimed Monsieur Brissonet, "a 
 sculptor, of course. What a wonderful art! 
 Three dimensions instead of two. I have a 
 friend here in St. Cloud who is a sculptor, so 
 you perceive I am well acquainted with your 
 profession. He has done some excellent work 
 at Pere-Lachaise. Urns and wreaths and 
 torches and even, in one instance, the complete 
 figure of an angel bearing a wreath of laurel. 
 That was for the grave of a soldier a poor 
 old fellow who died four years ago and left 
 nothing but a rusty sword and a dented cuirass. 
 He had been in the cavalry under MacMahon. 
 My friend the sculptor did the monument and 
 charged nothing. He has such a big heart that 
 I tell him he will die in the poorhouse. Now, 
 I I am very selfish. What I do not give to 
 Madeleine or set aside for her dot, I spend on 
 this little house and garden. Of course I do 
 not earn very much, but it is a good, steady 
 work and it is for the republic. ... So you 
 are a sculptor?" 
 
 The arrival of Alphonsine, bearing port and 
 cakes, saved Diane a reply. The neat old 
 woman served her with a friendliness that was 
 unmistakable; and when she had poured the 
 wine and passed the cakes, it was only too 
 
94 THE PAGAN 
 
 evident that she nourished the idea of lingering 
 to listen to the conversation. 
 
 "It is of Mademoiselle Madeleine that one 
 talks ?" she inquired pointedly. "Monsieur per 
 mits that I remain?" 
 
 Monsieur Brissonet laughed. 
 
 "There is the adoring old servant who 
 speaks," he explained to Diane. "That little 
 Madeleine of mine how she wins every one ! 
 It is but recently that she was chosen as L En- 
 fant de Marie for the village. But perhaps 
 you do not know what it signifies to be chosen 
 L Enfant de Marie ? It means that you are 
 the young girl of the community who has the 
 most blameless character and displays the 
 greatest influence for good." 
 
 "I know, monsieur," said Diane. "My sis 
 ter was once an Enfant de Marie. " 
 
 "Ah, that is good that is very good. I am 
 sure that you, yourself, mademoiselle, were a 
 close competitor for the honor. And so you 
 are Catholic? They tell me it is old-fashioned 
 under the republic, but I persist. I think it is 
 greatly out of respect for the memory of my 
 wife, Madeleine s mother. Poor Madeleine 
 has had no mother for a long time except Al- 
 phonsine, here, who has looked after Madeleine 
 and me ever since my wife died. How many 
 years ago was that, Alphonsine?" 
 
 "Sixteen," replied the neat old woman 
 gravely. "Monsieur knows as well as I. Does 
 not monsieur hang her picture with crepe at 
 
THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP 95 
 
 every anniversary May the saints cherish 
 her in heaven." 
 
 "Ainsi soit-il" said Monsieur Brissonet, and 
 blew his nose loudly with a red handkerchief. 
 
 "I wish you could have known Madeleine s 
 mother," he continued. u She would have been 
 so pleased to have welcomed you here, and she 
 would have done it so much more gracefully 
 than I. She was brought up with the saints. 
 That is what I always told her. It was my lit 
 tle joke. You see her family used to keep a 
 little shop here in the village, where one bought 
 images of the saints and crucifixes and missals 
 and funeral wreaths. So I would tell her she 
 was brought up with the saints. . . . But, 
 mademoiselle, a thousand pardons. I am very 
 stupid, I have made you cry. My poor child, 
 what will Madeleine say to me when she 
 sees I have made you cry. Never shall I for 
 give myself to have talked along about these 
 sad things I who in my stupidity fancied I was 
 telling you my little joke. Will you pardon me, 
 my dear child?" 
 
 He leaned toward her with real concern 
 clouding his round red face, and his eyes 
 pleaded behind the spectacles. Timidly he ven 
 tured to pat her hand. 
 
 "The poor darling is tired," said Alphonsine, 
 forgetting all formality. 
 
 u Yes," agreed Diane. "Yes, I think that 
 I am very tired. It is you, monsieur, who must 
 
96 THE PAGAN 
 
 pardon me. I have perhaps been working too 
 hard at at the atelier." 
 
 She sat up and dried her eyes; but her resolu 
 tion had left her. Never could she bring her 
 self now to shatter this simple old man s pride 
 and peace. Madeleine she could have struck 
 at, but not Madeleine s father. And it was such 
 a trivial thing that had brought her to this 
 conclusion the mention of a shop where were 
 sold wreaths and crucifixes and little figures of 
 saints. Trivial! But was it trivial? Of a sud 
 den it became to her all of life. For it was in 
 just such a shop that she had lived with her 
 mother and sister, and it was such a shop that 
 she had left behind her on the night that she 
 had stolen away to Paris. That shop became 
 no longer a shop but a symbol a symbol of 
 what she had so lightly abandoned, but which 
 from her birth had been bred deep within her. 
 I do not believe that as yet it was a sense of 
 guilt that urged her, it was rather a transcend 
 ing desire to return to the hearth to familiar 
 and loved faces to her mother, and Veronique, 
 and the cure, and to her mother s shop and the 
 cure s church on the square, and to Evremont 
 and the soothing murmur of the Seine whisper 
 ing to the poplars. 
 
 "I must go, Monsieur Brissonet," she said, 
 rising. "I ask pardon, but I must go. I can 
 not wait." 
 
 "I am sorry," said he, and meant it. "It is 
 too bad Madeleine should be here long 
 
THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP 97 
 
 ago. Do you care to leave some message, 
 perhaps?" 
 
 "Yes," said Diane, and hesitated. Then, 
 holding out both hands to Monsieur Brissonet, 
 she said: "Tell Madeleine that I am very glad 
 I came. And tell her that to have seen you has 
 done me a great deal of good." 
 
 WHEN she returned to the studio that even 
 ing, Bruno was sitting by the stove, smoking a 
 pipe, impatient for his dinner. 
 
 "Bruno," she said, "you will have to cook 
 your own dinner to-night and eat it alone." 
 
 "What is that?" said he. 
 
 "I am leaving you," she answered quietly. 
 
 "Leaving!" he exclaimed, setting down his 
 pipe in mild surprise. "Where are you going?" 
 
 "Home to Evremont." 
 
 "Come," he said kindly, "what what is the 
 trouble?" 
 
 "The trouble is with me. You have not 
 changed. I have. So I am leaving you." 
 
 He opposed the resolution sincerely and ve 
 hemently. He swore to his fidelity he denied 
 all others but her. It was in vain. 
 
 With a franc and a few coppers in her purse 
 and a slim bundle of clothing under her arm, 
 she went out of the studio, leaving him too 
 dazed to remonstrate further. 
 
98 THE PAGAN 
 
 That night she procured a bed at the cost of 
 the franc. The next morning she procured 
 food at the cost of the coppers. But the follow 
 ing night she sat on a bench by the river in a 
 thin drizzle of cold rain. She had not enough 
 in her purse to pay for the journey home. 
 
 Once again she tried to find employment, and 
 earned four sous for scrubbing a floor in a book 
 shop on the rue du Bac. That was all. 
 
 When she had gone without food for two 
 days she had only the strength left to sit on a 
 bench and dream. She visioned the red roofs 
 of Evremont, shining clean and bright in the 
 morning sun; the square where the sparrows 
 fought around the watering-trough; the fields 
 sloping down to the poplar-lined river. 
 
 But it was nearly thirty kilometres to Evre 
 mont by the road, and it was by the road that 
 she must go if she were to go at all. 
 
 She said to herself: "I shall not have 
 strength to reach it, but I will start. If I die 
 on the way they will know I tried my best to 
 come home, and perhaps they will forgive me. 
 Yes, it is better to make the effort. Besides, the 
 river is very cold." 
 
 When she reached this decision it was night, 
 and she slept once more on a bench by the Seine. 
 She was aroused by the voice of Paris the 
 shouts of the teamsters, the whistles of the river 
 boats, the singsong of the peddlers. She shiv 
 ered, for the dawn was cold and damp. When 
 she stood up she swayed dizzily and clutched 
 
THE BOTTOM OF THE CUP 99 
 
 at the bench to steady herself. Before her the 
 Seine flowed smoothly, gray and sullen save 
 where a pale shaft of sunlight penetrated the 
 haze and shone on the ripples like dull copper. 
 She stood contemplating the river for a while. 
 Then she shook her head and said aloud : "The 
 roadside is nicer than the river." So she turned 
 her back on the river and started for home. 
 
FEET OF GOLD 
 
 WHEN Ferdinand Taillandy, poet, pagan, and 
 wanderer on the face of the earth, had com 
 pleted his great epic he felt, surging high within 
 him, the call of Paris. For eight years he had 
 traversed on foot the untrammelled wilds, keep 
 ing his ear ever close to the breast of nature, 
 that his soul might be in tune with her moods. 
 For eight years he had worshipped nature, seek 
 ing no divinity save her, and finding in her one 
 god made manifest in many forms. To his deep- 
 seeing eyes there were dryads lurking in the 
 trees and in the glades and in the groves; there 
 were naiads in the springs and in the rivers and 
 in the lakes; there were nereids in the seas, and 
 always there was Pan, piping in the forests or 
 on the hills. And so he bent the knee to all 
 nature, and knew no other god but her. 
 
 But, his epic finished, he craved, like all poets, 
 a publisher he was not (jojitent to sing merely 
 to himself. And, moreover, he knew that the 
 epic was good. The need of a publisher, then, 
 was his pretext for turning his face to the north 
 and to Paris, but it was scarcely this need that 
 so quickened his feet and his heart. It was 
 100 
 
FEET OF GOLD 101 
 
 more than that, certainly it was rather the 
 exhilaration that the exile feels when he is about 
 to return home. 
 
 Said Taillandy to himself: "I left Paris of 
 my own will; I despise Paris; Paris has caused 
 me only great suffering; Paris is neither Chris 
 tian nor pagan; if I go to Paris I am a retro 
 grade but, oh, ye gods, hasten my feet and 
 strengthen my heart, that I may get to Paris 
 the more quickly!" 
 
 This is comprehensible and excusable only be 
 cause Paris was his first home. Granting that 
 (and any one will vouch for it), the conclusion 
 is as inevitable as that of a geometrical propo 
 sition, and we can wonder only that he resisted 
 the homing instinct so long. 
 
 He went north by forced marches, following 
 the Rhone through Avignon and Valence to 
 Lyon, and the Saone to Chalon; thence by Di 
 jon, Tonnerre, Sens, and Melun, to Paris and 
 the Porte de Charenton. The last twenty-five 
 kilometres he made during the night, for some 
 thing kept him at it, made him loath to stop and 
 sleep with the goal so close. 
 
 It was a thick, heavy morning, then, in No 
 vember when he passedHhrough the octroi and 
 said to himself: "I am home." And it was 
 a morning of mist that was almost rain. The 
 stallions, harnessed in single file to the market- 
 carts, were slipping on the treacherous cobble 
 stones, straining with all their magnificent shoul 
 ders at the traces supremely willing but not 
 
102 THE PAGAN 
 
 always successful. Taillandy, appreciative of 
 the play of their muscles, stopped to admire 
 them; and while he stopped he became aware 
 of a woman standing at his elbow. 
 
 He did not trouble to look at her, for women, 
 as individuals, were of little account in his life. 
 He had loved one woman once and been sorry 
 for it. That was enough. Perhaps she had 
 been afraid of his intensity; perhaps he had 
 given her too much of himself; perhaps he had 
 endeavored to halo mortal clay or perhaps 
 she had been simply a timorous, flexible little 
 thing with an empty blond head and a heart that 
 he, at least, had been unable to quicken. At 
 any rate, I know that she had told him that she 
 loved him, and then the first breeze of parental 
 opposition had blown her into another man s 
 arms. That is the story we will not strive to 
 place the blame. 
 
 To Taillandy, then, women were interesting 
 only en masse: they stood for something, they 
 must stand for something. After all, one-half 
 the population of the earth could not exist mere 
 ly that children might be born. No, there was 
 doubtless some mystery about them that ac 
 counted for their existence above all, that ac 
 counted for their power. Why else should they 
 (as they undoubtedly did) motivate men? 
 Why should they have swayed nations and 
 killed kings? He gave it up, but he continued, 
 nevertheless, his ardent worship of Diana the 
 Huntress and of Venus Genetrix. 
 
FEET OF GOLD 103 
 
 The woman who stood at Taillandy s elbow 
 was, at first glance, in no way a remarkable 
 person, and it was by sheer accident that they 
 came to know each other. A slippery pavement, 
 three stallions harnessed to an overloaded cart, 
 a quick-tempered driver there was the acci 
 dent, and there the beginning of Taillandy s 
 further education in women. 
 
 The cart had stopped in the middle of the 
 road, just within the gates, and the three stal 
 lions seemed powerless to move it forward. 
 Obviously this delayed traffic, and the agent de 
 police on duty became flushed and excited, im 
 parting much of his mood to the driver of the 
 cart. The driver unsheathed his whip, short of 
 handle and long and cruel of lash, and sent it 
 circling and shivering across the back of the 
 leader. It was poor policy, for the animal had 
 not been unwilling. At the stroke he started, 
 slipped and plunged in the traces; his hoofs 
 struck sparks from the pavement as they slid 
 and floundered, struggling in vain for a foot 
 hold, and finally, snorting and writhing, his legs 
 went from under him and he fell over on his 
 side. 
 
 The woman next to Taillandy gave a little 
 cry, half fear and half pity, and clutched at his 
 arm. When he turned he saw that she was very 
 white and not unbeautiful. 
 
 "Come," he said, "let us get out of this. 
 There is nothing one can do when beasts are 
 whipping beasts." 
 
104 THE PAGAN 
 
 She tottered, clinging to his elbow. 
 
 "I think," she said, "that I am going to. 
 faint." 
 
 "I am sorry; try not to for a moment," he 
 recommended. 
 
 He almost carried her to the nearest side 
 walk cafe, put her into an iron chair behind an 
 iron table, and ordered a cognac. 
 
 She drank it and shivered at the heat of it. 
 
 "Thank you, monsieur," she said. Then, 
 slowly and for the first time, she raised her eyes 
 to look at him. 
 
 Taillandy still clung to his thirties, and his 
 eight years of nomadic life had kept him young 
 and buoyant. He was not handsome he was 
 remarkable. Once you had seen him you would 
 never forget him: those eyes with the sparkle 
 of the poet burning in them; that thin, brown 
 face with the crooked mouth and the hawk s 
 nose; those slim, capable hands; and that lean, 
 restless body, jutting out angularly from his 
 abominable clothes. 
 
 The woman looked at him, and her eyes 
 widened in astonishment. Looking at her, he 
 reflected that astonishment became her. She was 
 at her best expressing astonishment. 
 
 "I am very hideous, am I not?" he remarked 
 pleasantly almost casually. 
 
 Recovering herself, she looked quickly away, 
 and answered very demurely and properly : 
 
 "I beg your pardon, monsieur; of course you 
 are not at all hideous. And I am very grateful 
 
FEET OF GOLD 105 
 
 to you. You were kind and and I am afraid 
 that I detain you." 
 
 He laughed a little quietly, as men laugh 
 who are accustomed to being alone. 
 
 "My dear," said he, "from what do you de 
 tain me? Am I not in Paris where I wish to 
 be? What more can I desire?* Should I some 
 day scale Olympus and be admitted through the 
 gates, do you suppose that, once inside, I should 
 object to being detained by well, let us say by 
 Diana?" 
 
 She did not follow this flight naturally not 
 but she caught at the last word. 
 
 "Diane !" she exclaimed. "How strange that 
 you should have guessed my name 1" 
 
 "You are called Diane?" he inquired. 
 
 "But yes," she affirmed. 
 
 "Et voila" said he, stretching out his hands 
 as if he had won his case. "You see? Great 
 is Diane! Diane of what? of the Ephe- 
 sians?" 
 
 She shook her head, at a loss. 
 
 "No," she said "of Evremont-sur-Seine." 
 
 The name must have awakened some mem 
 ory for him, for he frowned and squinted up 
 his eyes. 
 
 "No, no don t tell me," he commanded, as 
 she was about to speak. "Let me think. Evre 
 mont-sur-Seine . . . Ah! I have it! A vil 
 lage on the river with poplars patrolling the 
 banks. A little iridescent village, all light and 
 bright and clean with a watering-trough in the 
 
106 THE PAGAN 
 
 square and sparrows. Yes, hundreds of spar 
 rows. And a lark or two for the morning. And 
 a shop where, if one is a Christian, one should 
 take off one s hat and kneel. Ah, yes now I 
 remember, now I remember ! She was called 
 Madame Nicolas, she who kept the shop, and 
 she was a saint. I am no Christian I am a 
 pagan but Madame Nicolas . . . Ah, well, 
 one does not have to be a Christian to do 
 homage to a Christian saint." 
 
 He was carried out of himself; he was aglow 
 with the enthusiasm of remembering; and he 
 was disappointed to find that Diane remained 
 quiet, unkindled. 
 
 "You don t know her, then," he protested 
 "you don t know Madame Nicolas?" 
 
 She shook her head, and he perceived, at 
 length, that she was crying as quietly and secret 
 ly as possible. 
 
 "Ah," said he softly, and then again, "Ah!" 
 But for the present he said no more about Ma 
 dame Nicolas. Rather he arose, called loudly 
 for the check, paid it, put his hand on her shoul 
 der, and, with great heartiness, exclaimed: 
 "Now we shall go and breakfast. You are hun 
 gry and so am I. We shall traverse Paris and 
 breakfast at the Closerie des Lilas, where, once 
 upon a time, I was at home. Come allons } 
 mon enfant! En avant!" 
 
 She protested not very vehemently. She 
 claimed she was not a cheerful companion; he 
 had better seek some one else ; it was one of her 
 
FEET OF GOLD 107 
 
 sad days. Besides, she was not well dressed 
 her shoes and her blouse . . . He laughed 
 loudly, pointed to his own rags, and more 
 especially to the hole in the top of his hat which 
 revealed his straight, long black hair. 
 
 "What do we care for clothes!" he cried. 
 u Are we not young and beautiful? Diana and 
 and Pan. Hand in hand they will now enter 
 a fiacre!" 
 
 He was not to be thwarted in his holiday 
 mood. Moreover, for some reason or other, 
 the thought of quitting her displeased him. He 
 wanted a companion to encourage him, to laugh 
 at and with him, above all to listen to him. Per 
 haps he was beginning at last to realize in a 
 small way why it is good that women exist. 
 
 Taillandy, at least, enjoyed that drive to the 
 full. He was thrusting his head constantly 
 from the windows to point out places that he 
 remembered and places that he would never 
 forget. At first they kept to the Seine he 
 couldn t see enough of the Seine and he prided 
 himself on his ability to call each bridge by its 
 name. 
 
 "Presently," said he, "when we have passed 
 the Halle aux Vins, we shall come to the Boule 
 vard Saint-Germain. Then we shall leave the 
 river. . . . There, what did I tell you? Au 
 revoir, Seine ! Hail, Musee de Cluny and Ecole 
 de Medecine ! To the left, cocker! One must 
 see the Odeon. Ah, the famous days and the 
 famous nights, par bleu!" 
 
108 THE PAGAN 
 
 Always he grew more eager, more excited. 
 By Zeus, was he not back again in his own Paris 
 after eight years? Why, then, pretend to be 
 calm? Diane, of course, had not attempted to 
 suggest that he be calm. She liked him the way 
 he was tempestuous, vibrant, a boy. 
 
 They drew up with a flourish in front of the 
 Closerie des Lilas on the Boulevard du Mont- 
 parnasse. It was his favorite haunt in the old 
 days, in the old days eight years ago when he 
 damned women and strove to forget them all 
 because one had forgotten him. There it was 
 that men had first called him great; there it was 
 that, when he was sober, much of his early 
 poetry had been written; and there it was that 
 they had crowned him king. He found that, 
 as he paid the driver, his eyes were dim. 
 
 "My dear," said he to Diane, "if you don t 
 make me laugh, I shall begin to cry." 
 
 "What is it that troubles you?" she asked, 
 a hand on his arm. 
 
 He smiled crookedly and answered: "Eight 
 years of absence that is all." 
 
 "It is a great deal," said she soberly. "I 
 understand." 
 
 He changed his mood with an effort, and be 
 came deliberately gay. 
 
 "Ah, well," he cried, "we shall see what is 
 altered. We shall see whether they still re 
 member Ferdinand Taillandy." 
 
 He was not kept long in doubt. A waiter in 
 shirt-sleeves and apron who was brushing the 
 
FEET OF GOLD 109 
 
 floor, stood up from his task as they entered, 
 and, seeing Taillandy, raised his hands heaven 
 ward in a delirium of joy and astonishment. 
 
 "But it is Monsieur Ferdinand!" he cried. 
 "Or else perhaps his ghost!" 
 
 Taillandy, jubilant at the immediate recog 
 nition, extended two hands and said warmly: 
 "My good Hippolyte my good Hippolyte !" 
 
 A buxom lady in black came hurrying out 
 from behind her high desk, her fingers busy at 
 her hair ( for she was not too young to be vain) . 
 
 "Monsieur Ferdinand!" she exclaimed "is 
 it truly you returned to us? You will kill us 
 with such sudden joy!" And she put a hand 
 to her heart or as close to her heart as her 
 figure permitted. 
 
 "Dear Madame Maupin," answered Ferdi 
 nand, embracing her frenziedly. "You grow 
 younger and more beautiful each year. Of 
 what marvellous waters do you drink?" 
 
 "Always the Vichy Celestins," she answered; 
 and then she slapped him coyly and said: 
 "Vieux blagueur!" 
 
 For some minutes they stood off to appraise 
 him, to take him all in, to see what changes 
 eight years had wrought in him. Diane, tem 
 porarily neglected, hung in the background un 
 til Taillandy, feeling that she was ill at ease, 
 led her forward by the arm and presented her 
 to Madame Maupin as "his little friend 
 Diane." 
 
 "But I know Mademoiselle Diane," said the 
 
110 THE PAGAN 
 
 caissiere. "Were you not here a few nights ago 
 with Monsieur Bruno, the artist?" 
 
 Diane nodded and blushed, looking quickly 
 at Taillandy and as quickly away. 
 
 "Yes, madame," she said. 
 
 "Ah," said Taillandy "with old Bruno, 
 hein? I am surprised that that one still lives. 
 And how do you like old Bruno ?" 
 
 "He was kind," answered Diane. "Yes, he 
 was kind. When I was starving he fed me." 
 
 "It was the least he could do!" exclaimed 
 Taillandy "the old satyr!" 
 
 Then he turned on her so suddenly that she 
 started back with a little cry, frightened. 
 
 "And now!" he cried "and now! How 
 long is it since you have eaten? Answer me 
 that. Or does Bruno still feed you?" 
 
 "I have left Monsieur Bruno," she replied 
 after an interval. 
 
 "How long is it since you have eaten, I ask?" 
 interrupted Taillandy fiercely. 
 
 "When I met you, monsieur," she said 
 bravely, "I was going to breakfast." 
 
 He grunted his disbelief. 
 
 "Where were you going to breakfast? At 
 the Porte de Charenton? Not likely." 
 
 "I was going home to breakfast." 
 
 "Ah, you were going home? To Evremont- 
 sur-Seine? Twenty-six kilometres, hein?" 
 
 "Yes, monsieur." 
 
 "And how were you going?" 
 
 "I was planning to walk, monsieur," she said. 
 
FEET OF GOLD 111 
 
 "Ah voilaf Now at last we have it. You 
 were going to walk twenty-six kilometres for 
 your breakfast because you didn t have a cop 
 per sou. That pig of a Bruno ! Why do the 
 gods allow such tragedies on earth! Here, 
 Hippolyte hasten thyself covers for two, 
 and all that is best in the house. The poor child 
 starves while we air our vocabularies. It is 
 criminal it is unbelievable. Allez heup!" 
 
 She permitted him to lead her to a seat he 
 did it in the grand manner, but cheerfully and 
 with many lavish gestures, gallantly pretending 
 that he did not see the tears in her eyes. And 
 while they ate he regaled her with a spirited 
 monologue. He dwelt much on her name 
 that seemed to delight him and he elaborated 
 on it, calling her his Diana of the Moon, or his 
 Goddess of the Chase. It amused him to pre 
 tend that they were feasting on Olympus. She, 
 of course, was unable to follow his rhetoric, but 
 so long as he enjoyed himself she was pleased; 
 and she ate with a good appetite and no 
 affectation. 
 
 When she had finished the omelette aux fines 
 herbes the color came back into her cheeks and 
 she was able to laugh with him. He bade Hip 
 polyte, whom for the moment he had christened 
 Bacchus, to fetch them some red wine from the 
 cellar u a good wine, Bacchus, not too heavy; 
 a wine in which one can taste the grapes." 
 
 It was forthcoming, and he drank her health 
 very gravely her health and her beaux yeux; 
 
112 THE PAGAN 
 
 for he now perceived for the first time that she 
 had large, dark eyes. 
 
 At the coffee he stretched his long legs 
 straight out under the table, lighted a cigarette, 
 and sighed comfortably and profoundly. 
 
 "Now," said he, with a smile at his mouth, 
 "I will talk about myself. Shall you like 
 that?" 
 
 "But yes," she encouraged him naively; "you 
 talk so well. You must have studied a great 
 deal. I, as you see, am very ignorant. I know 
 nothing." 
 
 He laughed quietly. 
 
 "Come," he said, "that is not so. You know 
 a great deal. You knew enough to start for 
 home when you were hungry. I, on the con 
 trary, when I was hungry I went away from 
 home and lost myself for eight years. But it 
 was not food-hunger that drove me away. 
 Rather it was the hunger for consolation. That 
 is why I went alone. One communes better 
 with nature when one is alone. You see, the 
 stars will not sing for an audience, and the trees 
 will not whisper to a crowd. And the nymphs 
 ah, yes, my friend, the nymphs are shy." 
 
 He paused, not to contemplate her, but, per 
 haps, to contemplate his thoughts. 
 
 "You are a poet," said she, her eyes large 
 with wonder and admiration. 
 
 "I hope so," he answered "I hope so." 
 
 "You are a great poet," she continued with 
 growing awe. 
 
FEET OF GOLD 113 
 
 "I thank you," said he. u At least I am not 
 a prolific one." 
 
 This brought him up to the remembrance of 
 his epic and the reason for his being in Paris. 
 I think that he had been in a fair way to forget 
 both he was so completely at home there at 
 his favorite table that the eight years of wander 
 ing and working seemed scarcely to have inter 
 vened. 
 
 "Ha !" he exclaimed "that brings me to 
 myself. I have work to do this morning. I 
 must see my publisher. And you, my Diane, 
 what do you intend to do?" 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. What was there 
 for her to do ? He questioned her a little. Did 
 she desire to return home to Evremont-sur- 
 Seine ? She did not know. She was afraid they 
 would not want her. But had she not thought 
 to return there this morning when he had met 
 her at the Porte de Charenton? 
 
 "Yes, monsieur," she said in a very low voice. 
 "I was very tired and I had not eaten, and 
 and I knew that I should not be able to walk 
 that far. But I thought that it would be bet 
 ter to try." 
 
 He looked at her searchingly. Then said he : 
 "What you mean to say is that you thought it 
 would be better to drop by the roadside than to 
 fall into the river." 
 
 She nodded. "Yes, monsieur. I was not 
 happy." 
 
 "Compassionate gods!" he cried, banging the 
 
114 THE PAGAN 
 
 table with his fist. "You were not happy! 
 There speaks Melisande. No, indeed, you 
 were not happy ! You were wretched, you were 
 miserable, you were starving, and your poor lit 
 tle heart was dying within you fluttering and 
 trembling like a stricken bird. There, that is 
 the city for you that is the city s work." 
 
 Here, forgetting his recent enthusiasm for 
 that self-same city, he relapsed into the mood 
 of bitterness and distrust that had driven him 
 from Paris eight years ago. He condemned 
 the city and everything connected with it it 
 was artificial, it was brutal, it was sordid, it was 
 ugly, it was selfish, it was a tyrant. It stifled 
 the heart and it murdered the soul. 
 
 His philippic ending as abruptly as it had be 
 gun, he reached across the table and took her 
 hand. 
 
 "Listen, my little one," he said, "listen to me. 
 You are too young and too sweet to remain in 
 this pest-hole. I am going to care for you from 
 now on you shall be my charge. I am going to 
 snatch you from the maw of this monster of a 
 city before it gets your heart and your soul as 
 well as your body. It will be one good deed at 
 least credited to the account of Ferdinand Tail- 
 landy before he dies. They can carve it on my 
 tombstone if they wish : He plucked a flower 
 from the mire of a Christian city and planted it 
 in the garden of the gods. Ha ! That is some 
 thing to have done, is it not? And I shall revel 
 in it. To-morrow we shall start you and I. 
 
FEET OF GOLD 115 
 
 To-morrow in the clean, white dawn. And 
 I shall lead you to the garden. I will take you 
 by the hand and show you the wide spaces of 
 the world; and you shall behold the sun with 
 new eyes; and the breeze shall blow through 
 your unbound hair; and you shall bathe in the 
 streams and rest on the sweet earth and sleep 
 dreamlessly under the singing stars! . . .. 
 Will you come with me ?" 
 
 She hesitated, seeking words with which to 
 refuse, but finding none, it was finally a woman s 
 reason that she voiced. 
 
 "I have nothing to wear, monsieur " she 
 began timidly. 
 
 He swept the objection aside with a grand 
 gesture of his arm. 
 
 "So much the better!" he cried. "We shall 
 travel the lighter. Will you come with me ?" 
 
 She thrilled to his enthusiasm. She was 
 proud to be his follower. 
 
 "I will go with you anywhere," she said, 
 "whenever you say you are ready." And she 
 gave him her two hands across the table as a 
 pledge. He took them, sawed them violently 
 up and down in the air, reached over and kissed 
 her fraternally on the forehead. 
 
 "Good!" he said. "Meet me here for din- 
 ner at seven this evening. We will plan. Now 
 I go to my publisher. A u revoir." 
 
 Before she realized it he was out of the 
 room; but, as suddenly, he was back again. 
 
 "Here," he explained, "I have almost for- 
 
116 THE PAGAN 
 
 gotten. One must pay to live and we shall be 
 separated for ten hours. Take this and buy 
 yourself some solid boots and some thick 
 stockings. One should be well shod to climb 
 Olympus." 
 
 II 
 
 THAT was a memorable night at the Closene 
 des Lilas and not only that night, but, I re 
 gret to say, several ensuing nights; for Tail- 
 landy, to Diane s chagrin, could not bear to 
 tear himself away from the city and his old dis 
 ciples and comrades. Once more he forgot how 
 intensely he hated Paris, remembering only how 
 madly he loved it. The pagan child of nature 
 reverted and became the boulevardier and the 
 cafe prophet. 
 
 But that first night was responsible for the 
 lapse. Taillandy enjoyed himself so hugely 
 on that first night that it was only human of 
 him to crave a second and a third. It was al 
 ways : "To-morrow morning, my little Diane, 
 we will leave all this behind us," and always 
 on the morrow there was some unreasonable 
 reason why the departure should be postponed. 
 
 Diane, disappointed grievously at first, grew 
 depressed and then worried. Had her great 
 godlike poet, then, feet of clay? She thrust the 
 suspicion resolutely from her as unworthy, and 
 instead, womanlike, she endeavored to see what 
 she could do to help him. She knew that he 
 
FEET OF GOLD 117 
 
 was too good to be wasting his days and his 
 nights in the Closerie des Lilas. She knew, 
 too, that champagne is no fitting diet for poets 
 especially for poets who are great enough to 
 be inspired without it and so she found her 
 self mothering her hero. Worshipping him, 
 of course she would always do that but 
 mothering him at the same time. A curious 
 state of affairs. 
 
 Taillandy s publishers, it seemed, had been 
 exuberantly glad to see him. His Triomphe de 
 I Amour and his Tombeau de I Amour had 
 made him famous, and his eight years of ab 
 sence had given him a sort of posthumous halo. 
 If he were not dead, why, so much the better. 
 In brief, they gave him a thousand francs in 
 advance for the epic and a generous royalty 
 on its sale. 
 
 Of that thousand francs Taillandy spent 
 seven hundred and ninety-six during the next 
 four days ninety-six, possibly on himself, and 
 the balance on his friends. 
 
 He had returned to the Closerie des Lilas 
 that first afternoon and had instructed Hippo- 
 lyte and Madame Maupm that he intended to 
 entertain that evening from dinner-time to 
 dawn. They were to invite any and all of his 
 old associates whom they should see. Every 
 thing in the house was to be free, and he, by 
 Bacchus, would foot the bills. 
 
 The result was that when Taillandy entered 
 the Lilas at seven o clock he was amazed to 
 
118 THE PAGAN 
 
 discover what an army of friends he could lay 
 claim to. Never had the cafe been so crowded. 
 
 There was Bruno, the artist, who, remem 
 bered with an inexplicable pang, was also 
 Diane s friend; there was Jacques Gaumont, a 
 minor poet who was attempting to follow in 
 the great Taillandy s footsteps, and who suc 
 ceeded merely in being very shabbily dressed 
 and very enthusiastic; there was Baskoff, the 
 Russian, a sculptor of the futurist school, half 
 mad and wholly unprepossessing; there was le 
 petit Martel, in velveteens, who cried loudly for 
 a return to the good old days of Bohemia, but 
 who sometimes dined surreptitiously at the Cafe 
 de Paris in full-dress clothes with a chapeau 
 a huit reflets; there were the two bearded, gray- 
 headed veterans who remembered Delacroix 
 and very little else ; there was a young architect 
 or two from the Beaux-Arts, and there were a 
 score of others nondescripts, driftwood, some 
 of them mad but talented, others mediocre but 
 sane. Also, there were a dozen girls models, 
 midinettes, dancers, and daughters of joy. 
 
 At Taillandy s entrance they arose with a 
 roar of delight. They embraced him, they kissed 
 him on both cheeks, they pounded his back, they 
 cheered him deafeningly. He was the only 
 one of them worth while, and subconsciously 
 they knew it and acknowledged it. Moreover, 
 since he had once been one of them, they now 
 felt a certain responsibility in his success. Had 
 they not contributed to his greatness by their 
 
FEET OF GOLD 119 
 
 encouragement? Had he not perhaps imbibed 
 some of his inspiration from their companion 
 ship? There was not a man there that did not 
 envy his fame, but there was not a man there 
 that begrudged it. 
 
 When the first commotion had somewhat 
 subsided, Taillandy commanded Hippolyte to 
 serve dinner. But first he inquired for Diane. 
 Had any one seen Diane? 
 
 "Has any one seen whom?" asked Bruno, 
 who was at his elbow. 
 
 "Diane Diane," answered Taillandy im 
 patiently. And then, remembering, he added 
 with a frown : "You know her, Bruno, I be 
 lieve. At least it was not your fault that she 
 did not starve." 
 
 "Ah, you wrong me," said the artist. "I 
 would have fed her for life, but she would not 
 permit it. She left me she disappeared." 
 
 "She did well," replied Taillandy gravely. 
 
 Bruno looked at him quizzically, shrugged 
 his shoulders and went to take his place at a 
 table. 
 
 "Our Ferdinand is in love," he announced. 
 "That will mean some very bad lyrics, I fear. 
 It is regrettable." 
 
 Taillandy remained at the door, smoking 
 furiously, with an eye on the clock. He would 
 not sit down, he said, until Diane arrived. No, 
 nor would he drink. There would be plenty 
 of time for that. 
 
 Presently the door opened and Diane stepped 
 
120 THE PAGAN 
 
 hesitatingly into the smoke-stained light of the 
 restaurant. She was a little out of breath, for 
 she had been walking fast, and there was color 
 in her cheeks and a wet sparkle in her eye. 
 
 "Ah, my little one, * said Taillandy, "you 
 are late." 
 
 "I am sorry," she answered. "I hurried as 
 fast as I could. See, I have bought the stout 
 boots and the thick stockings, as you desired me 
 to do, so that we might climb what was that 
 mountain?" 
 
 "Olympus," said he. "You were wise, for 
 it is a hard climb. Come now and sit down. 
 I have kept a place for you on my right. You 
 will eat while I talk; and you need not listen, 
 for I shall talk nonsense. I intend that this, my 
 one night in Paris, shall be remembered. It is 
 to be a very gay night." 
 
 "But we start at dawn to-morrow, do we 
 not?" she reminded him. 
 
 "Assuredly, assuredly. That is why we must 
 make the most of these few hours." 
 
 He installed her beside him with great 
 ceremony, as if she were the queen of a carnival. 
 Then he motioned to Hippolyte to open the 
 champagne. . . . 
 
 Toward midnight Taillandy, in response to 
 repeated toasts to himself and his work, rose 
 rather unsteadily to his feet and made a speech. 
 
 "Friends comrades," he began "and fel 
 low artists, no man here is better than his neigh 
 bor: therefore there is no reason why I should 
 
FEET OF GOLD 121 
 
 be called upon to speak ahead of any other man 
 present. All of us are alike in that all of us 
 are seeking, each in his own way, the Truth. 
 Naturally, since all of us are artists, we seek the 
 Truth through Beauty; and when I say Beauty 
 I spell it with a capital B, because Beauty, as I 
 understand it, is more than a noun it is re 
 ligion. Now, to my eyes, Beauty exists where- 
 ever man does not intrude the ugly work of 
 his hands. The world, if left to itself, would 
 be universally beautiful, and in like manner a 
 man s soul, if isolated and uncontaminated by 
 man-created ugliness, would of necessity be 
 beautiful. A child s soul, for example, is beauti 
 ful how long? Why, until the child learns to 
 talk and hear and understand the evil of men. 
 In short, it is the herding of men together in 
 cities and communities, it is the daily contact 
 with artificiality, it is the galling yoke that we 
 call modern civilization that has banished 
 Beauty out of our lives and so has banished 
 Truth. 
 
 "Granting (and I am sure you will grant it) 
 that if a man have no responsibilities he will be 
 happy, we may go on to say that if he be happy 
 he will be in tune with the beautiful and recep 
 tive to Beauty. What, then is the lesson ? Does 
 it not cry aloud in your ears? Be free ! Throw 
 off the shackles of civilization that weigh you 
 down, go forth into the world, keep close to the 
 Beauty that the gods have revealed to you in 
 nature and, casting down your false idols, bow 
 
122 THE PAGAN 
 
 the knee only to her. Cease to be slaves be 
 free!" 
 
 He sat down to great applause. Perhaps 
 they were in a mood to applaud anything, for 
 they were unaccustomed to champagne at six 
 teen francs the bottle. Taillandy drained his 
 glass, refilled it, and drained it again. Then 
 he turned to Diane : "Do not forget," he said; 
 "we leave at dawn to-morrow." 
 
 "Do you think I could forget?" she re 
 proached him. 
 
 But they did not leave at the dawn of the 
 morrow; for at that hour Taillandy was sleep 
 ing most uncomfortably on Bruno s sofa, 
 whither he had been carried with difficulty by 
 three well-meaning but unsteady friends. As 
 for Diane, she had cried herself to sleep in a 
 room over the cafe that Madame Maupin had 
 placed at her disposal for the night. She was 
 up and dressed, however, at daybreak, hoping 
 against hope that her hero would not forget to 
 come for her; and she waited, sad-eyed at the 
 door, watching the stars pale in the face of the 
 glow that came slowly out of the east, watching 
 the roofs and the chimney-pots take form 
 against a lightening sky, watching the shadows 
 of the houses stretch their blue lengths along 
 the street. 
 
 Madame Maupin, descending cheerfully 
 from a dreamless sleep, found her at a table by 
 the door, with her face in her hands. Madame 
 Maupin, taking in the situation with the in- 
 
FEET OF GOLD 123 
 
 tuition of a true Frenchwoman, strove to con 
 sole her, saying: "Come, my little cabbage, 
 you must not cry. He will be back, and there 
 are a great many more mornings ahead of you. 
 He is doubtless a little tired, that is all, and if 
 he is tired you surely do not begrudge him 
 his sleep." 
 
 Diane dried her eyes and tried to smile. 
 
 "Yes, yes," she said. "I am very foolish. 
 But I love him so much, Madame Maupin." 
 
 "Of course you do. Every one does. He 
 is a wonderful man, Monsieur Ferdinand is. 
 And a great poet. You must remember that 
 and make allowances; for all great poets get 
 drunk. They tell me that Monsieur Paul Ver- 
 laine was well, no matter. I do not remem 
 ber him, and he is dead now. But he was a 
 great poet and a wonderful drinker, too." 
 
 Diane, never having heard of Monsieur 
 Paul Verlaine, was of course not greatly in 
 terested. She felt that it was all the fault of 
 Paris that it was Paris that was reaching out 
 hideous, soiled hands to drag her idol from his 
 pedestal. And it was then that the high resolve 
 came to her to save Ferdinand from this soul- 
 devouring monster. I doubt if the irony of the 
 situation entered her mind. I doubt if she re- 
 membe^ed that originally it had been he who 
 was to save her from the maw of Paris, who 
 was to "pluck the flower from the mire of a 
 Christian city and plant it in the garden of 
 the gods." 
 
124 THE PAGAN 
 
 At eleven o clock a perfectly cheerful Tail- 
 landy swung into the cafe, arm-in-arm with 
 Bruno and le petit Martel, and found a Diane, 
 serene and resolved, there to receive him. 
 
 He kissed her good morning on the forehead, 
 inquired how she had slept, was glad that Ma 
 dame Maupin had extended her hospitality, 
 and, worst of all, asked Madame Maupin if 
 she would be good enough to repeat the offer 
 that night or any other night should it be neces 
 sary. He would gladly pay the bill. 
 
 "But," ventured Diane, "do we not leave 
 to-morrow surely?" 
 
 "Of course, my little one," he answered 
 "of course. To-morrow at dawn. But it is 
 well to be prepared in case something should 
 intervene to delay us." 
 
 Then, complaining of a headache, he ordered 
 absinthe for three and a s irop de groseille for 
 Diane. And he took occasion to warn her never 
 to drink absinthe it was very injurious and 
 led to all sorts of follies. Diane assured him 
 that she would always abstain from it. She 
 was uncomfortable; her heart was heavy; she 
 wished that Bruno were not present she hated 
 Bruno and she believed that, if she were al 
 lowed an hour alone with Taillandy, she could 
 persuade him to return to his gods. But Bruno 
 and le petit Martel, anticipating perhaps an 
 other evening similar to the last, stuck close 
 to Taillandy s elbow, and saw to it that his 
 glass (and their own glasses) remained full. 
 
