IV.
It was through Dove's agency--Dove was always on the spot to guide andassist his friends; to advise where the best, or cheapest, or rarest,of anything was to be had, from secondhand Wagner scores to hairpomade; he knew those shops where the "half-quarters" of ham orroast-beef weighed heavier than elsewhere, restaurants where the beerhad least froth and the cutlets were largest for the money; knew theins and outs of Leipzig as no other foreigner did, knew all that wenton, and the affairs of everybody, as though he went through lifegarnering in just those little facts that others were apt to overlook.Through Dove, Maurice became a paying guest at a dinner-table kept bytwo maiden ladies, who eked out their income by providing a plain meal,at a low price, for respectable young people.
The company was made up to a large extent of English-speakingforeigners. There were several university students--grave-faced, oldermen, with beards and spectacles--who looked down on the youngmusicians, and talked, of set purpose, on abstruse subjects. Morenoteworthy were two American pianists: Ford, who could not carry asingle glass of beer, and played better when he had had more than one;and James, a wiry, red-haired man, with an unfaltering opinion ofhimself, and an iron wrist--by means of a week's practice, he couldruin any piano. Two ladies were also present. Philadelphia Jensen; ofGerman-American parentage, was a student of voice-production, under aSwedish singing master who had lately set musical circles in a ferment,with his new and extraordinary method: its devotees swore that, intime, it would display marvellous results; but, in the meantime, themost advanced pupils were only emitting single notes, and the greaternumber stood, every morning, before their respective mirrors, watchingtheir mouths open and shut, fish-fashion, without producing a sound.Miss Jensen--she preferred the English pronunciation of the J--was alarge, fleshy woman, with a curled fringe and prominent eyes. Herfuture stage-presence was the object of general admiration; it waswhispered that she aimed at Isolde. Loud in voice and manner, she wasfond of proclaiming her views on all kinds of subjects, fromdiaphragmatic respiration, through GHOSTS, which was being read by abold, advanced few, down to the continental methods of regulatingvice--to the intense embarrassment of those who sat next her at table.Still another American lady, Miss Martin, was studying with Bendel, therival of Schwarz; and as she lived in the same quarter of the town asDove and Maurice, the three of them often walked home together. For themost part, Miss Martin was in a state of tragic despair. With thefrankness of her race, she admitted that she had arrived in Leipzig,expecting to astonish. In this she had been disappointed; Bendel hadtreated her like any other of his pupils; she was still playing Haydnand Czerny, and saw endless vistas of similar composers "back ofthese." Dove laid the whole blame on Bendel's method--which hedenounced with eloquence--and strongly advocated her becoming a pupilof Schwarz. He himself undertook to arrange matters, and, in whatseemed an incredibly short time, the change was effected. For a little,things went better; Schwarz was reported to have said that she hadtalent, great talent, and that he would make something of her; butsoon, she was complaining anew: if there were any difference betweenCzerny and Bertini, Haydn and Dussek, some one might "slick up" andtell her what it was. Off the subject of her own gifts, she was alively, affable girl, with china-blue eyes, pale flaxen hair, andcoal-black eyebrows; and both young men got on well with her, in theusual superficial way. For Maurice Guest, she had the additionalattraction, that he had once seen her in the street with the object ofhis romantic fancy.
Since the afternoon when he had heard from Madeleine Wade who this was,he had not advanced a step nearer making her acquaintance; though acouple of weeks had passed, though he now knew two people who knew her,and though his satisfaction at learning her name had immediatelyyielded to a hunger for more. And now, hardly a day went by, on whichhe did not see her. His infatuation had made him keen of scent; byfollowing her, with due precaution, he had found out for himself in theBRUDERSTRASSE, the roomy old house she lived in; had found out how shecame and went. He knew her associates, knew the streets she preferred,the hour of day at which she was to be met at the Conservatorium. Faraway, at the other end of one of the quiet streets that lay wide andsunny about the Gewandhaus, when, to other eyes she was a mere speck inthe distance, he learned to recognise her--if only by the speed atwhich his heart beat--and he even gave chase to imaginary resemblances.Once he remained sitting in a tramway far beyond his destination,because he traced, in one of the passengers, a curious likeness to her,in long, wavy eyebrows that were highest in the middle of the forehead.
