CHAPTER XIV.
FATE IS HARD--CASH!
As Andrew took his mail from the hand of Jules one afternoon, some threeweeks later, his eye was caught by a packet directed in the precisescript of old Mr. Sterling, and this, together with a letter in the samehand, he separated from the mass of other material, and gave hisimmediate attention. There had grown in him a singular craving for allthat could remind him of his life at home. As he slit the envelope, adraft upon his bankers came first to his hand, and he glanced at it,with a short whistle, before laying it on the desk. It was for fifteenthousand francs.
Mr. Sterling's letter, a model of prim penmanship, ran as follows:
"MY DEAR ANDY: I have yours of the 12th inst., and am gratified to learn that Paris is surpassing your expectations. Although it is a city not ordinarily recommended as a sojourning-place for young men, I have seen enough of the world to know that it is not the surroundings which are significant, so much as the temperament of the individual placed among them. If you were inclined to dissipation, you would manufacture, if not find, it in a one-horse prohibition town in one of the back counties of Maine: and if you were otherwise disposed, not Paris itself would be competent to prove your undoing. So I am not averse to your project of remaining until Christmas. I have great confidence in you. If you will look back, you will realize that I have not burdened you with advice since the days when it was necessary to warn you against over-indulgence in ice-cream, or send you away from the breakfast-table for a more effective application of the nail-brush. That has been because I have seen in you something which I believe to be a guarantee against your ever falling into any misdoing which would be a discredit to the name you bear. I mean the fine healthiness of mind which eschews by instinct whatever is 'common or unclean'. You will have your fling, as I had mine, and as it is right you should. You will learn for yourself the lessons which no one else can teach you; but I think your attitude will always be that of a gentleman. There are ways and ways of doing things--even of sowing wild oats--and among these are the way of the gentleman and the way of the fool. You have never been the latter, and I have no reason to believe you will begin now.
"Among the commonest formulas of parental advice is that which exhorts a young man never to do or say anything which a mother or sister could not hear: and this deserves, to my way of thinking, just about the amount of attention which it ordinarily receives. I know the type of man whom you have always chosen, and, in all likelihood, always will choose, as a friend: and if you will avoid doing anything which you would be ashamed to tell that kind of man, I shall be satisfied.
"As you wish to remain in Paris for some time longer, and as Paris is preeminently a city where money is a _sine qua non_, I am disposed not only to approve your plan, but to make it possible of execution, with a certain degree of liberality. You should know, if you do not know already, that I have made you my heir. When I am obliged to shuffle off this mortal coil, you will come into something over eighty thousand a year. There are responsibilities attached to such an income, and not the least of them is the knowledge of the social obligation which it imposes. There is nothing more deplorable than the spectacle of a young man squandering what he can't afford to spend, unless it be that of an old one grudging what he can. While far from counselling wanton extravagance, I wish you to form those habits of generosity and open-heartedness which your position makes incumbent upon you. Repay with liberality the courtesies extended to you; and keep on the credit, rather than the debit, side of the social account. Take your share of the legitimate pleasures of life as well, paying as you go.
"To the letter of credit given you on your departure, which provided for a possible expenditure of a thousand dollars a month for the six months of your contemplated stay, I now add a draft for fifteen thousand francs (F. 15,000), to cover the additional three months during which you propose to remain. In view of this, you will not think me unreasonable in foregoing the customary remittance for a much smaller sum upon your birthday.
"That birthday is still somewhat more than three months distant, but a present which I had contemplated making you on the occasion, being already completed, I am forwarding it by this mail, with my best wishes and affection. It is a miniature of your mother--whom it is your greatest misfortune never to have known--painted, from a photograph, by Cavigny-Maupre during his recent visit to Boston: and it is appropriate that you should have it at a time when you are absent--with sincere regret, as you please me by saying--from the grim old house where you have been an unspeakable comfort to, and where awaits you an affectionate welcome from,
"Your grandfather,
"ANDREW STERLING.
"_Andrew Sterling Vane, Esq., Paris, France._"
"Dear old man!" said Andrew to himself, with a little smile ofaffection, before laying the letter aside. "Dear, generous old man!"Then he turned to the package which contained the portrait of hismother.
Cavigny-Maupre had excelled himself in this the most recent in his longseries of masterly miniatures. The tranquil and beautiful face of HelenVane, as it had been before the blight of disillusion dimmed itsethereal sweetness, looked out at Andrew with serene and steadfast eyes.There was no attempt at striking colouring, no trick of effect. Theartist, with the instinct which never played him false, had aimed topreserve the touch of simplicity, of girlishness, which the oldphotograph had given him as his cue. The result was a singularlyappealing beauty, which his more ambitious productions, with all theiremphatic brilliancy, utterly lacked. Before he could have analyzed theimpulse which prompted him, Andrew had touched his lips to the picture,and in the act of performing this simple homage his fine eyes grewmoist. For this was his mother--the pale, gentle-eyed dream-mother hehad never seen, but who had given her life for his, and who, perhaps,with the searching vision of the immortals, was watching him wistfullyfrom beyond the immeasurably distant stars!