FEET OF GOLD 125 
 
 III 
 
 THE first four days that Taillandy spent in 
 Paris had a striking similarity. I have pictured 
 one of them, endeavoring to deal with the 
 poet s temporary downfall as leniently and as 
 delicately as possible. Even average men have 
 their evil moments and are held excusable ; how 
 much more readily, then, must we condone the 
 lapses of a genius ! I do not pretend that he 
 was blameless, but, remember, he had passed 
 eight years alone, and the reaction was bound 
 to be extreme. 
 
 On the evening of the fourth day, when 
 Diane saw that all the signs and omens pointed 
 to another festival night, she took matters into 
 her own hands and made a decisive step. 
 Strange as it may seem, it was Bruno who aided 
 her in her scheme to get Taillandy out of the 
 city. Perhaps Bruno, being more advanced in 
 years, was tiring of the dissipation; perhaps his 
 heart was really excellent at bottom; perhaps 
 he cared for Diane more unselfishly than he 
 chose openly to admit. At any rate he rendered 
 her invaluable assistance. 
 
 It was he who interviewed the owner and 
 driver of the covered, two-wheeled market-cart, 
 arranging with him that he should be at the 
 Closerie des Lilas at two o clock that morning. 
 
 "No vegetables, my friend," said Bruno; 
 "we want no vegetables, but we desire plenty of 
 
126 THE PAGAN 
 
 straw on the floor in order that a stuffed turkey 
 may repose comfortably thereupon. And it will 
 be a large turkey a hundred and fifty pounds." 
 
 The driver of the cart, disturbed at this, 
 crossed himself violently. 
 
 "It is not a corpse that monsieur wishes me 
 to drive in my wagon?" 
 
 Bruno laughed cheerfully. 
 
 "Not quite," he answered. "It will be 
 breathing fire and alcohol; but it will be 
 breathing. Beyond that I promise nothing." 
 
 The driver was scarcely reassured. How 
 ever, if it breathed, if monsieur guaranteed that 
 it would breathe well, for five francs more he 
 would take the chance. So it was arranged. 
 
 "I have ordered Ferdinand s hearse," Bruno 
 reported to Diane. 
 
 She cried out in horror. He must not say 
 such things; and she, too, crossed herself pre 
 cipitately. 
 
 At seven o clock, the hour of dinner, when 
 the fete usually commenced, the Closerie des 
 Lilas was packed to the doors. All the guests 
 were present, hungry, thirsty, licking their lips, 
 but there was no host. 
 
 "Where is he?" whispered Bruno to Diane. 
 
 "Where is he?" echoed le petit Martel. 
 
 "Where is he?" muttered the two veterans 
 who remembered Delacroix. 
 
 "Where is he?" chorused the models and the 
 midinettes and the daughters of joy. 
 
 Every one had the question, but no one the 
 
FEET OF GOLD 127 
 
 answer. Taillandy had not been seen by any 
 one for over two hours. Each thought that he 
 had been with one of the others. It was very 
 strange. 
 
 At eight o clock, with much grumbling, the 
 guests were forced to order their own dinners, 
 which, owing perhaps to the obnoxious prospect 
 of paying the check out of their own pockets, 
 they ate with little relish. Moreover, there was 
 no sparkling wine of Champagne to flavor the 
 meats, and no Taillandy to talk glorious non 
 sense. 
 
 Diane reluctantly, and for want of any plan 
 of action, took her seat between Bruno and 
 le petit Martel; but she kept her eyes stead 
 fastly on the door and replied to all conversa 
 tional efforts only in monosyllables. Nor did 
 she eat. 
 
 As the hour advanced the gloom deepened. 
 Bruno and le petit Martel, bored and fatigued 
 hazarded brutal guesses at the cause of Tail- 
 landy s non-appearance. 
 
 Said Bruno : "He is doubtless drunk in some 
 other cafe." 
 
 Said le petit Martel : "It is probable that he 
 has left Paris and gone back alone to converse 
 with his gods." 
 
 It was this latter conjecture that hurt Diane 
 the more. She had planned to save him and 
 he had forgotten her very existence. His 
 promises to her had been empty words. Heart- 
 searing thoughts, these. 
 
128 THE PAGAN 
 
 "Have no fear," she answered Bruno and 
 le petit Martel bravely u have no fear. He 
 will come when he is ready." 
 
 "And you," insinuated Bruno, "will wait for 
 him?" 
 
 "Yes," she said, "and I will wait for him." 
 
 "You are very faithful," observed le petit 
 Martel with a snicker. 
 
 She flushed a little but let the remark pass. 
 She did not choose to explain to them that she 
 was Taillandy s disciple not his mistress. Be 
 sides, something told her that they would not 
 understand, that they would wink and nudge 
 each other and snicker, even as le petit Martel 
 had already snickered. 
 
 The clock struck twelve times twelve weary, 
 discouraged strokes. A few chairs were pushed 
 back, a few checks (very modest ones) were 
 paid, and a few of the guests yawned unaffect 
 edly, said "He will not come," and departed. 
 The two veterans who remembered Delacroix 
 called for the backgammon-board, and im 
 mediately forgot the passage of time. 
 
 The clock struck the half-hour timidly, 
 unobtrusively, as if ashamed of itself. The 
 Beaux-Arts students went gloomily home. 
 Bruno lit his pipe and ordered a cognac and 
 coffee. Le petit Martel, with a show of bravado 
 called for a bottle of champagne, then discreetly 
 changed his mind and substituted a yellow 
 chartreuse. They, at least, were determined 
 to see it out if they were forced to remain there 
 
FEET OF GOLD 129 
 
 until dawn. Diane sat in silence, very tired, 
 very miserable, ready to cry. 
 
 The clock struck one, surreptitiously, that 
 people might perhaps think it was merely the 
 half-hour. Hippolyte began to clear the tables 
 and to pile up the chairs for the night. Ma 
 dame Maupin was stacking up the day s receipts 
 in little piles of copper, silver and gold. The 
 gold pile, she noted, was miserably small that 
 evening. 
 
 And then, before the clock was forced to 
 strike again, the door swung violently open and 
 in came Taillandy, hatless, his hair on end, 
 intoxicated, but not with wine. Intoxicated, 
 rather, with the sense of great accomplishment. 
 
 He greeted no one, but cried loudly and ex 
 ultantly: "I have done it! It is completed 
 and in six hours. Never have I worked so 
 rapidly and so well. For it is good, my friends, 
 it is good. Listen and judge for yourselves if 
 it is not good. Oh, but I was in the vein to 
 night ! I was tired very tired and I smoked 
 fifty vile cigarettes and wrote fifty immortal 
 lines. You see, I am not modest. That is 
 because I know that it is good." 
 
 He was tremendously excited. There was a 
 flush on his cheek-bones as of fever, and a 
 feverish light burned in his eyes. The two 
 sheets of paper that he held trembled and rat 
 tled in his hands as he stood in the middle of 
 the room and began to read. 
 
 What he read was his "Hymn to Diana Im- 
 
130 THE PAGAN 
 
 prisoned." We have all read it and recognized 
 it as his greatest lyric; and we all remember, 
 surely, the last quatrain, which some one has 
 translated, poorly enough: 
 
 "Why dost thou tarry in the haunts of men? 
 Cast off the chains that bind thee, burst the bars! 
 The high gods call and, pleading, call again 
 Come forth and live beneath the singing stars!" 
 
 Put that back into Taillandy s French and 
 let Taillandy stand up and declaim it to you, 
 and I warrant you ll feel a shiver of exhilara 
 tion run up your spine. For Taillandy knew 
 how to read his verse there is no gainsaying 
 that. 
 
 When he finished he had them all fairly on 
 their feet. The women, not understanding 
 much of what he read them, nevertheless wept 
 from sheer excitement, Madame Maupin the 
 most conspicuously and copiously, Diane the 
 most quietly. But there was a good bit of re 
 lief mingled with Diane s tears. She had her 
 hero back, more of a hero than ever. Her 
 idol s feet were not of clay but of gold. What 
 woman could resist weeping with such excellent 
 cause ? 
 
 Vaguely she sensed that the invocation was 
 addressed to her, that the poet had passed his 
 evening in solitude, making her immortal in 
 immortal verse, that, far from being forgotten 
 by him, she had been ever before his inward 
 eyes. 
 
FEET OF GOLD 131 
 
 Triumphantly the clock struck two. Bruno 
 was the only one to heed it; and he approached 
 Diane and murmured : "It is two o clock. The 
 hearse should be at the door. Or shall we call 
 it the triumphal chariot of fire that will bear 
 him, like Elijah, up to heaven." 
 
 Before Diane could reply the driver of the 
 two-wheeled cart squeezed his broad bulk 
 through the door. He stood there, whip in 
 hand, searching the room for his clients. 
 
 "What do you want?" inquired Taillandy, 
 who was nearest him. 
 
 "My passengers," answered the driver. 
 
 "And who are they?" the poet persisted. 
 
 "God knows," said the driver. "But one of 
 them, they told me, would be very drunk." 
 
 "I am very drunk," said Taillandy. "Wine 
 never made me more so. Moreover, I see no 
 one else who is in that condition. Accordingly 
 I retain you. Is your wagon comfortable?" 
 
 "There is plenty of straw," answered the 
 driver. 
 
 "Good. You are hired then, until dawn; and 
 we start at once." 
 
 He went to Diane and took her by the hand. 
 
 "Are you ready?" he asked. 
 
 "I am ready," said she. 
 
 "Then come. Let us return to the true gods 
 who are calling to us." 
 
 He bowed very low, first to Madame Mau- 
 pin, then to the room in general. 
 
 "Adieu," said he. "I earnestly hope that 
 
132 THE PAGAN 
 
 some day you will open your eyes and see that 
 you are slaves. " 
 
 With Diane on his arm he passed out of the 
 door into the night. The cart stood at the curb, 
 the huge percheron smoking in the chilly air. 
 The driver climbed up into his seat, and Tail- 
 landy lifted Diane in his arms and placed her 
 in the straw under the canvas cover. Then he 
 himself took his seat beside the driver. 
 
 "You will be cold," suggested the latter. 
 
 "You are wrong," answered the poet; "I am 
 on fire." 
 
 "As you will, m sieu . Where shall I drive 
 to?" 
 
 Taillandy bent toward him and whispered 
 in his ear. 
 
 "B en m sieuY said the driver. "I know the 
 road well." 
 
 IV 
 
 AT dawn a white, cold dawn that turned 
 the frost to silver a covered two-wheeled cart 
 jolted and rumbled into the public square of the 
 village of Evremont-sur-Seine. Taillandy sat 
 upright on the driver s seat, with the cold light 
 on his gaunt face and a warmer light glowing 
 in his eyes. Behind him, on the straw, lay 
 Diane, sleeping like a child, with a child s smile 
 at her lips. 
 
 "To the right here," said Taillandy softly, 
 when they had crossed the square. "To the 
 
FEET OF GOLD 133 
 
 right, and then directly to the left. The shop 
 next to the church." 
 
 The driver, obeying directions, drew up in 
 front of a small two-story plaster house, the 
 ground floor of which was devoted to a shop. 
 In the windows were crucifixes, artificial 
 wreaths, embroidered altar-cloths, and little 
 gilded and painted images of saints. It was the 
 last place one would have expected a pagan to 
 visit. 
 
 But Taillandy, with no hesitation, rapped 
 gently on the door, casting a benevolent glance, 
 meanwhile, on the emblems of Roman Catholi 
 cism. 
 
 "It is well," he said to himself, "that there 
 should be such people in the world. Does it 
 matter, after all, what kindles the flame so long 
 as it burns brightly?" 
 
 An elderly woman came to open the door 
 a woman with a face like one of her graven 
 saints. 
 
 "Madame Nicolas," said Taillandy bowing, 
 "you are awake early. May I come in to warm 
 myself?" 
 
 "Certainly," she said. "Be good enough to 
 enter. I am just now lighting the fire in the 
 stove." 
 
 He insisted on helping her with the coals. 
 Then he said: "Madame Nicolas, you do not, 
 of course, remember me. It is eighteen years 
 since I used to come to this shop. I remember 
 you, because you are the sort of woman one 
 
134 THE PAGAN 
 
 does not forget. I am called Ferdinand Tail- 
 landy." 
 
 "I remember you now, Monsieur Ferdi 
 nand," she answered. "You were an interest 
 ing boy." 
 
 "I take no credit for that," he disclaimed. 
 "All boys are interesting. It is only men and 
 women that are occasionally dull." 
 
 He hesitated an instant. Then he said: 
 "Madame Nicolas, are your two daughters 
 well?" 
 
 "Veronique is very well," she answered him 
 quietly. "She is in the kitchen. Diane" she 
 faltered a little "Diane has left us. She 
 she is working in Paris. We miss her a great 
 deal." 
 
 "Ah," said Taillandy "exactly." 
 
 Madame Nicolas searched his eyes anxiously 
 with hers. 
 
 "Madame Nicolas," he continued abruptly 
 after a silence "Madame Nicolas, do you 
 own a calf?" 
 
 "But no, Monsieur Ferdinand!" she ex 
 claimed, surprised. 
 
 "That is a pity," he mused. "I regret that 
 you do not own a calf." 
 
 "What should I do with a calf?" 
 
 "Kill it, of course," he replied brightly 
 "kill it! In honor of your daughter who is re 
 turned to you." 
 
 Madame Nicolas half-rose from her chair; 
 then she fell back weakly, trembling. 
 
FEET OF GOLD 135 
 
 "Diane," she breathed, "you have news of 
 my Diane?" 
 
 "I have more than news, Madame Nicolas, 
 I have Diane herself. She is asleep out there 
 in the covered cart." 
 
 "God is merciful," said Madame Nicolas. 
 "He has, in His own good time, answered my 
 prayers." 
 
 "So be it," murmured the pagan. "Be very 
 kind to Diane, for she has suffered much." 
 
 "Let me go to her," said Madame Nicolas. 
 "My arms ache to hold her." 
 
 They went out into the chill morning. But 
 Madame Nicolas did not know that it was cold. 
 Taillandy raised the canvas flap at the back of 
 the cart. Diane still slept on the straw, her 
 head pillowed on her arm. As they watched 
 her she stirred and sat upright, the smile still 
 at her lips, for she had been happy in her sleep. 
 
 "Diane!" cried Madame Nicolas. "My 
 blessed baby Diane my blessed child!" 
 
 Taillandy turned away, pretending to shade 
 his eyes from the sun. 
 
 "These Christians," he muttered, "are over- 
 demonstrative." And he brushed a tear im 
 patiently from his nose. 
 
 When he had hardened himself sufficiently 
 to look around without betraying his lamentable 
 weakness, he saw that he was forgotten. Diane 
 was gathered close to Madame Nicolas s breast, 
 and Madame Nicolas was crooning over her 
 softly, as if, indeed, she were a child. 
 
136 THE PAGAN 
 
 The poet and pagan shrugged his shoulders 
 with a feeble imitation of his old bravado. 
 
 "I fear, Ferdinand," he said to himself 
 "I fear that you have lost a disciple. Your 
 creed does not seem to be popular. However, 
 you have done to-day what I suppose they would 
 call a Christian deed. Ainsi soit" 
 
 He climbed once more up into the driver s 
 seat. 
 
 "Where now, m sieu ?" asked the driver 
 stolidly. 
 
 "Where ?" repeated the pagan. "Anywhere ! 
 Get me away from these Christians. They are 
 weakening to a man s resolution. They sap 
 his manliness. They appeal insidiously to the 
 maudlin, sentimental side of his nature. Bah ! 
 That sun is very glaring, driver. Do you see 
 how it makes my eyes water? Turn around 
 and face the south, and flog your horse a little. 
 What was it that King Agrippa said in their 
 Bible? Ah, I have it now: Almost thou 
 persuadest me to be a Christian. Flog your 
 horse, driver flog your horse ! I must get 
 out of here. It is dangerous, I tell you dan 
 gerous. Flog your horse, driver, and drive me 
 to the south to the south where the nereids 
 are laughing and leaping and calling to one an 
 other across the waves of the far-resounding 
 sea. Farewell, Diane adieu. I go back alone 
 to the gods." 
 
 Obediently the driver plied his whip, the 
 horse broke into a heavy, swaying trot, the 
 
FEET OF GOLD 137 
 
 cart bounced and rattled over the cobblestones, 
 and Ferdinand Taillandy, pagan and poet, be 
 came once more a wanderer on the face of the 
 earth. 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 
 
 I 
 
 ON a June morning Monsieur Silvestre, the 
 landlord of the Cafe du Levant, sat under the 
 street awning drinking beer with the cure of the 
 little church across the square. They had dis 
 cussed religion and politics until those vital 
 subjects and the tall foaming glasses were 
 drained dry. Then the landlord ordered a 
 second round and the topic of conversation 
 shifted. 
 
 "One hears nothing more of that Ferdinand 
 Taillandy," remarked Monsieur Silvestre. 
 "There was a type for you! There was one, 
 at least, who had no use for your religion. A 
 pagan, he called himself. I suppose, now, you 
 consign men like him to hell-fire." 
 
 "I consign no man to hell-fire," answered the 
 cure calmly. "There are some, however, who 
 consign themselves: they think it modern 
 fashionable." 
 
 "You refer to me, perhaps?" suggested the 
 landlord quickly. 
 
 The cure laughed, shaking his head. 
 
 "You !" he echoed. "Why should I refer to 
 you, my friend? Before this year is out you 
 will be coming to me for confession and com 
 muning at the altar. I have no fears for you." 
 138 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 139 
 
 He paused to raise the glass to his lips. 
 Then he added: "It is of Taillandy I am 
 speaking. Monsieur Silvestre, the church wants 
 that man he is too good to lose. So admirable 
 a pagan think what a Christian one could 
 make of him ! I wish I had him here." 
 
 The landlord nodded his head sarcastically. 
 
 "Yes," said he, "it would be a pleasure to 
 see you two together. Taillandy talks well. 
 He could argue with you more effectively than 
 I. Yes, it would be a pleasure for me." 
 
 "My friend," said the cure sharply, "you and 
 he have nothing in common. Taillandy believes 
 in something: you believe in nothing. He 
 would scorn your agnosticism. In truth, his 
 belief differs from mine very slightly; he is far 
 nearer to me than to you. He sees gods in every 
 thing, whereas I see God in everything. The 
 distinction, you observe, is slight." 
 
 Monsieur Silvestre puffed out his cheeks in 
 a sigh. 
 
 "There," he exclaimed, "you out-talk me as 
 usual ! All the more I wish Ferdinand Tail 
 landy were with us, he who can turn phrases 
 as well as you. Have you read his Hymn to 
 Diana Imprisoned ?" 
 
 "I have," said the cure. "It is admirable. 
 Have you read the Song of Solomon?" 
 
 "No," admitted Monsieur Silvestre. 
 
 "It, too, is admirable." 
 
 "Where can I find it?" asked the landlord 
 incautiously. 
 
140 THE PAGAN 
 
 "In your Bible," said the cure, and drained 
 his glass, well pleased. 
 
 t( l Touched grunted Monsieur Silvestre. "It 
 is I who pay for the beers." 
 
 Presently, when the sun had swung up high 
 above the square, the cure perceived Madame 
 Nicolas coming from her shop beside the 
 church. The landlord, too, marked her in the 
 distance, for the streets of the village of Evre- 
 mont were never so crowded but that one could 
 distinguish Madame Nicolas. Nor was any 
 one in Evremont ever too busy or too hurried 
 to greet her. 
 
 She was a serene, motherly woman, now past 
 middle age, who, with her daughters Diane and 
 Veronique, kept the little shop where good 
 Catholics purchased the consoling symbols of 
 their faith. But always Madame Nicolas gave 
 something more priceless than anything she 
 sold. As the cure put it: "When you buy a 
 rosary from Madame Nicolas you obtain a 
 great deal more than a rosary you obtain 
 a glimpse of peace on earth; and you depart 
 convinced that God is good." 
 
 Even Monsieur Silvestre, professed agnostic, 
 fairly worshipped Madame Nicolas. 
 
 "There," he said, "there is the morning sun 
 light." 
 
 She crossed the square, careful not to dis 
 turb the sparrows drinking and fidgeting at the 
 watering-trough, and approached the Cafe du 
 Levant. 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 141 
 
 "Good morning," she greeted them. "I 
 come to inform Monsieur le cure that I have 
 finished mending the altar-cloth. Diane and 
 Veronique and I worked until late last night. 
 Diane and Veronique have done beautifully 
 but I my fingers are a little old and my eyes 
 a little dim. My portion of it might be better." 
 
 The cure hastened to assure her that he had 
 no anxiety as to the quality of her work. He 
 knew it of old. Then said Monsieur Silvestre : 
 "We were talking but now of Ferdinand Tail- 
 landy. Have you news of him, Madame 
 Nicolas?" 
 
 She shook her head gravely. 
 
 "No," said she, "we have heard or seen 
 nothing of him since since he found my Diane 
 and brought her back to me from the city. It 
 is impossible now to thank him for what he did, 
 but I pray for him. He is a good man." 
 
 "He is not of the church," Monsieur Sil 
 vestre could not forbear saying. 
 
 "No," she agreed quietly, "nor, for a long 
 time, was Saint Paul." 
 
 "I perceive," responded Monsieur Silvestre 
 with a shrug, "that you Christians claim us all. 
 If you count Taillandy and me among you, it 
 would appear that your religion is tolerant." 
 
 "Belief," said the cure, "is always tolerant. 
 It is only unbelief that is bigoted. The dogma 
 of the agnostic is very strict perhaps because 
 he fears that any day a little ray of faith will 
 come to disturb him." 
 
142 THE PAGAN 
 
 "You talk me to death," remarked the land 
 lord, "and I have work to do. I will bid you 
 good-by." And he retreated sulkily to the 
 shelter of his desk within the walls. 
 
 They smiled at his discomfiture, for they 
 knew his moods and loved him for them and 
 in spite of them. 
 
 Then said Madame Nicolas: "Monsieur le 
 cure, may I talk to you for a while about 
 Diane?" 
 
 The cure drew a chair for her beside him. 
 
 "You may talk to me, Madame Nicolas, 
 about anything." 
 
 For a space she remained silent, searching 
 doubtless a method of beginning. Her hands 
 were unquiet and there was a hint of trouble 
 clouding her kind gray eyes. 
 
 "You know Felix Felix Romarin?" she 
 asked at length. 
 
 "Yes," answered the cure, "I know him 
 certainly and then?" 
 
 "Do you think well of him?" 
 
 "Ah, now, Madame Nicolas, what shall I 
 say? Yes, I think well of him. Also I am 
 sorry for him. He has a devil within him that 
 may some day send him headlong down a steep 
 place into the sea. But we are trying to cast 
 out that devil Felix and I and I have the 
 hope that with God s help we shall succeed. 
 Felix is of the south his family come from 
 Cagnes and in the south men strike before 
 they think or before they speak. They wound 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 143 
 
 with their hands rather than with their tongues. 
 I am not sure that on that account they are more 
 blameworthy in the eyes of the Lord, but cer 
 tainly they are more blameworthy in the eyes 
 of the law. The magistrate has seen Felix on 
 several occasions. Thus far he has been lenient; 
 next time perhaps but what has Felix done 
 now?" 
 
 "He has fallen in love with Diane," an 
 swered Madame Nicolas simply. 
 
 The cure whistled softly and perplexedly. 
 
 "I understand," he said "I understand. 
 Or, rather, I do not understand." 
 
 "He desires to marry her at once," said Ma 
 dame Nicolas. 
 
 "Yes, yes and she?" 
 
 "What would you? She does not love him 
 she likes him well enough perhaps. She asks 
 me. It is difficult." 
 
 "Indeed, yes, it is difficult," pondered the 
 cure. "It is an opportunity, of course, and not 
 a bad one. Felix, as I said, is not bad at heart 
 impulsive only. And Diane ah, Madame 
 Nicolas, it is a sad truth that when a young girl 
 has sinned there are few sinners who will for 
 give her." 
 
 "I know," said Madame Nicolas wistfully, 
 "I know." 
 
 There was a silence. 
 
 "I think " began the cure, and stopped. 
 Then "Let us wait awhile, Madame Nico 
 las," he said. "Let us wait and see how much 
 
144 THE PAGAN 
 
 in earnest Felix is. And perhaps who knows? 
 Diane will come to love him at least a little. 
 Then, in that case, let her marry, Madame Nic 
 olas, and ah, well, let her marry and bear 
 children who will resemble their grandmother." 
 
 But Madame Nicolas, with the merest trace 
 of a smile in return for the compliment, shook 
 her head. 
 
 "I wish I might believe that they could marry 
 and be happy," she said, u but I know my 
 Diane. She will not marry Felix because she 
 loves another." 
 
 "And the other, I suppose, does not love her. 
 Always it is like that with a woman. Your 
 Diane, Madame Nicolas, is, I fear, annoyingly 
 feminine." 
 
 "What would you wish? Can even a man 
 control his heart?" 
 
 The cure glanced away rather hastily. He 
 had once been two-and-twenty. 
 
 "No," he said, "you are right. A man can 
 but smother his heart." 
 
 "And still be happy?" persisted Madame 
 Nicolas. 
 
 He sighed and smiled. 
 
 "And eventually be not unhappy," he an 
 swered. "But we are becoming too abstract, 
 and I am certain you did not come to me to 
 discuss generalities. Tell me, if you wish, who 
 is this other man whom Diane loves and who 
 is senseless enough not to love her." 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 145 
 
 "It is Ferdinand Taillandy," said Madame 
 Nicolas. 
 
 "Ah," said the cure; and then he added: 
 "Of course." 
 
 "Why do you say that?" she asked. 
 
 "Why? Because that man is in every one s 
 mind. He has become an obsession with all of 
 us. Monsieur Silvestre and I were but just now 
 quarrelling over him " 
 
 "That proves nothing," interjected Madame 
 Nicolas with a smile, "you and Monsieur Sil 
 vestre would quarrel about a sparrow." 
 
 "You have said it," agreed the cure; "but 
 nevertheless Ferdinand Taillandy seems to be 
 of greater importance than a sparrow. Cer 
 tainly his flights are longer." 
 
 He stopped and leaned forward in his chair, 
 shading his eyes from the sun. Madame Nico 
 las, following his gaze, saw in the distance, 
 far down the road that bordered the river, a 
 gray figure of a man walking briskly toward 
 them. There was a bulky something strapped 
 to his back, and in his hand he swung a stick. 
 Occasionally he skipped a little, as if rejoicing 
 in the beauty and freshness of the day, and oc 
 casionally he made wonderful passes and lunges 
 with the stick into the empty air. 
 
 "He is gay, that one there," observed Ma 
 dame Nicolas. 
 
 The cure did not answer, nor did he remove 
 his eyes from the figure. 
 
146 THE PAGAN 
 
 "He skips like a lamb," continued Madame 
 Nicolas. 
 
 "Do you forget," said the cure, "that it is 
 spring?" And still he did not look away. 
 
 The stranger drew rapidly nearer. A stray 
 breath of the breeze bore to them a fragment 
 of song from his lips. 
 
 "He sings, too," said Madame Nicolas. "I 
 wonder is he of the circus." 
 
 The cure vouchsafed no reply, but he got up 
 from his chair that he might see the better. 
 
 "Tiens" he murmured to himself, "c est bien 
 drole!" 
 
 "Why," demanded Madame Nicolas, "do 
 you so excite yourself? It is not the first time 
 a stranger has come to Evremont." 
 
 Suddenly the cure broke into loud laughter 
 and sat down. He slapped the table with his 
 hand until the glasses trembled and threatened 
 to fall. Madame Nicolas regarded him in 
 amazement. Down the road the stranger was 
 singing lustily now. They could hear the 
 words : 
 
 "L, 1 Amour est enfant de boheme, 
 Qui na jamais connu des his" 
 
 The cure could not cease his laughter. 
 
 "What have you?" demanded Madame Nic 
 olas, distressed. 
 
 "Where are your eyes?" retorted the cure. 
 "I fear, Madame Nicolas, that you are near 
 sighted." 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 147 
 
 "I am," said she, "but what harm? Is it 
 any one I know?" 
 
 The cure s response was indirect. 
 
 "Monsieur Silvestre!" he called and again: 
 "Monsieur Silvestre 1 Three tall beers and 
 cold ones! Monsieur Ferdinand Taillandy, if 
 I am not mistaken, will be thirsty!" 
 
 II 
 
 TAILLANDY, as the cure had foreseen, made 
 direct for the Cafe du Levant. He had walked 
 far that morning indeed he walked far every 
 day, and had for nearly nine years and he 
 knew by experience that Monsieur Silvestre s 
 beer was good. Moreover, as a young man in 
 his early twenties, he had known the landlord 
 and the cure and Madame Nicolas, and he had 
 teased Veronique and Diane when they were 
 children and had pigtails to pull. So he ap 
 proached the Cafe du Levant with an eager 
 step, anticipating both beer and benedictions. 
 
 Monsieur Silvestre, the cure, and Madame 
 Nicolas arose to make him welcome. They 
 vied, one with the other, in cordiality, for Mon 
 sieur Silvestre admired his mind, the cure cov 
 eted his soul, and Madame Nicolas ah, Ma 
 dame Nicolas had given him her heart ever 
 since he had found Diane and brought her back 
 from Paris one cold November dawn. 
 
 "Monsieur Ferdinand," said she, "you left 
 
148 THE PAGAN 
 
 so quickly that morning that I could not thank 
 you for what you had done. And now I see 
 you again after these months and, behold, I 
 find no words." 
 
 "Madame Nicolas," answered the poet, "you 
 need no words. I received your thanks when 
 I saw the light come into your eyes on that 
 morning. I am a pagan, but a pagan can be 
 proud to have been of service to such a Chris 
 tian as you. I am your very humble servant, 
 Madame Nicolas," and he bent very gallantly 
 to kiss her hand. 
 
 "So," remarked the landlord eagerly, "you 
 are still a pagan? You still believe in all those 
 gods?" 
 
 Taillandy raised his eyebrows in surprise. 
 Then he leaned back in his chair, stretched him 
 self in the sunlight, flicked an ash from his 
 cigarette with a nicotine-stained finger, and 
 smiled an amused, crooked smile under his 
 gay mustache. 
 
 "But yes," he said, "but yes. Naturally, I 
 believe in the true gods. Why should I not? 
 They are everywhere about me. One has but 
 to open one s eyes to see them." 
 
 "Are they in that beer?" queried Monsieur 
 Silvestre maliciously. 
 
 Taillandy shrugged his shoulders, a little 
 vexed. "No," said he gravely. "I see nothing 
 in the beer but a dead fly." 
 
 "Bravo !" applauded the cure. 
 
 "Thank you," said Taillandy. "Does he 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 149 
 
 trouble you, too, Monsieur le cure, with his 
 scepticism?" 
 
 "Oh, no; I fear that it is I who trouble him 
 with my belief. He tries to convert us all to 
 his agnosticism I believe that is the name he 
 calls it by. It is a handsome word and sounds 
 intellectual. But all it means, I am told, is: 
 I don t know. Well, that is Monsieur Sil- 
 vestre. Always he does not know." 
 
 Madame Nicolas shook her head, smiling. 
 "Monsieur Silvestre is a fraud," she said. "He 
 is a lamb in wolfs clothing. It is I who have 
 seen him often enough without his disguise, and 
 he has the largest heart in Evremont-sur-Seine. 
 Diane says that when no one is looking he is 
 always doing some good deed and blushing with 
 shame. Several mornings, when he thought no 
 one was about, she saw him scattering crumbs 
 for the sparrows out there by the watering- 
 trough." 
 
 "They become hungry in the winter," said 
 Monsieur Silvestre gruffly. "I can t have them 
 dying in front of my cafe." 
 
 "And," continued Madame Nicolas, "he 
 bought the crutches and the invalid s chair for 
 little Baptiste, that poor lame boy." 
 
 "I give up," said Monsieur Silvestre. "You 
 see good in everything and everybody. You 
 would doubtless see something to praise in the 
 devil himself." 
 
 "Why not?" interposed the cure. "His per 
 severance surely is commendable." 
 
150 THE PAGAN 
 
 "We talk too much," asserted the landlord. 
 "Let us give Monsieur Taillandy s ears a rest. 
 He should have much of interest to tell us. 
 From where do you come, Monsieur Ferdi 
 nand? I am told you have walked all over the 
 map of Europe in the last nine years." 
 
 "Austria the Tyrol northern Italy. High 
 up for the most part. As near as possible to 
 the stars. Next to the sea I love a mountain. 
 The sea soothes me, but a mountain exalts me. 
 It is like solemn music. Then, too, I am fond 
 of pine-trees straight, tall, clean pine-trees, 
 such as grow on heights. Have you ever seen 
 a winter moon shining through a forest of pines, 
 their shadows black on the snow?" 
 
 "Are you never lonely?" asked Madame 
 Nicolas a little wistfully. 
 
 He glanced at her quickly, as if she had cor 
 rectly read some secret thought of his which 
 he was loath to admit even to himself. 
 
 Then he said : "There are always dryads 
 for company." 
 
 "There are what?" demanded Monsieur 
 Silvestre. 
 
 "No matter you would not understand. 
 You will never see them. There are scores of 
 them hiding in those poplars down there by the 
 river, but, alas, Monsieur Silvestre, you will 
 never see them. . . . And now," he added 
 after a silence, "and now that I have finished 
 my beer I am going to ask Madame Nicolas to 
 grant me a favor. I am going to ask her to 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 151 
 
 take me across to her shop and let me see its 
 treasures." 
 
 "But certainly," cried she. "Only I fear 
 there are no treasures." 
 
 "There is one that is priceless," he said; 
 "there is Diane." 
 
 Ill 
 
 MADAME NICOLAS S shop was in immaculate 
 order, for she and her two daughters would 
 have considered it akin to sacrilege that dust 
 should lie on the pictures and statuettes of the 
 saints, or that there should not be a fitting and 
 comfortable place for each wreath and rosary. 
 The place had the air of repose that one as 
 sociates more with a museum or a chapel than 
 with a store where articles are bought and sold. 
 It was hard to say whether Madame Nicolas s 
 personality endowed it with this serene tranquil 
 atmosphere, or whether Madame Nicolas s 
 serenity and tranquillity were lent her by the 
 shop and its consecrated contents. 
 
 "Come in, Monsieur Ferdinand," she said. 
 "Veronique should be in the kitchen, but I will 
 fetch her. As for Diane here she is at the 
 desk. There will be no measure to her joy." 
 
 The meeting of Diane and Taillandy would 
 perhaps have been difficult a little constrained 
 had Taillandy not, fortunately, been Tail 
 landy. 
 
152 THE PAGAN 
 
 "Here, then, after all these months, is my 
 Diane of the Moon!" he exclaimed, seizing her 
 two hands. "It is good to see you treading the 
 earth. You have not, I hope, forgotten the 
 mad poet." 
 
 Forgotten him, indeed ! The reverse was so 
 true that she blushed a little. 
 
 "One does not forget the noblest man in the 
 world," she said. 
 
 "Ha !" cried he, "now I perceive how easily 
 reputations for nobility are made ! I have al 
 ways wondered why so many merely mediocre 
 fellows are esteemed. Doubtless, in a moment 
 of aberration, they committed some one good 
 deed." 
 
 "Is not a poet called great, even if he has 
 written but one great poem?" ventured Diane. 
 
 The pagan smiled at her affectionately. 
 
 "Not until he is dead, my dear," he assured 
 her. "Then all his bad poems are either for 
 gotten or included in anthologies of verse." 
 
 This was, of course, over Diane s head. In 
 deed, most of his conversation left her dazed 
 and bewildered but always admiring. 
 
 He could, I think, have recited to her the 
 alphabet and she would have thought it all very 
 wonderful and the work of an inspired genius. 
 But she was spared the necessity of a reply by 
 the entrance of Madame Nicolas and Veron- 
 ique the latter glowing (not at all unattract 
 ively) from the kitchen. 
 
 "Monsieur Ferdinand," said Madame Nico- 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 153 
 
 las, "do you remember my daughter Ve- 
 ronique?" 
 
 Taillandy bowed low. 
 
 "I do," said he, "very distinctly. She had 
 bare legs when I knew her and used to like to 
 be kissed." 
 
 The girl smiled gravely at him. Then she 
 blushed, glanced at her mother, and said: "I 
 wear stockings now, but otherwise I doubt if 
 I have changed." 
 
 "Good!" cried the poet, and embraced her 
 on both cheeks. Then he stood off and surveyed 
 the three of them, evidently with approbation. 
 
 "The mother of the Gracchi !" said he. 
 "You are Cornelia and those are your jewels. 
 You are greatly to be envied, Madame 
 Nicolas." 
 
 His enthusiasm pleased and confused them. 
 But it was enthusiasm well-founded. Diane he 
 had known to be lovely, for he had seen her 
 within the year; but Veronique he had not seen 
 for many years. She was slightly older than 
 her sister, slightly calmer, slightly more poised. 
 She was tall and dark, with smooth hair fram 
 ing a narrow, oval face. In her brown eyes 
 lay something of the calm and the confidence 
 that was her mother s the calm and the con 
 fidence earned by suffering borne and ended. 
 More reticent perhaps than Diane, she was 
 more of a riddle to solve. You felt never quite 
 sure that Veronique would say or do; you felt 
 always sure that Diane would obey her im- 
 
154 THE PAGAN 
 
 pulses, and in time you could learn the nature 
 of these. Taillandy had learned their nature 
 and, learning that, had learned her charm. She 
 was the second woman in his life to alter his 
 life : the first one had driven him disconsolate 
 into exile ; the thought of the second, just when 
 his solitary nomad s existence had become sweet 
 to him, caused that existence to seem aimless, 
 sterile, intolerable. Man was not made to live 
 alone. And so it came to pass that the wan 
 derer returned to Evremont-sur-Seine, where he 
 had every reason to expect he should find Diane 
 and solace. 
 
 Madame Nicolas broke in on his meditations 
 by extending an invitation to luncheon. Every 
 thing, he reflected, was being made easy for 
 him. They were receiving him open-armed. 
 And then he heard Diane say, a little irritably: 
 "Felix Romarin will be here also. Had you 
 forgotten, mother?" 
 
 It was obvious that Madame Nicolas had 
 forgotten she might well have forgotten more 
 important things than that in her enthusiasm 
 at this unlooked-for opportunity to display her 
 gratitude. She experienced a brief moment of 
 discomfiture a moment not so brief, however, 
 but that Taillandy marked it and said: "Per 
 haps another day, Madame Nicolas. My stay 
 at Evremont is indefinite." 
 
 She protested earnestly and sincerely, vow 
 ing that there was plenty to eat for all. "But," 
 said Taillandy to himself, "it was not, I am 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 155 
 
 sure, the question of food that embarrassed her. 
 It was this Felix, whoever he may be." And 
 he was not wrong. 
 
 In the interval before the arrival of Felix 
 the pagan noted that Veronique was the only 
 one to appear quite herself the only one who 
 did not fidget uneasily or glance at the clock. 
 Diane seemed moody now distrait, now very 
 talkative and vivacious; and, as for Madame 
 Nicolas, she was as distressed as a woman of 
 her innate serenity and self-control could be. 
 
 "A little drama, perhaps," mused Taillandy, 
 always observant. "One man too many at the 
 table. I had almost forgotten how complex 
 civilized existence is. Well, when this Felix 
 arrives we shall see what we shall see." 
 
 When Felix arrived Taillandy saw a dark- 
 skinned, dark-eyed youth with a shock of black 
 hair that curled evidently in spite of the brush 
 a youth of quick, abrupt gestures and speech, 
 a youth of twenty-three, perhaps, with a mouth 
 that could smile radiantly or could turn sullen 
 at a word. He saw a lithe, active youth, supple 
 as a cat, graceful as a cat, and, thought Tail 
 landy, treacherous, perhaps, as a cat. 
 
 The two men mistrusted each other, I think, 
 from the very first; but once again it was Tail 
 landy who was able to ease the strain. 
 
 "You come from the south, monsieur?" he 
 inquired courteously, "unless I misjudge your 
 accent." 
 
 "Yes from Cagnes." 
 
156 THE PAGAN 
 
 "Ah, true ? I know it well. It bathes its feet 
 in the sea and what a sea ! Picture to your 
 self, Madame Nicolas, a blue sea that sparkles 
 like the eyes of Aphrodite, that is edged with 
 foam as white as her white arms a sea whose 
 laughter among the rocks is like the glad laugh 
 ter of nereids. Cagnes, I tell you, bathes her 
 feet in that sea, and " 
 
 "And," interrupted Felix, "Cagnes is truly 
 blessed in its foot-tub." 
 
 Taillandy, annoyed at the interruption, 
 frowned a little; then, thinking better of it, 
 smiled and bowed. 
 
 "It is as you say, monsieur Cagnes is 
 blessed in its foot-tub." 
 
 IV 
 
 IT was not a particularly successful luncheon. 
 Taillandy did his best, which meant that he 
 talked a great deal, and Felix, resenting the ease 
 with which the poet conversed on unintelligible 
 subjects, grew silent almost to the point of be 
 ing openly impolite. Moreover, Diane ignored 
 Felix, ignored him wholly to the point of being 
 impolite but I doubt if this was deliberate on 
 her part. One does not, after all, pay much at 
 tention to the moon when the sun is high. 
 
 Things went no better after the meal, and 
 this was due to the fact that, in the rear of the 
 house, there was a garden a careful, neat, 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 157 
 
 well-groomed little garden such as the French 
 bourgeois loves. It was rectangular; it was 
 hemmed in by a low, white wall with red tiles 
 capping it and green vines draping it. At 
 places a sunflower or a hollyhock peered curi 
 ously over this wall, that outsiders might be 
 envious and regret that they were outsiders. 
 Two straight paths traversed the garden at 
 right angles and divided it into four parts, and 
 a plaster Cupid, aiming an arrow into the air, 
 marked trimphantly their intersection. At the 
 centre of the far end of the garden, and there 
 fore in line with the Cupid, was a stone bench, 
 carved as Madame Nicolas would tell you, by 
 the hands of her dead husband. To this bench, 
 then, came Taillandy and Diane, while Felix 
 sulked indoors. 
 