Thus the pale face with the heavy eyes haunted him by day and by night.
He was very happy and very unhappy, by turns--never at rest. If heimagined she had looked observantly at him as she passed, he was elatedfor hours after. If she did not seem to notice him, it was brought hometo him anew that he was nothing to her; and once, when he had gazed tooboldly, instead of turning away his eyes, as she went close by him toSchwarz's room, and she had resented the look with cold surprise, hefelt as culpable as if he had insulted her. He atoned for hisbehaviour, the next time they met, by assuming his very humblest air;once, too, he deliberately threw himself in her way, for the merepleasure of standing aside with the emphatic deference of a slave.Throughout this period, and particularly after an occasion such as thelast, his self-consciousness was so peculiarly intensified that hissurroundings ceased to exist for him--they two were the giganticfigures on a shadow background--and what he sometimes could not believewas, that such feelings as these should be seething in him, and sheremain ignorant of them. He lost touch with reality, and dreamed dreamsof imperceptible threads, finer than any gossamer, which could be spunfrom soul to soul, without the need of speech.
He heaped on her all the spiritual perfections that answered to herappearance. And he did not, for a time, observe anything to make himwaver in his faith that she was whiter, stiller, and moreunapproachable--of a different clay, in short, from other women. Then,however, this illusion was shattered. Late one afternoon, she came downthe stairs of the house she lived in, and, pausing at the door, lookedup and down the hot, empty street, shading her eyes with her hand. Noone was in sight, and she was about to turn away, when, from where hewas watching in a neighbouring doorway, Maurice saw the red-hairedviolinist come swiftly round the corner. She saw him, too, took a few,quick steps towards him, and, believing herself unseen, looked up in isface as they met; and the passionate tenderness of the look, the suddenlighting of lip and eye, racked the poor, unwilling spy for days. Tosuit this abrupt descent from the pedestal, he was obliged to carve anew attribute to his idol, and laboriously adapt it.
Schilsky, this insolent boy, was the thorn in his side. It was Schilskyshe was oftenest to be met with; he was her companion at the mostunexpected hours; and, with reluctance, Maurice had to admit to himselfthat she had apparently no thought to spare for anyone else. But it didnot make any difference. The curious way in which he felt towards her,the strange, overwhelming effect her face had on him, took no accountof outside things. Though he might never hope for a word from her;though he should learn in the coming moment that she was the other'spromised wife; he could not for that reason banish her from his mind.His feelings were not to be put on and off, like clothes; he had nopower over them. It was simply a case of accepting things as they were,and this he sought to do.
But his imagination made it hard for him, by throwing up pictures inwhich Schilsky was all-prominent. He saw him the confidant of her joysand troubles; HE knew their origin, knew what key her day was set in.If her head ached, if she were tired or spiritless, his hand was on herbrow. The smallest events in her life were an open book to him; and itwas these worthless details that Maurice Guest envied him most. He kepta tight hold on his fancy, but if, as sometimes happened, it slippedcontrol, and painted further looks of the kind he had seen exchangedbetween them, a kiss or an embrace, he was as wretched as if he had inreality been present.
