Part 28

“Who is here?” “No one in the cabinets, madame; in the half Madame Madelon and Monsieur Gay, Monsieur de Clamart, Monsieur Clisson, Madame Marie and their set.” Then he looked around and bowing again murmured, “Monsieur awaits madame since half an hour,” and he knocked at one of the panelled doors bearing the number six. Clifford opened the door and the girl entered. The garçon bowed her in, and whispering, “Will Monsieur have the goodness to ring?” vanished. He helped her off with her jacket and took her hat and umbrella. When she was seated at the little table with Clifford opposite she smiled and leaned forward on both elbows looking him in the face. “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “Waiting,” he replied, in accents of adoration. For an instant she turned and examined herself in the glass. The wide blue eyes, the curling hair, the straight nose and short curled lip flashed in the mirror an instant only, and then its depths reflected her pretty neck and back. “Thus do I turn my back on vanity,” she said, and then leaning forward again, “What are you doing here?” “Waiting for you,” repeated Clifford, slightly troubled. “And Cécile.” “Now don’t, Valentine—” “Do you know,” she said calmly, “I dislike your conduct?” He was a little disconcerted, and rang for Eugene to cover his confusion. The soup was bisque, and the wine Pommery, and the courses followed each other with the usual regularity until Eugene brought coffee, and there was nothing left on the table but a small silver lamp. “Valentine,” said Clifford, after having obtained permission to smoke, “is it the Vaudeville or the Eldorado—or both, or the Nouveau Cirque, or—” “It is here,” said Valentine. “Well,” he said, greatly flattered, “I’m afraid I couldn’t amuse you—” “Oh, yes, you are funnier than the Eldorado.” “Now see here, don’t guy me, Valentine. You always do, and, and,—you know what they say,—a good laugh kills—” “What?” “Er—er—love and all that.” She laughed until her eyes were moist with tears. “Tiens,” she cried, “he is dead, then!” Clifford eyed her with growing alarm. “Do you know why I came?” she said. “No,” he replied uneasily, “I don’t.” “How long have you made love to me?” “Well,” he admitted, somewhat startled,—“I should say,—for about a year.” “It is a year, I think. Are you not tired?” He did not answer. “Don’t you know that I like you too well to—to ever fall in love with you?” she said. “Don’t you know that we are too good comrades,—too old friends for that? And were we not,—do you think that I do not know your history, Monsieur Clifford?” “Don’t be—don’t be so sarcastic,” he urged; “don’t be unkind, Valentine.” “I’m not. I’m kind. I’m very kind,—to you and to Cécile.” “Cécile is tired of me.” “I hope she is,” said the girl, “for she deserves a better fate. Tiens, do you know your reputation in the Quarter? Of the inconstant, the most inconstant,—utterly incorrigible and no more serious than a gnat on a summer night. Poor Cécile!” Clifford looked so uncomfortable that she spoke more kindly. “I like you. You know that. Everybody does. You are a spoiled child here. Everything is permitted you and every one makes allowance, but every one cannot be a victim to caprice.” “Caprice!” he cried. “By Jove, if the girls of the Latin Quarter are not capricious—” “Never mind,—never mind about that! You must not sit in judgment—you of all men. Why are you here to-night? Oh,” she cried, “I will tell you why! Monsieur receives a little note; he sends a little answer; he dresses in his conquering raiment—” “I don’t,” said Clifford, very red. “You do, and it becomes you,” she retorted with a faint smile. Then again, very quietly, “I am in your power, but I know I am in the power of a friend. I have come to acknowledge it to you here,—and it is because of that that I am here to beg of you—a—a favour.” Clifford opened his eyes, but said nothing. “I am in—great distress of mind. It is Monsieur Hastings.” “Well?” said Clifford, in some astonishment. “I want to ask you,” she continued in a low voice, “I want to ask you to—to—in case you should speak of me before him,—not to say,—not to say,—” “I shall not speak of you to him,” he said quietly. “Can—can you prevent others?” “I might if I was present. May I ask why?” “That is not fair,” she murmured; “you know how—how he considers me,—as he considers every woman. You know how different he is from you and the rest. I have never seen a man,—such a man as Monsieur Hastings.” He let his cigarette go out unnoticed. “I am almost afraid of him—afraid he should know—what we all are in the Quarter. Oh, I do not wish him to know! I do not wish him to—to turn from me—to cease from speaking to me as he does! You—you and the rest cannot know what it has been to me. I could not believe him,—I could not believe he was so good and—and noble. I do not wish him to know—so soon. He will find out—sooner or later, he will find out for himself, and then he will turn away from me. Why!” she cried passionately, “why should he turn from me and not from _you_?” Clifford, much embarrassed, eyed his cigarette. The girl rose, very white. “He is your friend—you have a right to warn him.” “He is my friend,” he said at length. They looked at each other in silence. Then she cried, “By all that I hold to me most sacred, you need not warn him!” “I shall trust your word,” he said pleasantly. V The month passed quickly for Hastings, and left few definite impressions after it. It did leave some, however. One was a painful impression of meeting Mr. Bladen on the Boulevard des Capucines in company with a very pronounced young person whose laugh dismayed him, and when at last he escaped from the café where Mr. Bladen had hauled him to join them in a _bock_ he felt as if the whole boulevard was looking at him, and judging him by his company. Later, an instinctive conviction regarding the young person with Mr. Bladen sent the hot blood into his cheek, and he returned to the pension in such a miserable