 "We will talk," observed the pagan simply, 
 as he took his seat beside her. "Or rather, you 
 shall talk, and for once I will listen. . . . 
 This Felix? He loves you?" 
 
 "Oh, monsieur!" remonstrated Diane. 
 
 Taillandy nodded. 
 
 "Precisely he loves you. But, name of a 
 name, naturally he loves you! The one ques 
 tion of interest is do you love him? Answer 
 me that, my little Diane and answer truly." 
 
 He looked her seriously and fixedly in the 
 eyes, and there was no trace of a smile at his 
 lips but, rather, his high eyebrows were knit 
 in a frown of doubt and of anxiety. It seemed 
 he placed great weight on her reply. 
 
158 THE PAGAN 
 
 She, a little frightened by his intenseness, 
 hesitated, blushed, looked at him and then 
 away, opened her lips as if to speak but, in 
 stead, put her face in her hands and sobbed. 
 . . . Ah, woman, where is thy mystery ! 
 
 Of course he should have taken her in his 
 arms to comfort her ; but Taillandy, who under 
 stood many things divine, understood not 
 human woman and, more especially, human 
 woman in tears. 
 
 "I am sorry," he said contritely. "I have 
 given you pain I have asked too much. Will 
 you forgive me?" 
 
 She did not reply for a space; but presently 
 she threw back her head, brushed the tears from 
 her eyes with an impatient hand, achieved a 
 smile, and said: "It is nothing; I am foolish; 
 I cry for nothing at all. Always I have been 
 that way. But now, you see, it is past, my fool 
 ishness, and I will answer your question. Mon 
 sieur Ferdinand, I love a great many things in 
 this world: I love my mother and I love Ve- 
 ronique; I love Monsieur le cure and I love 
 Monsieur Silvestre; I love the Seine not the 
 Seine of Paris" she shuddered a little "but 
 our Seine, the Seme of Evremont, with the pop 
 lars, and the meadows, and the cows, and the 
 little boats. I love all these things, Monsieur 
 Ferdinand, and yet is it not strange? I do 
 not love Felix." 
 
 "The gods be praised!" murmured Tail 
 landy. 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 159 
 
 She stole a glance at him, and in that glance 
 was a trace of the Eve that had always been 
 in her. 
 
 u And why," she asked demurely, "should 
 the gods be praised?" 
 
 "Why?" he echoed, and then again, very 
 triumphantly: "Why? Why, because, my 
 Diane of the Moon, the gods have planned a 
 different destiny for you, and it is not good that 
 the gods be thwarted." 
 
 He raised his long arms as if calling all 
 Olympus to witness; and as he did so he saw 
 Felix Romarin coming down the path from the 
 house. 
 
 PERHAPS Felix thought that he had sulked 
 long enough in his tent. After all, sulking is 
 ineffective and therefore unsatisfying unless the 
 act is attracting attention causing pain, for 
 example, or anxiety, or even pity. To sulk un 
 heeded is sheer waste of time and energy. 
 
 Now, Madame Nicolas and Veronique had 
 talked pleasantly and comfortably across Felix s 
 most obstinate silence. In vain had he endeav 
 ored to emphasize the facts that his feelings 
 were hurt, that he took no interest in their con 
 versation, that he considered himself ill used. 
 They remained persistently cheerful, and as 
 soon as they perceived that he ignored their 
 questions they forbore to question him. 
 
160 THE PAGAN 
 
 Finally, in a rage, he picked up his hat and 
 left the room for the garden, where he well 
 knew he was not wanted. 
 
 "I fear there will be trouble, * said Madame 
 Nicolas anxiously. 
 
 "He has a quick temper," said Veronique. 
 
 "But at bottom a good heart," added Ma 
 dame Nicolas. 
 
 "It is far at the bottom to-day," concluded 
 Veronique, and snapped the silk thread of her 
 embroidery viciously. . . . 
 
 When Felix reached the bench at the end of 
 the garden he stood silent before Diane and 
 Taillandy, his arms folded, his head down, 
 watching them from under sullen brows. He 
 did not know what he wished to say what he 
 had come to say so he said the most unfor 
 tunate thing possible. 
 
 "Have you talked enough with your lover 
 from Paris?" 
 
 There was a silence. Taillandy s arms 
 dropped slowly to his sides and, as slowly, he 
 got up from his seat. 
 
 "Go back to the shop, Diane," he said quiet 
 ly. "I will talk with this Romarin a little." 
 
 "No no!" she cried, clutching at his hand. 
 "You must not stay alone with him you do 
 not know Felix. He is mad he sees red 
 and when he is that way he will do anything." 
 
 "So I perceive," answered the pagan, and 
 the crooked smile came to his lips, but mirth 
 lessly. 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 161 
 
 "No," continued Diane, "it is I who will 
 talk a little with this Romarin. And when I 
 finish I shall talk with him no more. Felix, 
 listen well. It is of the utmost seriousness 
 what I have to say." 
 
 Felix clenched his fists, but his eyes sought 
 the ground and he flushed darkly perhaps 
 from anger, perhaps from shame. 
 
 "Let me deal with him alone," he said. "He 
 is a man and I am a man. It is easier that way. 
 I can do nothing with you you know that. 
 You are a woman you are my woman the 
 woman I love. That also you know. I cannot 
 talk to women. Let me, I say, deal with him." 
 
 "I am the woman you love I ?" cried Diane. 
 "When you love a woman, then, do you insult 
 her?" 
 
 "If the woman I love hurts me," said Felix, 
 "I strive to hurt her." 
 
 "And if" interposed Taillandy, "and if 
 the man you hate hurts you, what do you do?" 
 
 There was a brief silence. Then "I strive 
 to kill him," answered Romarin. 
 
 "In that case," argued Taillandy, "since I 
 seem to be the offender, why do you not kill 
 me at once? With what weapon are you accus 
 tomed to commit murder? the knife? the 
 revolver? or, perhaps, the slow poison? 
 Come, my friend, you are rather absurd. You 
 seek doubtless to frighten me, but, you per 
 ceive, it is not I that am afraid to die it is 
 you that are afraid to kill. And that is quite 
 
162 THE PAGAN 
 
 as it should be, for no pagan hesitates to die, 
 whereas all Christians hesitate to kill. This 
 repugnance of bloodshed is, if I may point it 
 out to you, a weakness derived mainly from 
 Christianity and from our modern and unnat 
 ural state of civilization. You are told, I be 
 lieve, to love your enemies; but do you not see 
 how impossible that is ? A man can love some 
 one who has been his enemy, or some one who 
 may eventually become his enemy, but the in 
 stant a man loves his enemy, why, then he is 
 simply loving his friend and we are all of us 
 quite capable of doing that. In fact, it would 
 be just as unnatural for a man to hate his friend 
 as it would be for a man to love his enemy 
 just as unnatural and just as impossible. But 
 perhaps you will ask is not hatred unbeauti- 
 ful, and therefore something to be shunned? 
 The answer is simple : there are beautiful ha 
 treds and unbeautiful hatreds, just as there 
 are beautiful loves and unbeautiful loves. Is 
 the hatred of tyranny more ugly than the love 
 of tyranny; or, if you will be more concrete, is 
 the man who hates a tyrant more blameworthy 
 than the man who loves a tyrant? . . . But 
 perhaps I bore you. It is a subject on which I 
 am inclined to become discursive. Always, al 
 ways, I talk too much. Is it not so, Diane?" 
 He turned to smile at her, and this time there 
 was mirth in his smile. And then he did a 
 strange thing strange because it was success 
 ful: he took each of them by an arm and led 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 163 
 
 them calmly up the path to the shop. And, to 
 keep up their spirits on the way, he recited to 
 them an ode from Horace, which, of course, 
 neither of them understood in the least. Felix 
 went unprotesting. I think that, for the mo 
 ment, Taillandy s rhetoric had him cowed. 
 
 VI 
 
 TAILLANDY made his home at Evremont in 
 an up-stairs room of the Cafe du Levant. 
 Monsiur Silvestre, needless to say, was de 
 lighted to have such an illustrious comrade, 
 and Monsieur le cure visited the cafe even more 
 frequently than before. That Taillandy loved 
 to talk there is no denying; but also there is no 
 denying that this audience of two loved to listen 
 to him. At the little table on the sidewalk he 
 arranged the affairs of earth and of heaven : 
 he upset ministries, he dethroned kings; he pom 
 melled civilization, and annihilated all creeds 
 but his own. Often, to be sure, he contradicted 
 himself, but that is the way of all fluent and 
 eloquent men. At the end of three days he 
 had the world so transfigured that all was right 
 with it a prodigious feat, you must admit, to 
 perform at a cafe-table. 
 
 But he did not neglect Diane. At Evremont- 
 sur-Seine one rises early, and Taillandy, trained 
 by his years of solitary wandering to rise by the 
 
164 THE PAGAN 
 
 sun rather than by the clock, adapted himself 
 readily to the custom. And so it came about 
 that his hours with Diane were the twilight 
 hours of dawn and sunset those miraculous 
 hours when our senses are the most acute, when 
 we are gladdest or saddest, when we love life 
 the most or fear death the least. 
 
 As for Felix Romarin, for the time being 
 he was out of the picture. If any one worried 
 about him it was the cure, who was aware that 
 he had given up his employment and had been 
 drinking more than was good for him. Felix 
 never troubled the Cafe du Levant (for reasons 
 known doubtless to Monsieur Silvestre), but 
 twice during the week he had been forcibly 
 ejected from that more plebeian resort known 
 as the Cafe de la Victoire; and this was omi 
 nous, inasmuch as the management of the Cafe 
 of Victory was notoriously lenient. 
 
 One day, at noon, Taillandy met Felix cross 
 ing the square. 
 
 "Good morning," said the poet; "it is a hand 
 some day." 
 
 Felix stopped short and regarded him, sway 
 ing slightly where he stood. 
 
 "Some may think so," he replied ungra 
 ciously. 
 
 "Which implies, I presume, that some do 
 not?" 
 
 Felix shrugged his shoulders and steadied 
 himself with a hand on the watering-trough. 
 
 "Every one has his turn," said he. "For the 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 165 
 
 moment you are up and I am down. But that 
 may change who knows?" 
 
 "Yes, indeed," agreed the poet; "who 
 knows?" 
 
 Romarin stared at him. 
 
 "I know," he said briefly, and passed 
 on. ... 
 
 Now, in June the days are long, and Evre- 
 mont, dining early, finishes its cognac and 
 coffee before sunset. Taillandy and Monsieur 
 Silvestre were accustomed to take their evening 
 meal together on the sidewalk when the weather 
 was fine, and to linger over it, cracking nuts and 
 nibbling raisins, until the cure should join them 
 for the coffee. On a certain evening (it was 
 the second Sunday, I believe, after Taillandy s 
 arrival at Evremont) the cure was wofully late 
 in appearing. 
 
 "I wonder what it is that holds him?" mused 
 the poet. 
 
 "It would perhaps be that old housekeeper 
 of his that Amelie. She treats him like a child 
 and does not like him to go out in the evenings. 
 If she had her way Monsieur le cure would be 
 between the sheets at half past seven every 
 night. That is solicitude carried to excess. 
 Sometimes it makes me glad that there is no 
 one to care for me to such an extent." 
 
 Taillandy nodded slowly. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "we men want to be 
 nursed only when we want to be nursed. But 
 when we want nursing and there is no one to do 
 
166 THE PAGAN 
 
 it ah, then, my friend, then how sorry do we 
 feel for ourselves!" 
 
 "I take it," observed the landlord slyly, "that 
 you contemplate engaging a nurse." 
 
 "You have wonderful vision," returned Tail- 
 landy, and was about to change the subject when 
 the hurried arrival of the cure saved him the 
 trouble. 
 
 Monsieur le cure was panting and distressed. 
 
 "You are late," said the landlord, "and you 
 are out of breath. Have you been wrestling 
 with your conscience or running away from it, 
 perhaps?" 
 
 "Neither," replied the cure, briefly; "I have 
 been searching for Felix Romarin. He has 
 been missing since noon, and he has been drunk 
 since last night. It is bad. I have inquired 
 for him at every house in Evremont." 
 
 "Why look for something no one wishes to 
 find?" demanded Monsieur Silvestre. "We 
 are well quit of him." 
 
 "Hush," commanded the cure. "Do you 
 not know " 
 
 "Oh," the landlord interrupted airily, "I 
 know. You will tell me about the sparrow that 
 falls and how the very hairs of my head are 
 numbered." 
 
 "Not at all. I was about to ask you if you 
 did not know that he had procured for himself 
 a revolver." 
 
 "Ah," observed Taillandy, "that becomes 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 167 
 
 interesting. And what does he think to do 
 with a revolver?" 
 
 The cure hesitated. 
 
 "It is as well to warn you," he said at length. 
 "They who saw him last tell me that he left the 
 Cafe de la Victoire very drunk at noon with 
 his revolver, and that he said he was going 
 hunting for big game !" 
 
 Taillandy raised his eyebrows, sipped his 
 cognac, replaced the glass on the table, and lit 
 a cigarette. 
 
 "Big game," he mused. "That would be 
 me not? Well, he has been very slow to find 
 his big game and very blind. I flatter myself 
 I have been much in evidence since noon." 
 
 "Then," said the cure, "I beg of you to be 
 less in evidence this evening. I am serious, my 
 friend." 
 
 "I hope so," replied Taillandy enigmatically; 
 "I hope so. And I, also, am serious. But I 
 shall not change my habits merely because 
 Monsieur Romarin chooses to become drunk; 
 and to prove that I shall not I now bid you all 
 good-evening. As for the hunter of big game 
 well, you remember that Actaeon and Adonis 
 were huntsmen who found game bigger than 
 they expected with fatal consequences to them 
 both. Messieurs, bonsoir." 
 
 He picked up his battered hat, thrust it care 
 lessly and rakishly on his head, tossed a two- 
 franc piece on the table, and departed. They 
 
168 THE PAGAN 
 
 watched him cross the twilit square in the direc 
 tion of the shop of Madame Nicolas. 
 
 "He goes to walk with Diane?" said the 
 cure, interrogatively. 
 
 "But yes," responded Monsieur Silvestre. 
 "It is their custom at this hour." And then 
 he added with a sigh: "It is the lovers hour. 
 I remember ..." 
 
 "Naturally," interrupted the cure, "we all 
 remember." 
 
 They fell silent, each perhaps remembering. 
 
 Inside, in the cafe, a waiter commenced to 
 light the lamps, for it was growing dark; and 
 presently about the village other lights glowed 
 behind square windows. Below them, as the 
 sun slipped down behind the hills, the Seine 
 changed from gold to silver. Then a star or 
 two stepped into the sky and it was night. 
 
 "I am uneasy," said the cure, shivering a 
 little. 
 
 "For him?" asked Monsieur Silvestre. 
 
 "Yes; for him. . . . Listen! Did you 
 hear nothing?" 
 
 "I hear only the tinkle of the water in the 
 trough out there, and the splashing of the 
 sparrows." 
 
 "Nothing more?" 
 
 "The wind in the poplars." 
 
 "It is well. I imagine things. I am over 
 wrought." 
 
 "You had better sleep," advised Monsieur 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 169 
 
 Silvestre. "I will walk home with you across 
 the square." 
 
 "No, not yet awhile, my friend. I should 
 not sleep. It is better that I stay here with 
 you for a time, if you will bear with me." 
 
 "As you will. For me, I ask nothing better. 
 Will you drink?" 
 
 "No, but I will smoke. It will quiet 
 me. 
 
 VII 
 
 TAILLANDY found Diane waiting for him in 
 the doorway of the shop. She was in white, 
 with a hooded cloak over her shoulders. Her 
 face was pale even in the glow of the dying 
 sun, but there was gold in the shadows of her 
 hair. 
 
 "I am late," said the pagan; "the cure de 
 tained me." 
 
 "Is there anything wrong?" she inquired. 
 
 He hesitated; then "No, nothing," he re 
 plied. "Are we not together?" 
 
 They followed the crooked street that led to 
 the river a street that soon became a mere 
 wagon trail across the meadows. They walked 
 close together, and presently he put his arm 
 about her and kissed her, with only the first 
 stars to witness it. 
 
 "In that," he said gravely, "are all my vows. 
 The earth and the sky are my altar, and I 
 
170 THE PAGAN 
 
 pledge myself to you before them. To-mor 
 row or when you will for your sake and for 
 the sake of our good friend the cure, I will 
 stand before your altar and his to renew this 
 pledge. Are you content, my Diane?" 
 
 "You are good," she answered, "and I am 
 yery happy." 
 
 "And you love me?" 
 
 She smiled at him quietly, wistfully, yearn 
 ingly, as a woman smiles when she knows that 
 all her words are inadequate. 
 
 "You know I do," she said. 
 
 "Forever?" 
 
 "Forever ever and forever," she repeat 
 ed. ... 
 
 They came to the margin of the river, and he 
 found her a spot beside a willow where they 
 could see the stars. At their feet the Seine 
 murmured and whispered, flowing silver to 
 Paris and the sea. About them hung the per 
 fume of spring. 
 
 For a long time they talked quietly they 
 knew not how long, whether it was a thousand 
 ages or an evening. Then, suddenly, the poet 
 stopped short in the middle of a sentence. 
 
 "What was that?" he asked. 
 
 They listened intently. 
 
 "It is some one walking by the river," she 
 said, after a space. 
 
 Again they listened. They heard footsteps 
 coming along the path that bordered the Seine 
 unsteady footsteps. Perhaps because of the 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 171 
 
 darkness. They heard a crackling of under 
 brush and an oath. Diane gave a little cry. 
 Taillandy stood up, long and lean and silent. 
 She also stood up, but, holding her hand, he put 
 her gently behind him. 
 
 Out of the shadows by the path and into a 
 patch of starlight came a grotesque black figure, 
 lurching, stumbling, shaking his fists at the 
 stars. When he was within twenty yards of 
 them he stopped, his eye arrested by the splash 
 of white that was Diane s dress. He straight 
 ened himself with an effort and regarded them 
 for long, silent minutes. Then, slowly and with 
 caution, he advanced. 
 
 "What do you want?" demanded Taillandy 
 sharply. 
 
 "That which I have found," was the answer. 
 "I am in luck. It is Diane and her lover. To 
 night, Monsieur Taillandy, I am up and you 
 are down. Do you not remember that I warned 
 you?" 
 
 "You had better go home and get to bed," 
 advised the poet. 
 
 Felix laughed unpleasantly. 
 
 "It is you who are going home," he an 
 swered, "and your bed will be deep." 
 
 He made a quick motion with his right arm; 
 there was a sharp report of a revolver not 
 overloud; there was a little cloud of smoke 
 swaying in front of Romarin s face; there 
 was the bitter smell of powder poisoning the 
 air. 
 
172 THE PAGAN 
 
 Diane caught Taillandy in her arms, stag 
 gered under the weight of him, and then fell 
 with him to the ground. 
 
 VIII 
 
 "HusH !" cried the cure. "What was that?" 
 
 "A shot," answered Monsieur Silvestre, 
 "down by the river. Come! Can you run?" 
 
 But the cure was half-way across the square. 
 Monsieur Silvestre, more corpulent, panted 
 after him. 
 
 When they reached the river they heard 
 Diane s voice calling for help. The cure, who 
 still led the race, his skirts flapping about his 
 ankles, turned as he ran and shouted: "Faster, 
 my friend! Diane does not cry for nothing." 
 
 "Name of God," answered the landlord, "is 
 it not I who know it?" and he redoubled his 
 efforts with such effect that he drew abreast of 
 the priest. 
 
 Together, then, they came upon the little 
 group beside the willows. Taillandy lay mo 
 tionless on the ground, his long limbs relaxed, 
 his head pillowed on Diane s breast. Felix 
 stood over them with arms folded across his 
 chest and the revolver still in his right hand. 
 He said nothing, but swayed slightly from side 
 to side, shifting from one foot to the other. 
 
 When Diane recognized the cure she said: 
 "Mow pere, tell me that he yet lives." 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 173 
 
 The cure knelt beside her and laid his hand 
 on Taillandy s breast, over his heart. The 
 hand came away wet and stained darkly, and 
 the cure shuddered. 
 
 "My daughter," he said, "he still lives. 1 
 
 Then he turned to Monsieur Silvestre. 
 
 "Take that devil s weapon away from Felix," 
 he commanded, "before he does more harm 
 with it." 
 
 At mention of his name Felix spoke for the 
 first time. 
 
 "I found her with her lover," he whimpered 
 "I found her with her lover, and so I killed 
 him." 
 
 Monsieur Silvestre, growling with fury, 
 leaped on him. He wrested the revolver from 
 his fingers and struck him across the mouth 
 with his open hand. 
 
 "That is enough from you !" he cried. 
 
 But Felix, impassive under the blow, merely 
 repeated : "I found her with her lover, and so 
 I killed him." 
 
 "Come," said the cure, "pay no more heed 
 for the present, Monsieur Silvestre. We must 
 get Ferdinand back to the village." 
 
 They were about to lift him, the cure at his 
 head, the landlord at his feet, when Taillandy 
 opened his eyes and motioned them to desist. 
 
 "I know," he said, with an attempt at his 
 twisted smile, "I know. You are very good. 
 But let me lie here for a while. It will not 
 be long, and here I have everything and every 
 
174 THE PAGAN 
 
 one about me that I love. . . . Even that 
 poor Felix, whom I do not hate." 
 
 u We will attend to him," promised Monsieur 
 Silvestre. 
 
 "Attend, rather, to the absinthe," said the 
 pagan vaguely, "and to the hot blood of the 
 south." With that he seemed to dismiss the 
 matter from his mind, and, turning his face to 
 Diane, he said: "Kiss me well, my little Diane, 
 my Moon-Goddess, my slim Huntress kiss me 
 well. Give me strength from your lips to climb 
 Olympus alone. You remember, I told you it 
 was a hard climb a hard climb even when two 
 go together." 
 
 She bent her head to kiss him. Monsieur 
 Silvestre turned away, sobbing and groaning: 
 "Now where is your God of pity!" he cried; 
 "where is your God of love ! Show me now a 
 miracle and I will believe!" The cure still 
 knelt quietly by the poet s side; Felix stood 
 above them, motionless, dazed. 
 
 "My love," whispered Diane, "if you want 
 me with you to climb the mountain I am ready. 
 And I am eager to start. Felix should have 
 another bullet " 
 
 "Hush," he interrupted her. "You will 
 come when the gods will it. And I, going 
 ahead, will leave signs by the roadside to guide 
 you. It is better so. ... Listen! Do you 
 not hear the naiads singing in the river or is 
 it the stars, perhaps, that sing? Surely I hear 
 it. It grows louder there is in my ears a great 
 
THE END OF THE ROAD 175 
 
 surge of song and a clashing of cymbals. 
 Take my hand, Diane. . . . Look, Monsieur 
 le cure is praying for me praying to his God. 
 That is kind of him, Diane. May your God 
 bless you, Monsieur le cure ! You and I we 
 are both right, for Something put all those stars 
 in the heavens. Is it not true?" 
 
 The cure s eyes glowed with happiness as he 
 answered: "The God of gods and the Light of 
 light what matters the name?" And he made 
 the sign of the cross on Taillandy s forehead 
 and breast. 
 
 The poet smiled weakly. 
 
 "What matters the name," he repeated, "so 
 long as the name be Love?" 
 
 He closed his eyes, the smile still at his lips. 
 And, with the smile still at his lips, he went out, 
 alone, to his wandering. 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 THAT Andrew Farley took himself very 
 seriously at the age of twenty-six could not be 
 blamed on his liberal education at Harvard or 
 on his four years postgraduate experience in a 
 broker s office in Wall Street; for neither Har 
 vard nor Wall Street, estimable institutions 
 though they be, tend to encourage over intro 
 spection. Indeed, Andrew had been surround 
 ed ever since he could remember by cheerfully 
 idiotic friends who cultivated their muscles at 
 the expense of their minds, and who scornfully 
 ignored their souls. But Andrew was very 
 much interested in his soul, and, to do him jus 
 tice, in other people s souls. Psychology, in the 
 strictest sense of the word, was to him a study 
 of never - ceasing importance and fascination : 
 he specialized in it at Harvard and he tried, 
 with little success, to pursue it in Wall Street. 
 Actions and their motives, reactions and their 
 connotations, life and its vast, complex meaning, 
 the ideal relation of the sexes and how it should 
 be brought about, man s duty to the world and 
 the world s duty to man all these were things 
 the pondering of which occupied Andrew Far- 
 179 
 
180 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 ley s mind at the expense of intercollegiate 
 athletics and the vagaries of the stock-market. 
 
 Accordingly, every one was surprised when 
 Andrew s engagement to Marcella Maynard 
 was announced, and no one was surprised when 
 Andrew s engagement to Marcella Maynard 
 was broken. Marcella, you see, was very super 
 ficial at least, people who were very super 
 ficial said so and Andrew was known to be 
 very fundamental. Marcella had never read 
 Darwin or Huxley or Ruskin or Bergson, with 
 all of whom Andrew was thoroughly conversant 
 and about whom why deny it? he was per 
 haps too thoroughly conversational. Then, 
 too, Marcella "went out a great deal in so 
 ciety," and Andrew had long ago convinced 
 himself that society, so called, tended to dwarf 
 the soul and was, therefore, beneath contempt. 
 With fine scorn and finer alliteration he had 
 denounced society s polite conversation as the 
 "vapid vaporings of illiterate imbeciles/ Give 
 him, rather, he protested, the heart-searing dis 
 course of a Polish Jew or the imprisoned fire 
 in the words of an Italian laborer digging in a 
 sewer. True, he understood neither Polish 
 nor Italian, but he thought it unnecessary to 
 mar the effect of his rhetoric by pointing out 
 this deficiency. 
 
 Marcella I knew her well was a delight 
 ful girl in spite of her fondness for superficial 
 pleasures. She was essentially feminine. I al 
 ways admired her because she played such a 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 181 
 
 ludicrously bad game of tennis and was com 
 pletely at a loss on a golf-links. There are a 
 hundred things I could say in her favor that 
 Andrew doubtless counted against her, and the 
 greatest of these was that she was scarcely edu 
 cated that is, she spelled abominably and mis 
 used all words of more than three syllables and 
 many of less. In addition to this she was pas 
 sionately fond of jewelry and clothes and flow 
 ers and candy, all of which Andrew classed with 
 the pomps and vanities of this wicked world. 
 So you see there was no possible chance of their 
 hitting it off together so long as Andrew re 
 mained Andrew and Marcella remained Mar- 
 cella. 
 
 Andrew showed me, years afterward, the 
 note that she wrote to him, breaking the engage 
 ment. 
 
 "Dear Andrew," she began, very primly 
 u after our conversation last night I have decid 
 ed that it will never do for us to get married. 
 I am far too frivilous I m afraid and I can t 
 bear to give up all those lovely things that you 
 object to so much and I just won t take a 
 course of reading or go to stuffy lectures at 
 Barnard. I know as much as any girl I know 
 and woman s sphere is not in the library but 
 in the home after all isn t it!! Of course I 
 admire you very much and all that but I can t 
 keep up pretending to be serious like you all 
 my life. I like to laugh at things and I think 
 
182 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 it s better to laugh than to cry always. If you 
 want what you call a companion that is your 
 equal in mentality I won t do because I am no 
 Socrates or whatever that old Roman s name 
 was and I will never be one. So Andrew I m 
 afraid it is all over between us. I m very sorry 
 but it is better to have found out in time isn t 
 it!! Better for both of us I mean. I will al 
 ways think very kindly of you and am return 
 ing your gifts except the candy which is eaten. 
 With best wishes for your future, I remain, 
 "Yours very truly, 
 "MARCELLA MAYNARD." 
 
 The receipt of that letter put Andrew into a 
 state of mind that interested him exceedingly. 
 He discovered that he was not at all heart 
 broken if anything had been hurt it was, per 
 haps, his pride. The letter was so calm, so 
 casual as if the girl herself were not heart 
 broken either. It annoyed him that a person 
 could put him, Andrew Farley, out of her life 
 so ruthlessly, and he reflected that she would 
 have hesitated longer had it been a question of 
 getting rid of her Pekingese. On maturer de 
 liberation this seemed to prove incontestably 
 that she was incapable of appreciating him, 
 incapable of grasping his true worth. Ah, yes, 
 he needed a subtler intellect to mate with his, 
 he needed some one who moved in a rarer, 
 more sublimated atmosphere. 
 
 And so, with absolutely no idea of finding 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 183 
 
 such a person, he packed a trunk and boarded 
 a ship for the West Indies. Marcella went to 
 Palm Beach. 
 
 II 
 
 IN the West Indies Andrew was offered 
 many opportunities for studying the soul in its 
 primitive state, but, somehow or other, primi 
 tive souls seemed to lack a certain vital in 
 terest that civilized souls indubitably possessed. 
 Primitive souls provided merely elementary 
 study, and Andrew felt quite rightly that he had 
 passed, so to speak, beyond the First Reader 
 and souls of one syllable. He flattered him 
 self that he thoroughly understood the simpler 
 passions love, hate, jealousy, avarice and, 
 in the tropics, life was apparently actuated by 
 nothing more complex than these. Then, to 
 add to his discouragement, he found that he, 
 who had always scoffed at physical attractions, 
 was sensibly repelled by the lack of physical 
 attractions evidenced in the people with whom 
 he came in contact. The West Indian sky was 
 very blue, the Caribbean was crystal-clear and 
 as purple as a colored postal card of it, the 
 palms were very green, but well, the West 
 Indians were not very white. There were times 
 when he remembered, with a pang, how white 
 Marcella was how white and how cool. And 
 the scent that she used that suggested lilies of 
 the valley. 
 
 He engaged passage on a dingy, reeking little 
 
184 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 steamer, and spent three weeks among the 
 Windward Islands. Mid-February found him 
 at Saint Thomas, and at Saint Thomas he had 
 the misfortune to stand on the quay and watch 
 the dingy, reeking little steamer sail out of the 
 harbor without him. He had delayed too long 
 in a shop buying himself a panama. 
 
 Now Saint Thomas is a brilliant green island, 
 planted in the middle of a wide expanse of 
 happy blue. It is a warm, lush green a green 
 that soothes and entices, and insidiously saps 
 one s ambition, like the taste of the lotos or the 
 perfume of the poppy. 
 
 Doubtless it was due to this narcotic green, 
 then, that Andrew felt few regrets as he stood 
 on the quay and watched his steamer trail a 
 line of white foam across the harbor. Instead, 
 he found that he was quite content to remain 
 where he was, and not for anything would he 
 have shouted or signalled in an attempt to at 
 tract the little vessel s attention to its marooned 
 passenger. 
 
 A score of sympathetic natives, black as any 
 spade in the pack, surrounded him, vouchsafing 
 suggestions, and two cabbies repeated continu 
 ously in a monotone the phrase : u Keb, sir 
 want a keb, sir?" 
 
 At length, one of them, an old negro in a 
 battered silk hat, approached him and said very 
 politely: 
 
 "I tike you drive, m lord? tike you nice 
 drive." 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 185 
 
 Andrew studied him at great leisure. 
 
 "Where did you learn your English?" he 
 asked. 
 
 "I speak good English," answered the cabby. 
 "I speak English on bloomin Danish island," 
 and he pointed to the Danish flag flying from 
 the governor s "palace." 
 
 The gesture gave Andrew an inspiration. 
 
 "Drive me," he said, "to the palace. I will 
 call on the governor." 
 
 "Not at ome," responded the negro prompt 
 ly. "He tike vacation aweye. I tike you see 
 Mr. Jumley." 
 
 "Mr. who?" inquired Andrew. 
 
 "Mr. Jumley. E s English. Very rich 
 man, m lord. Bloomin big house. Damn fine 
 garden, too. My eye ! I tike you see Mr. 
 Jumley, m lord." 
 
 "Very well," answered Andrew, "take me to 
 see Mr. Jumley." 
 
 He climbed into the decrepit little barouche 
 and, drawn by a decrepit little horse, they 
 rattled away over the clean cobblestones of the 
 square. 
 
 There is but one level road on Saint Thomas 
 a road that skirts the harbor and the sea. 
 The others clamber inland and skyward, up 
 precipitous slopes, often with the aid of stone 
 steps, and lead to nowhere for the town and 
 harbor of Charlotte-Amalia is about all there 
 is to Saint Thomas, at least so far as population 
 is concerned. 
 
186 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 The driver, fortunately for the health of his 
 horse and the springs of the barouche and the 
 comfort of his passenger, stayed by the shore 
 road, and during the fifteen-minute excursion 
 gave utterance to his thoughts in a never-ceas 
 ing monologue. 
 
 "Mr. Jumley makes choice rum and other 
 fine sippings," said he. "My eye, that s why 
 e s so bloomin rich man. Wot with tropic, 
 excessive eat, and so much dust, we all is ex 
 cessive thirsty. My eye!" 
 
 "I understand," said Andrew. 
 
 "Yes, m lord, you understand; but Mr. Jum 
 ley, e don t understand. Why? because e 
 cawn t. E s drunk too much long sippings of 
 is own rum that s wot / seye, and e s balmy, 
 my eye !" 
 
 "How unfortunate !" commented Andrew. 
 "Why, then, do you take me to see a crazy 
 man?" 
 
 "Oh, ho!" laughed the driver. "Mr. Jum 
 ley likes all new strangers to stay long time with 
 im. Is ouse much better than the bloomin 
 otel. Besides, is daughter, Miss Jumley, she s 
 not balmy. Oh, no, she s not arf balmy. . . . 
 My eye !" 
 
 The driver, at this, turned around so that 
 Andrew could see the ecstatic grin on his black 
 face. 
 
 "Miss Jumley," he continued, "reads books 
 all daytime and Mr. Jumley he drink rum all 
 night-time. Bloomin appy family, I calls it." 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 187 
 
 Andrew, mystified and not a little disgusted, 
 forbore to question the driver further, and 
 presently they drew up in front of an iron gate, 
 beside which, in gilt letters on a marble plaque, 
 was the inscription "Mon Repos." Strange 
 anomaly an Englishman owning a villa with 
 a French name on a Danish island ! 
 
 With many misgivings Andrew pushed open 
 the gate and followed the straight path up to 
 the door of a large, square, white-stone, red- 
 roofed house, far more pretentious than any he 
 had hitherto seen in Saint Thomas. 
 
 A cafe-au-lait man servant answered his ring 
 at the bell and, without inquiring his business 
 or his name, opened the door wide and stood 
 aside, bowing and grinning, to let him pass. 
 
 "Mr. Jumley?" ventured Andrew. 
 
 " E s in bed," answered the man. "But 
 Miss Jumley s in the garden at the back of the 
 
 ouse." 
 
 Thereupon he led the way across the stone- 
 paved hall, through a court where a fountain 
 splashed coolly under palms, to a broad terrace 
 that overlooked the sea and that gave access 
 by means of a twisting flight of steps to the 
 garden. 
 
 At this point the servant indicated with a 
 brown finger a sort of summer-house, built of 
 green lattice and covered with vines, and he 
 said: 
 
 "Miss Jumley always in there with er big 
 books." 
 
188 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 Then he turned and, leaving Andrew hesitat 
 ing on the terrace, re-entered the house. 
 
 "This," said Andrew to himself, u is very 
 nearly an adventure. The Mystery of the Girl 
 behind the Green Lattice." 
 
 He descended the steps and, passing down 
 an alley of palms, reached the summer-house, 
 which was at the extreme end of the garden, 
 separated only by a low parapet from the sea. 
 
 In a comfortable-looking wicker chair, with 
 books piled on the ground at her feet and a fat 
 volume of Miinsterberg in her hand, sat Miss 
 Jumley. 
 
 Much as I should like to, I am afraid that 
 I cannot describe her as beautiful. According 
 to all precedent, of course, a girl that sits in a 
 green lattice summer-house on a tropical island 
 should be very beautiful indeed, and dark, with 
 a skin the color of old ivory. And she should 
 have large, black eyes, like unfathomable wells. 
 But this is a realistic story. 
 
 Miss Jumley was tall, angular, and flat 
 facts which her flowing, tunic-like gown empha 
 sized rather than concealed. Having said that, 
 I have told you the worst, for she had several 
 good points which are strictly compatible with 
 height, angularity, and flatness. Her hands, 
 for instance long and slim, with sensitive fin 
 gers and her feet, shapely in their sandals. 
 Yes, she wore sandals. Her hair was positively 
 beautiful; that deep reddish-brown hair, the 
 color of russet shoes that have been much pol- 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 189 
 
 ished, and to Andrew s uninitiated eye it seemed 
 that she had a great deal of this hair. Her 
 skin, while not quite so good as her hair, was 
 welcomely white in contrast to the duskiness 
 that Andrew had encountered during the last 
 month, and her lips, slightly rouged perhaps, 
 emphasized its whiteness. As for her eyes 
 well, it is hard to describe her eyes. They were 
 not black, nor were they large, unfathomable 
 wells. They were green and rather small, but 
 very intense. She seemed to concentrate the 
 expression of her moods in her eyes, leaving 
 the rest of her face immobile. Later she ad 
 mitted to Andrew that she had difficulty in keep 
 ing her soul out of her eyes that they spoke 
 when her lips were silent. Andrew thought 
 that charming, and on the few occasions when 
 she was silent he was convinced that her eyes 
 were uttering great thoughts. 
 
 At sight of Andrew, standing with his new 
 panama in his hand, she marked her place care 
 fully in her book, put the book aside, and raised 
 slow, inquiring eyes to his. 
 
 "Miss Jumley?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes," she answered languidly, "I am she. 
 Will you come in and sit down? My name is 
 spelt Cholmondeley, however if that is of the 
 least interest." 
 
 "Ah," said Andrew. "Ah, yes of course, 1 * 
 and found nothing more to add. 
 
 "Are you stopping long with us?" she in 
 quired. 
 
190 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 Andrew said that he didn t know, that she 
 was very kind to take him in him, an utter 
 stranger, that he felt very bold and that he 
 would never have intruded on them so brazenly 
 had he not missed his steamer. Then, to sum 
 up, he laid all the blame on the driver who, he 
 said, had insisted on driving him out to the 
 Cholmondeley villa. 
 
 She stopped him with a wave of her hand 
 a graceful gesture that she often employed. 
 
 "Don t apologize," she urged. "Apologies 
 are so dull and so useless. My father and I 
 are always glad to entertain any visitor to Char- 
 lotte-Amalia. We only regret that we have so 
 few to entertain. It is often lonely here in 
 Saint Thomas. Of course, as for me, I have 
 my books ah, yes, my good friends the books. 
 I spend hours conversing with Darwin and 
 Voltaire and Goethe and my dear, dear friend 
 Carlyle. But poor father he lacks that great 
 est of consolations : the capacity to enjoy the 
 printed word, the indescribable communion of 
 author and reader, the opportunity to visualize 
 a man s soul with never a glimpse of the man s 
 doubtless repellent body." 
 
 Andrew s face lighted up with eager interest. 
 Here, surely, was a woman who understood, 
 or who at least craved to understand the great 
 things in life, who was on intimate terms with 
 the great thinkers of world history. Here was 
 a woman, at last, who preferred Carlyle to the 
 fox-trot. 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 191 
 
 He sat down suddenly on the ground at her 
 feet and commenced respectfully to finger the 
 books that lay beside her. Many of his favor 
 ites were among them Darwin, Kant, Hume, 
 Nietzsche, William James, Miinsterberg, and, 
 for relaxation, Strindberg, Ibsen, Sudermann, 
 Dostoievsky, Romain Holland a grim collec 
 tion, full of meat but, for the most part, void 
 of humor. 
 
 "Your taste in literature," observed Andrew, 
 "is singularly akin to mine." He had adopted 
 instinctively that preciseness, almost precious- 
 ness of speech that had always irritated Mar- 
 cella Maynard. "Philosophy," he continued 
 "philosophy, the study of causes and results, of 
 powers and of laws; and psychology, the study 
 of the mind and the soul! The knowledge of 
 those ah, there is a star to which to hitch one s 
 wagon!" 
 
 Miss Cholmondeley threw back her head 
 with a sigh of rapture. 
 
 "I see," she said, "that you are one of us." 
 
 Andrew thought, then, that she was very 
 beautiful. 
 
 "We," she went on, "whose thoughts delve 
 beneath the surface of things, who strive to 
 plumb depths hitherto unplumbed, must, in self- 
 defense, stand by one another, an eager-eyed 
 band, united against the scoffing ignorance of 
 the superficial world. And we must console 
 ourselves with the thought that we are the van 
 guard of the Army of Light. Light, or, fail- 
 
192 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 ing that, lightning the world can take its 
 choice. " 
 
 "Ah," murmured Andrew ecstatically 
 "Carlyle!" 
 
 "Yes," she agreed, and relapsed into pleased, 
 complacent silence, like an orator whose little 
 set speech is done and well done. 
 
 A warm admiration of her entered into An 
 drew s heart. He visioned them, working to 
 gether, seeking the light hand in hand, sharing 
 each other s brain-throbs and soul-throbs, and, 
 yes, perhaps later, when their brains and souls 
 should be as one, sharing each other s heart 
 throbs, too. The sun, just then, shone very 
 brightly on Saint Thomas Island. 
 
 His pleasant musings were interrupted by a 
 succession of muffled shots, scarcely loud enough 
 to emanate from a man s-size gun, but remind 
 ing Andrew of the report of an air-rifle that in 
 his more frivolous youth he had possessed and 
 functioned. He was a little alarmed. 
 
 "What s that?" he asked quickly. 
 
 Miss Cholmondeley, however, betraying not 
 the slightest agitation, answered: "I imagine 
 that would be father shooting land-crabs," 
 
 "Shooting what? 9 
 
 "Land-crabs," she repeated. "They are a 
 great nuisance, and they positively infest the 
 garden. Their numbers never seem to grow 
 less but then, father isn t a very good shot. 
 Perhaps I had better take you and introduce 
 you to father. You ll have to meet him sooner 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 193 
 
 or later, in any case, and it is better, I think, to 
 meet him early in the day when he is apt to be 
 quite sober." 
 