At other times, this jealous unrest was not the bitterest drop in hiscup; it was bittere
r to know that she was squandering her love on onewho was unworthy of it. At first, from a feeling of exaggerateddelicacy, he had gone out of his way to escape hearing Schilsky's name;but this mood passed, and gave place to an undignified hankering tolearn everything he could, concerning the young man. What he heardamounted to this: a talented rascal, the best violinist theConservatorium had turned out for years, one to whom all gates wouldopen; but--this "but" always followed, with a meaning smile and a winkof the eye: and then came the anecdotes. They had nothingheaven-scaling in them--these soiled love-stories; this perpetualimpecuniosity; this inability to refuse money, no matter whose the handthat offered it; this fine art in the disregarding of establishedcanons--and, to Maurice Guest, bred to sterner standards, they seemedunspeakably low and mean. Hours came when he strove in vain tounderstand her. Ignorant of these things she could not be; was itwithin the limits of the possible that she could overlook them?--and heshivered lest he should be forced to think less highly of her.Ultimately, sending his mind back over what he had read and heard,drawing on his own slight experience, he came to a compromise withhimself. He said that most often the best and fairest women loved menwho were unworthy of them. Was it not a weakness and a strength of hersex to see good where no good was?--a kind of divine frailty, a wilfulblindness, a sweet inability to discern.
At times, again, he felt almost content that Schilsky was what he was.If the day should ever come when, all barriers down, he, Maurice Guest,might be intimately associated with her life; if he should ever havethe chance of proving to her what real love was, what a holy mysticthing, how far removed from a blind passing fancy; if he might serveher, be her slave, lay his hands under her feet, lead her up and on,all suffused in a sunset of tenderness: then, she would see that whatshe had believed to be love had been nothing but a FATA MORGANA, amirage of the skies. And he heard himself whispering words ofincredible fondness to her, saw her listening with wonder in her eyes.
At still other moments, he was ready to renounce every hope, if, bydoing so, he could add jot or tittle to her happiness.
The further he spun himself into his dreams, however, and the better helearnt to know her in imagination, the harder it grew to take the firststep towards realising his wishes. In those few, brief days, when hehugged her name to him as a talisman, he waited cheerfully forsomething to happen, something unusual, that would bring him to hernotice--a dropped handkerchief, a seat vacated for her at a concert,even a timely accident. But as day after day went by, in eventlessmonotony, he began to cast about him for human aid. From Dove, hisdaily companion, Dove of the outstretched paws of continual help, henow shrank away. Miss Martin was not to be spoken to except in Dove'scompany. There was only one person who could assist him, if she would,and that was Madeleine Wade. He called to mind the hearty invitationshe had given him, and reproached himself for not having takenadvantage of it.
One afternoon, towards six o'clock, he rang the bell of her lodgings inthe MOZARTSTRASSE. This was a new street, the first blocks of whichgave directly on the Gewandhaus square; but, at the further end, whereshe lived, a phalanx of redbrick and stucco fronts looked primly acrossat a similar line. In the third storey of one of these houses,Madeleine Wade had a single, large room, the furniture of which was soskilfully contrived, that, by day, all traces of the room's doublecalling were obliterated.
As he entered, on this first occasion, she was practising at a grandpiano which stood before one of the windows. She rose at once, and,having greeted him warmly, made him sit down among the comfortablecushions that lined the sofa. Then she took cups and saucers from acupboard in the wall, and prepared tea over a spirit-lamp. He soon feltquite at home with her, and enjoyed himself so well that many suchinformal visits followed.
But the fact was not to be denied: it was her surroundings thatattracted him, rather than she herself. True, he found her franknessdelightfully "refreshing," and when he spoke of her, it was as of an"awfully good sort," "a first-class girl"; for Madeleine was invariablylively, kind and helpful. At the same time, she was without doubt atrifle too composed, too sure of herself; she had too keen an eye forhuman foibles; she came towards you with a perfectly natural openness,and she came all the way--there was nothing left for you to explore.And when not actually with her, it was easy to forget her; there wasnever a look or a smile, never a barbed word, never a suddenspontaneous gesture--the vivid translation of a thought--to stampitself on your memory.
But it was only at the outset that he thought things like these.Madeleine Wade had been through experiences of the same kind before;and hardly a fortnight later they were calling each other by theirChristian names.