So, at the dinner-hour, Radwalader found him--sunk deep in his chair,with his eyes half-closed, and the miniature in his hand.
"Hello!" he said. "Come in."
"You look like a drawing by Gibson," observed Radwalader lightly, "overthe title 'Day Dreams' or 'A Face from the Past,' or something of thesort. The old, old story, eh, Vane? Mooning over the loved one'sportrait?"
"Not a bad guess," replied Andrew, somewhat gravely, as he rose, andtendered Radwalader the picture.
"That was my mother," he added.
"Oh, I _beg_ your pardon!" exclaimed Radwalader, with that readyassumption of contrition wherewith he contrived so skilfully to repairhis infrequent _faux pas_.
"No harm done," answered Andrew. "Are you engaged for dinner? I'veordered a table at Armenonville, and meant to send Jules over to yourplace to ask you, but the time has gone faster than I thought. Gad! it'salmost seven. I _have_ been mooning, in good earnest. Will you go?"
"With pleasure. I dropped in on the chance that you might have nothingto do."
Radwalader laid the miniature on the table.
"It's a very beautiful face," he added. "I wonder if I ever saw her.It's not impossible. I remember meeting your grandfather in Boston."
"You'd hardly have met my mother, though. She died when I wasborn--twenty years ago. You'd have been quite a boy."
"A boy well out of knickerbockers, then! You flatter me, Vane. Is itpossible that you don't know I'm tottering on the ragged edge of fifty?"
"One wouldn't believe it, then. Come in while I brush up a bit."
He led the way into the bedroom, and Radwalader, following, appliedhimself to the consumption of a cigarette. For three weeks he had beenobserving Andrew with a new attention. He was always quick to notesymptoms, but in the present instance he found himself, to his surprise,unable to analyze them with his accustomed readiness. The ch
ange whichhe saw was singularly subtle, albeit as pronounced as that which aseparation of years might have enabled him to perceive. It was withdifficulty that he could bring himself to believe that barely a day hadgone by without their meeting. It seemed impossible that Andrew had notgone and come again, passing, in the interim, through some vastlysignificant experience. Radwalader found him less open, while habitedwith a new assurance; less enthusiastic, while subject at times to analmost feverish gaiety; more alive to the minutest details of the newlife which surrounded him, but with a tendency to scoff replacing hisformer merely boyish interest. There were times when Radwalader wouldhave called him unqualifiedly happy; others when there was no such thingas believing him otherwise than wretched. He was thinner, smiled lessthan formerly, and took for granted much which had thitherto excited hiseager comment, his amusement, or his dislike. Over all he wore a newreserve, a worldliness beyond his years. In all this, while there wasmuch which Radwalader did not fully understand, there was much which hehad expected, much which he had deliberately planned His cards had longsince been dealt and sorted. Now he chanced a lead.
"I was at Poissy yesterday."
"Ah?"
Andrew appeared in the doorway of the bathroom, diligently towelling hishead. As he looked up, his eyes, so curiously like Radwalader's own,were not less coolly non-committal than they.
"How is Mrs. Carnby?" he added.
"A good bit out of patience with you, I gather," said Radwalader."You've pretty well deserted her of late, haven't you?"
Andrew was drying his fingers, one by one, with somewhat exaggeratedattention.
"One can't serve God and Mammon," he observed, with that new flippancyof his. "I won't stoop to the pettiness of fencing with you, Radwalader.You're not blind, I take it. You must know as well as I why I don't wantto go to Poissy, and why, if I did, they wouldn't care to have me."
"Yes," said the other, "I suppose I do. If I didn't, it wouldn't be forlack of hearing you talked about. Gossip is tolerably busy with yourname, these days."
"Gossip is rarely busy with _one_ name," retorted Andrew dryly.
"Obviously. I didn't mean to ignore Mademoiselle Tremonceau: as you say,a lack of candour between us would be merely petty: but I wasn't quitesure how far you were prepared to concede me the license of a friend.These are ticklish subjects, even between intimates. I'm not inclined tomeddle, but I've thought more than once of asking you if you thought thegame worth while."
"I make a point of not thinking about it, one way or another," saidAndrew. "Why should I? I've youth, health, money, the sunshine,Paris--and her. Why should I think? It's nobody's business but my own.Don't be a prig, Radwalader."