 Andrew could not restrain a gasp. At first 
 he thought that he must have misunderstood, 
 but no Miss Cholmondeley enunciated very 
 distinctly. Then, for a brief moment, the sus 
 picion came to him that he had found his way 
 to a mad-house; but this explanation, too, he 
 abandoned. Finally he concluded that Miss 
 Cholmondeley possessed so great a soul that 
 she was able to rise above being ashamed of a 
 father who was "apt to be quite sober early in 
 the day," and whose favorite outdoor recrea 
 tion was hunting land-crabs with an air-rifle. 
 
 "She is a wonderful woman," he said to him 
 self, as he followed her across the garden. 
 
 They made their way in the direction of the 
 firing, the reports coming at intervals of about 
 fifteen seconds, and serving as excellent guides. 
 
 At length Miss Cholmondeley motioned An 
 drew to stop, and, with a finger at her lips, com 
 manded absolute silence. Crouching behind a 
 bamboo-tree, sighting a diminutive air-rifle, was 
 a man in a white pongee suit a little, thin, 
 elderly man, with a bright-red face and a bald 
 head and a beak of a nose. He was actively 
 engaged in loading and firing his air-rifle, but 
 Andrew could not make out what the target 
 was at which he aimed. As a matter of fact, 
 Andrew was not sure that he should recognize 
 a land-crab if he saw one. 
 
194 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 "That would be nine of the beggars," mut 
 tered Mr. Cholmonleley. 
 
 "Don t you think, father, that that is enough 
 for the morning," observed Miss Cholmonde- 
 ley. "Besides, we have a guest to-day, whom 
 you must meet. My father Mr. Andrew 
 Farley." 
 
 The little old man put down his air-rifle re 
 luctantly and, rising, came over and shook 
 Andrew s hand. 
 
 "How d ye do?" he said shyly, like an em 
 barrassed schoolboy. "I hope you ll stop with 
 us a long time. Are you fond of shooting? 
 I just bagged nine this morning excellent 
 sport." 
 
 "I m sure it must be," said Andrew. "Are 
 are they hard to hit?" 
 
 "Oh, no not very," Mr. Cholmondeley an 
 swered eagerly. "The little beggars pop back 
 into their bloomin holes very fast, though, if 
 you startle em in any way. All it needs is a 
 quick eye and great caution great caution. 
 Try a shot, if you like." 
 
 "No, thanks," said Andrew. "I m not any 
 good with a gun. Perhaps later " 
 
 "Of course, of course. Just as you please." 
 Mr. Cholmondeley appeared wofully disap 
 pointed. But presently, brightening up, he 
 whispered in Andrew s ear: "Would you like 
 a little something to drink? The dust and the 
 heat and all that " 
 
 Once more Andrew declined. 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 195 
 
 "Well, then," said Mr. Cholmondeley re 
 gretfully, "if you don t mind I think I ll try to 
 make it a round dozen for the morning. Three 
 more of the little beggars just three more. 
 Make yourself quite at home, won t you, Mr. 
 Farley? Psyche, you ll look after Mr. Farley, 
 I hope." 
 
 The girl smiled gravely. 
 
 "Yes, father," she said. "Mr. Farley and 
 I have a great deal in common." 
 
 "Good enough, good enough," approved the 
 little man. "Stop a long time with us Mr. 
 Farley. I am glad that my daughter likes you. 
 Psyche is an excellent judge excellent. I hope 
 you like her, too. She s a wonderful girl my 
 daughter by my first wife, who was a wonderful 
 woman. I always had a great admiration for 
 my first wife perhaps because she was my first. 
 You see, I ve had three and familiarity breeds 
 contempt. I can t say I cared much for the 
 last two, and I m sure they didn t care much 
 for me, because they seemed very happy when 
 they died. Well, well run along now, I must 
 get to work. And, Mr. Farley" here once 
 more he lowered his voice to a whisper "if 
 you get thirsty before luncheon, with the dust 
 and the heat, I mix a very good green swizzle. 
 Don t forget. Good-by." 
 
 Leaving Mr. Cholmondeley to complete his 
 morning s work, they strolled down to the sea 
 wall and sat side by side upon it, dangling their 
 legs over the edge. 
 
196 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 "Do you like the sea?" demanded Psyche. 
 "Are you in tune with its moods?" 
 
 "I worship the sea!" exclaimed Andrew with 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 "Ah," she answered "that is nice of you." 
 And then she added : "Yes, Mr. Farley, I think 
 we have much in common." 
 
 She leaned back, plucked a scarlet poppy, 
 and twirled it idly against her lips. The action 
 was effective. 
 
 "I think," he cried, "that you are the most 
 wonderful woman I have ever met! You are 
 exotic, oriental no, not oriental Slav. That s 
 it Slav!" 
 
 "Thank you," said she. "I like to be told 
 that, because it is always very hard for me to 
 forget that I am English. Ugh!" she shiv 
 ered a little "those cold-blooded, physical 
 English ! They are all body and no mind." 
 
 "Like the Americans," he added, thinking 
 perhaps of Marcella Maynard. 
 
 And so, until luncheon-time, she derided the 
 English, their manners, morals, and minds, and 
 he did as much for the Americans. At the end 
 of an hour he had convinced her that she was 
 a superwoman, which, of course, she had al 
 ways suspected; and she had given him to 
 understand that he was a superman, which 
 he was not unwilling to believe. Thus the time 
 passed pleasantly. 
 
 At one o clock the coffee-colored servant 
 came through the garden, to announce luncheon, 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 197 
 
 beating on a huge brass gong, and presently, 
 as they went up to the terrace, Mr. Cholmonde- 
 ley joined them, red in the face and perspir 
 ing freely. 
 
 Ill 
 
 DURING luncheon Mr. Cholmondeley, with 
 the aid of several green swizzles, became very 
 talkative. He told Andrew at great length of 
 his boyhood home in England Little Boggsby, 
 Kenbridge Green, Devon. He told him of cer 
 tain misadventures in finance that had led him 
 to quit Little Boggsby; he told him of his three 
 marriages, and of the birth of Psyche, whom 
 they had christened Maria whom, indeedj 
 they had called Maria until she reached the age 
 of rebellion and he told him of his recent 
 prosperity here at Saint Thomas through the 
 manufacture of rum. His only regret, he said, 
 was that he was unable to give Psyche social 
 opportunities. 
 
 "But she has the society of her books," ob 
 jected Andrew. 
 
 u Yes," agreed Mr. Cholmondeley, "but she 
 can t" marry a bloomin book!" And he cast 
 a sly look at Andrew, and went through the 
 motion of digging him in the ribs. Andrew was 
 a little disgusted it was all so earthy in con 
 trast with the ethereal morning. It was like 
 listening to ragtime after Debussy. 
 
 "All that Psyche needs is a good, hap- 
 
198 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 py, comfortable marriage," concluded Mr. 
 Cholmondeley. "It will settle her and 
 Psyche wants settling." 
 
 Andrew could not openly agree with this 
 statement, nor could he, on so short an intimacy, 
 venture to disagree ; but he registered inwardly 
 a violent protest. Psyche, in his eyes, needed 
 no settling, and, moreover, he refused to regard 
 marriage as a settling institution like an egg 
 in the coffee. Marriage, surely, was something 
 higher than that. . . . 
 
 That very afternoon Psyche assured him that 
 she agreed with him that marriage was some 
 thing far higher than that. 
 
 "Marriage," she said gravely, "is the join 
 ing of two flames. Although both may have 
 been bright flames before they were joined, the 
 resultant flame is just twice as strong and bril 
 liant. If one was a weak flame, its weakness 
 is overcome by the strength of the other; and so 
 closely are they merged that it is impossible to 
 discern which was the weak and which the 
 strong." 
 
 "What a beautiful thought!" said Andrew. 
 
 She sighed and turned her intense green eyes 
 heavenward. 
 
 "I have many thoughts," she murmured, 
 "but until now I have had no one to listen to 
 them." 
 
 He bent over her (she was on a sofa in the 
 marble-paved living-room) , and before he knew 
 it he was holding her long white hand in his. 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 199 
 
 There were at least six rings on her hand, all 
 set with emeralds, so that it was an uncomfort 
 able hand to press. Nevertheless, Spartan- 
 like, he pressed it. 
 
 "Why," he asked, u do you persist in living 
 here alone in isolating yourself from the 
 world? You could sit at the tables of kings, 
 and the greatest of intellects of the earth would 
 be proud to do you honor." 
 
 But she shook her head sadly. 
 
 "There is father," she said. "I cannot leave 
 father." 
 
 True, there was father uncomfortable 
 thought! father with his land-crabs and his 
 green swizzles. Obviously, father could not 
 be included at king s tables, nor would great 
 intellects rush to do him honor. Still, could not 
 father be left behind? 
 
 "Your father has so many interests " he 
 began, and let the pause speak for itself. 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "his is a very full life." 
 
 For some reason or other this response left 
 Andrew cold. . . . 
 
 But, although he made no definite progress 
 that day, he felt that sooner or later Psyche 
 and he must arrive at an understanding. He 
 felt that when two kindred souls are groping 
 toward each other, even in the dark, they are 
 bound eventually to touch. So far they had 
 but brushed each other s wings. Ah, but there 
 remained to-morrow and more to-morrows 
 golden to-morrows, all replete with the com- 
 
200 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 panionship and the stimulus of Psyche and her 
 beautiful mind. He fell asleep that night with 
 the blissful conviction that he was in an intel 
 lectual Eden an Eden where the fruit of the 
 Tree of Knowledge was the specialite de la 
 maison. 
 
 IV 
 
 HE slept peacefully enough until about two 
 o clock in the morning, when he was aroused 
 by a sound of scuffling in the hall. Lighting a 
 candle and opening the door, he discovered that 
 Shem, the cafe-au-lait man servant, was assist 
 ing Mr. Cholmondeley to bed, and that Mr. 
 Cholmondeley, although patently in need of 
 assistance, was resenting it. 
 
 "Can t have those beashly crabs crawlin up 
 the wall," Mr. Cholmondeley protested. 
 
 u They eyen t crabs," Shem assured him. 
 "They s the pictures on the new wall-piper." 
 And with a vigorous shove he got Mr. 
 Cholmondeley out of the hall into his room. 
 
 "Good lord," groaned Andrew, as he blew 
 out his candle, "how can that beast be father 
 to such a wonderful girl!" 
 
 With this thought came high resolve: he 
 would marry the girl and take her away far 
 away from this sordid environment. And he 
 would take her even against her will; he would 
 play the Roman to her Sabine woman; he would 
 prove himself a very man. And so he slept 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 201 
 
 again, this time until far into the following 
 morning. 
 
 The mornings, he found, gave him many op 
 portunities for conversation with Psyche, for 
 Mr. Cholmondeley usually stayed in bed until 
 luncheon. Thus Andrew and Psyche were able 
 to plumb each other s souls to their hearts con 
 tent with no interruptions of the earth earthy. 
 Each day Andrew fancied that he made new 
 discoveries, each day Psyche revealed a new 
 and sparkling soul-aspect, and each day Andrew 
 grew more certain that she was the one woman 
 in the world to make him happy. She was his 
 psychical supplement! 
 
 On the morning of the eighth day he deliv 
 ered his rather carefully prepared speech. Try 
 ing to make it appear that he extemporized, 
 however, he said: 
 
 u There is no doubt and even the most 
 transcendental intellects have admitted it 
 that love is a very potent force. Many claim 
 that life is incomplete without it, a view which 
 of course is not shared by Plato or Sir Isaac 
 Newton. But I imagine that even they take 
 exception only to sensuous love the love which 
 attacks the senses exclusively and which takes 
 no account of the soul and the mind. A great 
 love, the real love, involves all three, and that 
 is the only love that I recognize. Psyche, my 
 dear, I love you with my body, my soul, and 
 my mind, or, better, to put them in the order 
 of their importance, with my soul and my mind 
 
202 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 and my body. I need you, Psyche, I need you 
 psychically and mentally and yes, and physi 
 cally. Do you feel any such need of me?" 
 
 He paused there, satisfied that he had pre 
 sented his case satisfactorily. True he had not 
 been very passionate, but he believed that pas 
 sion was for people of baser clay. With Mar- 
 cella Maynard, for example, he had quite been 
 carried away. How much saner this was how 
 much less bestial ! 
 
 He paused, then, for her to speak. But she, 
 not having prepared an adequate reply in ad 
 vance, resorted, I regret to say, to the methods 
 employed by primitive woman: she threw her 
 arms around Andrew s neck and kissed him 
 violently on the lips. During the process, un 
 expected and startling though it was, Andrew 
 had time and opportunity to realize how thin 
 she was. Indeed, her physical deficiencies tem 
 porarily quite overbalanced her undoubted psy 
 chical and mental advantages. She was a super- 
 woman, true but a very angular superwoman. 
 He recalled, in spite of himself, the comfortably 
 rounded contours of Marcella, the exquisite 
 smoothness of her skin, the vague yet exhilarat 
 ing scent of her hair and then, with an effort, 
 he put such treachery by, for Psyche, having 
 found in the duration of the embrace ample time 
 to marshal her forces, was giving utterance to 
 great soul thoughts. 
 
 Said she : "My being takes fire at the touch 
 of your lips, and, though the contact be physical, 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 203 
 
 yet do I seem to cast off the weight of clay that 
 chains me to the earth, and my soul, taking 
 wings, soars high among the stars. I am con 
 scious of new power; new vistas reveal them 
 selves; I seem to see more clearly, as though 
 a veil had been taken from before my eyes. 
 Life, and its solution, has suddenly lost its 
 complexity; the mysteries of existence have 
 dissolved like a fog before a wind from the sea. 
 Everything is crystal-clear. That, Andrew, is 
 love!" 
 
 "Yes, my dearest," sighed Andrew, patting 
 her shoulder-blades, "that is the morning of 
 love." 
 
 THEY chose to announce their betrothal to 
 Mr. Cholmondeley at dinner that evening. 
 Psyche, consenting to come to earth for an in 
 stant, had suggested that her father was always 
 in his most receptive mood at that hour that 
 before dinner he was apt to be very petulant, 
 and that after dinner he was apt not to remem 
 ber anything that was told him. Andrew hastily 
 agreed. 
 
 Mr. Cholmondeley, having mixed himself 
 several green swizzles was, in truth, very ge 
 nial and hearty. He received the announce 
 ment with enthusiasm, and with so little sur 
 prise that Andrew was vaguely disturbed. 
 
 "I congratulate you, Mr. er " 
 
204 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 . "Mr. Farley," supplied Psyche. 
 
 u Yes, to be sure Mr. Farley. I congrat 
 ulate you, Mr. Farley, on your choice of a mate. 
 Freely and ungrudgingly I give you the one 
 flower of my garden my last and only rose. 
 It is more blessed to give than to receive." And 
 he sat down, wholly unconscious that this last 
 might well be misinterpreted. 
 
 Then, already in excellent spirits, he called 
 for champagne. 
 
 At eleven o clock Mr. Cholmondeley had 
 reached a stage in his intoxication when Psyche 
 seemed to him a most precious jewel that he was 
 bestowing upon Andrew. She was more than 
 his jewel, she was his one ewe lamb, she was his 
 ray of sunlight, she was the staff of his old age; 
 in brief, she was all that he had to live for. 
 He sincerely hoped that Andrew appreciated 
 the sacrifice that he was making in giving her 
 up. He liked Andrew yes, he liked Andrew 
 extremely, but, by heaven, there was no man 
 alive worthy of his little Psyche. 
 
 "To me she s always little Psyche," he ex 
 plained. "Never growshup. All fathersatway, 
 I suppose." 
 
 Andrew strenuously endeavored to match 
 his enthusiasm, but Andrew, remaining sober, 
 found it a difficult task. The best he could do 
 was to acquiesce silently to Mr. Cholmondeley s 
 wildest eulogies, or to murmur at intervals: 
 "Indeed she is," or "You re quite right, sir," 
 or "She certainly is a remarkable woman." 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 205 
 
 This, however, did not fully satisfy his fu 
 ture father-in-law, who began to rebuke Andrew 
 for undue coolness. He wanted to see more 
 warmth, more gratitude for the blessings that 
 had been vouchsafed him. He grew querulous; 
 he was damned if he thought Andrew realized 
 how highly he had been honored. And his part 
 ing words, as Shem led him off to bed, were : 
 "You re a bloomin iceberg. Makes me shiver 
 to look at you. Reg lar heart of ice, you have, 
 reg lar heart of ice. Can t you thaw, damn you, 
 can t you thaw?" 
 
 Then, with great dignity, he shook Andrew 
 by the hand and, slyly, that Shem might not 
 hear, whispered: "You jus wait till you know 
 Psyche better. She ll thaw your heart of ice, 
 she will, good and proper. Psyche s a reg lar 
 Gulf Stream for thawing icebergs." 
 
 There was something ominous about this ad 
 monition, and indeed, as Andrew looked back 
 on it, there was something disquieting about the 
 entire evening. He found that he could not 
 sleep for thinking of it. More than once as 
 he lay in bed he wondered if he were not en 
 gaged in a foolish venture. It was all very 
 splendid, of course, this Lochinvar impetuosity, 
 but ... 
 
 His meditations were interrupted by a suc 
 cession of shots fired in the hall. At once he 
 recognized the gasping pop of Mr. Cholmonde- 
 ley s air-rifle, and he thanked heaven that his 
 future father-in-law made use of no more dan- 
 
206 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 gerous weapon. The firing continued with 
 short pauses between shots, during which Mr. 
 Cholmondeley s voice could be heard complain 
 ing of his lack of success. 
 
 "Could have sworn," said he, "that I bagged 
 the bloomin beggar that time." And then: 
 "Confound his eyes, he s climbin up the wall 1" 
 
 Presently Shem appeared from some mys 
 terious region a frightened, white-eyed, gray- 
 faced Shem. Without a second s hesitation Mr. 
 Cholmondeley turned and pointed the gun at 
 him. 
 
 "What the devil are you int ferin for?" 
 cried Mr. Cholmondeley "interruptin my 
 shootin like that. You go back to bed 
 straight. Can t have you always botherin me 
 and spoilin sport." 
 
 At this point, when Shem seemed to be in 
 danger, Andrew felt called upon to intervene; 
 so he opened wide his door and clad only in one 
 of Mr. Cholmondeley s nightshirts, walked 
 barefooted into the hall. His appearance 
 created a momentary diversion, for Mr. 
 Cholmondeley swung round on him in a rage. 
 
 "Here s another!" he exclaimed "here s 
 another spoil-sport. Can t be let alone in peace 
 in this house. Here I come out to kill these 
 bloomin crabs that are swarmin up the wall 
 tryin to protect the sleepin household, I am 
 and what thanks do I get? None. Nothin 
 but int ference." 
 
 "They eyen t crabs," quavered Shem. 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 207 
 
 "They s the pattern on the new wallpiper. I 
 told you so last time." 
 
 Mr. Cholmondeley drew himself up in cold 
 dignity. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," he said, "but I won t 
 permit a servant of mine to contradict me in 
 mownouse. I say they re crabs, and crabs they 
 are; and they must be sterminated." 
 
 He aimed his air-rifle unsteadily at a brown 
 arabesque one of many that decorated the 
 wall-paper. But the multiplicity of similar fig 
 ures seemed so to unnerve him that the barrel 
 of his gun wavered from one to the other alarm 
 ingly. Finally, he closed his eyes and pulled 
 the trigger, and the bullet embedded itself with 
 a splutter in the plaster. 
 
 Andrew, motioning to Shem to help him, 
 stepped quickly forward and seized Mr. 
 Cholmondeley by the shoulders, while Shem 
 struggled for possession of the air-rifle. But 
 Mr. Cholmondeley, righteously indignant at 
 such sly tactics, resisted and shouted for help. 
 They made a great din, the three of them so 
 great that Psyche was aroused from her rosy 
 slumber, and came, dishevelled, to see what was 
 amiss. 
 
 Now Psyche, dishevelled, was no very at 
 tractive sight. It is the painful duty of the 
 realist to depict his heroines as they are, not 
 as they should be, and in this case the duty is 
 very painful indeed. Let us harden our hearts 
 to romance, then, and blurt out the brutal 
 
208 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 truth : Psyche, as she advanced in her night 
 gown and slippers, was a ridiculous, untidy, un 
 kempt caricature of a woman. Andrew noted 
 with a pang that she had left a great deal of her 
 beautiful hair behind her, and that what re 
 mained was scant and stringy and done up in 
 patent curlers. She had applied cold-cream so 
 generously to her face that she shone like a sun 
 at noon. She had angles at unexpected places, 
 some decently obtuse, but many those at her 
 elbows, for instance indecently acute. Where 
 one would have expected her to be convex she 
 was concave, and vice versa. She but no I 
 I can go no further. I am not a Zola. . . . 
 
 Andrew covering his face with his hands, 
 turned and fled, like ^neas from the harpies. 
 
 His flight ended for the time in his bedroom, 
 where he cowered, filled with a great revulsion. 
 Crack! His idol had toppled off her pedestal. 
 No greatness of soul, no splendor of intellect 
 could atone for the sheer ugliness of his idol s 
 body. 
 
 The clamor in the hall increased rather than 
 diminished, and now there was added to it a 
 woman s voice, Psyche s, shrill and unmod 
 ulated. In her excitement she lapsed almost 
 into the cockney of the servants. 
 
 "Hush up, you blighter," he heard her say 
 to her father. "Do you want to spoil every 
 thing! Wot s Mr. Farley going to think of all 
 this, I d like to know!" 
 
 Mr. Cholmondeley replied that he was 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 209 
 
 damned if he cared what Mr. Farley thought, 
 whereupon Psyche retorted that it was a nice 
 father she had, a nice father, indeed. And, 
 to explain her meaning more fully, she pointed 
 out to him that he was a drunken sot. At this 
 Mr. Cholmondeley, quite naturally, burst into 
 tears, murmuring between sobs disjointed 
 phrases relative to the ingratitude of the young. 
 
 There followed a silence; then Shem s per 
 suasive voice urging Mr. Cholmondeley to his 
 room; then unsteady footsteps down the hall, 
 the opening and closing of a door; then more 
 silence, this time prolonged. 
 
 But with the silence there came to Andrew 
 no sleep, nor any desire for sleep. His mind 
 was made up to one thing: he would spend not 
 another night in the house that sheltered Mr. 
 and Miss Cholmondeley. The realization of 
 how narrowly he had escaped leading Psyche 
 to the altar struck him like a blow and left him 
 shaking but resolved. He had got himself into 
 a mess it but remained to get himself out. 
 How to do it? The answer stared him in the 
 face. Flight ! 
 
 True, he had no definite place to which to 
 flee, and no clothes to flee in save those that 
 he had worn on the day of his arrival. Since 
 then Mr. Cholmondeley had generously sup 
 plied him his wardrobe. But there was a steam 
 er in the harbor that he remembered an 
 old, sea-battered tramp, come probably for 
 coal, and bound God knew whither. The Pan- 
 
210 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 ama Canal? Trinidad? Brazil? It mat 
 tered not. At that moment the Black Hole of 
 Calcutta would have been more acceptable than 
 Saint Thomas. 
 
 Ten minutes later, in his stocking feet, car 
 rying his shoes in his hand, Andrew Farley 
 stepped cautiously out into the dark hall. No 
 convict attempting an escape from Sing-Sing 
 was ever filled with more trepidation; no bur 
 glar entering a house was ever so apprehensive 
 as Andrew leaving this one. And, of course, 
 when silence was at such a premium, he tripped 
 idiotically on the stairs and fell to the landing 
 with a great crash. 
 
 He picked himself up, dazed and sore, and 
 so miserable that he could have wept. He was 
 filled with an immeasurable self-pity. Every 
 body and everything were against him. 
 
 While he was rubbing his limbs on the land 
 ing he heard above him the sound of stealthy 
 footsteps stealthy but erratic; and presently 
 there appeared the light of a candle, zigzagging 
 like a firefly. Holding the candle, and re 
 sponsible for its uncertain course, was Mr. 
 Cholmondeley, clad now only in his nightshirt 
 and a pair of elastic-sided slippers. But Mr. 
 Cholmondeley carried something else besides 
 the candle something long and slender and 
 shining, something with a polished wooden 
 butt and a round of steel barrel. And Mr. 
 Cholmondeley s eye was filled with the lust of 
 the huntsman. 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 211 
 
 Andrew did not linger to parley or to speak 
 him soft. He took the stairs in three amazing 
 leaps. Mr. Cholmondeley was slower, but at 
 that he made the descent with surprising rapid 
 ity and incredible noise, and at each step he 
 cried: "Ah, ha, you re tryin to escape, are 
 you!" in a tone that sent a chill to Andrew s 
 already overtaxed heart. At the landing Mr. 
 Cholmondeley flung the candlestick in the direc 
 tion that he imagined Andrew s head to be, 
 missing his mark by a scant two inches a very 
 fair shot, indeed. Andrew paused long enough 
 to retaliate with his shoes, one after the other, 
 and the second one elicited a grunt of distress 
 from his pursuer and checked his progress for 
 several very valuable seconds. During this 
 time Andrew was able to slip through the front 
 door and slam it behind him. Once outside, 
 he paused for a quick breath of the night air 
 and started on a run for the gate and the road 
 to Charlotte-Amalia. 
 
 Now the night had been made for love, not 
 for hate. It was a night for whispered vows 
 and long caresses for hands to clasp and lips 
 to meet and eyes to speak fondly to starry eyes. 
 A tropical moon swam warmly in a warm sky; 
 a breeze off the sea bore subtle perfumes of 
 roses from the garden and stirred the plume- 
 like branches of the royal palms so that they 
 seemed to fan the stars. A gentle night, a 
 sensuous night, a very night of love. 
 
 But, behold, here was Andrew, philosopher 
 
212 TROPIC M4DNESS 
 
 and sage, apostle of the soul and student of the 
 fundamental, fleeing, shoeless and dishevelled, 
 from her who was (or, at least, had seemed 
 to be) his supplemental woman. To do him 
 justice, however, the more immediate and active 
 cause of his flight was his supplemental wo 
 man s father. 
 
 Did I say immediate and active? Mr. 
 Cholmondeley was both. 
 
 At the gate Andrew had a scant twenty yards 
 start, and as he rounded the turn into the road 
 he heard the vicious spit of Mr. Cholmonde- 
 ley s air-rifle, and a bullet went ping! in the 
 dust behind him. 
 
 Silver-white in the moonlight, and curving 
 easily and gracefully with the contour of the 
 shore, lay the road to Charlotte-Amalia. A 
 low stone wall, vine-clad, bordered it on the 
 left, stemming the green tide of tropic foliage 
 that rolled luxuriantly down from the hills. 
 On the right, screened only by the contorted 
 trunks of trees that persisted, in the face of com 
 mon sense, in growing among the rocks, was the 
 far-resounding sea. There was no escape, then, 
 either to right or to left. Where the road went, 
 there must Andrew go, a desperately speeding 
 figure under the moon. 
 
 And where Andrew went, Mr. Cholmonde 
 ley followed, as swift as the vengeance of 
 the gods and as inevitable. A mad flight, that 
 was an epic flight, a Homeric flight, with An 
 drew the Hector and Mr. Cholmondeley the 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 213 
 
 swift-footed Achilles. The gods shook the stars 
 with their laughter. 
 
 Andrew and his pursuer ran in silence the 
 first hundred yards, and Andrew more than 
 held his own. Perceiving this, Mr. Cholmonde- 
 ley began to hurl invective. He called An 
 drew a Don Juan and a damned Lothario, and, 
 for emphasis, he again fired his air-rifle. This 
 cost him several yards, but he had the satisfac 
 tion of knowing that his aim had at last been 
 true; for Andrew gave a little cry, stumbled 
 in his stride and then, spurred on by pain, 
 sprang away with increased speed. Fortunately 
 an air-gun does not often kill. 
 
 And now, as Andrew raced along the pale, 
 winding road, he turned his back to the moon 
 and his shadow shot frantically out ahead of 
 him a long, lean, grotesque shadow, that 
 clutched and leaped and swayed on spider-like 
 legs. For one brief, heart-breaking instant An 
 drew believed it to be his pursuer s shadow, 
 coming on him from behind; but a glance over 
 his shoulder reassured him. Mr. Cholmonde- 
 ley was struggling prodigiously a full hundred 
 yards back. 
 
 The road, deserting the sea, presently 
 widened and became smoother and an oc 
 casional house gleamed pink or yellow behind 
 the palms. They were approaching the village. 
 Soon their footsteps echoed in the quiet streets, 
 rousing a lonely dog from his slumber a dog 
 that immediately joined whole-heartedly in the 
 
214 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 chase. But Charlotte-Amalia, undisturbed, or 
 too languid to heed, slept peacefully behind 
 closed shutters. 
 
 In the same square by the quay there was no 
 one to witness Andrew s hurried arrival. The 
 black boys that plied their little flat-bottomed 
 boats about the harbor during the day, had long 
 since departed, as had the venders of fruit and 
 vegetables. The cab-stand was deserted; even 
 the bar that dispensed "fine sippings" to the 
 thirsty displayed no signs of animation. But 
 out in the harbor, perhaps a quarter of a mile 
 from the quay, swung the lights of the tramp 
 steamer. And the presence of that tramp 
 steamer was all that concerned Andrew at the 
 moment. 
 
 There was no ferryman that was obvious 
 but there were plenty of ferries, the black boys 
 having drawn their fleet of tiny, brightly colored 
 boats high up on the beach and left them un 
 guarded and unlocked. But Andrew knew 
 himself to be an uncertain oarsman, and obser 
 vation had taught him that the little boats were 
 first-rate sieves, hospitable to sea water. His 
 momentary hesitation was cut short, however, 
 by the sound of hurrying footsteps and panting 
 imprecations, and, like Macbeth, he realized 
 that if it were to be done, twere well it were 
 done quickly. 
 
 He selected a nice little pink boat named 
 Sea Rover, seized it clumsily amidships, and 
 launched it in the sea. Then he tried to get 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 215 
 
 into it. Mr. Cholmondeley, arriving in haste, 
 stood on the beach and laughed at him 
 laughed and panted and laughed and every 
 time that Andrew seemed about to succeed, Mr. 
 Cholmondeley would take careful aim with the 
 air-gun and fire. This proved most discon 
 certing. 
 
 Then Mr. Cholmondeley, perceiving further 
 possibilities of entertainment, began to sing and 
 to do a sort of barbaric dance. For the most 
 part he sang songs of the sea, with many yo- 
 ho-hos and avasts and belays and the like ; and 
 he completed the programme by rendering 
 "Baby s bed s a little boat, sailing on the sea," 
 punctuating the end of every line with a shot 
 from his air-gun thus: 
 
 "Sail, baby, ping 
 Out across the zip 
 Only don t forget to bing 
 Back again to blip." 
 
 But in all this Andrew could see no humor. 
 
 When he finally managed to clamber success 
 fully into the Sea Rover, he was smarting phy 
 sically from the cannonade and mentally from 
 the ignominy of his predicament. He seized 
 the oars in a sullen rage and pulled for the 
 lights of the tramp steamer. Out to him across 
 the moonlit water was borne the sound of 
 Mr. Cholmondeley s voice, wistfully intoning 
 "Crossing the Bar." 
 
216 TROPIC MADNESS 
 
 VI 
 
 THREE weeks later Andrew landed in New 
 York, sadder and wiser. As soon as he had 
 donned proper clothing he went to see Marcella 
 Maynard, and very humbly begged her to re 
 consider her decision. He pointed out that dur 
 ing the last months he had suffered much, and 
 that suffering has made him more tolerant, 
 more human. He asserted that he saw things 
 differently now, that he had discovered that the 
 true secret of happiness lay not within the mind, 
 but within the heart, and that a soul, to be truly 
 beautiful, must have a beautiful envelope. He 
 was inclined to doubt, he said, that lilies grew 
 in mire. 
 
 Marcella did not understand him until he 
 seized her in his arms and commenced to whis 
 per baby talk into her ear. Then she sighed 
 comfortably, murmured "Now you re my nice, 
 old Andy," and raised her face to be kissed. 
 
 And so they were married and lived happily 
 ever after, with many children and few brain- 
 throbs ; and Andrew made a huge bonfire in the 
 back yard of their suburban villa, and to it con 
 signed his library of philosophers and psychol 
 ogists and other purveyors of indigestible men 
 tal food, exclaiming as he did so: "Gloria 
 Veneri!" 
 
 "What does that mean?" inquired Marcella, 
 as she tossed six volumes of Ibsen to the flames. 
 
TROPIC MADNESS 217 
 
 Andrew hesitated an instant; then he trans 
 lated freely. 
 
 "That," he said, "means: Down with the 
 emancipated woman! 
 
 "Oh," murmured Marcella "you have 
 changed!" 
 
 "Yes," agreed Andrew meditatively. "I 
 like em old-fashioned and plump." 
 
JEANNE, THE MAID 
 
JEANNE, THE MAID 
 
 NOTHING else that Richard Barclay ever did 
 during his active, startling life surprised me so 
 much as his joining the Roman Catholic Church. 
 It is true that I would never have accused him 
 of being a pagan or an atheist he is too 
 modern for the one and too imaginative for the 
 other but I had always marked him down as 
 one of those non-practising Episcopalians who 
 accept the religion of their fathers as unthink 
 ingly as they accept their baptismal names. 
 "Who gave you this name?" "My sponsors 
 in baptism." "And who gave you this re 
 ligion?" "Why, I suppose they did, too." 
 
 But it has always been impossible to put 
 Richard Barclay into a pigeonhole and say: 
 "There, that is where he belongs that is his 
 species, that is his variety." He is a man whom 
 you cannot catalogue, or, rather, whom you can 
 catalogue only under a score of different head 
 ings. For example, it is difficult definitely to 
 state even his profession : he is a war correspon 
 dent yes, and he is a philologist; he is an ex 
 plorer, undeniably; and he is a historian, hav 
 ing written a life of Charles VI, in I forget 
 how many volumes; he is a soldier of fortune 
 when he is unfortunate enough to have nothing 
 221 
 
222 JEANNE, THE MAID 
 
 better to occupy him; and he is a botanist no 
 matter how pressing his other occupations may 
 be. A man of many and varied talents, you 
 perceive, who might to-day have been a very 
 famous man had he chosen to exercise any one 
 of them continuously and exclusively. 
 
 Although he is perhaps thirty-eight years old, 
 he appears younger; and he is handsome in a 
 dark, tanned, healthy way. Women look at 
 him twice, and having looked, grow irritable 
 with their husbands. And yet he has something 
 of the ascetic about him not that he is sallow 
 or starved or soulful-eyed but he conveys very 
 forcibly an impression of supreme cleanliness 
 and health, both mental and physical. 
 
 I am probably the best friend that he has in 
 New York, and during his brief visits to that 
 city he makes a point of looking me up, either 
 at my club or at my bachelor apartment. We 
 dine together and he tells me of his latest ex 
 ploits in whichever one of his professions he has 
 been practising. I, for my part, having nothing 
 in my life but humdrum routine, make, I 
 imagine, an appreciative listener. Now that 
 I think of it, ever since our days at boarding- 
 school, I have been Barclay s audience : he has 
 never been mine. 
 
 Barclay had been in France when the war 
 broke out: that much I knew; but where in 
 France or why in France I knew not. One 
 evening in the middle of last March he returned 
 to New York and enlightened me. 
 
JEANNE, THE MAID 223 
 
 My Jap served us dinner in my rooms, for 
 Barclay insisted that he preferred to be alone 
 with me that first evening. He said that his soul 
 had been spaded up and turned under, just as 
 you do with soil to make it more fertile, and 
 that out of the hitherto barren ground had 
 sprung up a most wonderful bloom mystical, 
 golden, awing. And then, with no further warn 
 ing, he told me that he had become a Roman 
 Catholic. I stammered out my astonishment, 
 while he sat unmoved, his chair pushed back 
 from the table, sipping his coffee. Unmoved? 
 Yes, except for a slight glow in his thin brown 
 cheeks and a new, unfathomable light in his 
 eyes. 
 
 "You are surprised?" he inquired. 
 
 u Yes why, yes naturally. It s rather sud 
 den, isn t it?" 
 
 "Quite sudden," he answered. "Most revela 
 tions of faith are. There was Peter, and An 
 drew, you remember, and Paul, and yes, and 
 Mary Magdalene." 
 
 "That is true," I agreed, "but they lived in 
 the days when Christ walked the earth. They 
 saw miracles being wrought." 
 
 He nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the table, 
 his fingers playing with the coffee-spoon. Then 
 he threw back his head abruptly and said: "I, 
 too, have seen miracles being wrought." 
 
 He was so absolutely serious, so much in 
 earnest, when he made this remarkable state 
 ment that I was at a loss how to reply. I did 
 
224 JEANNE, THE MAID 
 
 not want to hurt his feelings, but I might have 
 reminded him that the Church puts no faith in 
 latter-day miracles, and that many advanced 
 theologians refuse to accept even the New Tes 
 tament miracles literally. 
 
 I think that he perceived my trouble, for he 
 said: "Oh, no I m not mad. And I m 
 thoroughly sincere. I know, I know here in 
 hard, matter-of-fact New York it sounds pre 
 posterous, but wait until I ve told you about it 
 and then judge for yourself." 
 
 I felt that vague uneasiness you experience 
 when some one starts to tell a ghost story, and 
 mingled with that was a certain reluctance to 
 sit by and witness a man lay bare the innermost 
 sanctuary of his soul. However, it was clear 
 that Barclay would not be content until he 
 should have told me the story; so I lighted a 
 cigar to keep my nerves in hand, and told him 
 to begin. 
 
 "Last spring," said he, "I spent walking in 
 the Vosges Mountains, just across the border 
 from Alsace-Lorraine. I did a little botanizing 
 and a little stone-tapping, but mostly I breathed 
 in health and happiness with the air. I strayed 
 about aimlessly enough that was one of the 
 refreshing things about it, that I had no definite 
 aim. A definite aim, no matter how satisfac 
 tory it may be when attained, always involves 
 a certain amount of labored plodding, and life 
 is too short to plod in or, perhaps better, to 
 those that plod life seems often too long." 
 
JEANNE, THE MAID 225 
 
 I acquiesced rather bitterly. I am afraid that 
 I am a plodder. 
 
 "Well, at any rate/ he continued, "toward 
 the end of June I found myself not far from a 
 village a village so small that you can find it 
 on few maps, and yet a village whose name once 
 rang around the world. Perhaps the name, 
 even now, will mean something to you Dom- 
 remy. What does it bring to your mind, that 
 name Domremy? Do you see a girl kneeling 
 in a garden beside the churchyard? Do you 
 hear a rushing of white wings as St. Michael 
 stands before her? Do you see her, clad in 
 armor, a straight slender figure astride a huge 
 white horse? Do you hear the trampling of 
 hoofs and the shouts of men as she leads an 
 army into battle, ever triumphant under the 
 lilies of France? Do you see her raise a siege 
 at Orleans and crown a king at Reims? And, 
 finally, do you see her kissing the cross as the 
 flames reach up to her, where she stands a mar 
 tyr at the stake?" 
 
 His eyes glowed feverishly, fanatically, and 
 he rose from his chair and commenced to pace 
 the room. 
 
 "Jeanne d Arc," I murmured. 
 
 "Yes," he repeated, "Jeanne d Arc Jeanne, 
 the Maid." 
 
 It was a full minute before he could control 
 himself sufficiently to continue. 
 
 "I went to Domremy," he said at length, 
 "and I saw the house in which she was born and 
 
226 JEANNE, THE MAID 
 
 the garden in which she heard the Voices. Even 
 then I was interested in her only as you, your 
 self, are interested in her. I considered her the 
 heroine of a charming legend a legend based 
 perhaps on a slim foundation of fact. Since 
 then I have learned better. In my eyes she 
 stands to-day second only to our Lord as a wit 
 ness of God manifest on earth. She is an ir 
 refutable argument for Christianity, and since 
 none believed more devoutly than she in the 
 Pope of Rome and the Pope in Rome there 
 were two popes then, you remember it fol 
 lows that if you believe her Christianity you 
 believe also her Catholicism." 
 
 "She was martyred by her own church, * I 
 pointed out. 
 
 "And Christ was denied and betrayed by his 
 own disciples," added Barclay. "Besides, her 
 own church rehabilitated her and made her a 
 saint. All the great prophets have been stoned 
 during their lifetimes it is only when they are 
 dead that they receive their just rewards. It 
 was that way always and it shall be that way 
 always. It was that way it was that way last 
 August, when another name was added to the 
 noble army of martyrs." 
 
 "Tell me about him," I urged. 
 
 "It wasn t a man," said Barclay "it was a 
 girl a young girl. I scarcely know how to 
 begin, and it is hard to find words with which 
 to tell about it. It is very sacred to me, you 
 see. I feel that I need the words of a Matthew 
 
JEANNE, THE MAID 227 
 
 or a Mark, and I haven t them. I am, at best, 
 only a war correspondent. 
 
 "She was called Jeanne there is a coin 
 cidence there Jeanne Leblanc. I saw her first 
 the night I arrived in Domremy a wet, windy 
 night in late June. I saw her last well, never 
 mind that yet. 
 
 "I told you that I had been walking, didn t 
 I? I had done about fifty kilometres that day 
 since breakfast the last dozen of them through 
 a gusty rain, shot with white lightning and laden 
 with complaints of thunder. My road followed 
 the course of the Meuse, usually a lazy, pleas 
 ant stream, but now flecked with foam and 
 murmuring uneasily at its margins. Road and 
 river wound through vineyards and pasture- 
 land, sweet with the fragrance of moist soil 
 and wet leaves a cool fragrance that you never 
 get when the sun is high. 
 
 "I suppose that it was about seven o clock 
 it was deep twilight when I saw ahead of me 
 a handful of houses, clustered snugly about a 
 church spire that pointed like a long, slim finger 
 to heaven. Smoke, white against the sky, was 
 rising from the chimneys, and yellow squares 
 of light marked the windows. Domremy was 
 peaceful even in the stormy night. 
 
 "A man in a blue blouse, driving a covered 
 two-wheeled cart, replied to my inquiry regard 
 ing lodging by directing me to the house of 
 Armand Leblanc. 
 