When he came to her, towards evening, tired and inclined to be lonely,she seated him in a corner of the sofa, and did not ask him to say muchuntil she made the tea. Then, when the cups were steaming in front ofthem, she discussed sympathetically with him the progress of his work.She questioned him, too, about his home and family, and he read herparts of his mother's letters, which arrived without fail every Tuesdaymorning. She also drew from him a more detailed account of his previouslife; and, in this connection, they had several animated discussionsabout teaching, a calling to which Madeleine looked composedly forwardto returning, while Maurice, in strong superlative, declared he hadrather force a flock of sheep to walk in line. She told him, too, someof the gossip the musical quarter of the town was rife with, aboutthose in high places; and, in particular, of the bitter rivalry thathad grown up with the years between Schwarz and Bendel, the chiefmasters of the piano. If these two met in the street, they passed eachother with a stony stare; if, at an ABENDUNTERHALTUNG, a pupil of onewas to play, the other rose ostentatiously and left the hall. She alsohinted that in order to obtain all you wanted at the Conservatorium, tobe favoured above your fellows, it was only necessary flagrantly tobribe one of the clerks, Kleefeld by name, who was open to receiveanything, being wretchedly impecunious and the father of a large family.
Finding, too, that Maurice was bent on learning German, she, who spokethe language fluently, proposed that they should read it together; andsoon it became their custom to work through a few pages of QUINTUSFIXLEIN, a scene or two of Schiller, some lyrics of Heine. They alsobegan to play duets, symphonies old and new, and Madeleine took careconstantly to have something fresh and interesting at hand. To all thisthe young man brought an unbounded zeal, and, if he had had his way,they would have gone on playing or reading far into the evening.
She smiled at his eagerness. "You absorb like a sponge."
When it grew too dark to see, he confided to her that his dearest wishwas to be a conductor. He was not yet clear how it could be managed,but he was sure that this was the branch of his art for which he hadmost aptitude.
Here she interrupted him. "Do you never write verses?"
Her question seemed to him so meaningless that he only laughed, andwent on with what he was saying. For the event of his plan provingimpracticable--at home they had no idea of it--he was training as aconcert-player; but he intended to miss no chance that offered, oflearning how to handle an orchestra.
Throughout these hours of stimulating companionship, however, he didnot lose sight of his original purpose in going to see Madeleine. Itwas only that just the right moment never seemed to come; and the namehe was so anxious to hear, had not once been mentioned between them.Often, in the dusk, his lips twitched to speak it; but he feared hisown awkwardness, and her quick tongue; then, too, the subject wasusually far aside from what they were talking of, and it would havemade a ludicrous impression to drag it in by the hair.
But one day his patience was rewarded. He had carelessly taken up apaper-bound volume of Chopin, and was on the point of commenting uponit, for he had lately begun to understand the difference between aLitolff and a Mikuli. But it slipped from his hand, and he was obligedto crawl under the piano to pick it up; on a corner of the cover, in abig, black, scrawly writing, was the name of Marie Louise Dufrayer. Hecleared his throat, laid the volume down, took it up agai
n; then,realising that the moment had come, he put a bold face on the matter.
"I see this belongs to Miss Dufrayer," he said bluntly, and, as hiscompanion's answer was only a careless: "Yes, Louise forgot it the lasttime she was here," he went on without delay: "I should like to knowMiss Dufrayer, Madeleine. Do you think you could introduce me to her?"
Madeleine, who was in the act of taking down a book from her hangingshelves, turned and looked at him. He was still red in the face, fromthe exertion of stooping.
"Introduce you to Louise?" she queried. "Why?--why do you want to beintroduced to her?"
"Oh, I don't know. For no particular reason."
She sat down at the table, opened the book, and turned the leaves.
"Oh well, I daresay I can, if you wish it, and an opportunityoccurs--if you're with me some day when I meet her.--Now shall we go onwith the JUNGFRAU? We were beginning the third act, I think. Here it is:
Wir waren Herzensbruder, Waffenfreunde, Fur eine Sache hoben wir den Arm!"
But Maurice did not take the book she handed him across the table.