"God forbid!" ejaculated Radwalader. "I see I've been mistaken. I had anidea that it _was_ somebody's business, other than yours--very much so,in fact. Of course, if it isn't--"
He stopped abruptly, and made a little signal of warning. An instantlater Monsieur Vicot entered the room, and began to lay out Andrew'sevening dress. His presence was an effective check upon furtherconversation along the direct line they had been pursuing, and, asAndrew hurried through his dressing, Radwalader plunged intogeneralities.
In another fifteen minutes Vicot opened the apartment door for them,and, as they passed out, closed it and stepped into the _salon_. Thefirst object which met his eye was the miniature of Helen Vane, lying,face downward, on the table where Radwalader had left it. He picked itup and set it, upright, on the mantel, under the brilliant light of anelectric bulb. Then, idly curious, he leaned forward and stared at it.
In the soft gloom of the July evening Armenonville glittered andtwinkled among the trees, and flung handfuls of shivered light on thewind-ruffled waters of the little lake. As they approached, they had aglimpse of tables brilliant with spotless napery and sheen of crystaland silver, and of heavy-headed roses leaning from tall and slendervases. Solicitous waiters, grotesquely swaddled in their aprons, wereturning every wine-glass to a ruby or a topaz with the liquid light ofBourgogne or Champagne. Electric lights glowed pink in roses of crinkledsilk. The Pavilion was a veritable fairy palace, as unstable, to allappearance, and as gossamer-light as the fabric of a dream swungmiraculously within a luminous haze.
The table reserved for them was in an elbow of the piazza and so, alittle apart from the others; and the _maitre d'hotel_ led them towardit with an air which was hardly less impressive than a _fanfare_. It washis business to remember the faces of young foreigners who thundered upat midday in twenty-horse-power Panhards expressly to command a table,and incidentally to tip him a louis. Moreover, there wasRadwalader--Radwalader, who knew by his first name every _maitred'hotel_ from Lavenue's to the Rat Mort, and from Marguery's to thePavillon Bleu, called Frederic himself "_mon vieux_," and sent messagesto the _chef_ at Voisin's or the Cafe Riche, informing him for whom theorder was to be prepared.
Among the things which Andrew had unconsciously assimilated fromRadwalader, was something very nearly equalling the latter's instinctfor ordering a dinner. It was that, even more than the louis or thePanhard, which inspired respect in the supercilious mind of the _maitred'hotel_. So they had caviar, sharpening the twang of their halves oflemon with a dash of tabasco; and _langouste a l'Americaine_, with ahint of tarragon in the mayonnaise; venison, with a confection ofginger, marmalade, and currant jelly, which not every one gets, even forthe asking, at the Pavilion d'Armenonville; a salad of split Malagagrapes and hearts of lettuce; and a Camembert cheese, taken at theflood--the which, in Camembert, is of as good omen as that in theaffairs of men.
Around them the brilliantly-illuminated tables were filled with diners.The true Parisian _monde_, long since departed for Aix or Hombourg, hadgiven place to the annual influx of foreigners and the lighter spiritsof the half-world, men and women both. Here were minds which skiddedfrom subject to subject with the eccentricity of water-spiders on aroadside pool. The latest comedies, the latest fashions, the latestscandals--they came and went, verbal drops sliding over the acute edgeof conversation, each touched with prismatic hues of humour, irony, orcynicism. The hum of chat was a patchwork of English, French, German,Spanish, Russian, and Italian. Europe was talking--talking the gossip ofthe day--pouring it like liquid silver into the moulds of manylanguages, wherefrom it took the oddest forms of epigram.
Here and there, members of the American Colony were entertaining friendsfrom the States, arrived that afternoon from Calais, Cherbourg, or LeHavre, with the odour of bilge-water yet in their nostrils, and the_terra_, misnamed _firma_, rocking unpleasantly under their senses. Atan adjoining table, a huge American collegian, labouring heavily againstthe head-wind of many cocktails, addressed his waiter:
"Ziss my las' night 'n Paruss, gassun. Jer know w'a' I've done t'Paruss? Ziss w'a' I've done t' Paruss."
He made the gesture of one wringing a half of lemon, and casting itcontemptuously aside, and looked up, proudly, for approval. Later hewould be tenderly removed--"a river ark on the ocean brine."
But these--the transient Americans--were the least significant factorsin the scene. They had come to prey, and would go away to scoff. Theywere a grade above the herded tourists to whose understanding theColonne Vendome is an edifice closed for fear of suicides; but amongthem were women who would write books on Paris, upon the strength ofthree months' residence and six letters of introduction, and men whosediligence in exhuming the most sordid evidences of metropolitandegradation would enable them to speak, thenceforward, with authorityupon French depravity--the Hams, Tartuffes, and Parkhursts of theirhour. Paris finds time to smile at many such. Over and around themflowed the smooth current of Parisian _savoir vivre_ which they couldnot hope to understand, still less to emulate.