 " Across the bridge, the last house on the 
 
228 JEANNE, THE MAID 
 
 left. It is not far, m sieu , and he makes every 
 one welcome he and his poor girl. 
 
 " His poor girl? I repeated, wondering at 
 the adjective. 
 
 " Yes, he answered, nodding; m sieu will 
 discover for himself, but m sieu need not be 
 alarmed she is a little mad, but quite gentle 
 and would not harm a sparrow. She is well 
 loved here, m sieu , and I should not be sur 
 prised if she were nearer to le bon Dieu than 
 most of us who can see only the ground we walk 
 on. Yes, m sieu , across the bridge, the last 
 house on the left. Not at all, m sieu . Pas de 
 quoi. Good night, m sieu . 
 
 "I found the house with no difficulty, and 
 Jeanne Leblanc, herself, opened the door at my 
 knock. I wish I could describe her so that you 
 could see her, or at least give you some hint 
 of her. At the time I first saw her I think per 
 haps I could have done so, but now, for me she 
 has come to be a symbol of so much that she 
 transcends any power of word-painting I pos 
 sess. A young Madonna? No, not quite: her 
 feet seemed fixed too firmly upon the earth. 
 Perhaps more of a Jeanne d Arc the Jeanne 
 of Domremy, however, not the more confident 
 Jeanne of Orleans and Reims; the Jeanne still 
 seeing visions, not the Jeanne fulfilling them. 
 That was to come later the fulfilment. 
 
 "Her features are more easily described 
 the narrow, oval face with the closely coiffed 
 golden hair drawn back smoothly from the high 
 
JEANNE, THE MAID 229 
 
 white brow; the ascetic mouth, thin and straight- 
 lipped; the wide, far-seeing eyes, clear as a 
 child s, wondering much and yet filled with all 
 knowledge. That much of her I can describe, 
 I say the mere garment of her soul and that 
 much of her, were I a Raphael, I could put on 
 canvas. That much and no more. 
 
 "She opened the door I heard her wooden 
 sabots come clicking across the floor and, a 
 lamp in her hand, she immediately stood aside 
 to let me in. Nor did she ask my business, nor 
 who I was, nor where I had come from. It 
 was apparent that, as my friend of the covered 
 cart had told me, every one was welcome at the 
 house of Armand Leblanc. 
 
 " You are very wet, she said, and doubtless 
 very cold. If you will leave your cloak here 
 in the hall and come into the kitchen you will 
 find supper ready and in the kitchen it is 
 warm. 
 
 "I bowed and said that she was very kind; 
 but she seemed surprised that I should consider 
 it kindness. She led me through a door at the 
 back of the hall into the kitchen where, at the 
 end of a pine table, sat a grizzled, bearded man 
 in a peasant s smock, whom I rightly judged to 
 be Leblanc. At my entrance he rose, bowed, and 
 said : Soyez le bienvenu, nfsieit? Then he 
 returned to his interrupted meal. 
 
 "Jeanne indicated a chair for me at the table, 
 and, having served me in spite of my protesta 
 tions, herself took a seat opposite her father. 
 
230 JEANNE, THE MAID 
 
 We ate in silence, although I made several half 
 hearted attempts to discuss the weather. At 
 length, however, when Jeanne had cleared away 
 the dishes and Leblanc had lit his pipe, they 
 seemed disposed to enter into conversation. 
 But never did they question me as to my name 
 or my business it was as if I had lived with 
 them always, as if I were one of the family 
 returned after a brief absence. 
 
 This rain should help the crops, observed 
 Pere Leblanc, through the smoke of his pipe. 
 
 And the garden, added Jeanne. How 
 the roses will welcome it! To-day they were 
 so tired. 
 
 "I thought that her father regarded her a 
 little suspiciously at this suspiciously but not 
 unkindly. 
 
 4 Have you been long in the garden to-day? 
 he inquired. 
 
 1 Until it rained, she answered. 
 
 " You are fond of flowers, mademoiselle ? 
 I put in, trying to be pleasant. So am I. I 
 shall look forward to seeing your garden to 
 morrow morning, if the rain is over by then. 
 "She shook her head. 
 
 ; The storm will be worse to-morrow, she 
 said, simply. It will last for many days. God 
 is very angry with the world. 
 
 4 Hush, Jeanne, murmured Pere Leblanc. 
 You must not talk that way before m sieu . 
 "She did not seem to understand; she looked 
 
JEANNE, THE MAID 231 
 
 up at him appealingly, like a child who has been 
 reprimanded for no just reason. 
 
 u I am sorry, said she. Must I then keep 
 silent about that which is revealed to me? 
 Surely it is not something to be ashamed of 
 something to conceal/ 
 
 "Leblanc sighed, glanced at me meaningly, 
 and shook his head. 
 
 " Tardon, m sieuY said he; my little Jean- 
 not has fancies: she imagines things or else, 
 indeed, she sees more than our eyes can ever 
 see. And he tapped his forehead with the 
 characteristic French gesture. 
 
 "I was embarrassed to reply; but I finally 
 stammered out something to the effect that the 
 vision of the young is often clearer and truer 
 than that of us older, wiser men. Leblanc nod 
 ded, sadly but acquiescently, and I turned to 
 Jeanne. 
 
 " Do you believe, I asked, that God sends 
 a storm to show that He is angry with the 
 world? 
 
 " I don t know, she answered. But this 
 storm He sent to show that He is angry. And 
 this storm is but the beginning. Before the 
 year is over it will rain blood. 
 
 "Leblanc shivered and crossed himself. She 
 had made the statement quietly, but with abso 
 lute conviction, as if she had said : To-morrow 
 we shall have croiite-au-pot for supper. 
 
 "Whether it was from a certain morbid curi 
 osity or whether even then I sensed that she 
 
232 JEANNE, THE MAID 
 
 was in touch with well, never mind at any 
 rate, I could not refrain from questioning her. 
 
 " Why do you say that? I ventured. 
 
 "She opened her eyes very wide in surprise, 
 and then she smiled on me, as if forgiving my 
 absurd question, and said: Because it s the 
 truth, m sieu . My Voices told me. 
 
 "It was then that I recollected we were in 
 Domremy ; and I remembered Jeanne d Arc and 
 the Voices that spoke to her as she knelt in the 
 garden. And just as you are doing now, no 
 doubt, I reasoned that this other Jeanne had 
 been brought up on the legend, had brooded 
 over it, and had clasped it to her heart until 
 she imagined that to her, also, there came an 
 gels from heaven to comfort her and to guide 
 her. Yes, I admit that that seemed the natural 
 solution. But wait! 
 
 "The next morning I awoke to the sound of 
 rain beating on my casement window. The 
 storm had increased overnight, and, although 
 there was neither lightning nor thunder, the 
 wind had risen to an alarming velocity, and as 
 I looked out I could see the trees bending low 
 before it, their branches whipping and thrash 
 ing like ribbons of a split sail in a hurricane. 
 That Jeanne had prophesied truly concerning 
 the storm occupied my mind but little, for a 
 sailor or a fisherman or a New England farmer 
 could have done as much: what I had to con 
 sider was that it would be madness for me to 
 attempt to leave four walls and a roof on such 
 
JEANNE, THE MAID 233 
 
 a day. So I determined to seek out Pere Le- 
 blanc and arrange to stay with him as a paying 
 guest until the weather should render my de 
 parture possible. And that, briefly, is how it 
 came about that I stayed in Domremy and 
 learned to know Jeanne Leblanc Jeanne, the 
 Maid." 
 
 Here Barclay paused and asked for a fresh 
 cup of coffee. I could see that the recital had 
 stirred him greatly, and his hand shook as he 
 bore the cup to his lips. He smiled a little rue 
 fully when he saw that I had noticed his agita 
 tion. 
 
 "You thought I was a man without nerves?" 
 he inquired. "I don t know I don t know. 
 Lately I have changed. One can t look at the 
 sun and not go blind; and I have looked at a 
 light that is far brighter than that of a thou 
 sand suns. . . . 
 
 "I remained in Domremy through July. The 
 storm lasted all that week and half of the next, 
 as if, truly, God were angry with the world. 
 For the most part we stayed indoors around 
 the kitchen fire, but Pere Leblanc had chores to 
 do about his farm and every day Jeanne would 
 go out in the rain to see how the sheep were 
 faring. Oh, yes she tended sheep, like Jeanne 
 d Arc and like them to whom the angel of the 
 Lord came to tell of the birth in Bethlehem. 
 
 "One evening, shortly before dinner, Jeanne 
 came into the kitchen, where I sat alone work 
 ing at an article that I was writing for an 
 
234 JEANNE, THE MAID 
 
 American geographical publication. Looking 
 upi I perceived immediately that something 
 very grave had occurred something grave and 
 yet, judging by the exaltation in her eyes, some 
 thing very wonderful. Although she and I had 
 become close friends by now, I hesitated to 
 question her, for I felt how can I describe it? 
 I felt that she had suddenly left me far be 
 hind and below her: she had stepped beyond 
 the earthly boundaries that hemmed me in. 
 Imagine two people imprisoned in the same cell, 
 one of whom is able occasionally, through the 
 barred windows, to obtain a glimpse of the blue 
 sky with the sun riding across it, and the other 
 of whom is so chained to the floor that he can 
 never see the light except reflected in the eyes 
 of his comrade. Do you understand what I 
 mean? I saw the light reflected in the eyes of 
 Jeanne Leblanc, and the sight of it awed me 
 and held me silent. 
 
 "She crossed over beside me, sat down noise 
 lessly, and passed a hand across her forehead. 
 Without having looked at me she knew I was 
 there, and, before long, she spoke. 
 
 " I have heard the Voices again, 1 she said. 
 *They came to me again in the garden just 
 now St. Michael and St. Catherine the one 
 to warn and the other to comfort me. 
 
 "She paused, breathing rapidly, and her hand 
 strayed down to her breast, where she held it 
 pressed against her heart. 
 
 " It is almost over, she said in a whisper. 
 
JEANNE, THE MAID 235 
 
 There is but a short month left me and yet it 
 will be very glorious to die. Yes, I must re 
 member that it is very glorious to die in order 
 that one may live forever. 
 
 " Jeanne my little Jeannot, I faltered 
 you must not think such things. You are not 
 going to die ! 
 
 "I was really frightened, you see I was 
 frightened because I believed that she was 
 speaking the truth. And she, knowing that she 
 was speaking the truth, was frightened, too, 
 I think, for a little while; but it was the last 
 time that I or any one else ever saw fear in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " I have thirty-four days to live, she said. 
 Within thirty-four days I shall encounter blood, 
 iron, and fire and at the end I shall wear a 
 martyr s crown. Sweet Lord, grant that I may 
 wear it bravely and without flinching! 
 
 "Then she fell silent; and I went over to her 
 and knelt by her chair and took her hand. 
 
 " Jeanne/ I said, do you mean that there 
 will be war? for, you see, even then, to 
 ward the end of July, there were but few that 
 suspected what the first day of August would 
 bring. 
 
 "She nodded without speaking, but I felt her 
 fingers cold and trembling in mine. Suddenly 
 she slipped to her knees, clasped her hands 
 together, and closed her eyes. I knew that she 
 was praying. 
 
 "When she had finished she kissed her cruci- 
 
236 JEANNE, THE MAID 
 
 fix and murmured: Ta volante soil faite. 
 Then she got to her feet and turned to face me, 
 her head thrown back, her lips steady, her eyes 
 serene. 
 
 " Now, said she, I have been given 
 strength. God is good to his servant. 
 
 At this point Barclay paused and regarded 
 me searchingly, as if striving to read my mental 
 attitude in my face. To tell the truth, his story 
 had carried me along with it, and I believed 
 every word that he had said as implicitly as he, 
 himself. Besides, Barclay is not prone to ex 
 aggeration rather the contrary, in fact. 
 
 "Do you think you are listening to a lunatic?" 
 he said sharply. "If you do, just say so and 
 I ll quit talking immediately. Understand, I m 
 not trying to make a convert out of you; but 
 if you don t believe that I am telling the truth 
 I d rather not go on." 
 
 "Don t be ridiculous," I answered "I do 
 believe that you re telling the truth. So please 
 go on." 
 
 "You re not bored and cynical?" 
 
 "No," I said; "go on." 
 
 Apparently satisfied as to my willingness to 
 listen in the proper frame of mind, he consented 
 to proceed. I doubt very much if he would 
 have told the tale to an incredulous scoffer. 
 
 "I don t intend," he said, "to give you in de 
 tail the rest of my conversation with Jeanne 
 Leblanc. All that she prophesied to me that 
 afternoon is now history; but, unfortunately, 
 
JEANNE, THE MAID 237 
 
 I am the only witness that can testify to the 
 fact that all that came to pass she had foretold. 
 For example, however, she said that her Voices 
 had warned her of the first of August, the day 
 on which the rain of blood was to begin and 
 of the last of August, the day on which she was 
 to die. 
 
 "Well, you yourself know we all know now 
 what happened on the first day of August; 
 and I and a few others know what happened on 
 the last day. I wonder if the histories will men 
 tion it I m afraid not. 
 
 "You remember the disastrous advance of 
 the French into Alsace-Lorraine, at the very 
 opening of the war? You remember that they 
 overreached themselves? that some one high 
 in command blundered? that whole regiments 
 broke in disorder and ran? Well, we in Dom- 
 remy saw the advance, and we saw the retreat. 
 You see, the war caught me at Domremy with 
 no papers and no passports. In any case, it 
 would have been difficult to leave, but, to tell 
 the truth, I had no desire to leave : I wanted to 
 stay not only because I am a war correspondent 
 at times, but also because I had become a dis 
 ciple of Jeanne Leblanc and I was unwilling to 
 desert her before well, before the end of 
 August. So I stayed. 
 
 "We saw the French pass through Domremy, 
 eager, enthusiastic, confident of success. We 
 cheered them loudly; we cried, Five la France! 
 Five la Republique/ and in our madness, we 
 
238 JEANNE, THE MAID 
 
 cried also, 1 A Berlin! At least, all of us did 
 but Jeanne. She watched them march by with 
 tears in her eyes, and occasionally she would 
 stop some young boy, scarcely in his twenties, 
 and kiss him on both cheeks and whisper, l Soyez 
 fort! Those were the boys that she knew 
 would never return. 
 
 "There came the time when Domremy was 
 deserted, save for the women, the children, and 
 the old men. Pere Leblanc remained, of course, 
 being past the age of service. Each day we 
 waited breathlessly for news of the great vic 
 tory that we all felt certain would be achieved 
 all, that is, except Jeanne, who confided her 
 doubts to no one but me. Her Voices had told 
 her that the first assault on Alsace-Lorraine was 
 destined to failure; and she added, quite simply: 
 It is I who have been chosen to save it from 
 complete disaster. 
 
 "When I questioned her as to how this was 
 to be brought about, she answered: I do not 
 yet know : in due time it shall be revealed to me. 
 And she was completely confident and un 
 troubled, except that she grieved a great deal 
 for the boys who were to lay down their lives 
 for their beautiful France. She gave not a 
 second thought to her own life that was to be 
 disposed of and sacrificed as God willed. 
 
 "When the retreat began, it seemed at first 
 unbelievable. It was impossible that the French 
 army that had gone out so confidently should be 
 so quickly and decisively repulsed. It must be 
 
JEANNE, THE MAID 239 
 
 a mistake. Well, of course it was a mistake 
 but the army retreated, nevertheless, and 
 in some disorder. Although the news of 
 it travelled fast, it was not believed until 
 the ambulances began to pass through Dom- 
 remy, bearing the wounded away from the lines. 
 Even then we did not learn the worst, for 
 naturally the men were not inclined to be very 
 communicative rather, they were furtive and 
 sullen and a little ashamed. Most of them had 
 been perfectly willing to throw away their lives 
 that a victory might be achieved, and they were 
 dazed to discover that they had shed their 
 blood to no purpose. But there were many 
 who lay across the frontier, unburied and un- 
 honored and they, at least, were spared the 
 sting of defeat. 
 
 "There is no need of my going deeply into 
 the strategy of the retreat. For one reason, 
 I am unable to judge of it, since I gained all of 
 my information second-hand from the soldiers 
 themselves; and soldiers never know why they 
 advance or why they retreat. At any rate, the 
 general in command, in order to save two entire 
 divisions, left behind a small rear-guard to 
 delay the pursuit as much as possible. Perhaps 
 the rear-guard did not know it, but they were 
 simply a sop thrown to the enemy. A few were 
 left to be slain in order that a great many might 
 live to slay. That is war. 
 
 "The rear-guard had some pieces of light ar 
 tillery and some machine guns, and they worked 
 
240 JEANNE, THE MAID 
 
 them industriously; but, naturally enough, they 
 were forced to give ground slowly, village by 
 village, hill by hill; and every village that they 
 left became a black, bleak ruin, and on every 
 hill that they left the grass grew red. That, 
 too, is war. 
 
 "Long before they crossed the frontier we 
 had been warned to leave Domremy. But we 
 did not leave that is, not until later. Jeanne 
 would not hear of it, and I, of course, knew 
 why. However, we did our utmost to induce 
 Pere Leblanc to join one of the neighbors who 
 offered him a seat in his cart; but the old man, 
 too, was obstinate and insisted on remaining 
 with his daughter. 
 
 " l l am old/ he said why put off the day? 
 I will stay with Jeannot. 
 
 "And so on the twentieth day of August there 
 remained scarcely a dozen people in the village 
 among them an old man, a young girl, and an 
 alien. 
 
 "All morning we sat and listened to the 
 booming of the guns heard it grow louder 
 and more spiteful but in the village there was 
 no sound except that of the dogs barking and 
 whining in the empty streets. 
 
 "At noon Jeanne went alone into the garden. 
 When she had gone, Pere Leblanc looked at 
 me and shook his head sadly. 
 
 " Her Voices again, he said. Always I 
 know by the look in her eyes. Ah, m sieu , I am 
 afraid for her if anything should happen to 
 
JEANNE, THE MAID 241 
 
 me, who will be left to care for little Jeannot? 
 
 "I went to him and laid my hand on his 
 shoulder. 
 
 "If anything should happen to you, Pere Le- 
 blanc, I said, I swear to you that I will be with 
 Jeannot to the end. 
 
 "The tears came into his dim eyes as he 
 turned to thank me; but, God knows, I had 
 promised little enough. 
 
 "When Jeanne returned to the house, I knew 
 at once that the great moment had come. First 
 she knelt at her father s feet to ask for his bless 
 ing; then she kissed him on both cheeks and 
 bade him good-by. 
 
 " The time has come/ she said quietly; 
 They need me and I am going to them/ 
 
 "Now, it happened that there were two 
 horses left on Pere Leblanc s farm two 
 horses that had not been commandeered for 
 the army a roan horse and a white one. 
 Jeanne, of course, chose the white one how 
 could it have been otherwise ? and she buckled 
 Pere Leblanc s sword about her waist. It was 
 her only accoutrement of war, and I doubt if 
 even it had seen service. At any rate, it was so 
 rusty from years of idleness that I was amazed 
 that Jeanne was able to draw it from its sheath. 
 
 "When I had helped her saddle the white 
 horse, I turned to the roan. She watched me 
 intently, saying nothing until I had mounted and 
 moved up beside her. Then: 
 
 " I knew you would come with me/ she said. 
 
242 JEANNE, THE MAID 
 
 1 Of course, I answered. 
 
 " I shall not keep you long, and no harm 
 shall come to you nor to my father. That 
 much the Voices have promised me. 
 
 "Where do we go? I asked. 
 
 " To Saint-Nicolas-du-Port. It is about 
 thirty miles not far from Nancy. 
 
 " Very well, I said, I am ready. 
 
 "We rode all that afternoon a strange 
 couple, no doubt, and one that in times less 
 strange would have attracted more attention; 
 for while thousands of men, women, and chil 
 dren were traveling in the opposite direction, 
 we were the only people going to the east 
 into the teeth of the victorious German army. 
 Many times we were warned to turn back, and 
 as many times Jeanne smiled and shook her 
 head. There were harrowing sights on the 
 road, sights from which I averted my eyes, but 
 which Jeanne bore unflinchingly. 
 
 " It but makes my own life seem of less ac 
 count, she said once and my death the more 
 necessary. 
 
 Toward evening a French officer challenged 
 us, ordering us back. He informed us that 
 women were not wanted on the firing lines, and 
 he looked at me and my civilian clothes with 
 suspicion. 
 
 "Jeanne answered and said: Where men 
 are suffering, women are always needed. I am 
 going to take a little of their suffering onto my 
 self. It is God s will. 
 
JEANNE, THE MAID 243 
 
 "The officer stared I saw him hesitate, 
 waver, and acquiesce and then he saluted her 
 and said : Go and God keep you. 
 
 "Later in the night, men were too busy with 
 their own affairs to notice us, or if they did they 
 put us down for peasants returning in a mad at 
 tempt to save some of our belongings. And 
 shortly before dawn we reached Saint-Nicolas- 
 du-Port, where the ground was rocking under 
 our feet, and our voices were drowned in the 
 thundering of the cannon. 
 
 "We slept in a field outside the village 
 that is, we lay on the ground and tried to sleep; 
 but, tired as I was, I could not, and I think that 
 Jeanne stayed awake to pray. 
 
 "The sun came up, red behind the smoke, 
 glowing like a devil s eye; and it looked upon 
 a devil s day. 
 
 "Jeanne and I arose, stretched our stiff limbs, 
 and left the field for the village. 
 
 "Now, it happened that the rear-guard which 
 I have mentioned were making a desperate 
 stand about four miles east of Saint-Nicolas-du- 
 Port, their idea being, of course, that the 
 Meurthe, on which the village is situated, would 
 prove a safeguard for their own retreat by 
 providing an obstacle for the enemy s advance. 
 Bridges can always be dynamited, and pontoons 
 take time to construct. 
 
 "But early that morning the enemy, pursuing 
 their overnight advantage, drove the French 
 from their trenches and hurled them back, in 
 
244 JEANNE, THE MAID 
 
 disorder and almost surrounded, into Saint- 
 Nicolas. It was a dull-eyed, crumpled-up hand 
 ful of men that we came upon, there in the vil 
 lage five hundred that had once been five 
 thousand, and half of them bleeding from un 
 dressed wounds, and all of them so exhausted 
 that death would have seemed to them a blessed 
 relief. 
 
 "When they saw Jeanne, cool and white and 
 calm, on her white horse, they looked on her as 
 on a vision. I am sure that some of them 
 did not know whether she was flesh and 
 blood, or whether she was a figure in some 
 dream born of their feverish, tired brains. 
 They parted their ill-formed ranks in the street 
 to let her ride through; but when she was in the 
 middle of them, she halted, drew the rusty old 
 sword, and swung it over her head. 
 
 " Courage, mes enfants! she cried. Be 
 strong for the glory of France and the glory 
 of God! 
 
 "They turned and tried to cheer; and some 
 of them passed their hands across their eyes 
 vaguely, as if to clear their sight. 
 
 "Then, briefly, Jeanne told them that she 
 had been sent by le bon Dieu to rally them and 
 to lead them that they must not be afraid to 
 die that death in a just cause is sweet that 
 God cared for them and would remember. 
 
 "They listened in absolute silence until she 
 had finished, and then and then well, they 
 recognized her, or at least they recognized the 
 
JEANNE, THE MAID 245 
 
 spirit that animated her, for they cried out: 
 Jeanne d Arc! Jeanne, the MaidT And a 
 young lieutenant, the only officer left to them*, 
 swung around and put his horse beside hers 
 and shouted: Let us all die, but let not the 
 Germans cross the Meurthe ! 
 
 "So, while the sapeurs were sent to dynamite 
 the bridges, Jeanne rode out at the head of five 
 hundred men to hold the Germans back until 
 the work should be accomplished, and every 
 one of the five hundred knew that with the 
 bridges went their only hope of retreat. 
 
 "They went out, the five hundred of them 
 and a few of them came back, fighting through 
 the streets, from house to house. When they 
 were driven back to the square in front of the 
 town hall they set up a machine gun and played 
 it like a hose on the close-massed enemy; and 
 when they could no longer work the gun, they 
 retreated into the town hall itself and fought 
 from the doors and the windows and the bal 
 cony. And always Jeanne was with them, un 
 scathed, but fighting now on foot, for the white 
 horse had fallen under her. I could see the 
 dying reaching out piteous, adoring hands to 
 touch her skirt before they should die; and I 
 could see the wounded, smiling at her as they 
 fell. The young lieutenant stood by the machine 
 gun to the end, operating it with his left arm, 
 for his right hung limp by his side. And then 
 suddenly he was struck in the head and went 
 down in her arms. I saw her make a sign of 
 
246 JEANNE, THE MAID 
 
 the cross on his breast, I saw her lips move as 
 she whispered something to him, and I saw him 
 try to smile as he died in her arms. 
 
 "Then I was hit and for a few minutes I re 
 membered no more. When I came to myself I 
 was lying in a doorway, across the square from 
 the town hall. Doubtless it was thought that 
 I was dead, and no one had wasted the time to 
 bayonet me in order to make certain. 
 
 "Crawling out painfully to the sidewalk I 
 perceived that the enemy were still encounter 
 ing some resistance; and just then, from the 
 river, I heard two great booming crashes and 
 I suspected that the bridges had been dyna 
 mited. 
 
 "In the square the bursting shells, or the 
 Germans torches, had set fire to the town hall, 
 and it was now a roaring, billowing sheet of 
 flame. But from the upper window occasional 
 shots spat out, and here and there a German 
 soldier fell quickly and quietly to the ground. 
 I wondered if Jeanne was still in there, or if, 
 already, she had accomplished her destiny. 
 
 "And suddenly I wondered no longer, for 
 she appeared on the balcony, in full view of the 
 entire square. She stood there, in Madonna 
 blue, a crucifix raised up before her eyes, the 
 flames licking hungrily at her feet. Almost I 
 saw a halo about her head I think I did I am 
 not sure. Perhaps it was the yellow fire behind 
 her; perhaps it was the gold of her hair. 
 
 "Ah, she was very beautiful as she stood 
 
JEANNE, THE MAID 247 
 
 there with the light in her eyes of one who sees 
 God. She was very beautiful, and she was very 
 brave a woman among a thousand men, a 
 saint among a thousand sinners. As I looked 
 I found that the tears were on my cheeks, and 
 then, presently, I staggered to my knees and be 
 gan to pray as well as I could. 
 
 "There came a sudden silence over the 
 square a strange, awed silence. Men looked 
 at one another, wonderingly, questioningly, ill 
 at ease, and receiving no answer, their eyes re 
 turned to the lonely figure of Jeanne, standing 
 high above them on the balcony, swathed in 
 flames. 
 
 "She made no outcry; she scarcely moved, 
 except once or twice when I saw her press her 
 lips to the crucifix. At a word from an officer 
 the men surged back a little from the heat. The 
 officer himself was moving restlessly about the 
 square, uncertain what to do, now that the worst 
 was done. I don t think he relished the respon 
 sibility of burning a woman alive; or perhaps 
 he too was not sure whether it was a woman or 
 a saint. However, he evidently thought it best 
 to stay and see the business out. 
 
 "It was now merely a question of minutes. 
 The front wall of the town hall was shivering, 
 tottering, and through the windows we could 
 see that the interior was red with flame, shot 
 through with black smoke. The crowd edged 
 away yet a few steps farther; but they kept their 
 faces turned to the balcony. 
 
248 JEANNE, THE MAID 
 
 "Suddenly it was over. There came a leap 
 ing yellow spurt of fire, a swirling shroud of 
 smoke, and with a crash of falling bricks the 
 wall fell in. It was as if a child had swept 
 down his building-blocks with a blow of his 
 hand. 
 
 "I remember, then, that somehow or other 
 I got to my feet and cried, Jeanne P and I think 
 that through all that mad confusion of sound 
 I heard a voice a voice that rang as clearly 
 and confidently as a bugle calling: l Pour 
 Dieu et la patrief " 
 
 Barclay stopped and put his face in his hands. 
 
 "It was a glorious death," I ventured gently. 
 
 He did not answer at once. Then he said 
 gravely: "Yes, it was a glorious death; but, 
 for her, I believe that it was the beginning of 
 a glorious life. She rests with the saints from 
 her labors." 
 
EVERY MOVE 
 
EVERY MOVE 
 
 A FAT old woman in a black apron emerged 
 from the shadows of the chestnut-trees in the 
 Avenue des Champs-Elysees, and began to set 
 in ordered line the chairs that had been huddled 
 together, like timid animals seeking warmth, 
 during the cool hours of the night. It was seven 
 o clock of a May morning in Paris. Will some 
 joyous chemist never distil the essence of it, 
 bottle it, and distribute it gratis as an antitoxin 
 for melancholy? 
 
 The old woman may have entertained some 
 similar thought; for, as she worked, she 
 hummed uncertainly a pleasant little spring 
 song: 
 
 Le lendemain elle etait souriante, 
 
 A sa fenetre fleurie; chaque soir 
 
 Elle arrosait ses petites fleurs grimpantes 
 
 Avec de 1 eau de son arrosoir. 
 
 When her task was fairly accomplished, and 
 the chairs aligned like so many stiff hussars, 
 she allowed her gaze to wander beyond the im 
 mediate foreground. She noted, with the quick 
 disapproval of an order-loving mind, that the 
 gravel of the walk was sprinkled with cream- 
 colored blossoms from the chestnut-trees over 
 head. She weighed for an instant the possibil- 
 251 
 
252 EVERY MOVE 
 
 ities of a cleansing broom, but a Latin sense of 
 poetry checked her hand. To such an extent 
 did she react that thereafter she was careful 
 not to crush a single blossom, as she moved 
 about on her clumsy, comical feet. 
 
 In the middle of the avenue, by the Rond- 
 Point, a grizzled old man was watering the 
 road. Behind him, progressing reluctantly on 
 rollers, snaked fifty yards of rubber hose. Fac 
 ing the Tuileries he hurled prismatic showers 
 of spray into the very teeth of the morning sun. 
 
 The old woman greeted his approach cheer 
 fully. 
 
 "Variety of sausage, hast thou not enough 
 stirred up the dust for one day?" 
 
 "He t la belle" he answered; u go seat thy 
 self on thy chairs at two sous the day!" 
 
 "Thou talkest," she retorted with a grin. 
 
 As he stopped by the curb he turned some 
 mysterious spigot in such a way that the jet of 
 spray folded itself up like a fan and, subsiding 
 into a single ugly stream, ran disregarded down 
 the gutter. 
 
 The old man crooked a bent thumb over the 
 shoulder of his blouse. 
 
 "There is one up there by the Rond-Point," 
 he said darkly, "who takes money from thy 
 pockets. He is sitting on a bench. What think- 
 est thou of that, my little one on a bench! 
 Also, he has not moved from that bench all the 
 night. That vexes thee, hein? when he should 
 be renting a chair of thee." 
 
EVERY MOVE 253 
 
 "The camel!" she exclaimed. "I will occupy 
 myself with him." 
 
 "Take care; he has the beauty of a devil." 
 
 "So much the worse for the devil. He shall 
 sit in one of my chairs if he be Fallieres him 
 self." 
 
 With this reflection on the president of her 
 republic she hurried away to seek out the 
 offender. 
 
 She found him, as the old man of the hose 
 had said, occupying a bench at the Rond-Point. 
 That he was either asleep or in misery was ob 
 vious, for his body was twisted up sideways 
 on the bench in a position that no rational, 
 wholly conscious person would wilfully assume, 
 and his arms, hanging limply over the back of 
 the seat, served as a precarious pillow for his 
 head. 
 
 The old woman eyed him in doubt. She 
 knew him at once for a gentleman : a tramp 
 would have arranged himself more comfortably 
 and would have made use of his coat for bed 
 ding. Besides, his hair was cut very short and 
 it was black, and it curled in a manner distinctly 
 patrician. A shrewd judge of social strata was 
 the old woman. 
 
 A closer inspection revealed him an Anglo- 
 Saxon; he was smooth-shaven; his shoes were 
 well shaped; he was broad of shoulder and 
 narrow of waist; his trousers were turned up as 
 though they had been and always would be, and 
 
254 EVERY MOVE 
 
 there was unmistakable breeding in the knot of 
 his cravat. 
 
 Noting the tired, pathetic lines on his face, 
 she resolved not to disturb him, and was in the 
 act of turning away when he stirred and sat 
 upright. 
 
 He looked about him, dazed, gave a hol 
 low laugh, felt through his pockets anxiously 
 and swore softly and with perfect resignation. 
 The old woman moved up in front of him and, 
 standing with her hands on her hips, addressed 
 him in a friendly fashion. 
 
 "Monsieur has not need of a chair? it 
 would be more comfortable, and at two sous 
 a day " Her gesture hinted that two sous 
 was a sum not to be mentioned between gentle 
 men and ladies. 
 
 But he shook his head and forced a crooked 
 smile. 
 
 "I haven t enough to hire a chair for five 
 minutes," he said in correct, careful French. 
 "Otherwise I should not have chosen this bench 
 for a night s rest. It is hard as charity or is 
 it cold as charity 1 that one should say?" 
 
 The old woman pleaded ignorance of the 
 appropriate adjective; but, scenting mystery, 
 she commenced to catechise. 
 
 "Monsieur says that he has passed the night 
 on this bench ? Poor monsieur ! It is scandal 
 ous!" 
 
 "Is it not?" he agreed. 
 
 "And monsieur has no money?" 
 
EVERY MOVE 255 
 
 "Not a cent." 
 
 "Monsieur has been robbed, then?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered; "monsieur has been 
 robbed. A porter at the Gare du Nord took 
 all my coppers, a taxi-auto to my hotel took all 
 my silver, and two bottles of champagne at the 
 Cafe de Paris took my gold." 
 
 "And the bank-notes?" 
 
 "Oh, the bank-notes were taken without my 
 consent. In their case I cannot put my finger 
 on the thief; but should you ask me to guess, 
 why, then, I might inform you that there was a 
 lovely lady dressed all in salmon pink with 
 whom T ^ rtltzed at the Bal des Coryphees last 
 night, up .here by the Place Pigalle. I recollect 
 that she pinned a white carnation on my lapel, 
 and was agreeably slow about it. Then, when 
 I looked for her later " 
 
 "She had gone !" finished the old woman. 
 
 "Exactly; and she doubtless is using seven 
 five-hundred franc notes for curl-papers at the 
 present moment." 
 
 "The cow!" ejaculated the old woman 
 coarsely. "But monsieur can get no money 
 from the bankers? Monsieur has no friends 
 in Paris? Monsieur cannot borrow from his 
 hotel?" 
 
 The young man smiled. 
 
 "I know no one in Paris," he explained. "As 
 for my hotel, they are more likely to attach my 
 baggage than to advance me a louis. But I 
 am keeping you. If I am not mistaken those 
 
256 EVERY MOVE 
 
 two gentlemen are contemplating your chairs 
 with a view to sitting on them." 
 
 The woman turned to follow his gaze. 
 
 "That/ she explained, "is Monsieur Vilbert 
 very rich an old client of mine. He is the 
 little thin one with the gray mustache brushed 
 like William s." 
 
 "Like William s?" 
 
 "Yes, like that of William the German. I 
 will go to bid him good morning. I know him 
 well; but his friend, the big one, I do not re 
 member to have seen before. It must be that 
 he does not sit often in the Champs-Elysees." 
 
 Left to himself, the young man stretched and 
 rose to his feet. He slapped the dust out of 
 his clothes and shook his coat viciously in a 
 vain endeavor to smooth the wrinkles from it. 
 A night on a bench in the open air is a poor 
 valet. 
 
 As he stooped for his straw hat, which he had 
 placed under the bench, he heard footsteps on 
 the gravel behind him. He turned, hat in hand, 
 to see Monsieur Vilbert and his friend standing 
 at his elbow. Monsieur Vilbert inspected him 
 critically, head to one side, thumbs resting in 
 the upper pockets of his waistcoat, dapper little 
 feet turned out at right angles. Monsieur Vil- 
 bert s friend inspected him ruminatively, sharp 
 eyes narrowed to slits in his round, red face, 
 fat white hands clasped across a convex ab 
 domen, patent-leather feet planted far apart. 
 
 Then Monsieur Vilbert looked at his friend 
 
EVERY MOVE 257 
 
 and they both nodded; and Monsieur Vilbert 
 gave a nervous, energetic twist to his gray mus 
 tache, and his friend drew a sleek hand across 
 his smooth-shaven chin. And Monsieur Vil 
 bert spoke in French. 
 
 "What a beautiful morning!" is what he said. 
 
 The young man regarded one and then the 
 other, puzzled, surprised, not certain that he 
 was pleased. 
 
 "Yes," he answered finally, "one cannot com 
 plain of it." 
 
 The two Frenchmen appeared to ponder the 
 words as though they had been sibylline. Then 
 they nodded once more, omine fausto. 
 
 "Monsieur," said Vilbert, "my friend, the 
 lady who rents the chairs, informs me that you 
 are a stranger here in Paris and that you that 
 you have not been made to feel at home; in 
 short, that you have been robbed. Pardon the 
 brutality of the word, will you not?" 
 
 "But certainly," replied the young man. 
 
 "Good!" said Vilbert. 
 
 "Good!" echoed his friend. 
 
 "And now," continued Vilbert, " I pray you 
 to permit me to present myself. I am called 
 Etienne Vilbert, and this is my friend and as 
 sociate, Monsieur Hippolyte Dieudonne." 
 
 They bowed graciously, and the young man 
 could do no less. 
 
 "I am overcome," he said. 
 
 "You have not heard the names before?" 
 asked Vilbert, it seemed a little anxiously. 
 
258 EVERY MOVE 
 
 "You must forgive me," answered the young 
 man, "if I admit that I have not. I come from 
 America, and we Americans know very little 
 of your country and even less of its great men. 
 Nevertheless I repeat that I am honored, and 
 I beg to give you my name in return. I am 
 called Austin Waide." 
 
 "Well, then, Monsieur Waide," said Vil- 
 bert briskly, when he and Dieudonne had duly 
 bowed once more and murmured their enchant 
 ment, "if you will do us the honor of breakfast 
 ing with us I have no doubt but that we shall 
 be able to put before you a proposition that will 
 be of advantage to all of us. Do you accept, 
 monsieur?" 
 
 Austin laughed. 
 
 "I certainly accept the breakfast," said he] 
 "and as for the proposition why, I am willing 
 to do anything short of a crime to earn my 
 living." 
 
 "We contemplate nothing criminal," Dieu 
 donne assured him. "However, the work may 
 be exciting and not unconnected with dan- 
 ger " 
 
 He caught Vilbert s eye and stopped abrupt 
 ly. Vilbert hailed an open cab and they 
 drove out of the Avenue du Bois to the Pre 
 Catelan. There, under the trees in front of the 
 dairy, they breakfasted deliciously on fresh 
 eggs and milk and wild strawberries. 
 
 When they had finished, Vilbert pushed back 
 his iron chair and offered a brand of gov- 
 
EVERY MOVE 259 
 
 ernment cigarettes from a small mauve 
 package. 
 
 "I patronize home industries," he remarked. 
 "Perhaps you, Dieudonne, would prefer some 
 thing more Oriental, with a Turkish name and 
 a sensuous box." 
 
 Then he turned directly to Austin. 
 
 "Monsieur," he said, "you are young, hand 
 some, well-built, athletic, like the majority of 
 your countrymen. Like the majority of your 
 countrymen, too, I take it that you are not 
 afraid of danger." 
 
 "I have never wilfully avoided it," answered 
 Austin, smiling. 
 
 "Good!" said Vilbert. 
 
 "Good!" said Dieudonne. 
 
 "I think we can use you," Vilbert continued. 
 "The hours will be short; you will be released 
 to-night in time for your aperitif, and the salary 
 will be anywhere from one hundred francs to 
 five hundred, depending entirely on the way 
 you acquit yourself and the success of what, for 
 us, is something of an experiment. Have I 
 made myself understood? If so, I await your 
 answer." 
 
 "One moment," said Austin. "I understand 
 that you offer me from twenty to one hundred 
 dollars for one day s work. Can you give me 
 no more definite idea of the character of the 
 work?" 
 
 Vilbert looked at his associate and they both 
 shook their heads. 
 
260 EVERY MOVE 
 
 "No, monsieur," answered Dieudonne 
 firmly, "that is one of the conditions: a blissful 
 ignorance on your part is indispensable to our 
 success. We may but give you a hint: be sur 
 prised at nothing; behave as a gentleman should, 
 and, well, do not be afraid to defend your 
 self as well as you are able. Moreover, la 
 boxe Anglaise is renowned; need I say more?" 
 
 "Need we say more?" echoed Vilbert dryly, 
 tossing away his cigarette and rising. "And so, 
 Monsieur Waide, if you say yes, you will ac 
 company us back to Paris in a taxi-auto; if you 
 say no, we part regretfully, enchanted, how 
 ever, to have had the pleasure of your society 
 at our little breakfast." 
 
 "No bouquets," said Austin with a laugh. "I 
 say yes. " 
 
 "Good!" cried Vilbert 
 
 "Good!" cried Dieudonne. 
 | They paid their bill and walked through the 
 uacherie, Dieudonne patting the sleek, fat cows 
 and throwing bits of paper at the voracious 
 goats. He was as amused as a child. Vilbert, 
 however, serious and impatient, plucked at his 
 arm, urging him to be off. 
 
 ; As they drove back through the Bois, the sun 
 was well up in the sky, and the roads and bridle 
 paths had assumed the animation that is bred 
 in Paris of a May morning. Wonderfully 
 equipped cavaliers, dressed in amazing English 
 breeches and coats, cantered dashingly but un 
 certainly at the sides of their amazones, as the 
 
EVERY MOVE 261 
 
 French term them. Buxom nounous, with broad 
 ribbons fluttering from their caps, were out al 
 ready with their perambulators, airing the chil 
 dren of the rich and keeping furtive eyes out 
 for picturesque zouaves or gallant guardsmen. 
 In France it is not the police who distract the 
 nursemaids, but the army. 
 
 Conversation between the three men in the 
 taxi flagged. Dieudonne, making several half 
 hearted attempts at Gallic wit, subsided quickly 
 under Vilbert s severe frown. Austin was calm, 
 indifferent, almost bored. He was beginning 
 to doubt the sanity of the two Frenchmen; but 
 then he had always been brought up to doubt 
 the sanity of all Frenchmen. There still per 
 sists a class in America to whom a Frenchman 
 is a crazy person who eats frogs and snails and 
 who wears an imperial. 
 