"Won't you give me a more definite promise than that?"
Madeleine sat back in her chair, and, folding her arms, lookedthoughtfully at him.
Only a momentary silence followed his words, but, in this fraction oftime, a series of impressions swept through her brain with thecontinuity of a bird's flight. It was clear to her at once, that whatprompted his insistence was not an ordinary curiosity, or a passingwhim; in a flash, she understood that here, below the surface,something was at work in him, the existence of which she had not evensuspected. She was more than annoyed with herself at her own foolishobtuseness; she had had these experiences before, and then, as now, theobject of her interest had invariably been turned aside by the firstpretty, silly face that came his way. The main difference was that shehad been more than ordinarily drawn to Maurice Guest; and, believing itimpossible, in this case, for anyone else to be sharing the field withher, she had over-indulged the hope that he sought her out for herselfalone.
She endeavoured to learn more. But this time Maurice was on his guard,and the questions she put, straight though they were, only elicited theresponse that he had seen Miss Dufrayer shortly after arriving, and hadbeen much struck by her.
Madeleine's brain travelled rapidly backwards. "But if I rememberrightly, Maurice, we met Louise one day in the SCHEIBENHOLZ, the firsttime we went for a walk together. Why didn't you stop then, and beintroduced to her, if you were so anxious?"
"Why do we ever do foolish things?"
Her amazement was so patent that he made uncomfortable apology forhimself. "It is ridiculous, I know," he said and coloured. "And it mustseem doubly so to you. But that I should want to know her--there'snothing strange in that, is there? You, too, Madeleine, have surelyadmired people sometimes--some one, say, who has done a fine thing--andhave felt that you must know them personally, at all costs?"
"Perhaps I have. But romantic feelings of that kind are sure to end insmoke. As a rule they've no foundation but our own wishes.--If you takemy advice, Maurice, you will be content to admire Louise at a distance.Think her as pretty as you like, and imagine her to be all that's sweetand charming: but never mind about knowing her."
"But why on earth not?"
"Why, nothing will come of it."
"That depends on what you mean by nothing."
"You don't understand. I must be plainer.--Do sit down, and don'tfidget so.--How long have you been here now? Nearly two months. Well,that's long enough to know something of what's going on. You must haveboth seen and heard that Louise has no eyes for anyone but a certainperson, to put it bluntly, that she is wrapped up in Schilsky. This hasbeen going on for over a year now, and she seems to grow moreinfatuated every day. When she first came to Leipzig, we were friends;she lived in this neighbourhood, and I was able to be of service toher. Now, weeks go by and I don't see her; she has broken with everyone--for Louise is not a girl to do things by halves.--Introduce you?Of course I can. But suppose it done, with all pomp and ceremony, whatwill you get from it? I know Louise. A word or two, if her ladyship isin the mood; if not, you will be so much thin air for her. And afterthat, a nod if she meets you in the street--and that's all."
"It's enough."
"You're easily satisfied.--But tell me, honestly now, Maurice, whatpossible good can that do you?"
He moved aimlessly about the room. "Good? Must one always look for goodin everything?--I can see quite well that from your point of view thewhole thing must seem absurd. I expect nothing whatever from it, butI'm going to know her, and that's all about it."
Still in the same position, with folded arms, Madeleine observed himwith unblinking eyes.
"And you won't bear me a grudge, if things go badly?--I mean if you aredisappointed, or dissatisfied?"
He made a gesture of impatience.
"Yes, but I know Louise, and you don't."
He had picked up from the writing-table the photograph of a curate, andhe stared at it as if he had no thought but to let the mild featuresstamp themselves on his mind. Madeleine's eyes continued to bore himthrough. At last, out of a silence, she said slowly: "Of course I canintroduce you--it's done with a wave of the hand. But, as your friend,I think it only right to warn you what you must expect. For I can seeyou don't understand in the least, and are laying up a bigdisappointment for yourself. However, you shall have your way--if onlyto show you that I am right."