state of mind that Miss Byng was alarmed and advised him to conquer his homesickness at once. Another impression was equally vivid. One Saturday morning, feeling lonely, his wanderings about the city brought him to the Gare St. Lazare. It was early for breakfast, but he entered the Hôtel Terminus and took a table near the window. As he wheeled about to give his order, a man passing rapidly along the aisle collided with his head, and looking up to receive the expected apology, he was met instead by a slap on the shoulder and a hearty, “What the deuce are you doing here, old chap?” It was Rowden, who seized him and told him to come along. So, mildly protesting, he was ushered into a private dining-room where Clifford, rather red, jumped up from the table and welcomed him with a startled air which was softened by the unaffected glee of Rowden and the extreme courtesy of Elliott. The latter presented him to three bewitching girls who welcomed him so charmingly and seconded Rowden in his demand that Hastings should make one of the party, that he consented at once. While Elliott briefly outlined the projected excursion to La Roche, Hastings delightedly ate his omelet, and returned the smiles of encouragement from Cécile and Colette and Jacqueline. Meantime Clifford in a bland whisper was telling Rowden what an ass he was. Poor Rowden looked miserable until Elliott, divining how affairs were turning, frowned on Clifford and found a moment to let Rowden know that they were all going to make the best of it. “You shut up,” he observed to Clifford, “it’s fate, and that settles it.” “It’s Rowden, and that settles it,” murmured Clifford, concealing a grin. For after all he was not Hastings’ wet nurse. So it came about that the train which left the Gare St. Lazare at 9.15 a.m. stopped a moment in its career towards Havre and deposited at the red-roofed station of La Roche a merry party, armed with sunshades, trout-rods, and one cane, carried by the non-combatant, Hastings. Then, when they had established their camp in a grove of sycamores which bordered the little river Ept, Clifford, the acknowledged master of all that pertained to sportsmanship, took command. “You, Rowden,” he said, “divide your flies with Elliott and keep an eye on him or else he’ll be trying to put on a float and sinker. Prevent him by force from grubbing about for worms.” Elliott protested, but was forced to smile in the general laugh. “You make me ill,” he asserted; “do you think this is my first trout?” “I shall be delighted to see your first trout,” said Clifford, and dodging a fly hook, hurled with intent to hit, proceeded to sort and equip three slender rods destined to bring joy and fish to Cécile, Colette, and Jacqueline. With perfect gravity he ornamented each line with four split shot, a small hook, and a brilliant quill float. “_I_ shall never touch the worms,” announced Cécile with a shudder. Jacqueline and Colette hastened to sustain her, and Hastings pleasantly offered to act in the capacity of general baiter and taker-off of fish. But Cécile, doubtless fascinated by the gaudy flies in Clifford’s book, decided to accept lessons from him in the true art, and presently disappeared up the Ept with Clifford in tow. Elliott looked doubtfully at Colette. “I prefer gudgeons,” said that damsel with decision, “and you and Monsieur Rowden may go away when you please; may they not, Jacqueline?” “Certainly,” responded Jacqueline. Elliott, undecided, examined his rod and reel. “You’ve got your reel on wrong side up,” observed Rowden. Elliott wavered, and stole a glance at Colette. “I—I—have almost decided to—er—not to flip the flies about just now,” he began. “There’s the pole that Cécile left—” “Don’t call it a pole,” corrected Rowden. “_Rod_, then,” continued Elliott, and started off in the wake of the two girls, but was promptly collared by Rowden. “No, you don’t! Fancy a man fishing with a float and sinker when he has a fly rod in his hand! You come along!” Where the placid little Ept flows down between its thickets to the Seine, a grassy bank shadows the haunt of the gudgeon, and on this bank sat Colette and Jacqueline and chattered and laughed and watched the swerving of the scarlet quills, while Hastings, his hat over his eyes, his head on a bank of moss, listened to their soft voices and gallantly unhooked the small and indignant gudgeon when a flash of a rod and a half-suppressed scream announced a catch. The sunlight filtered through the leafy thickets awaking to song the forest birds. Magpies in spotless black and white flirted past, alighting near by with a hop and bound and twitch of the tail. Blue and white jays with rosy breasts shrieked through the trees, and a low-sailing hawk wheeled among the fields of ripening wheat, putting to flight flocks of twittering hedge birds. Across the Seine a gull dropped on the water like a plume. The air was pure and still. Scarcely a leaf moved. Sounds from a distant farm came faintly, the shrill cock-crow and dull baying. Now and then a steam-tug with big raking smoke-pipe, bearing the name “Guêpe 27,” ploughed up the river dragging its interminable train of barges, or a sailboat dropped down with the current toward sleepy Rouen. A faint fresh odour of earth and water hung in the air, and through the sunlight, orange-tipped butterflies danced above the marsh grass, soft velvety butterflies flapped through the mossy woods. Hastings was thinking of Valentine. It was two o’clock when Elliott strolled back, and frankly admitting that he had eluded Rowden, sat down beside Colette and prepared to doze with satisfaction. “Where are your trout?” said Colette severely. “They still live,” murmured Elliott, and went fast asleep. Rowden returned shortly after, and casting a scornful glance at the slumbering one, displayed three crimson-flecked trout. “And that,” smiled Hastings lazily, “that is the holy end to which the faithful plod,—the slaughter of these small fish with a bit of silk and feather.”