 Vilbert, leaning from the window at inter 
 vals, directed the course. They rounded the 
 arch at the Place de 1 Etoile and turned down 
 the Champs-Elysees. At the Place de la Con 
 corde they took the Rue Royale to the Made 
 leine, and then, to the right on the Boulevard 
 as far as the Opera House. Here they swung 
 across into the Boulevard Haussmann and fol 
 lowed it to its inception. They took the last 
 street on their left and stopped at the house 
 next to the bureau de poste. 
 
 Vilbert, who had given the driver a gold 
 piece before the taxi drew up at the curb, 
 grasped Austin sharply by the arm and hurried 
 
262 EVERY MOVE 
 
 him through a high, dark entrance, the heavy, 
 wooden doors of which stood open. Austin 
 caught a glimpse of a somber courtyard beyond, 
 paved with stone and decorated with dwarf 
 trees in green pots. Then he was led to the 
 right through a glass door into a large hall. 
 While they waited in front of an elevator-shaft 
 he had time to look about him. 
 
 The hall was panelled in mahogany halfway 
 up to the ceiling, and the ceiling, Austin cal 
 culated, was nearly twenty feet high. Above the 
 panelling hung rich, soft tapestries, illuminated 
 dimly by clusters of heavily shaded electric 
 lights. At intervals stood gorgeous, barbaric 
 suits of mail, erect and uncannily alive. Fast 
 ened to the panels were inlaid shields and 
 swords and graceful lances, all beautifully 
 wrought the plunder of a mediaeval court. 
 The floor was marble-paved, in squares of black 
 and white, and carved marble benches stood in 
 the corners. 
 
 Somehow, in spite of the insignia of war, it 
 gave to Austin the impression of a cathedral 
 of the Middle Ages some chapel, perhaps, de 
 signed for a crusader s tomb, filled with the 
 arms by which he had sought to hew his way 
 to salvation. It lacked but the odor of incense 
 and the religious light of a stained window to 
 complete the illusion. 
 
 The lift, which had been descending silently 
 and slowly, untenanted, and propelled by some 
 unseen hand on some unseen button, now 
 
EVERY MOVE 263 
 
 reached the ground with a muffled click and a 
 sigh of relief. The two Frenchmen motioned 
 to Austin to enter. When they had followed 
 him, so small was the space within that it was 
 with difficulty that they could close the doors. 
 
 Then Vilbert touched the topmost of eight 
 ivory buttons on a panel, and the tiny compart 
 ment hesitated, wheezed, and began once more 
 its laborious motion upward, silently as before, 
 save for the dull click at each landing. 
 
 "Remember," warned Vilbert earnestly, 
 "you are expected to do exactly as you are bid 
 den and to ask no questions. It is possible that 
 some things may seem to you how shall I say 
 it? bizarre, extravagant. But it is not for 
 you to question our methods. If you conduct 
 yourself satisfactorily to us your reward shall 
 be satisfactory to you." 
 
 "Very well," answered Austin cheerfully, 
 "I am prepared for the worst." 
 
 "Good!" said Vilbert. 
 
 "Good!" said Dieudonne. 
 
 Austin counted six landings and the lift 
 stopped abruptly at the seventh. Vilbert led the 
 way down a long corridor, flanked by numer 
 ous doors, all closely shut. There was no win 
 dow in the corridor, but it was lighted at in 
 tervals by yellow electric lights. The bareness 
 of its walls and ceiling and the multiplicity of 
 its doors tended to accentuate its length. It 
 might almost have been the corridor of some 
 huge jail. 
 
264 EVERY MOVE 
 
 Austin fancied that he heard voices behind 
 some of the doors; but he was hurried along 
 so peremptorily that he could not be certain, 
 and the three pairs of feet, echoing loudly on 
 the stone floor beneath them, drowned all minor 
 sounds. 
 
 At a door numbered 113 they paused, and 
 Vilbert, drawing a pass key from his pocket, 
 turned the lock and entered the room. Dieu- 
 donne and Austin followed. 
 
 It was a small rectangular room, uninterest 
 ing, banal. White plaster walls and ceiling, a 
 high, small window framing a patch of blue 
 sky, a long wooden bench, a row of hooks on 
 the wall, and a full-length mirror swinging in a 
 wooden frame. Nothing more. 
 
 "Wait here," commanded Vilbert briefly, 
 and pointed to the bench. Then he turned to 
 Dieudonne, beckoned him to the door, and mut 
 tered directions in his ear. 
 
 "Tell Roxane we have found him, and tell 
 her the circumstances. Warn her to be ready. 
 I will call Luzech to come and prepare him." 
 
 Austin heard but, hearing, was none the 
 wiser. The whole affair struck him as far 
 fetched, unduly mysterious. If there was dan 
 ger to be encountered, why did they not point 
 out the danger and bid him face it? They were 
 behaving, to his eyes, like opera-bouffe con 
 spirators. They needed but masks and dark 
 lanterns and low music. 
 
 When they had left him he noted that they 
 
EVERY MOVE 265 
 
 closed the door and that the lock snapped back 
 at its closing. He shrugged his broad shoul 
 ders and listened patiently to the sound of their 
 feet diminishing in the distance down the cor 
 ridor. 
 
 Walking listlessly over to the window, he 
 looked out, his chin on the level with the sill. 
 From that position he could see nothing save 
 the mansard roofs of houses several blocks 
 away and, over on the right and beyond, the 
 slender line of the Eiffel Tower, bayoneting the 
 blue sky. 
 
 "An excellent bird s-eye view of Paris," he 
 remarked. "It would look well on a post-card 
 to send home to Kansas City. But the room 
 has none of the modern conveniences; I doubt 
 if I stay long." 
 
 He sat down on the low bench and studied 
 his shoes and his finger-nails. Still no interrup 
 tion occurred. The silence became annoying 
 and, for the first time that day, he lost his per 
 fect serenity. He felt through his pockets for 
 a cigarette, found none, and, resorting finally 
 to that manifestation of impatience to which all 
 caged beasts come sooner or later, he paced the 
 room from corner to corner, from wall to wall. 
 
 Some one must have come noiselessly up the 
 corridor, for of a sudden he heard the lock 
 snap and his door opened inward. He turned 
 and, instinctively on the defensive, put his back 
 to the wall. What he saw in the doorway 
 startled him for an instant; and then he smiled 
 
266 EVERY MOVE 
 
 appreciatively. It was too good to be true : it 
 smacked of the "Arabian Nights." 
 
 A huge figure blocked the doorway: a man 
 as black and as shiny as hard coal; and he was 
 naked to his waist. On his head was a fantastic, 
 turbanlike affair; in his ears hung two golden 
 crescent rings, and about his loins was wrapped 
 a leopard skin, rather worn and frayed. His 
 feet and legs were as bare as his broad black 
 chest, and his arms were decorated only with 
 gold bracelets, an inch wide. 
 
 Over one arm, however, hung a pile of won 
 derfully colored fabrics, all purples and scarlets 
 and greens and blues, embroidered with jewels 
 and gold. Advancing gravely into the room, 
 he laid them on the bench, and Austin perceived 
 that they constituted a man s garments the 
 garments, possibly, of an Eastern prince. 
 
 The black bowed low with arms outstretched, 
 his features set stolidly, unresponsive to Aus 
 tin s frank smile. Then he pointed to the gar 
 ments with a wave of his hand and indicated 
 that Austin was to clothe himself in them forth 
 with. , 
 
 "Very well, my good Nubian," agreed the 
 American; "your wish is my law." 
 
 He examined the apparel with interest ,and 
 amusement. A pair of gold slippers, pointed 
 and turned up at the toes in a curve like the vol 
 utes of an Ionic capital; close-fitting scarlet 
 tights with jeweled garters to clasp about them 
 below the knee; a wonderful purple cloak that 
 
EVERY MOVE 267 
 
 hung loosely to the thighs and was edged with 
 ermine at the collar and around the wide sleeves 
 and was embroidered gorgeously with gold in 
 strange Oriental designs; a broad scarlet girdle 
 to bind it at the waist, heavy with jewels and 
 tasselled with gold rope, and, finally, a close- 
 fitting turban, clasped at the forehead with a 
 huge purple amethyst. 
 
 Slowly and wonderingly Austin got out of 
 his own clothes, and slowly and wonderingly, 
 with the aid of the silent Nubian, got into this 
 finery of the East. 
 
 Once dressed, he surveyed himself, not with 
 out approval, in the tall mirror. His dark 
 complexion, he noted, lent itself remarkably 
 well to the costume : he was every inch a Per 
 sian, if, indeed, that was what the costume in 
 tended him to be. 
 
 Drawing himself up to his greatest height 
 he found that he was able to look the giant 
 Nubian fairly in the eyes. This pleased him, 
 filled him with a subtle satisfaction. So with 
 all of his national audacity he slapped himself 
 soundly on the chest and grinned and cried: 
 "Behold the great Persian lamb! Now bring 
 on your Scheherazades all there are in the 
 harem! 1 
 
 The black regarded him gravely, almost pity 
 ingly, and maintained an ominous silence; but 
 he bowed low and led the way through the 
 door. 
 
 Standing in the corridor was Vilbert, nerv- 
 
268 EVERY MOVE 
 
 ously twisting the pointed ends of his mustache 
 into spirals. At sight of Austin, arrayed in 
 glory, he nodded and gave a short grunt of 
 satisfaction. 
 
 "Good!" he said. 
 
 Dieudonne was not present to echo the mono 
 syllable. 
 
 The little Frenchman, slipping his arm 
 through Austin s, led him slowly down the cor 
 ridor. The Nubian followed, mute, behind 
 them. 
 
 u My friend," said Vilbert huskily, "it now 
 depends but on you. I have done all that I can 
 to make you a success. I may do no more. 
 Remember, keep your head cool and your hands 
 ready and your muscles supple. Fight, if you 
 must; and if you fight, fight well. Meanwhile, 
 do as you are told. It is possible that I shall 
 be watching you ; in which case pretend that we 
 have never met. It will be better so. Au 
 revoir. I shake your hand and I wish you all 
 success." 
 
 Monsieur Vilbert, his voice unsteady with 
 real feeling, wrung his hand as though he were 
 sending him to his death. Austin could not but 
 be moved by the display of emotion. 
 
 "Good-by, monsieur," he said, "and do not 
 agitate yourself on my account. I have been 
 in some pretty tight places before now. Have 
 you ever tried to cross Broadway down by 
 Herald Square during the rush hour? This 
 business of yours is all very mysterious, of 
 
EVERY MOVE 269 
 
 course, but at least we are in twentieth-century 
 Paris." 
 
 "You will not think so long," remarked Vil- 
 bert, and turned on his heel without another 
 word. 
 
 Down the corridor the Nubian led the way, 
 respectfully, solicitously, as one would lead an 
 attractive lamb to the sacrifice. There seemed 
 to be miles of corridor. 
 
 Finally, turning abruptly to the left, they 
 came into a vaulted atrium, surrounded by 
 glistening marble columns that supported By 
 zantine arches. At this point the Nubian 
 paused and stepped aside in order that Austin 
 might see into the hall beyond. 
 
 Austin looked and exclaimed: "My God!" 
 
 The Nubian put his finger warningly to his 
 lips. 
 
 In front of them stretched an enormous 
 court, crowded with restless people moving 
 quietly backward and forward, in different di 
 rections, in and out, like a wheat-field in a shift 
 ing wind. An arched colonnade extended along 
 the rear of this courtyard for a space of per 
 haps fifty yards; then it turned on itself at right 
 angles and continued in that direction beyond 
 Austin s range of vision from where he stood 
 in the atrium. Many of the arch openings were 
 closed with exquisite tapestries; others were 
 filled with the wanton colors of tropical foliage 
 and fruits, In two of them fountains tossed up 
 
270 EVERY MOVE 
 
 jets of water that hung, perpendicular in the 
 air, like silver wands. 
 
 Over this vast courtyard, and supported by 
 the colonnades, stretched a flat roof of white, 
 transparent glass, set in large rectangular lights, 
 through which the May sun poured as through 
 the roof of some huge greenhouse, where 
 mammoth plants were being nursed to unholy 
 size. 
 
 At the back, near the centre of the rear colon 
 nade, stood a dais, raised on two low, marble 
 steps, carpeted with a rug of tawny yellow and 
 pastel blue; and on the dais was a broad couch 
 of cloth of gold, and on the couch, half-seated, 
 half-reclining, languidly, sensuously, was a 
 woman. 
 
 "My God!" repeated Austin. 
 
 Again the Nubian motioned for silence. 
 
 She was the focus of the crowd: about her 
 the others backed and filled and circled and 
 flew like bits of steel about a magnet. Four 
 female slaves, their black skins shining in the 
 heat, fanned her with long ostrich-plumes 
 fanned her rhythmically, monotonously, perpet 
 ually. A score of men, counterparts of Aus 
 tin s Nubian, kept grim watch on either side of 
 her throne, their hands crossed on the hilts of 
 their naked, evil swords. 
 
 At her feet, in a semicircle, sat a dozen danc 
 ing girls, veiled to their eyes, stretching their 
 graceful limbs on the rugs and the soft skins 
 that covered the cold marble of the floor. As 
 
EVERY MOVE 271 
 
 Austin looked, one of them was dancing, her 
 body motionless above the waist, save for the 
 slim arms tfiat curved and coiled, her flat palms 
 making strange, abnormal angles with her 
 wrists. 
 
 Beyond the circle of the dancing girls the 
 court was bare in front of the throne ; but to the 
 right and to the left knelt a score of men and 
 women, clad in Persian dress and beating ab 
 stractedly on brazen cymbals or on muffled tam 
 bours; and through all the dull din that they 
 made crept another sound, a grinding, mechan 
 ical sound, like the purr of a smooth motor or 
 the buzz of a dentist s drill. 
 
 But Austin could not keep his eyes from the 
 woman on the couch. He had read of vam 
 pires, and he wondered if, perhaps, she was not 
 of their breed. Her face embodied all the 
 cruelty, all the lust, of the baneful women that 
 have marred history. As he looked on her he 
 shivered, and yet he was not cold; and for the 
 first time in his life he doubted himself and his 
 own courage. 
 
 She was dressed all in white: white, loose. 
 Turkish trousers, gathered at her ankles with 
 pearls; white pointed slippers curving up at the 
 toes; a broad, white girdle beneath her breasts, 
 which held in place the thin veil that draped 
 her narrow shoulders and which hung down to 
 her knees, weighted with pearls. Pearls at her 
 wrists, pearls on her long, slender fingers, pearls 
 wound in profusion through her black hair. ; 
 
272 EVERY MOVE 
 
 Her face was unveiled. Alas, for the peace of 
 man! 
 
 Austin looked and saw a narrow, oval face, 
 white as paper; a broad, full mouth with lips 
 painted dark vermilion cruel, pitiless lips, 
 fretting and twisting in front of small teeth 
 that were too white and too regular to seem 
 real. Black, straight eyebrows almost met 
 over the thin nose and, beneath the eyebrows, 
 black eyes gleamed and darted, restlessly, furt 
 ively, under narrow lids stained with indigo. 
 
 Austin had read of such women, had seen 
 fantastic drawings of such women; indeed, he 
 remembered that such a woman as this adorned 
 the pasteboard boxes of a brand of cigarettes 
 luringly called Persian Favorites. But to be 
 face to face with such a woman, breathing the 
 same heavy, perfumed air that she breathed ? 
 that was a different matter. It gave him a 
 strange feeling about his heart, as though he 
 had smoked too many of those cigarettes. He 
 could not explain it. 
 
 Suddenly, while he watched, the dancing girl 
 fell exhausted, her forehead on the floor in 
 front of the dais. At a nod from the woman 
 on the couch, two slaves lifted her in their arms 
 and carried her away, panting and writhing, 
 out through one of the arches of the colonnade. 
 
 Forthwith a third attendant salaamed, and, 
 although Austin could not hear the spoken 
 words, it was obvious from his gestures that he 
 announced the presence of some one in the 
 
EVERY MOVE 273 
 
 atrium. The woman in white clapped her hands 
 and, led by the giant Nubian, Austin marched 
 through the crowd that made a lane for him 
 clear to the marble steps. There the black drew 
 away a few paces, leaving him face to face with 
 the woman. His heart beat like a hammer 
 while she surveyed him between her narrowed 
 eyelids. 
 
 At length she stretched out a listless, white 
 hand to be kissed. Under other circumstances 
 Austin might well have grasped it heartily in 
 his own, given it an emphatic shake, and mur 
 mured: "Glad to meet you." 
 
 But the spell being upon him, he leaned over 
 it and kissed it gracefully enough. 
 
 The vermilion lips parted in a slow smile. 
 
 "Who may you be?" she asked in French, 
 and her voice was low and caressing. 
 
 "My name is Austin Waide," he answered 
 stiffly. 
 
 "And what is your business here?" 
 
 "I am afraid, madame, that I do not exactly 
 know. I am here to find out." 
 
 "Ah," she said, still smiling, "how very in 
 teresting." 
 
 "Perhaps," said he. 
 
 "Perhaps?" she echoed. "And why per 
 haps ? If ignorance is bliss, is not doubt seven 
 times bliss?" 
 
 "I am quite satisfied," said Austin, looking 
 her fairly in the eyes; "only these shoes are un 
 comfortable." 
 
274 EVERY MOVE 
 
 "That shall be remedied," she answered, 
 making a place for him beside her on the couch. 
 "Monsieur Austin Waide shall not be com 
 pelled to stand." 
 
 He sat down as he was bidden. Strange to 
 say, all embarrassment had left him; but he 
 felt confidently excited, as though he had drunk 
 champagne. 
 
 "Do you find me beautiful?" she demanded, 
 turning on him suddenly. 
 
 Austin looked her frankly in the eyes; and 
 her eyes were not frank, but the reverse. She 
 screened them with her indigo-tinted lids and 
 her small teeth played with her lower lip. 
 
 "Yes," he answered at length, "I find you 
 beautiful in a certain sense of the word." 
 
 "You are half-hearted," she said, dissatis 
 fied, "and not gallant. You are disappointing 
 after all. But, then, you are nothing but an 
 Anglo-Saxon that has never felt his heart beat." 
 
 She clapped her hands sharply and motioned 
 to one of the girls lying at her feet. 
 
 "Dance !" she commanded. 
 
 The girl obeyed her, trembling. The din 
 of the tambours throbbed, pulselike, through 
 the court. The long fans of ostrich-plumes 
 waved to and fro, like pendulums, in the heavy, 
 scented air. 
 
 The woman leaned toward Austin on the 
 couch, her eyes fixed on his. Some strange, 
 Eastern perfume that she used stole about him 
 and intoxicated him. 
 
EVERY MOVE 275 
 
 Watching his face, she read in it his agita 
 tion, and she smiled at the knowledge that she 
 had stirred him smiled slowly and lazily with 
 her red lips. 
 
 "Ah," she said softly, "at last you know that 
 your heart beats. Now, tell me, am I beauti 
 ful?" 
 
 "You are so beautiful that it hurts," he an 
 swered her, shivering. The blood rushed to his 
 head and above the dull beating of the music 
 he could hear his own heavy breathing and hers ; 
 and, through it all, the even rhythmical murmur, 
 like the purr of a smooth motor or the buzz 
 of a dentist s drill. 
 
 She laughed softly, and he put out his arms 
 and held her closely. Her eyes came nearer to 
 his, fixed on them, holding them. A loose 
 strand of her hair brushed his forehead. Then 
 he closed his eyes and kissed her on the lips. 
 
 As he did so the dancing girl fell to the 
 ground and lay there white, motionless, ex 
 hausted. At the same time the sound of the 
 tambours ceased, and, stifled by the silence, he 
 opened his eyes and rose to his feet, dazed, 
 staring stupidly about him. 
 
 There was no movement from the crowd in 
 front of the dais. The dancing girl lay where 
 she had fallen. Only the fans swayed up and 
 down monotonously. 
 
 As his senses came slowly back to him, he 
 passed his hand vaguely across his forehead. 
 It was as though he were coming out of some 
 
276 EVERY MOVE 
 
 tense, realistic dream some dream that had 
 been so vivid that he could not yet wholly shake 
 it off. 
 
 Then, standing, he saw that which he had 
 not seen before. He saw, half-hidden by the 
 screening foliage, the body of a man, sprawling, 
 twisted and contorted, on the marble floor to 
 the left of the dais. 
 
 The body was dressed much as he himself 
 was dressed, and the body lay in a pool of blood. 
 An ugly knife lay beside it, bare and crimson. 
 
 While he stood and gazed, overwhelmed, 
 unbelieving, the woman beside him clapped her 
 hands once more. Two giant black slaves, half- 
 naked, their muscles rippling smoothly along 
 their arms and backs, bowed low before her. 
 She pointed at Austin with disdain. 
 
 "Take him away," she said, u and teach him. 
 He sickens me; he is over-squeamish. Teach 
 him not to draw away from my kisses as though 
 they burnt his lips. When you have finished 
 with him you may bring him back and throw 
 him beside the other. Now go. Take him 
 away !" 
 
 They rushed at him together. But he stood 
 on the dais, two steps above them, waiting for 
 them. And this was in his favor. 
 
 One of them he caught neatly under the chin 
 with his left and sent him reeling back with his 
 arms beating the air. The second grappled 
 with him and they rocked and staggered to 
 gether, up and down the step. The woman, 
 
EVERY MOVE 277 
 
 drawing her feet up on the couch that they 
 might not be in the way, watched the fight with 
 cool interest, her chin in her hands. She 
 watched it as might a disinterested spectator 
 who had no bet on the outcome : she approved 
 a good blow struck or an advantage gained by 
 either side. 
 
 In the doorway of the atrium Austin had a 
 glimpse of Monsieur Vilbert s white face watch 
 ing them eagerly. Behind him bulged the fat 
 figure of Dieudonne, his cheeks shining with 
 excitement. 
 
 Austin tripped his man and threw him heavily 
 to the floor, just as the other black regained 
 his unsteady feet. Monsieur Vilbert, in the 
 distance, grinned sardonically and rubbed his 
 small white hands. His lips framed the mono 
 syllable "good." 
 
 "Good!" echoed Dieudonne, at his back. 
 
 The woman on the couch imperiously waved 
 forward two more slaves from the waiting row. 
 It reminded Austin grimly of Nero clamoring 
 in the Colosseum for more lions. 
 
 "If they start using their knives it s good- 
 by," he muttered. 
 
 With four against him, even though two of 
 them were somewhat crippled by previous com 
 bat, the fight became dismally unequal. They 
 came upon him with a rush from all sides save 
 the rear, where he was protected by the couch. 
 He was able to deliver but one blow, and that 
 one, being his last, was a desperate effort. He 
 
278 EVERY MOVE 
 
 had the satisfaction of stretching one huge, ugly 
 giant flat on his back before they overpowered 
 him and held his arms fast to his sides. 
 
 They manifested no gentleness then in their 
 treatment of him; one at his head and two at 
 his feet. The fourth lay beside the dancing girl, 
 motionless, unheeded. 
 
 As they bore Austin away toward the atrium 
 he had a glimpse of the woman, stretched prone 
 on the couch, following him with her eyes. 
 And a slow, cruel smile curled her lips. The 
 long fans were waving quietly, rhythmically, and 
 the only sound throughout the court was that 
 dull murmur, like the purr of a smooth motor 
 or the buzz of a dentist s drill. 
 
 Vilbert met them in the atrium. He was 
 strangely excited, and all the time he was rub 
 bing his sleek hands gloatingly together. Dieu- 
 donne stood behind him, perspiring freely. 
 
 Once outside the court Austin was allowed 
 to stand, the slaves holding his arms. Panting, 
 furious, he looked back toward the dais. The 
 woman was huddled on the couch, sobbing and 
 shaking and wringing her hands. 
 
 Vilbert stood by the entrance, his arm up 
 raised, waiting. Suddenly the woman sat up 
 right, threw back her head, drew something 
 from her girdle that flashed like a knife, and 
 plunged it into her breast. Then she fell for 
 ward on her face. 
 
 "Now!" cried Vilbert ecstatically. "Fin 
 ished!" 
 
EVERY MOVE 279 
 
 He clapped his hands, and the scene changed 
 with magic rapidity. The woman on the couch 
 raised herself slowly and began to adjust her 
 clothing, patting her hair with delicate touches. 
 The Nubian slave and the dancing girl, who had 
 lain prostrate on the floor, got slowly to their 
 feet, she smiling, laughing, chatting unconcern 
 edly and volubly in French; he stumbling, a 
 little stiffly, somewhat crestfallen, for Austin 
 had put excellent force behind his last upper-cut. 
 
 And the dull noise like the purr of a smooth 
 motor or the buzz of a dentist s drill ceased. 
 
 Vilbert turned, his face wreathed in smiles. 
 He seized Austin in his arms and kissed him 
 rapturously on both cheeks. 
 
 "Cut it out," said Austin disgustedly; "what 
 in the devil do you think you are doing? Will 
 you please tell me the joke?" 
 
 "Ha, ha!" laughed Monsieur Vilbert; "he 
 thinks it a joke. Well, here is Roxane. She 
 will explain the joke." 
 
 "Yes," agreed Dieudonne, "she will explain." 
 
 As he spoke, the woman from the couch came 
 into the atrium. Vilbert, beside himself with 
 delight, rushed to her, shrieking adjectives of 
 approval. When she had calmed him he 
 turned to Austin. 
 
 "Monsieur Waide," he said, "it is my great 
 pleasure to present you to Madame Roxane 
 Verneuil, of the Comedie Franchise. To-day, 
 for the first time in her brilliant career, she has 
 honored the firm of Vilbert and Dieudonne by 
 
280 EVERY MOVE 
 
 consenting to display her divine talent for a 
 moving-picture 
 
 "Hush," said she, interrupting his eloquence. 
 Monsieur Waide, I am enchanted to meet you 
 on a somewhat more formal basis than just now; 
 and may I congratulate you on your most real 
 istic portrayal of the leading role of our drama 
 without words. Realism perfect realism! 
 That is what we obtained by keeping you in 
 ignorance of our purpose. I only regret that 
 your words cannot be reproduced as well as 
 your motions. Your fighting was magnificent, 
 but your love-making was well, shall I say 
 convincing?" 
 
 "One does what one can, madame," said 
 Austin weakly. "It is somewhat humiliating, 
 however, to find that, out of so many, I was, so 
 to speak, the only goat le seul chevre" 
 
 "I do not quite comprehend," said Roxane, 
 "but you need not be humiliated ; poor Alphonse 
 and Bernard are still nursing their chins they 
 who are used to rough handling, also. What 
 shall you call the film, Monsieur Vilbert?" 
 
 "I think," answered Monsieur Vilbert, "that 
 I shall call it Through Passion to Death. 
 That should attract the American public." 
 
 "I m afraid," said Austin, "that portions of 
 my performance would fall short of that title. 
 I only wish I might give an encore; for I am 
 convinced that on a second trial I could do my 
 self better justice. There was one part in par 
 ticular," he added, glancing surreptitiously at 
 
EVERY MOVE 281 
 
 Roxane, "that I might have improved had I not 
 hurried it." 
 
 "Oh, I am not sure," she answered him 
 quickly; "you did it quite well enough." And, 
 smiling, she dabbed the rouge from her lips 
 with her handkerchief. 
 
LETITIA 
 
LETITIA 
 
 I 
 
 WHEN Samuel Dent, wealthy malefactor, 
 had, at the age of fifty-five, ground a fortune 
 out of high-grade soap and the sweat of the 
 poor laboring man, he sat back, rested on his 
 laurels, and had a slight paralytic stroke. Al 
 though his doctor, a famous New York special 
 ist called Haven, assured him that there was 
 no immediate danger, Samuel Dent, greatly 
 frightened, was convinced that he was about to 
 die. With this conviction came fear; and with 
 fear came remorse; and with remorse came a 
 frantic clutching for spiritual salvation. He 
 u got religion" and in a very malignant, Pres 
 byterian form. 
 
 Just as he had called in the best physician to 
 heal his body, so did he now summon the best 
 clergyman to ease his soul. The Reverend Mr. 
 Thane had the reputation and the manner of 
 being very influential in high circles. But the 
 task that Samuel Dent s conscience set him to do 
 involved not only repentance, confession, and 
 reformation, but also material restitution; so, 
 with this last in mind, he was forced to add his 
 attorney, Rutherford Wilkins, to the staff of 
 285 
 
286 LETITIA 
 
 advisers. Equipped, then, with a physician, a 
 clergyman, and a lawyer, he seemed to be in a 
 fair way to triumph over his offenses against 
 nature and God and man. 
 
 The four men met in solemn conclave in 
 Samuel Dent s high-ceilinged library on a late 
 February afternoon. Dent himself, cadaverous 
 and brooding, sat in a great leather armchair 
 by the open fire. The others ranged themselves 
 opposite him: Haven, stately, uninterested, 
 and fingering his watch; Thane, eager, acqui 
 escent, yet trying hard to be a man among men; 
 Wilkins, dry, restless, disconcertingly plain- 
 spoken. 
 
 "Gentlemen," began Samuel Dent, "thank 
 you for coming to-day." 
 
 They made some unanimous deprecative 
 noise at the end of which Thane s voice could be 
 heard trailing off into : "Not at all, my dear sir, 
 not at all." 
 
 "You, Mr. Thane" Dent turned to the 
 clergyman "you know that I am a very 
 wretched man. I am an old man and a sick 
 man and I am a sinful man. The health of 
 God is not in me. But now, before it is too 
 late, before I die, I want to lay hold of 
 life so that when the awful day arrives I ll be 
 able to face the Almighty Judge and say: Lo, 
 I have strayed from the fold, but have mercy, 
 for I have returned repentant! 
 
 Mr. Thane looked very solemn at this as if 
 weighing the efficacy of such a plea; Doctor 
 
LETITIA 287 
 
 Haven appeared slightly embarrassed; and Mr. 
 Wilkins, the attorney, grunted enigmatically. 
 
 But Samuel Dent, greatly moved, continued 
 to a climax, his voice sometimes shrill with fear, 
 sometimes shaken with awe, sometimes, when he 
 permitted himself a ray of hope, hushed to a 
 tense trembling whisper. Thus might Jeremiah 
 have spoken. 
 
 "Excuse me, Mr. Dent," ventured the doctor, 
 "but you must not work yourself up to such a 
 nervous pitch. I cannot allow you to proceed 
 unless you can control yourself," and he crossed 
 over to feel the patient s pulse. "As I thought 
 rapid and irregular." 
 
 "Perhaps," suggested Wilkins, "Mr. Dent 
 will come to the point where / can help him. 
 So far I see no call for my services." 
 
 But Mr. Thane said reprovingly: "Mr. 
 Dent needs the services of all men." 
 
 "Now," said the doctor, returning to his 
 chair, "proceed, Mr. Dent, but more calmly, 
 and, if I may suggest it, more er, concisely." 
 
 Samuel Dent passed a scrawny hand across 
 his eyes as if to shut out their prophetic vision. 
 Then he sat up erect in his chair and said, in a 
 voice of doom: "Gentlemen, I am a married 
 
 man." 
 
 This, though obviously unexpected, failed to 
 excite any deep consternation. Mr. Thane 
 raised sympathetic eyebrows; the doctor said, 
 "Ah," as if he were showing his tonsils; and 
 Wilkins remarked that he, himself, was too. 
 
288 LETIT1A 
 
 "I am a married man," repeated Samuel 
 Dent "that is to say, I believe I am a widower. 
 But somewhere there is a child. God save me 
 from the torments of hell ! there is a child." 
 
 "Steady," interposed the doctor, for Dent 
 threatened to become again unduly excited. 
 
 "Where is the child?" demanded Wilkins, 
 plucking up interest. 
 
 Dent shrank down into his chair and shook 
 his head gloomily. 
 
 "I don t know," he said. "I don t know." 
 
 Wilkins drew a small leather-bound note 
 book from his breast-pocket, detached a gold 
 pencil from his watch-chain, and prepared to 
 make a memorandum. 
 
 "The child s name?" he inquired. 
 
 "Letitia," answered Dent mournfully. "We 
 were going to call her Letty for short." 
 
 "Born?" 
 
 "Nineteen years ago." 
 
 "H m 1893. Month and day?" 
 
 Mr. Thane held up an arm semaphorically. 
 
 "Would it not be better," he observed mildly, 
 "for Mr. Dent to tell us the story in his own 
 way? We ought to know exactly what his 
 purpose is before we waste valuable time on 
 unimportant details." 
 
 Samuel Dent started to speak, but Wilkins 
 forestalled him. 
 
 "It is quite obvious, isn t it, what Mr. Dent s 
 purpose is: deserted wife and young child 
 child named Letitia born 1893 mother s 
 
LETITIA 289 
 
 maiden name so far unknown to us mother 
 supposedly dead. It s all quite clear, I think 
 or will be. Mr. Dent, of course, wishes to 
 have his daughter traced and restored to him; 
 isn t that so, Mr. Dent? Nothing simpler 
 if she s alive." 
 
 At this last Mr. Dent shuddered and gasped 
 in his chair. 
 
 "Don t don t," he faltered. "If she is 
 dead, my soul is lost condemned forever to 
 the tortures of hell-fire thrown into the black 
 abyss hurled to the red, leaping flames 1" 
 
 "Easy, now," said the doctor. "Of course 
 she s alive. We ll find her for you all right." 
 
 "We ll find her all right," agreed Wilkins, 
 "if I may be allowed to procure some more 
 data," and he glanced rather severely at Mr. 
 Thane. 
 
 "Month and day?" he proceeded. 
 
 "May I think May," answered Samuel 
 Dent. "Yes; the 4th of May." 
 
 "Place of birth?" 
 
 "Green Lake, Montana." 
 
 "That s bad very bad," said Wilkins. 
 "Should have been born in a city." 
 
 "And why, pray?" inquired Mr. Thane 
 acidly. 
 
 "Make it easier to trace her," explained Wil 
 kins. "As it is, we can be sure of only one 
 thing that she is not at Green Lake, Montana. 
 I dare say people are born there, but nobody 
 
290 LET1TIA 
 
 would stay there. Now, Mr. Dent, her moth 
 er s maiden name, please ?" 
 
 Samuel Dent groaned. 
 
 "Lucy Lucy Baxter," he said weakly. 
 
 "Last heard of?" The attorney was re 
 lentless. 
 
 "I read of her death fifteen years ago, in a 
 Helena newspaper. I always take a Helena 
 paper. I was married in Helena." 
 
 "H m. Nothing said about the child, I sup 
 pose?" 
 
 Dent shook his head. 
 
 "H m. Can you describe the child?" 
 
 "How can I ? She was only a year old when 
 I saw her last. You can t describe a year-old 
 baby." 
 
 "No scar or a birthmark, perhaps?" sug 
 gested the doctor. 
 
 "Had she been baptized?" asked Mr. Thane. 
 
 "Useless question," commented Wilkins. 
 "Wouldn t show if she had." 
 
 "She hadn t been baptized and she had no 
 birthmark at least, I don t know of any," said 
 Dent miserably. "She looked just like an 
 ordinary baby. She had a good deal of hair 
 would that help ? Dark hair. And oh, yes 
 blue eyes." 
 
 "Useless useless," said Wilkins. "Hair 
 and eyes are not permanent at one year." 
 
 "Hair never is," murmured the doctor, who 
 was becoming very bored. 
 
 After a few more questions, the lawyer put 
 
LETITIA 291 
 
 away his note-book and rose to go. Samuel 
 Dent, exhausted, lay crumpled up in the big 
 chair, and the doctor was feeling his pulse. 
 Mr. Thane stood by the fire, shifting from one 
 foot to the other, reluctant to leave. He rather 
 hoped that Dent would urge him to stay after 
 the others had gone, for he felt that he had not 
 appeared to very brilliant advantage in the 
 presence of Wilkins and Doctor Haven. Be 
 sides, there was the matter of the new 
 organ. . . . 
 
 "Good-by, Mr. Dent," said Wilkins to the 
 pitiful figure in the chair. "We shall do every 
 thing possible with so little to go on. Advertise 
 ments in all the papers, of course Montana 
 papers especially. Sorry the girl didn t have a 
 harelip or a finger missing or something like 
 that to identify her unmistakably. Still, it can t 
 be helped. We ll do our best. Good-day." 
 
 When the lawyer had gone, Doctor Haven 
 rang for the valet. 
 
 "Bagby," he said, "help me get Mr. Dent 
 up-stairs and to bed. He s had a very painful 
 half-hour very painful indeed. Mr. Thane, 
 I think you had better leave us my patient 
 must have absolute quiet. Er good-by; you 
 have been of great assistance great assist 
 
 ance." 
 
 Then the doctor and Bagby, the valet, carried 
 Samuel Dent up to bed. 
 
292 LETITIA 
 
 II 
 
 Now Bagby, the valet, occupied a peculiar 
 position in Samuel Dent s household. When 
 Dent had determined to sell out the soap busi 
 ness in Saint Louis and assault New York and 
 Wall Street, Bagby had followed him East to 
 take care of him. While Dent had been making 
 money, Bagby had been making observations. 
 He had learned how the right people dressed; 
 what they ate, and at what hours; how they 
 furnished their houses; what brands of auto 
 mobiles they bought; what wines they drank; 
 what oaths they used; what jewelry they permit 
 ted themselves ; and what god they believed in. 
 Thus Bagby had become a sort of social mentor 
 to Dent a position that made for intimacy 
 and bred confidences. Bagby knew not whence 
 his master derived his income, but he did know 
 where he bought his waistcoats; he cared not 
 whether Dent was a bull or a bear, but he saw 
 to it that his coat-collar was of seal. And it 
 was, metaphorically, over Bagby s dead body 
 that Samuel Dent joined the Presbyterian 
 Church: Bagby had had his name on the list 
 for a pew at St. Thomas s. 
 
 Incidentally, Bagby s name was not Bagby 
 at all it was Ephraim Bunny. But Bagby 
 pointed out that Bunny was no name for a 
 gentleman s man, and it was Bagby himself that 
 
LETITIA 293 
 
 suggested, very respectfully, that he (Bunny) 
 be rechristened. 
 
 It followed logically, then, that Samuel 
 Dent s fervid and unexpected attack of religion 
 greatly upset Bagby. Obviously it was not the 
 thing it was plebeian, it smacked of the sud 
 den conversions brought about by vulgar re 
 vivalists. Whenever Samuel Dent called loudly 
 on his Lord (which was often) Bagby felt 
 humiliated; and he blushed for his employer 
 when he heard him screaming of hell-fire and 
 brimstone and the black abyss and the tortures 
 of the damned. Bagby knew that no Christian 
 gentleman gave such things a thought. 
 
 Night after night Samuel Dent poured out 
 the tale of his sins to Bagby. 
 
 "Think of it, Bagby," he would cry, shiver 
 ing, "think of it the wife left alone, perhaps 
 to starve and the baby, my little girl, my little 
 Letitia ! I turned my back on them I listened 
 to the voice of the Evil One, miserable sinner 
 that I am. My soul is black black, I tell you, 
 Bagby, and nothing can cleanse it. Oh, if I 
 could but make my peace with the Lord before 
 I die!" 
 
 "I understand," Bagby would answer, busy 
 ing himself with Dent s clothes "I understand 
 that they are not wearing four-button dress 
 waistcoats any more, sir. I ll put these old ones 
 of yours away, sir, if you ll allow me. And I 
 think, sir, that I ll have to send back that 
 colored silk underwear you ordered. No 
 
294 LETITIA 
 
 colors, sir leastwise not for a gentleman of 
 your years." 
 
 Thus Bagby endeavored discreetly to turn 
 the painful trend of Samuel Dent s thoughts. 
 But as time went on and there came no results 
 from Wilkins s advertising campaign, no Le- 
 titia to soothe Dent s soul, no prospect of 
 his securing a heavenly pardon by means of an 
 earthly one, Bagby found that it became more 
 and more difficult to divert his employer s har 
 rowed mind. And Bagby became sincerely 
 alarmed. 
 
 He intercepted Wilkins in the front hall each 
 time the attorney came to report progress or 
 lack of progress. 
 
 u No news from Miss Letitia, sir?" Bagby 
 would inquire wistfully. 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 Then Bagby would shake his head dolorously 
 and help Wilkins into his overcoat. 
 
 Finally, in despair, Wilkins made a flying 
 trip to Montana, where he spent three busy 
 days at Green Lake. During his absence Sam 
 uel Dent s condition became very precarious 
 indeed, and Doctor Haven was in constant at 
 tendance at the bedside. 
 
 "Unless Wilkins comes back leading Letitia 
 by the hand," said the doctor to Bagby, "I can 
 not hold out much hope for Mr. Dent s life. 
 He is worrying himself into the grave. I have 
 always been told that religion was a comfort 
 a staff to lean upon. Humph ! Mr. Dent s re- 
 
LET IT I A 295 
 
 ligion is killing him. The fear of hell is propel 
 ling him toward er, heaven." 
 
 When Wilkins returned from Montana, he 
 summoned Doctor Haven, the Reverend Mr. 
 Thane, and Bagby to his office; and the four of 
 them talked for an hour behind closed doors. 
 When they came out it was noticed that Wil 
 kins was disturbed, Haven was insistent, Thane 
 was expostulatory, and Bagby was more cheer 
 ful than he had been for weeks. But they all 
 bore themselves like men who have shouldered 
 great responsibilities. 
 
 Two days later Samuel Dent had a relapse 
 so serious that Doctor Haven, fearing a second 
 stroke for him, took a room next to the patient 
 and remained in the house constantly for 
 seventy-two hours at the rate of fifty dollars an 
 hour. 
 
 While the flame of Dent s life was still 
 flickering like a candle in a draught, there came 
 to pass an event as fortunate as it was un 
 expected. One afternoon Wilkins, nervous and 
 excited, came up the front steps of the Madison 
 Avenue house with a young girl on his arm. 
 Thane and Haven were present in the sick 
 room, listening to Dent s vague rambling mut- 
 terings from the book of Lamentations; for 
 Dent, in his wretchedness, clung to the Old 
 Testament, feeling, doubtless, a certain kin 
 ship with the soul-racked prophets. 
 