"Thanks, Madeleine--thanks awfully."
They settled down to read Schiller. But Maurice made one slip afteranother, and she let them pass uncorrected. She was annoyed withherself afresh, for having made too much of the matter, for havingblown it up to a fictitious importance, when the wiser way would havebeen to treat it as of no consequence at all.
The next afternoon he arrived, with expectation in his face; but not onthis day, nor the next, nor the next again, did she bring the subjectup between them. On the fourth, however, as he was leaving, she saidabruptly: "You must have patience for a little, Maurice. Louise hasgone to Dresden."
"That's why the blinds are down," he exclaimed without thinking, thencoloured furiously at his own words, and, to smooth them over, asked:"Why has she gone? For how long?"
But Madeleine caught him up. "SIEH DA, some one has been playingsentinel!" she said in raillery; and it seemed to him that every foldin his brain was laid bare to her, before she answered: "She has gonefor a week or ten days--to visit some friends who are staying there."
He nodded, and was about to open the door, when she added: "But setyour mind at rest--HE is here."
Maurice looked sharply up; but a minute or two passed before the truemeaning of her words broke on him. He coloured again--a mortifyinghabit he had not outgrown, and one which seemed to affect him more inthe presence of Madeleine than of anyone else.
"It's hardly a thing to joke about."
"Joke!--who is joking?" she asked, and raised her eyebrows so high thather forehead was filled with wrinkles. "Nothing was further from mythoughts."
Maurice hesitated, and stood undecided, holding the doorhandle. Then,following an impulse, he turned and sat down again. "Madeleine, tellme--I wouldn't ask anyone but you--what sort of a fellow IS thisSchilsky?"
"What sort of a fellow?" She laughed sarcastically. "To be quitetruthful, Maurice, the best fiddler the Con. has turned out for years."
"Now you're joking again. As if I didn't know that. Everyone says thesame."
"You want his moral character? Well, I'll be equally candid. Or, atleast, I'll give you my opinion of him. It's another superlative. Justas I consider him the best violinist, I also hold him to be thegreatest scamp in the place--and I've no objection to use a strongerword if you like. I wouldn't take his hand, no, not if he offered it tome. The last time he was in this room, about six months ago, he--well,let us say he borrowed, without a word to me, five or six marks thatwere lying loose on the writing-table. Yes, it's a fact," she repeated,complacently eyei
ng Maurice's dismay. "Otherwise?--oh, otherwise, hewas born, I think, with a silver spoon in his mouth. He has one pieceof luck after another. Zeppelin discovered him ten years ago, on aconcert-tour--his father is a smith in Warsaw--and brought him toLeipzig. He was a prodigy, then, and a rich Jewish banker took him up,and paid for his education; and when he washed his hands of him indisgust, Schaefele's wife--Schaefele is head of the HANDELVEREIN, youknow--adopted him as a son--some people say as more than a son, for,though she was nearly forty, she was perfectly crazy over him, andbehaved as foolishly as any of the dozens of silly girls who have losttheir hearts to him."
"I suppose they are engaged," said Maurice after a pause, speaking outof his own thoughts.
"Do you?" she asked with mild humour. "I really never asked them.--Butthis is just another example of his good fortune. When he has worn outevery one else's patience, through his dishonest extravagance, he picksup a rich wife, who is not averse to supporting him before marriage."
Maurice looked at her reproachfully. "I wonder you care to repeat suchgossip."