 " Behold, " he wailed with Jeremiah, " be 
 hold and see if there be any sorrow like unto 
 
296 LET ITU 
 
 my sorrow, which is done unto me, wherewith 
 the Lord hath afflicted me in the day of his 
 fierce anger. From above hath he sent fire into 
 my bones, and it prevaileth against them: he 
 hath spread a net for my feet, he hath turned 
 me back: he hath made me desolate and faint 
 all the "day. The yoke of my transgressions is 
 bound by his hand : they are wreathed and come 
 upon my neck: he hath made my strength to 
 fall " 
 
 It was at this point that Wilkins, announced 
 by the tremulous Bagby, entered the room. He 
 nodded to Haven and Thane and immediately 
 crossed over to the bed. 
 
 "Good news, Mr. Dent," said he. 
 
 Dent stared at him vacantly. 
 
 "There can be no good news for such as me," 
 he groaned. "I am an outcast, a pariah, a sin 
 ner in the nethermost gloom. Woe unto me 
 that I have sinned ! I shall die and be consumed 
 in the fires of hell I shall " 
 
 "If you would listen to me," interrupted the 
 lawyer, "you wouldn t perhaps be so sure of 
 those fires of hell. I tell you I have good news 
 I have found Letitia." 
 
 "No !" exclaimed Haven. "You don t say !" 
 
 "The Lord s name be praised!" said Thane. 
 
 Samuel Dent sat up in bed; and he pointed 
 a shaking finger at Wilkins, as if he were aim 
 ing a revolver at him. 
 
 "You aren t fooling me, Wilkins?" he said. 
 "You aren t fooling me?" 
 
LETITIA 297 
 
 "Have her up," replied Wilkins imperturb- 
 ably, "and see for yourself." 
 
 "I shouldn t know her," groaned Dent. But 
 he added eagerly: "She says she s Letitia she 
 remembers?" 
 
 "Ask her," recommended Wilkins. 
 
 He went to the door, opened it, and called 
 "Bagby!" 
 
 The response was almost immediate. 
 
 "Bagby, bring up the young lady that is wait 
 ing in the hall." 
 
 There was a minute of silent suspense. You 
 could hear the four men breathing; and Dent, 
 with flushed face and an uncanny light in his 
 eyes, was sitting up rigidly straight, forgetful 
 of his weakness. 
 
 Then a girl came into the room, a little awk 
 wardly, a little hesitatingly. 
 
 She was dressed in a dark-green suit, with 
 some black furs at her neck and a black muff, 
 and she wore a small round hat with a single 
 white goose feather and a gold tassel. She was 
 slender and straight and dark and red-lipped 
 and wide-eyed; but her coloring was so vivid 
 that it hinted of rouge and the black crayon. 
 
 "She is made up," said Mr. Thane to himself, 
 and couldn t take his pale eyes off her. 
 
 "What a superb young female!" thought 
 Haven, and adjusted his eyeglasses. 
 
 Wilkins, by right of discovery, took her 
 white-gloved hand and led her to the bed. 
 
298 LETITIA 
 
 "Mr. Dent," said he very gravely, "unless I 
 am mistaken this is your daughter." 
 
 "Father!" she cried, and went gracefully to 
 her knees. 
 
 Dent reached out to touch her hair, but the 
 goose feather interfered. She must have sensed 
 the trouble, for she looked up and said : "Wait 
 a second and I ll take the old hat off." 
 
 True to her word, she had it off in a second, 
 and, after tossing it carelessly into a corner, re 
 sumed her position on her knees. 
 
 "There; that s better, ain t it?" said she. 
 
 "Letitia my little Letty," whispered Dent. 
 "Are you truly my little Letty, come to save 
 and forgive me?" 
 
 "Sure, I m your little Letty, dad," she said 
 soothingly. 
 
 He lifted her chin with his hand and looked 
 deep into her eyes, searching in them, perhaps, 
 for something of himself, something of her 
 mother. 
 
 "Lord God," he cried, "let me be certain!" 
 
 Then he lay back on the pillows with a sigh. 
 
 "Tell me," he said more calmly, "tell me 
 about yourself all you can remember. And 
 about your mother, if you can." 
 
 Letitia drew a long breath and began. 
 
 "I was born," she said, "in 1893, in the little 
 village of Green Lake, Montana." 
 
 "Yes," said Dent encouragingly, "go on 
 that s right go on." 
 
 Wilkins, turning his back, looked out of the 
 
LET IT I A 299 
 
 window. He had heard this before. Thane 
 and Haven exchanged glances and then each 
 looked hastily away. 
 
 "My mother s name," the girl continued, 
 "was Lucy Baxter before she married you." 
 
 "Ah!" breathed Dent, with a sigh that was 
 cousin to a sob. "Poor, poor Lucy!" 
 
 "She died," said Letitia simply. 
 
 "You remember her death?" 
 
 "No; not very well. I wasn t nothing but a 
 kid. I was four years old. Mrs. Dent mother 
 died in 1897." 
 
 "Of course you were too young." 
 
 "She died in Helena," added the girl. 
 
 "Yes," said Dent sadly, "I read the death 
 notice in the paper. And you when she died, 
 what became of you?" 
 
 "I lived with some people that had a farm 
 in the country. They was they were very 
 kind. They raised pigs and and things. But 
 I guess there weren t much money in it, because 
 they were always poor." 
 
 " Blessed are the poor! " murmured Dent. 
 "You will tell me their names some day, my 
 dear, and they ll be repaid seventy times 
 
 over." 
 
 "All right," she agreed, "only they ve 
 moved." 
 
 "We ll go out into the highways and hedges 
 and seek them," said Dent in a sort of ecstasy. 
 
 "Sure," she nodded; "we ll have em paged." 
 
 Wilkins, by the window, cleared his throat. 
 
300 LETITIA 
 
 "How long did you live with them?" asked 
 Dent. 
 
 "Well, I beat it when I was eight. I got a 
 job playing Little Eva in Uncle Tom s Cabin* 
 on the road, you know one-night stands. 
 We played Kansas and Nebraska and God 
 knows what. I was the little traveller, I can 
 tell you, at the age of eight. 7 
 
 "My poor girl," sighed Dent. "What a life, 
 what a hard, cruel life ! and all my fault. Can 
 you ever forgive me, Letty? I ll try to make 
 it up to you. Now that I ve found you, you ll 
 never have to struggle and starve again. . . . 
 What have you been doing recently?" 
 
 "Vawdvil," said Letty. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Vawdvil," she repeated "two a day on the 
 big time." 
 
 "Just what do you do?" 
 
 "Don t you never go to the theatre, dad? 
 Why, I m Vonnie Lesley of Lesley and 
 MacGee songs, dances, and repartee. That s 
 how our act s billed. , See, it rhymes : Lesley 
 and MacGee songs, dances and repartee. 
 Good, isn t it? That was Tim s idea Tim 
 MacGee. Say, it s some act, too. Come and 
 see it sometime we re headliners out on the 
 road, but here in New York, what with Sarah 
 Burnhard and Lady Constantly Stewed-Rich 
 ards and the Dolly Sisters, they ve stuck us in 
 just ahead of the acrobats. Competition s some 
 thing fierce in this burg." 
 
LETITIA 301 
 
 "My dear Letty," said Samuel Dent, "you 
 needn t worry any more about competition. 
 From now on my money is yours. You need 
 not toil and slave for your bread any longer. 
 Wilkins" he turned to the lawyer "arrange 
 that my daughter shall be free from any further 
 obligations to appear on the stage. I don t 
 know much about such things, but do what is 
 necessary and pay what is necessary." 
 
 Letitia half-rose to her feet. 
 
 "Hold on," she said; "not so fast. This ain t 
 the speedway. I can t leave Tim in the lurch 
 like that, and I wouldn t if I could. What do 
 you suppose Tim would think of me, leaving 
 him cold! No, sir. I m Letitia Dent but 
 first, last, and all the time I m Vonnie Lesley of 
 Lesley and MacGee songs, dances, and repar 
 tee. And, besides, there s other reasons." 
 
 "What are the other reasons, Miss Dent?" 
 asked Wilkins, with raised eyebrows. 
 
 She seemed about to retort a little angrily; 
 her eyes were not so wide, her lips not quite so 
 full. But she evidently thought better of it, 
 for a smile twitched the corners of her mouth 
 as she answered very gently: "The other 
 reasons, Mr. Wilkins, is that I m engaged to 
 be married to Tim MacGee. So you see it ain t 
 likely that I d quit the act, is it?" 
 
 This announcement called forth protest and 
 ejaculation. 
 
 "Won t do at all not at all," said Wilkins. 
 
302 LET IT I A 
 
 "Think of your new position in society/ 
 urged Haven. 
 
 "My dear young lady," said Thane, "this is 
 very disturbing indeed, and if I may say so, 
 unfortunate." 
 
 Samuel Dent, alone, said nothing. 
 
 Letitia pointed directly at Thane, who stirred 
 uneasily in his chair. 
 
 "You can marry us Tim and me if you 
 want," she said. "You re a minister, ain t 
 you?" 
 
 Mr. Thane murmured that he was, but added 
 that he thought the marriage undesirable. 
 
 "What!" she exclaimed, misunderstanding 
 him, "you don t believe in marriage? You re 
 a funny minister, you are. What do you be 
 lieve in free love?" 
 
 "Hush," said Wilkins; and Mr. Thane, very 
 uncomfortable under her scrutiny, explained. 
 
 At last Samuel Dent spoke. 
 
 "We will do nothing hastily," said he. 
 "Letty, you ll bring Mr. MacGee to the house 
 soon, and we ll talk it over quietly and reason 
 ably. I m so glad to get you back, my dear lit 
 tle girl, that I don t ask anything more, and I 
 certainly won t begin by making you unhappy. 
 Before long, when I m entirely well again, we ll 
 have a long talk, you and I, and we ll decide 
 what s best. Meanwhile you can do just ex 
 actly as you please about keeping on with your 
 work on the stage. There, now, is that all 
 right?" 
 
LET IT I A 303 
 
 She leaned over and kissed him loudly and 
 enthusiastically. 
 
 "Fine!" she said. That s the sort of stuff 
 that gets over. And you re sure to like Tim, 
 dad : he s just like you he s a regular fellow." 
 
 Ill 
 
 THE next day Letty moved over from her 
 West Side boarding-house, bringing with her 
 a derelict of a hamper, two suitcases, and a 
 globe of goldfish. A maid showed her to her 
 room one of the many hitherto unoccupied 
 guest-rooms in the big house. It was furnished 
 with white-painted wicker and blue cretonne, 
 and was spotlessly clean and restfully bare. 
 
 "Needs a little livening up, I guess," was 
 Letty s comment. u lt s pretty, though awful 
 pretty, and the bathroom s just grand. When 
 I get my photos stuck around it ll look very 
 cosey and home-like." 
 
 She unpacked a most amazing collection of 
 photographs, mostly of women in costume, 
 smirking behind fans, or sitting stiffly in Gothic 
 chairs, or emerging bare-shouldered and smiling 
 from white fur rugs. There were some, too, 
 of men in dress clothes, with varnished hair and 
 large noses and small chins; and there were 
 group pictures, snap-shots from Coney and At 
 lantic City, of giggling girls and their affection 
 ate escorts. Then, too, there were half a dozen 
 
304 LETITIA 
 
 pictures of Tim MacGee, all inscribed to "my 
 dear little Vonnie, from Tim." 
 
 With all these Letty indubitably succeeded 
 in livening up the room. When she had fin 
 ished, every mirror was bordered with photo 
 graphs, the bureau was covered with them; they 
 dominated the mantelpiece, they almost papered 
 the walls. They, and an indescribable assort 
 ment of crepe paper cotillon favors, wrought 
 an abrupt and decisive transformation. 
 
 She entered into her new life with great zest: 
 each day brought some delightful surprise that 
 called from her little explanations of pleasure. 
 Chocolate and rolls served to her in bed in the 
 morning, for instance; the use of the limousine 
 with two men on the box; the Niagara that en 
 sued when she turned on the hot water in the 
 bathtub; the liveried footman that said, "Thank 
 you, miss," when she gave him an order; and 
 the chimes that that same liveried footman 
 struck to announce luncheon or dinner. 
 
 "Say," she remarked, "this is like living in 
 the Waldorf. Don t wake me up." 
 
 She saw a great deal of Samuel Dent, who 
 had thriven mentally, physically, and spiritu 
 ally since her arrival. His efforts to make her 
 happy and comfortable were prodigious and 
 pathetic; and in working for her happiness he 
 seemed, in a measure, to forget his own former 
 wretchedness and to throw off some of his re 
 ligious fanaticism. She had assured him from 
 the first that, so far as she was concerned, he 
 
LETITIA 305 
 
 was forgiven. She bore him no grudge ; on the 
 contrary, she grew to feel a sincere affection 
 for him, for he continued to prove to her that 
 he was a "regular fellow." 
 
 At the end of the first week she introduced 
 Tim MacGee. Tim was a tall, lanky, smooth- 
 shaven, serious-minded boy, with a quiet sense 
 of humor, and the shy, retiring manner of an 
 assistant rector that was hard to reconcile with 
 the exuberant, slap-stick confidence he displayed 
 on the vaudeville stage. 
 
 "Honest to God, Mr. Dent," he said, "I m 
 tickled to death that Vonnie s landed soft, and 
 I don t want to butt in and break up her party." 
 
 "Letitia seems quite willing to have you butt 
 in, Mr. MacGee; she is very fond of you." 
 
 "Letitia? oh, I see Vonnie. Well, Mr. 
 Dent, I m nuts about her, just simply nuts. Of 
 course, I m not worth a wad of money yet, and 
 perhaps I oughtn t well, perhaps I oughtn t 
 to stick around and expect her to marry me. 
 But, say, Mr. Dent, we ve got a swell act now, 
 and it s getting across fine. I d hate to lose 
 Vonnie, Mr. Dent. She d be a big loss to 
 vawdvil and a bigger loss to me, honest she 
 would." 
 
 "I m not going to interfere," Samuel Dent 
 assured him. "I didn t bring Letitia here in 
 order to thwart her in anything she has her 
 heart set on; and as well as I can make out she 
 has her heart set on vaudeville and you. You 
 are a lucky man, Mr. MacGee." 
 
306 LETITIA 
 
 "Gee, don t I know it!" he exclaimed. "I m 
 the human horseshoe!" 
 
 "Exactly," said Mr. Dent. 
 
 There was a short silence, during which you 
 could almost hear Tim MacGee glow with 
 pleasure. 
 
 "I want to ask you something, Mr. MacGee," 
 said Dent at length. 
 
 "Shoot I mean please do." 
 
 "Oh er, first will you have some refresh 
 ment, perhaps?" 
 
 "I don t mind," said Tim. 
 
 Bagby brought Scotch and siphon and a tall 
 glass with ice. 
 
 "I don t drink," explained Dent. "Doctor 
 won t permit it." 
 
 "You ain t against it on principles," said Tim, 
 hesitating; "because if you are, I can wait." 
 
 "No," said Dent smiling. "I was, once 
 but I believe I am getting more tolerant. 
 Letitia has changed me a great deal." 
 
 "Well," said Tim cordially, "here s how." 
 
 "What I want to know," said Dent, after an 
 interval, "is whether you think I am making 
 Letitia completely happy. You see that is, at 
 present, my sole object in life. Now, you un 
 derstand her probably much better than I do 
 you have her confidence and you know what she 
 enjoys. Is there anything you can suggest that 
 I might do to give her pleasure?" 
 
 Tim meditated deeply. 
 
 "There s one thing," he said rather reluc- 
 
LETITIA 307 
 
 tantly "one thing that I ve heard her wish for 
 a whole lot of times. But I don t know whether 
 you d do it." 
 
 "What is it?" asked Dent, eagerly. "Of 
 course I d do it anything at all in my power." 
 
 "Well," continued Tim, "it seems like asking 
 royalty to drive in a hack, but, anyhow, I know 
 it would just tickle Vonnie crazy if you d do it 
 she s simply mad, Mr. Dent, to have you see 
 our act from out front. Honest, Mr. Dent, 
 she s got her heart on it. Would you come 
 some night?" 
 
 "My dear boy," said Samuel Dent, "I ll come 
 to-night." 
 
 "Cheers!" cried Tim MacGee. 
 
 IV 
 
 DENT, from that day on, attended twice a 
 week the vaudeville houses in New York and 
 its near vicinity where the team of Lesley and 
 MacGee were billed to dance, sing and ex 
 change repartee. Fortunately, at that partic 
 ular season, he was never forced to travel fur 
 ther afield than Brooklyn or Jersey City; later, 
 when the team should leave for New England, 
 he foresaw a more difficult problem to face. 
 
 But it happened that they never went to New 
 England; and this was due partly to Samuel 
 Dent s generosity, partly to the leaping ambition 
 of Lesley and MacGee, and partly to the turkey- 
 
308 LETITIA 
 
 trot. I say turkey-trot advisedly, in lieu of 
 fox-trot or maxixe or lulu-fado, for, remem 
 ber, this was in 1912. 
 
 The project of starting a combination res 
 taurant and dance-hall emanated from Mac- 
 Gee s agile brain. He broached it to Letitia 
 one evening at the Palatial Theatre, while they 
 were waiting to go on after the trained guinea 
 
 Pig- 
 honest to God," he concluded, "New 
 York s got the dancing bug. They all want to 
 die dancing, and they re willing to pay good 
 coin for the kind permission. All we need is a 
 floor and a booze license and the kopeks are 
 ours. Then it ll be our turn to sit back and 
 watch other folks make fools of themselves in 
 public." 
 
 They put it to Samuel Dent as a strictly 
 business proposition; they asked no favors. 
 They would do the work ; would he provide the 
 money? 
 
 "We ll split the dividends fifty-fifty," ex 
 plained MacGee. "And, at that, we ll all get 
 rich." 
 
 Samuel Dent assented without a murmur, for 
 he knew that it would keep his Letitia near him 
 in New York. And thus was launched the now 
 famous Carnival Garden. 
 
 Those were wonderful, glittering months in 
 the spring and summer of 1912. Carnival Gar 
 den was a success from its inception an un 
 precedented success and Tim and Letitia were 
 
LETITIA 309 
 
 jubilant. Dent s health became so excellent 
 that he resumed his operations in Wall Street 
 with something of his old-time carefully planned 
 recklessness; and almost every evening he went 
 to the Carnival Garden for a sandwich and a 
 glass of milk. He was the only patron of the 
 establishment permitted to drink anything but 
 champagne. Between her dances Letitia would 
 join him as often as possible Letitia very 
 lovely in a filmy, plaited scarlet gown, with a 
 Dutch cap over her black hair and little black 
 slippers on her nervous feet. And Samuel 
 Dent would gaze at her out of tired, adoring 
 eyes over his glass of milk; and he would assure 
 himself that God had been very good to him 
 in giving him such a daughter. 
 
 Something of Dent s new optimism may be 
 inferred from the fact that in August he went 
 heavily long of the market. But do you remem 
 ber what happened to stocks during that fall 
 and winter? For once Samuel Dent had chosen 
 the wrong side for once his judgment had 
 been at fault. The ruin was ghastly and com 
 plete. 
 
 When the smoke of the disaster lifted some 
 what, and it was possible to see just how much 
 damage had been done, just what smouldering 
 ashes of his once great fortune remained, there 
 ensued a panic among his creditors. It was 
 doubtful if Samuel Dent could meet his obliga 
 tions. But he did meet them; he sacrificed 
 everything that he owned to meet them, and 
 
310 LETITIA 
 
 the effort left him shaken and shivering, too 
 weak to begin again at the beginning, too old 
 to venture into new fields. 
 
 When the Madison Avenue house with all 
 its contents was sold at public auction, Samuel 
 Dent and his daughter moved into a tiny apart 
 ment west of Seventh Avenue. Carnival Gar 
 den went merrily on with unflagging spirits, but 
 Samuel Dent no longer sat at his table and 
 sipped his milk. Instead Samuel Dent lay 
 crumpled up on his bed at home. Home! 
 Oh, the irony of the word ! 
 
 Letitia, with nothing to do until evening, was 
 with him all day, and Bagby obstinately refused 
 to be discharged. Bagby cooked the meals over 
 the gas-stove in the kitchenette and Letitia 
 served them; and every afternoon Tim MacGee 
 came in for an hour to inquire how every little 
 thing was. And, lo, Samuel Dent found that 
 he was not unhappy, or, if he was unhappy, it 
 was for Letitia s sake. 
 
 "I hoped to be able to give you so much," 
 he said, "and this is what I have left to give. 
 I don t see, even, how we can pay for this." 
 
 "You forget the Carnival Garden," answered 
 Letitia. "It s bringing us in six thousand per 
 fectly good dollars a year." 
 
 He laughed bitterly. 
 
 "I am living on my daughter," he said. 
 
 "Rats!" said she inelegantly; "if it hadn t 
 been for you there wouldn t be any Carnival 
 Garden except in my mind s eye." 
 
LET IT I A 311 
 
 About this time, Wilkins, the attorney, wrote 
 to her asking her if she would see him at his 
 office. She went wonderingly but calmly, and 
 she came away flushed with indignation. 
 
 "You great boob," she exclaimed in farewell, 
 "do you think I bite off more than I can chew? 
 Not Vonnie! I m going to stick see?" 
 
 Wilkins, it is to be presumed, saw. 
 
 IN January Samuel Dent suffered a second 
 and last stroke of paralysis. Doctor Haven 
 battled in vain; the combination against him 
 and his medicines was too strong. Even Mr. 
 Thane, whose visits had become less frequent 
 and whose hopes of the new organ had been 
 shattered, proved powerless; Samuel Dent died. 
 He died tranquilly, with no soul-searing 
 lamentations on his lips, no fear of hell-fire in 
 his eyes; and he died clinging to Letitia s hand. 
 "This has been a very happy year for me, 
 Letty," he whispered. 
 
 "You bet it has, dad for all of us." 
 "I m leaving you nothing, Letty nothing." 
 "You re leaving me your love," she said, and 
 she bent and kissed him. 
 
312 LETITIA 
 
 VI 
 
 WHEN it was over, Haven and Thane joined 
 Wilkins at the club. Haven took a stiff drink 
 and Thane ordered a milk and vichy. 
 
 "Well?" inquired Wilkins sympathetically. 
 
 "He s dead," said Haven with more feeling 
 than he usually cared to reveal. 
 
 "He has departed this life," supplemented 
 Thane. 
 
 "And Letitia?" asked Wilkins. 
 
 "She was with him," said Haven. "We left 
 her praying at the bed. I wonder where she 
 learned how to pray." 
 
 No one of them volunteered an answer. 
 
 "Well," said Wilkins after a silence, "I am 
 convinced that we did the right thing. It did 
 Dent a world of good " 
 
 "It added a year to his life," interposed 
 Haven, "and a very happy year, I think, in 
 spite of everything. Dent would have died in 
 torture had you told him that his daughter had 
 died a month after her mother." 
 
 Wilkins nodded. 
 
 "And it certainly did Letitia no harm," he 
 said. "She s a wonderful girl wonderful. 
 Don t see them like her often. You know, when 
 Dent went smash I had her come down to 
 the office and told her that, of course, he 
 couldn t do much more for her didn t have a 
 cent left. I suggested that she was at liberty 
 
LET IT I A 313 
 
 to call the whole thing off, but well, I offered 
 to give her a little something out of my own 
 pocket if she d keep on playing the part. I felt 
 sorry for Dent knew that he had come to lean 
 on her." 
 
 "What did she say?" demanded Thane. 
 
 Wilkins smiled slowly and meditatively. 
 
 "She said: You great boob, do you think 
 I bite off more than I can chew? Not Vonnie! 
 I m going to stick see? And she wouldn t 
 touch my money." 
 
 "No," said Haven; "she s a thoroughbred. 
 I wonder where old Bagby produced her from." 
 
 "God bless her," said Wilkins huskily, and 
 drained his glass. 
 
 "Amen," said Thane. 
 
 But in the little apartment west of Seventh 
 Avenue, Bagby and Letitia sat watching over 
 the dead. And suddenly Letitia threw her 
 arms around Bagby s neck and burst into tears. 
 
 "Oh, dad," she sobbed, "do you think we 
 made him happy?" 
 
 "I m sure we did, dear," answered Bagby; 
 "I m sure we did, 7 
 
A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 
A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 JEAN FRANCOIS, Marquis de Beauvoisin, was 
 one of the Forty Immortals. At the age of 
 fifty-two the honor of it sat lightly upon his 
 erect shoulders; and yet he was not of those 
 who are wont to accept responsibilities with a 
 smile and a shrug. He was as painstaking with 
 his obligations toward his neighbor and his na 
 tion as he was in regard to the metre of his 
 verse or the care of his person. Nevertheless, 
 to be a staunch Catholic, a fervent Royalist, and 
 a member of the French Academy is, to-day, 
 no mean accomplishment; for at the present 
 date the Forty is composed of two ecclesiasts, 
 four aristocrats, six Jews, and twenty-eight sons 
 of French peasants who have become men of 
 letters. Like Cincinnatus, they left the plough 
 to lead an army; and the pens they wield are 
 as mighty as his sword and doubtless as awk 
 wardly handled. 
 
 People who knew them both have said that 
 the marquis was as young at fifty-two as his son 
 at twenty-eight. The comparison, however, is 
 of little value, since no one had ever seen the 
 two together after the son s unfortunate mar 
 riage to u that person from one of the Ameri 
 cas," as the marquis used to designate her. The 
 317 
 
318 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 narrow old aristocrat had refused to attend the 
 wedding, or to kiss the bride, although, good 
 ness knows, she was kissable enough for the 
 taste of the Bourbon pretender himself. 
 
 The marquis, then, after the death of his 
 wife, lived alone on the Quai Voltaire, in 
 an ancient hotel, the cracked, weather-beaten 
 fagade of which had overlooked the silent Seine 
 for many generations for so many, in fact, 
 that it could afford to sneer across the river at 
 the flaunting pavilions of the Louvre, as who 
 should say: "Ha ! Upstart! What right have 
 you to preen yourself so finely over there? 
 Who are you, my young one, to make so much 
 show? You are naught but a hybrid and most 
 of you is empire: Nouveau, bah!" 
 
 If I have stated that the marquis lived quite 
 alone I must hasten to correct myself; for his 
 roof-tree sheltered one other soul, his house 
 keeper, Eugenie. Eugenie, as her fathers (and 
 mothers) before her, had been created to serve 
 the house of Beauvoisin, and the marquis ad 
 mitted that, like all old and faithful servants, 
 she ruled rather than obeyed. His friend, Dr. 
 Miromesnil, said that the marquis feared her 
 wrath above that of any but God. 
 
 After the death of the marquise, Eugenie 
 promptly seized the reins of power, and, un 
 like that of her fatherland, her government 
 gradually changed from a republic to a mon 
 archy, and thence to a tyranny. "Liberte, 
 Egalite, Fraternite" that hoarse, Utopian cry 
 
A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 319 
 
 of the people, meant naught to Eugenie. She 
 was par excellence an aristocrat, referring to 
 the estimable president of the republic and to 
 his ministers and legislators as "un tas de 
 cochons" Morning and evening she prayed 
 for his majesty, the king, who was, of course, 
 the Bourbon pretender, inasmuch as the Beau- 
 voisins were of no mere empire nobility. 
 
 The marquis, though born and bred a staunch 
 Royalist, found himself perfectly comfortable 
 and satisfied under a republic. He was not long 
 in making the discovery that it is in republican 
 countries that the nobility are most esteemed 
 and sought after. If people, as sometimes hap 
 pened, taunted him with being the "silken poet 
 of the republic," he was inclined to ascribe the 
 term to the style of his verse rather than to the 
 material of his shirts. As descriptive of his 
 work it was not inappropriate, for his endeavor 
 was to put into printed words the spirit that 
 Watteau and his contemporaries had depicted 
 on canvas. Whether he succeeded is not for me 
 to say; I can but refer you to his "Poesies 
 Amoureuses," published by Lafitte, and leave 
 the judgment to you. 
 
 If ever the disturbing imp of loneliness en 
 tered into the spirit of the marquis s dreams, 
 he betrayed it neither by word nor sign. He 
 was as proud and withal as sensitive as those 
 magnificent sires of his who had been dragged 
 in the tumbril, smiling, to death; and yet those 
 who knew him best (and Eugenie was among 
 
320 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 them) realized thoroughly the double loss that 
 he had undergone in the death of his wife and 
 the estrangement with his son. When he sat 
 down of an evening alone to his croute-au-pot 
 and his entrecote Eugenie was wont to shake 
 her head sadly and remark that loneliness makes 
 a poor sauce. And Eugenie had moments of 
 insight. 
 
 It was on a certain sweet-smelling April night 
 that the marquis, having dined, sat at his desk 
 by the half-opened window correcting the proofs 
 of a sonnet destined for Le Monde. His pen 
 was travelling listlessly across the sheets, and 
 he was not annoyed when his servant, approach 
 ing noiselessly in her hygienic sandals, thrust 
 a flushed and excited face through the portieres. 
 Before opening her lips she regarded the mar 
 quis with something in her eye that is difficult 
 to describe a knowing, admiring, villainous 
 look, as who should say: "You sly old rascal, 
 what a dog you are with the ladies, to be sure ! 
 And you in your fifties, too !" It is only French 
 women who attain this look, and they retain it 
 long after the roses in their cheeks are painted 
 and until their poor, sentimental old hearts have 
 beaten for the last time. It was such a look 
 that Eugenie cast upon him. 
 
 "A demoiselle to see m sieu le marquis," was 
 all she said. 
 
 The marquis starea, thinking he had misun 
 derstood, for she enunciated poorly with her 
 two remaining teeth. 
 
A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 321 
 
 U A demoiselle to see m sieu le marquis," 
 she repeated, and added: "elle a Yair tres bien. 
 Elle a un chic " and up went her big, red hands 
 to high heaven, doubtless in search of a superla 
 tive adjective. 
 
 "Her name?" ventured the marquis. 
 
 u She did not give it, m sieuV 
 
 "Tell her to come up," said the marquis 
 shortly. 
 
 "At this hour " Eugenie began. 
 
 "Enough," said the marquis. 
 
 The servant hobbled out muttering to her 
 self: "It is that monsieur le marquis is still 
 dangerous," might have been the trend of her 
 remarks, but the marquis chose not to hear. 
 
 He was pretending to work when his visitor 
 entered, so that he did not see until later that 
 she was young and slim and fair; that she had 
 Mediterranean eyes he might have written a 
 dozen poems about; that she had a wide, humor 
 ous mouth, apparently made to reveal rather 
 than to conceal two rows of white teeth as 
 small as a child s. Later, too, he noticed that 
 she possessed a child s dimple at each side of 
 that smiling mouth. She was dressed as though 
 she had just come from the opera a cloak of 
 dark-green velvet trimmed with ermine, which 
 she held closely about her with her left hand. 
 
 "Madame," he said, and then, doubtfully: 
 "Mademoiselle?" 
 
 "Monsieur." This with a short little nod 
 and in a voice that would have been cold had it 
 
322 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 not been warmed by the sunshine of those un 
 quiet dimples. 
 
 "I may talk in English?" she inquired. "I 
 am told that you speak it perfectly. My French 
 is too shockingly slangy to be employed in the 
 presence of an Academician." 
 
 "You may speak Chinese if you wish," he 
 hastened to assure her, for she was quite ir 
 resistible. "Meanwhile give yourself the pains 
 to sit down." 
 
 She sat down gracefully but abruptly all 
 her actions were abrupt and the marquis per 
 ceived that she wore American slippers. Even 
 then he suspected nothing. 
 
 She regarded him steadily for several sec 
 onds, her chin resting in her hand and her elbow 
 on the arm of the chair. 
 
 "You don t look like a monster," she re 
 marked placidly at length. "A bit pompous, 
 perhaps, and a bit vain. I imagine that you 
 think a great deal more of conventions than 
 you should. If I were a professor of palmistry 
 I should say that you allowed your mind to 
 govern your heart." 
 
 "In your presence, madame," murmured the 
 marquis, "my heart is perforce a slave." 
 
 "Don t talk like a booE," she returned em 
 phatically. "Oh, if you could only forget for 
 one minute that you are a marquis de Beau- 
 voisin and an Academician, and that all the 
 women in Paris adore your poetry, and all the 
 men laugh at it because they do, you know 
 
A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 323 
 
 I think that you would be a perfectly charming 
 old gentleman." 
 
 It is to be doubted if the marquis relished the 
 adjective. 
 
 "Madame," he said somewhat bitterly, "the 
 old gentleman is overcome." 
 
 "I thought he would be," she replied and fell 
 silent. Then she said, abruptly: "Aren t you 
 ever lonely? Don t you miss having friends 
 relatives about?" 
 
 "My friends are my books," he answered; 
 "they have proven more satisfactory than the 
 only relative I have in the world. And then 
 there is always Eugenie." 
 
 "This only relative is your son, is it not?" 
 
 "But yes, madame." 
 
 "Why do you dislike him so ? What has he 
 ever done to you that you should have dis 
 charged him like a servant? Don t you love him 
 at all ? Don t you love him if only on account of 
 his mother who loved him and whom you loved? 
 Oh, forgive me I am taking great liberties in 
 speaking to you like this; but you see, I am in 
 terested in this son of yours. He is everything 
 to me that is glorious and beautiful in this 
 world, and I feel that I robbed him of a father 
 when I became his wife." 
 
 The marquis looked up at her sharply and 
 his eyes softened; but he made no movement 
 toward her. You could see Pride, hitherto 
 firmly enthroned in his heart, doing battle with 
 Sympathy and Admiration. "Are you about to 
 
324 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 throw aside all your traditions," whispered 
 Pride, u on account of the first wheedling petti 
 coat you encounter?" The marquis declared the 
 battle a draw and temporized. He regarded her 
 closely for the first time, and found much to 
 praise and little to find fault with. What was 
 he to do ? How should he answer ? 
 
 Finally he hit upon the most unfortunate 
 remark he could have chosen. 
 
 "Has my son," he said, "sent you to me to 
 intercede in his behalf?" 
 
 "Not he," she retorted hotly; "he is a Beau- 
 voisin, like yourself, and far too stiff-necked." 
 
 He puzzled an instant over "stiff-necked" 
 before grasping its connotation. As he was 
 about to speak she continued hurriedly. 
 
 "No," she said, "I have come here to ask 
 you a favor but it is a favor of a different 
 sort. Paul, my husband, requests you to cease 
 sending him an allowance those fifteen thou 
 sand francs, you know." 
 
 "To cease seeding it!" echoed the marquis. 
 
 She nodded her head vigorously, but there 
 was a smile lurking in her eyes. 
 
 "Exactly," she said; "you have grasped it." 
 
 "And pray why does he wish me to cease 
 sending it?" 
 
 "You see," she began, "it is a long story. 
 Paul is very fond of you, but he is more fond of 
 me. Does that surprise you? I hope so. In 
 fact, Paul would have done almost anything 
 in the world for you except give me up. But 
 
A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 325 
 
 there is just where the hitch comes. We feel 
 that we ought not to live together on your 
 money when you are not desirous that we should 
 live together at all. Of course, I appreciate 
 your position. I realize that I am nothing but 
 an American, but it seems that my father was 
 handling a railroad while you were handling a 
 pen. I do not attempt to say which is the more 
 lucrative ; in any case the glory and the decora 
 tions are all on your lapel. But you have brand 
 ed me as the daughter of a laborer, and hence 
 not worthy to be the daughter-in-law of a poet. 
 I wonder if you know how many poets were 
 fathered by laborers." 
 
 "Excuse me, madame," interrupted the mar 
 quis; "pray do not allow this to become a dis 
 cussion of the breeding of poets. God places 
 them in every sphere of life, and the air that 
 they breathe is neither that of the stable nor 
 that of the salon, but the air of heaven. It is 
 called the divine breath." 
 
 He felt immediately that he had scored, while 
 she, for her part, rejoiced to have discovered 
 a more human note in him. She rose to her 
 feet and, coming quickly toward him across the 
 room, seated herself on the arm of his chair 
 and laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. 
 
 "My dearest father-in-law," she said, "you 
 are quite, quite right, and you really have some 
 very nice ideas all of which persuades me that 
 you will listen to reason; because, you see, I 
 came not only to ask you to stop making us an 
 
326 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 allowance, but also to beseech you to be friends 
 again with your son. Now look at me ! Am I 
 such an impossible person to be the wife even 
 of a Beauvoisin? After all, you know, you 
 Beauvoisins are no great beauties. You, your 
 self, are sweet with your dear little pointed gray 
 beard and your lovely mustaches, but your eyes 
 are set too close together and your forehead 
 is too high, and dear me, you have lost a great 
 deal of your hair. Of course I am not a para 
 gon, but you must admit that I have all my teeth 
 and am sound in wind and limb. Don t you 
 think I am the least bit nice ?" 
 
 She stood up and held out her hands slim, 
 white hands and then laid them on his. 
 
 "I think," responded the marquis warmly, 
 "that you are charming." 
 
 "Well, then," she continued briskly, "what 
 is to prevent a reconciliation? We have a 
 motto in America in North America which 
 reads : United we stand; divided we fall P Can 
 you not apply that to the house of Beauvoisin 
 and arrange a sort of Hague conference on a 
 small scale ? I, for one, am sure that you would 
 rather have us around to bother your evenings 
 once in a while than to play backgammon with 
 some old spectacled high-brow. You do play 
 backgammon, don t you? and I bet that you 
 consider it one of the world s greatest games 
 of chance !" 
 
 "It is a game, I admit, 1 said the marquis, 
 "that I play with some success and no little 
 
A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 327 
 
 pleasure. Allow me, though, to hint that back 
 gammon, my dear madame, has little if any 
 connection with the subject in hand. Although 
 I cannot say that your appeal has left me un 
 moved, you must bear in mind that treaties of 
 peace are seldom proposed and signed upon the 
 same day; also, may I state, that hitherto I have 
 received no direct appeal from my son, and it 
 is with him that I am displeased. Against you 
 yourself I could and would bear no grudge ; for, 
 although it is doubtless your fault that you are 
 a most charming young woman, the responsibil 
 ity of your marriage must rest upon the shoul 
 ders of my son. I hope I have made myself 
 clear without offending your sensibilities. I 
 find myself in a delicate and difficult position, 
 and, as I have suggested, I must demand full 
 leisure to consider the matter. * 
 
 The marquis arose from his chair and bowed 
 low, a kindly smile on his lips. 
 
 "And now, madame/ 1 he said, "may we not 
 consider the hostilities at an end, and a truce 
 declared while we ponder the terms of the 
 peace? 1 
 
 The girl thanked him with shining eyes, rose 
 to her feet to collect her belongings, gave him 
 her hand to be kissed, and turned to the door. 
 Once there she paused and looked back at him 
 over her shoulder. 
 
 "Oh, I forgot to tell you," she said, "my 
 name is Sarah; you and my other friends call 
 me Sally." 
 
328 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 He heard her footsteps go tapping down the 
 stairs, and he sat alone, erect but rather wistful, 
 behind his broad carved table with its litter of 
 manuscript. About him floated like a sweetly 
 subtle incense the scent that she used; and he 
 sighed deeply as he turned to his work, for he 
 felt very much alone. 
 
 It was not until the following day, however, 
 that his loneliness was intruded upon by one 
 of his few intimates, Dr. Etienne Miromesnil. 
 The doctor entered with brusqueness that 
 stamped him a man of energy. He wore, as 
 usual, an immaculate frock coat with the red 
 ribbon of the Legion glowing in the lapel. He 
 was a heavy, much-bearded man and his small, 
 gray eyes snapped and twinkled behind a pair 
 of huge gold-rimmed eyeglasses. These eyes 
 of his were the only indications his patients 
 might have to lead them to suspect that he did 
 not treat their imaginary ailments with the ut 
 most seriousness ; for the doctor was no disciple 
 of the jocular bedside manner. Rather he be 
 came stern and monosyllabic in treating alike a 
 cold or a cancer. 
 
 "To-night," he began without prelude, "I 
 am taking you to dine with our friends, the Due 
 and Duchesse de la Tourelle d lvray. Ma 
 dame O Brian is to be there. She is a delight 
 ful woman who suffers occasionally from slight 
 affections of the tonsils. Her case is not seri 
 ous; indeed, she has survived her husband." 
 
A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 329 
 
 The marquis had risen, for to him all formal 
 ities were instinct. 
 
 "How do you do, Etienne?" he said. "I am 
 truly pleased to see you. We dine where did 
 you say to-night?" 
 
 "With the Duchesse de la Tourelle d lvray," 
 repeated the doctor. "At present you lunch 
 with me at Laperouse." 
 
 "Why will you not lunch with me here? it 
 
 is more convenient." 
 
 "Here? Lunch here? Your Eugenie takes 
 away my appetite. I continue to see those two 
 remaining teeth of hers, and, in sympathy with 
 her, I also find it difficult to chew the chdteau- 
 briand. Besides, she cooks abominably and 
 there is no pepper in anything. No, we will 
 lunch at Laperouse." 
 
 So the doctor, as usual, gaining his point, to 
 Laperouse they went and seated themselves in 
 one of the low-ceilinged rooms that look out 
 upon the quay. 
 
 The doctor, no sooner seated, rose quickly 
 to his feet and, traversing the room in a few 
 quick strides, bowed low to one of two women 
 who were taking their after-luncheon coffee at 
 a far table. She smiled on him, nodded her 
 head, and then, evidently in reply to some ques 
 tion, glanced over toward the marquis. Again 
 she nodded and smiled graciously and forthwith 
 the doctor returned to fetch the marquis to her. 
 
 "It is Madame O Brian," he said, "and her 
 
330 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 throat is much better. You must be presented 
 to her. She is delightful." 
 
 The marquis had taken occasion to cast al 
 ready an interested eye upon the lady in ques 
 tion. To a Frenchman all women are worthy 
 of a glance, and, indeed, the woman who re 
 ceives it not is crestfallen as a debutante whose 
 first ball has been a failure. 
 
 Madame O Brian was decidedly worthy of a 
 glance. She was a widow of perhaps forty, 
 without a gray hair, without a wrinkle except 
 for a few tiny lines about her eyes that had 
 doubtless come from too much good-humor; 
 for she smiled often, and when she did so her 
 lids came so close together that one could see 
 nothing of her eyes save a narrow line of twink 
 ling blue. Her hair was as black as ebony, but 
 far brighter. Her lips I am afraid she rouged 
 oh, just a touch but this hint of artificiality, 
 which, indeed, was far from repellent, was off 
 set by the comely naturalness of the tiny freckles 
 that traversed the bridge of her nose from 
 cheek to cheek. Irish she was, of course, for 
 no Frenchwoman, thought the marquis, was 
 ever guilty of freckles; and forthwith he de 
 cided that they were no blemish, but served, like 
 the mouches of the Renaissance, to emphasize 
 the true whiteness of the skin. 
 
 "And it s you that wrote Au Coeur de la 
 Rose !" exclaimed Madame O Brian. " Tis 
 lovely poetry. I was reading it this morning. 
 
A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 331 
 
 I read the whole of the book in an hour and a 
 half, with never a look at my French-English." 
 
 The marquis was somewhat shocked at the 
 rapidity of the perusal and somewhat mystified 
 as to the meaning of "French-English." 
 
 "My pocket dictionary," she explained, 
 laughing. "It and Baedeker and the poor are 
 always with me. Also, if she will excuse me 
 for including her in such a gathering, Fraulein 
 Hiipper, who speaks three languages fluently 
 and .not one of them English, for which the 
 saints be praised!" Thus she introduced the 
 placid German woman opposite her with a 
 graceful wave of the hand. The Fraulein bowed 
 her head stiffly and muttered things unintelligible 
 in several different languages. Then she con 
 tinued to drink her coffee with great zest and 
 no little noise. 
 
 "But bless you, marquis," Madame O Brian 
 continued immediately, "there wasn t a word 
 in your book that I had to look up ! A child 
 could have read it, and a child could have writ 
 ten it oh, don t be after misunderstanding me; 
 I mean it s the simplicity of a child and the 
 sweetness of a child that you have put into the 
 words." 
 
 "Madame," said the marquis, "you do me 
 too much honor." 
 
 "Marquis," she answered, "the little I can 
 do is not enough." And with that they sep 
 arated, each much pleased with the other. 
 
 The doctor ordered a lavish luncheon and 
 
332 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 ate like twenty men, as usual. The marquis 
 was not hungry. Disturbing events had been 
 crowding into his tranquil life of late, and he 
 found that some of his staunchest prejudices 
 were being wofully upset. Two American 
 women in two days, and each of them as charm 
 ing as the other. Was it possible, then, that 
 Americans were not savages? Hitherto he had 
 held them to be an uncouth, vociferous tribe, 
 white-skinned, to be sure, and fully clad, but 
 nevertheless little removed in mentality, and 
 breeding from the nose-ringed Hottentot. This 
 decision apparently had to be reversed or at 
 least modified. 
 
 The doctor spoke just before the salad ap 
 peared. 
 
 "Excellent book your son has just published," 
 he said. "You will be having him soon in the 
 Academy, I suppose." And he chuckled softly, 
 for he was aware of the existing relations be 
 tween the marquis and his offspring. 
 
 "Book ?" queried the marquis. "What book ? 
 I have seen no book." 
 
 "It is called L Independance, " said the 
 doctor. "The story of his own life, I should 
 imagine. Don t worry, he s let you off easily; 
 too easily, I think. In any case it is an excel 
 lent book." 
 
 The marquis made a mental note of the title, 
 but answered nothing. There was a pause 
 while the doctor devoured his endives. Then 
 the marquis asked tentatively: "What is your 
 
A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 333 
 
 opinion of Americans er, North Americans, 
 I mean?" 
 
 "Charming people," replied the doctor 
 promptly, "charming people, charming ways, 
 charming women, charming incomes." 
 
 "Hum," said the marquis. 
 
 After luncheon the two separated. 
 
 "You to hymn a lady s limb," explained the 
 doctor, "I to amputate one." 
 
 On his return the marquis found waiting 
 for him an informal note from the Duchesse 
 de la Tourelle d lvray, bidding him dine with 
 her that night "to meet Madame O Brian." 
 He was strangely pleased and despatched an 
 immediate acceptance; and then he said to him 
 self in self-defence: "One cannot seem to avoid 
 these Americans; they enter everywhere." 
 
 For several weeks after the dinner of the 
 Duchesse de la Tourelle d lvray the marquis 
 was a frequent visitor at the apartment of Ma 
 dame O Brian in the Avenue du Bois. Frankly 
 and with no circumlocutions she had invited him 
 to come to see her as often as he cared to do so. 
 
 "Do not come," she had warned him, "on 
 my days at home; there are too many people: 
 penniless titles, and sticky musicians, and anse- 
 mic poets no, you re not anaemic and out 
 cast Americans clad in cloth of gold. It sounds 
 like the Tower of Babel with incidental music 
 by Strauss. Come Friday at half-past five." 
 
 That night the marquis walked home down 
 the Champs-Elysees with strange, new thoughts 
 
334 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 coursing through his brain. He felt delightfully 
 bewildered and at the same time happily con 
 fident. He walked as a youth of twenty, inhal 
 ing with zest the cool, sweet air of the April 
 evening. Already the green of the horse-chest 
 nut trees was beginning to blur the gaunt out 
 lines of the branches, and the soft, damp earth 
 under foot had that elasticity that betokens 
 spring. Ahead of him glowed the Place de la 
 Concorde, a mass of garish light that paled the 
 stars in the blue-black heavens. 
 
 He crossed the Pont Royal and then turned 
 to the left down the quays. The river was high, 
 swollen by the March thaws and April rains, 
 and, as he leaned over the balustrade, it seemed 
 uncannily near him. Some scrub trees along the 
 opposite bank, immersed to their middles, cast 
 uncouth, wavering shadows upon the discolored 
 torrent. Overhead a pale moon swung behind 
 a streaming cloud. 
 
 "Ah, belle nuit d amour," sighed the mar 
 quis, "what is coming over me, I wonder. Is it 
 what the Americans call so delightfully Indian 
 summer/ or is it that an old man is becoming 
 young once more?" 
 
 And, strangely enough, it was that evening 
 that the marquis, as he unlatched his apartment 
 door, felt himself to be sadly lonely in a very 
 happy world. 
 
 During several days that followed Eugenie 
 noted with alarm and no little indignation 
 various changes in the habits and the conversa- 
 
A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 335 
 
 tion and the dress of her master. Prominent 
 among these innovations were several suits of 
 clothes from an English tailor in the Boulevard 
 Malesherbes, and perhaps half a dozen pairs 
 of shoes, forme americaine, from a bootmaker 
 in the Avenue de 1 Opera. Also she bewailed 
 the fact that the marquis carried a stick instead 
 of his customary umbrella, and that, even on 
 rainy days, he scorned galoshes. 
 
 "It is a child that he is," she lamented. 
 
 One fine April afternoon she shuffled herself 
 into the marquis s presence, disapproval on her 
 face and a visiting-card in her hand. 
 
 "Est-ce-que m sieu* le marquis pent voir cette 
 dame?" she said, still retaining the card. 
 
 "What lady?" the marquis inquired quickly. 
 
 "I know nothing," answered Eugenie; "it is 
 the one that came before the little blonde." 
 
 "Ah," said the marquis, "yes. Show her in." 
 
 It was his daughter-in-law, Sally, of course, 
 with April roses in her cheeks. 
 
 "Where did you pluck them?" said the mar 
 quis, bowing low. 
 
 "Pluck what?" asked she, puzzled. 
 
 "The roses," answered the marquis, pointing. 
 
 She laughed, looking at him critically with 
 her head on one side. 
 
 "Young man," she said, "may I ask you 
 where you dropped ten years?" 
 
 "I think it must have been in the Luxembourg 
 gardens this morning," he answered; "they are 
 wonderful rejuvenators in springtime." 
 
336 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 "Ah," she said, "so you feel it in your veins, 
 too. Isn t it wonderful? How does it affect 
 you I wonder. Do you pat dogs and kiss 
 babies? that s what I do." 
 
 "No," he said doubtfully, "not quite that. 
 I er read Musset, and put my fur coat 
 away in camphor and write maudlin verse that 
 the editors are wise enough to return." 
 
 "Nothing more?" she insisted. 
 
 "Sometimes I throw open this window thus 
 and look out at the sun shining through the 
 trees on my old friend, the Seine. And I see 
 the lazy barges and the excited little pleasure- 
 boats go by down the river to St. Cloud, and 
 Suresnes, and up the river to Charenton; and 
 I watch that old gray-bearded fellow incessantly 
 dusting and arranging his books there, on the 
 quay; and that line of cabs, each with its pa 
 tient horse hanging his head to reach his feed- 
 bag; and the fat cockers, dozing lazily on their 
 seats or hurling at each other terrible epithets 
 out of the fulness of their hearts. And I won 
 der to myself whether all those charming 
 people, men, women, and beasts, are aware that 
 it is April, and that spring is about to dress 
 Paris for her gala season. Ah, April! Blessed 
 month of April! Month of sprouting grasses 
 and bursting buds, and laughing children, and 
 all growing things ! Month of tears and laugh 
 ter, of rain and sun laughter dancing through 
 tears, and each more beautiful than the other. 
 Month of lovers walking hand in hand in gar- 
 
A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 337 
 
 dens, of birds singing to each other in the green 
 ing branches, of children rolling hoops and fly 
 ing kites in the damp, earthy paths. Month 
 when the good rain washes away the grime and 
 crime of the winter, and the sun gilds the dome 
 of the Invalides anew. Ah, Paris, let April 
 dress you beautifully that you may gladden the 
 hearts of the thousands of lovers who are soon 
 to whisper such wonderful things to each other 
 in your Elysian fields !" 
 
 "And you," said Sally softly u and you? 
 Do you never wish that you, too, might whisper 
 something wonderful to some one something 
 that would cause poor, susceptible Paris to 
 smile a little, and to cry a little, and to turn an 
 approving deaf ear?" 
 
 "Ah, my dear," said the marquis, "I was 
 young. Do you think me very old too old?" 
 
 "Bless your heart," she said, "I m not sure 
 but what I think you too young." 
 
 He turned from the window to find her stand 
 ing beside him, her hand on his shoulder. The 
 scent that she used stole about him like a mist, 
 and somehow out of that mist there rose be 
 fore him the face of Madame O Brian. 
 
 "God of the Bow," he exclaimed, "they use 
 the same perfume ! I am lost !" 
 
 He collected his wits with an effort. 
 
 "Forgive me," he said; "I have been talking 
 a great deal of nonsense for an old gentleman. 
 I am somewhat overwrought nerves. I had 
 a restless night." 
 
338 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 "No," she said, "I think you are in love. 
 Tonics are of no avail; you must nurse it care 
 fully." And she kissed lightly the tip of his 
 mustache and left him to his visionings. 
 
 When a lonely gentleman of fifty-two has 
 dreams by day, and when those day-dreams in 
 variably resolve themselves into the portrait 
 of a charming Irish-American widow, then well 
 may Cupid laugh, for his aim has been true. 
 But, naturally enough, the marquis was slow in 
 realizing his malady, and it was well nigh the 
 end of April before he summoned the courage 
 and the resolution to recount his symptoms to 
 Madame O Brian. 
 
 She read his thoughts at first glance, for there 
 was that in his eyes which admitted no misinter 
 pretation. But, woman-like, she parried and 
 evaded. With wanton cruelty she showed him 
 a photograph of her former husband. 
 
 "It is six years now that he is dead," she said. 
 "I mourned him deeply for eighteen months. 
 But then it was my daughter that I had to be 
 thinking of, for I had to be choosing a good 
 husband for her, and young men avoid crape. 
 I found the man, though or, rather, she found 
 the man." 
 
 She laughed and regarded him amusedly. 
 
 "He is lucky," said the marquis, "if the 
 daughter resembles the mother." 
 
 "Will you listen to him !" she cried. "That 
 is what we in Ireland call blarney. 
 
 "I had thought it a Gallic vice," said he. 
 
A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 339 
 
 "Perhaps," she answered, "but Gaul was 
 once divided into three parts, and the Irish are 
 Celts. / ipsorum lingua Celta, nostra Galli 
 appelantur. So you see, I am as Gallic as you 
 in spite of the fact that you despise me for an 
 American." 
 
 "Ah, madame," the marquis hastened to as 
 sure her, "I admire your race. In particular 
 I admire the women of it; and more particularly 
 still do I admire one woman." 
 
 She tried to stop him, but he was not to be 
 stopped. 
 
 "Margaret O Brian," he said resolutely. "I 
 admire you and I love you, and I need you, for 
 I am a very lonely old man." 
 
 She looked at him and his heart rejoiced, for 
 she looked at him with eyes that were soft. 
 Nevertheless she demurred. 
 
 "Is it quite sure you are that you want me?" 
 she asked. "We are neither of us young." 
 
 "Love is immortal," he replied, "and it be 
 comes gray hairs as well as golden. It adds 
 buoyancy to age and dignity to youth. It is the 
 end, the goal of all breathing things. It is for 
 love that God in His wisdom, made the spring 
 time, and, behold, it is even now May." 
 
 "But," she said, laying her hand on his, "I 
 am an American." 
 
 "You are a goddess," he cried; "they are 
 cosmopolites." 
 
 "And so," she said slowly, "you want to 
 marry me in spite of my age, in spite of my 
 
340 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 nationality, in spite of our brief acquaintance, 
 in spite of my wealth." 
 
 "Are you wealthy?" he asked. "I did not 
 know it; but I would marry you if you were 
 as rich as Monsieur Rockefeller." 
 
 She smiled and he kissed her hand, and then 
 rose, leaned over her, and kissed her lips. She 
 still smiled enigmatically, sphinx-like. 
 
 "There is one more thing," she said. "We 
 shall have to ask your son and his wife to the 
 wedding. Do you think they will come?" 
 
 "And why should they not come?" he 
 questioned. 
 
 "Faith," she said, "it was you that would not 
 think of going to theirs. Why should they be 
 bothering to come to yours?" 
 
 "But," he said, at a loss, "my son married 
 an American too. He is fond of Americans, 
 and his wife is quite presentable. I know her 
 slightly. She has honored me with a visit or 
 
 two." 
 
 "And you? You have not honored them 
 with a visit or two?" 
 
 He stammered in some confusion. She gave 
 his hand a kindly little squeeze. 
 
 "There, there," she said soothingly, "bless 
 the man. He is all excited. He sees himself 
 as the kettle calling the pot black. Never you 
 be minding, it s not Margaret O Brian that will 
 be scolding you, but it s Margaret O Brian that 
 will be kissing you and be helping you into your 
 overcoat and sending you home. And when 
 
A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 341 
 
 you have asked your son and your daughter-in- 
 law to meet her why then it s Margaret 
 O Brian that will be marrying you; and God s 
 blessing be on your head and hers." 
 
 The marquis was thus rendered the happiest 
 man in Paris, which is perhaps next door to be 
 ing the happiest man in Paradise. His Eugenie, 
 toothless almost and sandal-shod, knew him no 
 longer. For two days he strode about his little 
 library in his new clothes, trying to whistle, at 
 tempting to sing, and radiating joy. And on 
 the day preceding the reception, at which he 
 planned to introduce his son and his son s wife 
 to his delectable Margaret O Brian, he sum 
 moned to him his house-keeper and cried: 
 "Eugenie, to-morrow we entertain royalty; 
 bring forth the fatted calf! Igitur gaudeamus" 
 Whereupon Eugenie once more raised her hands 
 to high heaven and duly ordered an escalope 
 de veau. 
 
 Mingled with the marquis s joy and anticipa 
 tion was a certain anxiety which he strove to 
 conceal even from himself; for, although a 
 choice slice of the fatted calf may be the in 
 evitable food with which to greet a returning 
 prodigal who has sinned and is repentant, what 
 one among us can cook the dish appropriate to 
 the returning son who has perhaps not sinned, 
 and who is certainly unrepentant? 
 
 But the marquis s fears proved unfounded. 
 At four o clock of the great day came Ma- 
 
342 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 dame O Brian, somewhat in advance, in order 
 to see that everything was as it should be. 
 
 "Jean-Francois, Marquis de Beauvoisin," 
 she said sternly, "I see fear written on your 
 face." 
 
 "You have transformed it to admiration," 
 said the marquis, gazing at her with all his eyes. 
 
 "I am glad," said she; " tis the more worthy 
 passion. But why were you anxious?" 
 
 The marquis swallowed hard, for pride is 
 a huge mouthful. 
 
 "I fear," he said slowly "I fear that I have 
 wronged my son. I have been unjust. I dis 
 owned him when he married an American, and 
 now I know that I should have gone on my 
 knees and thanked God." 
 
 She came to him and kissed him. 
 
 "You are punished," she said. "You have 
 atoned and are forgiven." 
 
 There was no time for more; Eugenie was 
 ushering Sally and Sally s husband into the li 
 brary. The marquis stepped forward to meet 
 them. He laid his hands on his son s shoulders 
 and kissed him on both cheeks. 
 
 "My son," he said, "I am sorry. Too much 
 pride made me unfair." 
 
 He turned to look for Sally, and was some 
 what disconcerted to find that she was kissing 
 Margaret affectionately. It was then that he 
 felt that something was afoot something un 
 usual and beyond his comprehension. It seemed 
 to him as though he were assisting at some play 
 
A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 343 
 
 of the plot of which he was completely ignorant. 
 He heard Sally say calmly to Madame O Brian : 
 "Dear mother, what a delightful family gather 
 ing." As in a dream he saw his son advance 
 toward Madame O Brian, kiss respectfully her 
 hand and say equally calmly, though in dubious 
 English : "My homages, madame, and all my 
 compliments on your spring-time face." 
 
 Margaret kissed Sally and smiled on Sally s 
 husband. Then she turned to the marquis, and, 
 out of a black chaos of astonishment he heard 
 her soft voice saying: "Yes, Jean-Francois, it 
 was a conspiracy. But, faith, if you are one 
 of its victims, it is Margaret O Brian that s the 
 other. We were too clever, Sally and I, and my 
 heart is after punishing me. Sally, my daugh 
 ter, you didn t warn me against this father-in- 
 law of yours you that knew him. And it s a 
 poor weak woman I am." 
 
 She stopped and held out her hands to the 
 marquis. 
 
 "Will you have me, Jean-Frangois, as Sally s 
 mother or " 
 
 "I will have you as my wife, Margaret 
 O Brian," said the marquis, and his heart was 
 singing, for he knew that he would never be 
 lonely again. 
 
THE RETURN 
 
THE RETURN 
 
 THE room was on the attic floor, a bare, cold 
 little room wedged into the angle formed by 
 the mansard roof. The one window that it 
 boasted was round ceil-de-bceuf, the French 
 call it and stared, like an unwinking Cyclops, 
 across the rue Clotilde at the Pantheon. At 
 present it was securely shut, lest some gust of 
 wind from the February night should steal in 
 to flicker the candles. There were two candles 
 one at the head of the bed, the other at the 
 foot. 
 
 Near the window was a wash-stand on which 
 stood a tin pitcher and basin and a cracked 
 glass decanter yellowed by long service. Against 
 the wall opposite the bed was a spindle-legged 
 table covered with a red-checked cloth and lit 
 tered with cheap toilet articles a brush, a 
 comb, a button-hook, a tray of hairpins, powder, 
 a half-used rouge-stick. On the same wall, 
 from a row of hooks, hung a blue-serge skirt 
 and jacket, a stained, rose-colored chiffon dress, 
 a plaid petticoat, and a black cloak with some 
 shabby fur at the collar. Then there was a 
 chest of drawers, unpainted, lacking one caster 
 and two glass knobs that should have served 
 as handles. No other furniture except the bed 
 and the two chairs by the bed. 
 347 
 
348 THE RETURN 
 
 On the chairs sat two nuns, calm, motionless, 
 in their black robes. It would have been dif 
 ficult to guess their ages : one was old, the other 
 not so old; but both had ruddy cheeks and serene 
 eyes. The elder, Soeur Cecile, was praying over 
 her rosary; the younger perhaps because she 
 was the younger was gazing compassionately 
 at the figure on the bed; and on the bed, her 
 arms folded across her breast, a crucifix of 
 ebony and ivory in her fingers, peaceful in 
 death as she had not been in life, lay Colette. 
 . . . That was all only Colette. 
 
 "La pauvre petite " sighed the younger sis 
 ter; "she has suffered much." 
 
 Soeur Cecile completed her prayer before she 
 replied. "Et lux perpetua luceat ea. Requiescat 
 in pace. Amen" 
 
 Then "She suffers no more," she said. 
 
 "It seems always bitter when death comes 
 to one so young," whispered Soeur Marie- 
 Madeleine. 
 
 "It is not death," answered Soeur Cecile 
 "it is the beginning of eternal life." 
 
 "Of course," said the other, quickly. . . . 
 "But look, see how beautiful she is even like 
 that, with her tired eyes closed and the color 
 all gone from her lips and cheeks. It is only 
 her hair that lives." 
 
 "And her soul," added Soeur Cecile, reprov 
 ingly. 
 
 "Yes, and her soul," agreed Soeur Marie- 
 Madeleine. 
 
THE RETURN 349 
 
 "Let us pray that she walks with God," said 
 the elder sister. 
 
 "Ah, surely she walks with God ! Do we not 
 know that she loved much, and therefore shall 
 not much be forgiven her?" 
 
 "We know that she loved much, but we do 
 not know that she loved wisely," replied Soeur 
 Cecile with a trace of severity. 
 
 "Wisely!" began Sceur Marie-Madeleine, 
 and stopped, abashed. She was silent for a 
 moment, fingering the crucifix at her breast. 
 Then she said: "You will write the letter, 
 Soeur Cecile or I ?" 
 
 "It makes no difference. Either of us." 
 
 "You have the address?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Soeur Cecile, and she drew 
 from her robe a folded sheet of paper. "Paul 
 Androuet," she read, sergeant 17 th regiment, 
 8th battalion, 3d company, postal sector 92." 
 
 "That," interrupted the other, "is at Verdun. 
 I know, because at the hospital I attended a 
 blesse who had but recently returned from 
 there. It is a post of great danger. Oh, Soeur 
 Cecile, I fear for her Paul! Do you suppose 
 she watches him now from where she is?" 
 
 She bent over and smoothed back the dark 
 hair from Colette s forehead. 
 
 "Poor little Colette," she whispered; "how 
 much you know now of all the things of which 
 we know nothing! Your eyes are closed, Co 
 lette, and yet you see far more than we. . . . 
 Had you not better begin the letter, Soeur Ce- 
 
350 THE RETURN 
 
 cile ? You remember how urgent she was about 
 
 it" 
 
 Soeur Cecile nodded, rose from her chair, 
 and commenced to search in the drawer of the 
 dressing-table. 
 
 "Here is paper and pencil," she said at 
 length. "It will do. ... What shall I say 
 how shall I begin?" 
 
 Soeur Marie-Madeleine hesitated. 
 
 "I think," she said finally, "that it is well to 
 be quite simple. Tell him that she is dead, and 
 tell him how she died calling his name. And 
 tell him that strange thing that she said just be 
 fore she died. You remember? Write to 
 him, she said, and say that I will be with him 
 when he needs me the most/ 
 
 "But," objected Soeur Cecile, "when she said 
 that she was delirious from the fever." 
 
 "Nevertheless it was her request her last 
 request. Surely we may not ignore it." 
 
 Soeur Cecile shook her head dubiously but 
 complied. 
 
 "There," she said; "and now it is finished. 
 I am glad, for such a letter is not cheerful to 
 write." 
 
 "Nor to read," murmured Soeur Marie- 
 Madeleine. 
 
 "I will put it in the post on my way back 
 to the hospital. You will be all right here 
 alone to-night?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Soeur Marie-Madeleine. 
 
 "The candles are low, but there are more in 
 
THE RETURN 351 
 
 the drawer when it becomes time to renew them. 
 And the woman down-stairs the concierge s 
 wife promised to bring you up some supper. 
 It is now six o clock, so she should come shortly. 
 You will not be afraid?" 
 
 "What is there to fear?" answered Soeur 
 Marie-Madeleine. "It is not the first time I 
 have watched over the dead." 
 "Then, good night, my sister." 
 "Good night. Do not forget the letter." 
 "Assuredly not. I have it here in my robe." 
 Soeur Cecile knelt for an instant by the bed, 
 crossed herself, rose to her feet, and, treading 
 quietly lest she disturb the dead, left Soeur 
 Marie-Madeleine alone in the room. The 
 flames of the two candles flickered violently 
 with the opening and closing of the door, and a 
 fold of the sheet flapped in the draft. Then all 
 was quiet once more, 
 
 II 
 
 SCEUR CECILE posted the letter, but it was 
 destined never to reach Sergeant Paul An- 
 drouet; for at six o clock Paul, with a white 
 bandage around his head, was on a train for 
 Paris. That afternoon there had been an at 
 tack against a German trench in which the 
 17 th infantry played a prominent and heroic 
 role. The trench had been captured, but it had 
 
352 THE RETURN 
 
 been a red victory and many of the 17 th did 
 not live to be decorated. Sergeant Androuet, 
 more fortunate, was promised a citation in the 
 reports, for "indomitable courage and con 
 spicuous gallantry in action." But, as if to 
 counterbalance the stroke of fortune, a stray 
 piece of shrapnel had hit him on the side of the 
 head long after the trench had been won. 
 
 Protesting, he had been led to the dressing- 
 station in the rear, the bit of shrapnel had been 
 extracted and his head bound up. It chanced 
 that his colonel was in the station at the time. 
 
 "It is a nasty cut that you have, my friend/ 
 said the colonel. 
 
 "I do not worry," answered Paul. "They 
 have not got me yet." 
 
 "You did well to-day," continued the colonel. 
 "How long have you been at the front?" 
 
 "Eighteen months, I think," said Paul. 
 
 "Ah ! Since the beginning of the war, then ?" 
 
 "Yes, my colonel." 
 
 "And does the prospect of the hospital de 
 light you?" 
 
 Paul shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "It is a question, I suppose, of but a day or 
 two," he said. 
 
 "What is your opinion on that?" demanded 
 the colonel, turning to the surgeon who had per 
 formed the operation. 
 
 "A week two weeks. It is difficult to 
 prophesy concerning a wound in the head." 
 
 "Precisely," agreed the colonel. "Now, 
 
THE RETURN 353 
 
 Sergeant Androuet, where do you live where 
 is your home?" 
 
 u ln Paris," answered Paul. 
 
 "Good. You are granted then, two weeks 
 leave to return to Paris. I shall attend to the 
 formalities. One rests better and recovers 
 more rapidly at home than in the hospital. It 
 is I who know it. Au revoir, my friend." 
 
 "Au revoir, mon colonel, et merc i" said 
 Sergeant Androuet, and, the bandaging being 
 completed, he stood up and saluted. 
 
 He said to himself: "I must be calm. I 
 must control myself. Otherwise I shall be a 
 baby and cry." But he found that he was 
 strangely weak, and in spite of himself the 
 ignominous tears came into his eyes. The 
 colonel, seeing what was amiss turned abruptly 
 on his heel and left the room. The surgeon, 
 with a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, said: 
 
 "There, my boy, run along. That train to 
 Paris will seem to travel slowly, hein? Journeys 
 are long when there is some one waiting for 
 one at the end." 
 
 Paul smiled vaguely. "Yes," he faltered 
 "yes, you are right. . . ." Then he added in a 
 whisper: "Colette, she will be waiting yes, 
 assuredly she will be waiting." 
 
 He staggered dizzily from the dressing- 
 station. His head pained him a dull, rhyth 
 mical, pounding pain that kept time to the beat 
 of the pulses in his temples. The ground 
 seemed not quite steady under his feet. 
 
354 THE RETURN 
 
 "I must appear to be perfectly well," he re 
 flected; "otherwise they will not let me go. They 
 will send me to the hospital and then I shall not 
 see Colette. Of course, there is really nothing 
 the matter with me only a touch of fever, 
 perhaps, from the wound. It will pass in the 
 
 air." 
 
 Ahead of him was a two-mile walk to the 
 railway station a walk at first across shell- 
 pitted country and then along a road which the 
 German artillery did not neglect. Fortunately 
 a passing ambulance caught him up on this road 
 and offered him a lift. He sat hunched up on 
 the floor of the driver s seat, glad of the op 
 portunity to rest his head in his hands. 
 
 "You go to the base hospital?" queried the 
 driver. 
 
 "No," answered Sergeant Androuet "No. 
 I go home. I go home to Colette." 
 
 "Feinard/" said the driver enviously. "How 
 long leave of absence did they give you?" 
 
 "Two weeks." 
 
 "H m. Two weeks? Well, my friend, in 
 case you can during those two weeks spare a 
 minute from your Colette, will you render me 
 a service?" 
 
 "But yes." 
 
 "In the rue Taitbout there lives a little wo 
 man called Blanche Blanche Dorain. Will 
 you go to her some day and merely say that 
 Henri is well and ah, zut, you know what to 
 say! What you would have me say to your 
 
THE RETURN 355 
 
 Colette were I in your place. Will you do 
 that?" 
 
 "Yes certainly I understand." 
 
 "Merci, mon vieux. That will give me great 
 pleasure and her too, perhaps. Sapristi, one 
 is not always certain. . . . Here we are at the 
 station. Good God, how content I should be 
 to be going to Paris with you ! A little dinner 
 at the Taverne Tourtel, hein, and two good 
 seats in the balcony of the Olympia ! Like that 
 one lives. Ah, well, when this sacred war is 
 over. . . . Au revoir, mon vieux. Bonne 
 chance!" 
 
 The train for Paris was already made up and 
 was on the point of leaving; but Sergeant An- 
 drouet managed to find himself a seat in a com 
 partment of the third class, between a priest and 
 a poilu, who, like Paul himself, was returning 
 home on a furlough. God knows, had it been 
 necessary, Paul would have lain uncomplain 
 ingly on the floor. Paris and Colette and two 
 weeks of blessed rest! He closed his eyes that 
 he might the better conjure up her face. He 
 had the feeling that if he thought of nothing 
 but her the pain in his head would be soothed 
 and the everlasting throbbing cease, as, of 
 course, it was going to cease when actually she 
 should lay her cool hands across his brow. Her 
 cool hands her cool, gentle, caressing hands! 
 And her eyes that, when he was with her, fol 
 lowed him anxiously, as if eager to anticipate 
 his every desire. No one had ever cared for 
 
356 THE RETURN 
 
 him like that before; no one, he thought, had 
 ever been loved as he was loved by Colette. 
 The knowledge of it had given him confidence, 
 had caused him to hold his head high, had made 
 a man out of him who was yet a boy. 
 
 The train stopped with a cruel jerk and he 
 lifted his head and opened his eyes. He found 
 that, for some reason or other his vision was 
 blurred, as if he were looking through field- 
 glasses that were not in focus. 
 
 "It is the fever," he reflected, and passed a 
 surreptitious hand across his eyes in a vain at 
 tempt to clear them. Then, for he was still 
 fearful to appear ill, he turned and addressed 
 the priest as cheerfully as possible. 
 
 "Do you know when we may expect to arrive 
 at Paris?" he asked. 
 
 The priest smiled slightly. 
 
 "That," he said, "is in the hands of God. 
 Also it depends on how often we have to stop 
 to allow troop trains to pass on their way to 
 the front. You are impatient?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Paul, "I have not been 
 home in eighteen months and there is Co 
 lette." 
 
 "Your wife?" inquired the priest sym 
 pathetically. 
 
 Paul flushed. How senseless of him to have 
 blurted out her name to strangers ! What busi 
 ness, after all, was it of theirs? 
 
 "She is to be my wife," he answered very 
 proudly. 
 
THE RETURN 357 
 
 "Excellent ! Permit me to felicitate you, my 
 son. She will be rejoiced to see you; and I am 
 certain that that head of yours will heal more 
 rapidly when it is she who does the bandaging. 
 We French need God and a woman. When 
 we believe in both we become heroic." 
 
 The train started again, and Paul, making 
 himself as comfortable as he could, closed his 
 eyes and slept. Sheer physical fatigue had con 
 quered the feverish wakefulness of his mind. 
 But from time to time his lips moved in his sleep 
 and the priest and the poilu heard him whisper : 
 "Colette !" And the priest and the poilu looked 
 at each other and, understanding, smiled in 
 sympathy. 
 
 Ill 
 
 THE train came clicking over the switches 
 into the Gare de TEst at about half past eleven 
 that night. Neither the cessation of motion nor 
 the unwonted clamor that poured in at the open 
 ing of the compartment-door, sufficed to rouse 
 Sergeant Androuet from his heavy sleep. So 
 the priest finally shook him gently by the arm. 
 
 "We are in Paris, my son," said he. 
 
 Paul opened vague, bewildered eyes. 
 
 "Is it already the hour of the attack?" he 
 muttered. 
 
 "No, no," the priest reassured him. "Do 
 you not know where you are ? You are in Paris, 
 where there is no more fighting. You have only 
 to rest." 
 
358 THE RETURN 
 
 "Oh," said Paul. "I ask pardon. I forgot." 
 
 Then, as memory came back to him, he 
 started eagerly to his feet, the glow of anticipa 
 tion in his face. 
 
 "To be sure," he said happily, "to be sure! 
 I remember now. We are in Paris ! Ah, mon 
 pere, that is wonderful, is it not?" 
 
 But his very eagerness served to delay his 
 departure, for, as he stood erect, a great wave 
 of dizziness swept over him and he was forced 
 to clutch at the priest for support. 
 
 "Doucement, doucement" said the latter, 
 and eased him into the seat. "You must not 
 be in too great haste. Remember, you have 
 two weeks." 
 
 "I am better now," said Paul after an in 
 terval. "It is my head that plays me queer 
 tricks." 
 
 "Take my arm, then, down the platform, and 
 we shall see how you are when you reach the 
 street. Are you expecting anyone to meet you ? 
 No?" 
 
 "No. I did not have time to inform Co 
 lette. It was so unexpected, my departure. 
 . . . But she will be at home waiting for me. 
 Come, mon pere, let us walk faster. She will 
 be waiting." 
 
 They came out of the station to the Place de 
 Strasbourg, unlighted save by a thin moon and 
 a dozen stars. The air was cold and heavy, and 
 filled with that indefinable scent of the city. 
 
 "The good Paris air," said Paul, breathing 
 
THE RETURN 359 
 
 deep. "Already I am well. You have been 
 very kind, mon pere, but now, you see, I am 
 quite myself again. I go to the Pantheon dis 
 trict. Do you come my way?" 
 
 The priest shook his head. 
 
 "No," he replied dubiously, "I go toward 
 Les Batignolles. But you are sure you need 
 no further help?" 
 
 Paul laughed overexcitedly, perhaps, a lit 
 tle wildly and raised his arms in triumph. 
 
 "Help?" he echoed. "Do you not see that 
 I am strong! And in a while I shall be twice 
 as strong for I go to see Colette." 
 
 "Then," said the priest, "adieu. And may 
 God bless you both." 
 
 "He will," answered Paul. 
 
 They parted, Paul following the Boulevard 
 de Strasbourg and the priest striking off at the 
 Boulevard de Magenta. 
 
 The streets were almost deserted the des 
 olate, hushed streets of a sleeping city. But 
 an occasional search-light flashed a strip of gold 
 across the sky to prove that there were some 
 who .did not sleep. In a near-by courtyard a 
 cat screamed horribly, like a child crying in 
 pain. At the sound Paul stopped, his knees 
 shaking, all his vaunted strength gone from 
 him. 
 
 "Nerves," he murmured "nerves. I must 
 not let that happen again. I am foolish. I, 
 who have slept while the Boches turned loose 
 all their artillery, I start and tremble because 
 
360 THE RETURN 
 
 a cat howls in the night. . . . Ah, now when 
 my heart starts to beat again the pain comes 
 back in my head. That is annoying; I had 
 thought myself rid of it." 
 
 He was not rid of it. His head burned as if 
 some devil had bandaged it with a fillet of hot 
 steel. With an effort he resumed his march, 
 now on the Boulevard de Sebastopol. In the 
 Place des Arts et Metiers an agent de police 
 eyed him suspiciously and then demanded his 
 name and regiment and a look at his furlough. 
 
 u You are out late, my friend," he said, when 
 these formalities had been completed. 
 
 "Yes," answered Paul, "I am late. You will 
 pardon me if I hurry along." 
 
 When he reached the Seine he was exhausted. 
 He paused on the Quai and, leaning his elbows 
 on the stone balustrade, put his face in his 
 hands. His hands were very cold; or was it 
 his face that was very hot? 
 
 Looking across at the He de la Cite, he saw 
 lights glowing dimly through the stained-glass 
 windows of Notre-Dame. 
 
 "I will go in and rest a while, " he said. 
 "Otherwise I shall never be able to reach the 
 rue Clotilde and Colette." And then he re 
 membered the day on which he had been called 
 to the colors, when he and Colette had knelt 
 in the cathedral, he enthusiastic and confident 
 and heroic in scarlet and blue, and she well, 
 she had, in spite of herself, not been able to 
 
THE RETURN 361 
 
 share all his confidence, and he had caught her 
 crying, silently and secretly. . . . 
 
 It happened that midnight mass was being 
 celebrated in Notre-Dame a quiet, solemn 
 mass, attended mostly by soldiers in uniform 
 and by women in black. Sergeant Androuet, 
 with a stained bandage around his head, and 
 his horizon-blue uniform caked with mud, did 
 not find himself out of place in that congrega 
 tion. He fell into a seat at the back of the 
 church, near the Porte de la Vierge. Grad 
 ually the heavy odor of the incense and the 
 monotonous chanting of the priests exerted 
 their soothing effects; a great drowsiness came 
 upon him, the lights grew dim through his half- 
 closed eyes, his head sank forward, his arms 
 relaxed and drooped to his sides, and he fell 
 into a deep sleep a sleep so profound and so 
 deep that it was akin to death. . . . 
 
 He did not know how long it was before he 
 was aroused by a hand on his shoulder. He 
 looked up, rubbing his blurred eyes. The 
 cathedral was in darkness, save for the lights 
 on the altar, and empty, save for a few women 
 who had remained in the dim corners to pray. 
 
 Once more the hand pressed his shoulder, 
 and he got painfully to his feet. Then he real 
 ized that it was a woman who had aroused him; 
 then, peering more eagerly into her face, he 
 knew that it was Colette. 
 
 "Come, Paul," she said, "the mass is over 
 and we will go home." 
 
362 THE RETURN 
 
 "Colette!" he whispered "Colette I" 
 
 "Yes," she said, "it is I it is Colette, come 
 to fetch you home." And she drew his arm 
 through hers and led him, tottering and dazed, 
 to the door. At the font she halted, dipped 
 her hand in the holy water and offered it to him. 
 He touched his fingers to it and crossed him 
 self. 
 
 "There," she said, "that is well done." 
 
 Unconsciously he paused, that she might per 
 form the act for herself; but she shook her head 
 at him, smiling a little. 
 
 "No," she said quietly "for me it is too 
 late." 
 
 They went out and down the steps. 
 
 The night had cleared, the wind had sub 
 sided, and as Paul looked up he saw the stars 
 reeling in the sky. 
 
 "I am very tired," he said plaintively, like a 
 child. "I have been a little wounded, Colette, 
 and I am very tired. I want so much to rest." 
 
 "It is not far, now," she reassured him, "and 
 when we arrive you shall rest." 
 
 "It will be good to rest," he sighed. 
 
 Slowly, with great difficulty, they proceeded, 
 he leaning heavily on her, she supporting him 
 with what seemed superhuman strength. 
 
 They crossed the Boulevard Saint Germain 
 at the Place Maubert. They met no living 
 thing. They were so alone that they might have 
 been crossing a desert a desert flanked by 
 grim, gray walls. 
 
THE RETURN 363 
 
 "It is not gay, your Paris," said Sergeant 
 Androuet. And he repeated: "It is not gay. 
 Is it that every one is dead?" 
 
 "Not every one," she answered. 
 
 "You are still in the rue Clotilde?" 
 
 She hesitated, but he did not notice her 
 hesitation. Then she said: "Yes, you will find 
 me in the rue Clotilde." 
 
 "Alone?" he inquired 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "There is a sister with me Sceur Marie- 
 Madeleine." 
 
 "You have missed me, Colette much? 
 a little?" 
 
 "Much. But I shall be alone no more. ." 
 
 IV 
 
 AT half past twelve that night Soeur Marie- 
 Madeleine rose from Colette s bedside to renew 
 the candles which had for the second time 
 burned down to their sockets. She was weary 
 from the long watch, and more than once her 
 eyes had drooped over the missal, and for a 
 space she had thought pityingly of the dead girl 
 over whom she was watching. She felt le bon 
 Dieu would be very kind to Colette. 
 
 When she had substituted the long candles 
 for those that had burned low and had resumed 
 her chair, she heard the concierge s bell ring 
 through the quiet house. Presently, she heard 
 the click of the opening door then a short 
 
364 THE RETURN 
 
 silence. Then laboring footsteps on the stairs. 
 She wondered a little that any lodger should be 
 returning so late at night, for at that hour the 
 authorities did not encourage people to be 
 abroad who had no business to be. 
 
 The footsteps continued to ascend, grop 
 ingly, unsteadily the footsteps, perhaps, of a 
 drunken man. Soeur Marie-Madeleine opened 
 her missal with a sigh. Then hastily she put 
 the book aside. The lodger had lurched to the 
 door and was fumbling with the knob. She 
 must prevent his entrance at any cost it would 
 be sacrilege in this room of the dead. . . . 
 
 Before she could intervene the door opened 
 and a man reeled in a man in uniform, with 
 a bandage about his head; a young man, not un 
 handsome; a young man with glazed eyes and 
 burning cheeks. 
 
 u You must not enter " she began, and 
 pointed to the bed. 
 
 Those dim eyes of his followed the direction 
 of her hand. The man halted, drew himself 
 up with his back against the wall, stood there 
 an instant, erect, staring. 
 
 Then he held out his arms toward the dead 
 girl. 
 
 "Colette!" he cried " Colette ! I am going 
 home to see you !" 
 
 He fell to his knees, his arms sprawled across 
 the coverlet. His body shook with the pain of 
 breathing. Then, quietly, he slipped to the 
 floor and the pain of breathing ceased. 
 
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
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