"It's not gossip, Maurice. Every one knows it. Louise makes no mysteryof her doings--doesn't care that much what people say. While as forhim--well, it's enough to know it's Schilsky. The thing is an opensecret. Listen, now, and I'll tell you how it began--just to let youjudge for yourself what kind of a girl you have to deal with in Louise,and how Schilsky behaves when he wants a thing, and whether such a pairthink a formal engagement necessary to their happiness. When Louisecame here, a year and a half ago, Schilsky was away somewhere withZeppelin, and didn't get back till a couple of months afterwards. As Isaid, I knew Louise pretty well at that time; she had got herself intotrouble with--but that's neither here nor there. Well, my lordreturns--he himself tells how it happened. It was a Thursday evening,and a Radius Commemoration was going on at the Con. He went in late,and stood at the back of the hall. Louise was there, too, just beforehim, and, from the first minute he saw her, he couldn't take his eyesoff her--others who were by say, too, he seemed perfectly fascinated.No one can stare as rudely as Schilsky, and he ended by making her souncomfortable that she couldn't bear it any longer, and went out of thehall. He after her, and it didn't take him an hour to find out allabout her. The next evening, at an ABEND, they were both there again itwas just like Louise to go!--and the same thing was repeated. She leftagain before it was over, he followed, and this time found her in oneof the side corridors; and there--mind you, without a single wordhaving passed between them!--he took her in his arms and kissed her,kissed her soundly, half a dozen times--though they had never oncespoken to each other: he boasts of it to this day. That sameevening----"
"Don't, Madeleine--please, don't say any more! I don't care to hearit," broke in Maurice. He had flushed to the roots of his hair, at somepoints of resemblance to his own case, then grown pale again, and nowhe waved his arm meaninglessly in the air. "He is a scoundrel,a--a----" But he recognised that he could not condemn one without theother, and stopped short.
"My dear boy, if I don't tell you, other people will. And at least youknow I mean well by you. Besides," she went on, not without a touch ofmalice as she eyed him sitting there, spoiling the leaves of a book."Besides, I may as well show you, how you have to treat Louise, if youwant to make an impression on her. You call him a scoundrel, but whatof her? Believe me, Maurice," she said more seriously, "Louise is not awhit too good for him; they were made for each other. And of course hewill marry her eventually, for the sake of her, money "--here shepaused and looked deliberately at him--"if not for her own."
This time there was no mistaking the meaning of her words.
"Madeleine!"
He rose from his seat with such force that the table tilted.
But Madeleine did not falter. "I told you already, you know, thatLouise doesn't care what is said about her. As soon as this unfortunateaffair began, she threw up the rooms she was in at the time, and movednearer the TALSTRASSE--where he lives. Rumour has it also that sheprovided herself with an accommodating landlady, who can be blind anddeaf when necessary."
"How CAN you repeat such atrocious scandal?"
He stared at her, in incredulous dismay. Her words were so many arrows,the points of which remained sticking in him.
She shrugged her shoulders. "Your not believing it doesn't affect thetruth of the story, Maurice. It was the talk of the place when ithappened. And you may despise rumour as you will, my experience is, areport never springs up that hasn't some basis of fact to goon--however small."
He choked back, with an effort, the eloquent words that came to hislips; of what use was it to make himself still more ridiculous in hereyes? His hat had fallen to the floor; he picked it up, and brushed iton his sleeve, without knowing what he did. "Oh, well, of course, ifyou think that," he said as coolly as he was able, "nothing I could saywould make any difference. Every one is free to his opinions, Isuppose. But, all the same, I must say, Madeleine"--he grew hot inspite of himself. "You have been her friend, you say; you have knownher intimately; and yet just because she ... she cares for this fellowin such a way that she sets caring for him above being cautious--why,not one woman in a thousand would have the courage for that sort ofthing! It needs courage, not to mind what people--no, what your friendsimagine, and how falsely they interpret what you do. Besides, one hasonly to look at her to see how absurd it is. That face and--I don'tknow her, Madeleine; I've never spoken to her, and never may, yet I amabsolutely certain that what is said about her isn't true. So certainthat--But after all, if this is what you think about ... about it, thenall I have to say is, we had better not discuss the subject again. Itdoes no good, and we should never be of the same opinion."
Not without embarrassment, now that he had said his say, he turned tothe door. But Madeleine was not in the least angry. She gave him herhand, and said, with a smile, yet gravely, too: "Agreed, Maurice! Wewill not speak of Louise again."
Maurice Guest Page 4