"I feel," said Andrew slowly, "as if I had lived here all my life. Doyou remember telling me, that day at Auteuil, that things one ordinarilydisregards in America are part of one's education in Paris? I've learnedthe truth of that. I don't think I should be apt to mistake _cerise_ forred, as things are now."
"Did
you ever think of the irony of these _toilettes de demi-mondaine_?"asked Radwalader, looking from one to another of the superb gowns at theneighbouring tables. "You know, they're society's fashions of the dayafter to-morrow. I wonder what our dear lady of the Parc Monceau, orMayfair, or Fifth Avenue, or Back Bay, or Nob Hill, would say if sheknew the source of that trick of sleeve, or that contrast of_entre-deux_, which she fondly imagines was born in the mind of a Doucetfor her and her alone. It came into being, my dear Vane, in a stuffy,overfurnished little apartment in one of the suburbs, as a _patron_ ofquestionable merit by a charming creature with more ideas thanreputation, and was first worn at the little Mathurins--or here--byNinon Gyrianne: at a theatre where my lady would not be seen, by a womanwhom she would not receive! Or, if not that, La Girofla stood sponsorfor it at Deauville or Monte Carlo, and was duly complimented in the_potins of Gil Blas_. _Quelle farce, mon Dieu!_"
The two men were eating at the leisurely rate which is the mostinvaluable lesson Paris teaches the American. Andrew's lips curled in alittle sneer.
"It's all a farce," he said, "and, God knows, I'm the biggest mountebankof them all. When I look back six weeks, it's another Andrew Vane Isee--a better one."
"But not a happier one, I fancy," suggested Radwalader.
"Why not? Do you think, after all your experience, that Paris bringshappiness? Distraction, perhaps--amusement--knowledge--but happiness? Ohno!"
He looked down, appearing to reflect, and then went on in another tone:
"I've been meaning to have a little talk with you, Radwalader, and whatwe were saying, back there at the apartment, seemed to open the way. I'mgoing to be pretty frank, and, on the score of friendship, I hope you'llbe the same."
Radwalader nodded, narrowing his eyes.
"It's about Mirabelle Tremonceau. Believe me or not as you will, it wasall innocent enough at first. She was something new in my life,something entirely new. I can't say I fell in love with her. There werereasons why that wasn't possible at the time; but I found herbeautiful, amusing, and the soul of kindness. I liked her, and--well, Idrifted along from day to day, without any particular plan, one way oranother. It may seem incredible that I thought her like any other girl Iknew, but I did. I suppose it's not an especially novel story--Paris andthe young American."
"Goliath and David," commented Radwalader.
"Exactly--except that David won out, and I haven't. I began to hearthings, but, even so, I continued to like her, and to go there. I didn'thalf believe what I heard, in the first place: it was all sodifferent--the surroundings and all that--from anything I'd ever known.There wasn't a sign of anything of the sort, as far as I could see; andI was more sorry for her than anything else, when I finally caught on. Ihad the kind of feeling one has for a chap that's being overhazed atcollege. Everybody was damning her, and all the time she was treating meas her friend--and nothing more. I felt that it was up to me to stick upfor her, and I did--even when Mrs. Carnby chimed in, and told me I wasacting like a fool. You see--"
He hesitated, fingering his fork, and appearing to reflect.
"I said I'd talk straight with you," he added, "and I will. There wasonly one person whose opinion made any difference to me, and I felt Icould trust her all through. I dodged the question when you spoke of it,back there, but of course you were right. It _was_ somebody'sbusiness--Margery Palffy's. I'd been as good as engaged to her for ayear--that is, _she_ knew and _I_ knew--and it never dawned upon me thatshe was going to think anything except--well, _that_! You see, I knew Ihadn't done anything wrong, and I went to her, as bold as brass, thatlast night when we were all at Poissy, and asked her definitely. You canimagine how I felt when she came back at me with--I don't need to tellyou what she said. It was the same old business that other people hadbeen hinting at, but it was straight from the shoulder, and showed methat she thought I was as unworthy of her as a man could well be--asunworthy of her as I am now! It was the worst kind of a facer. It droveme mad, Radwalader--I want you to remember, all the time, that I didn'tdeserve it--and I flung away from her, with every drop of my damnablepride at the boiling-point, and came back to Paris, and--to theinevitable. For three weeks I've been living in heaven--and in hell!"
"In heaven," said Radwalader quietly, "because of Mirabelle; and in hellbecause of--"
"That's it--because of Margery Palffy! Try to understand me. If Ithought I loved her before, I _know_ it now. If it were possible to goback--but it isn't--it's never possible to do that. It's too late,that's all there is about it."
Radwalader smiled easily. The cards were running his way now.
"Surely, you're not tied up as tight as that," he said. "You've been atrifle hot-headed, yes; but in all you've told me, there's nothing morethan what a vast majority of the men you know have done, and nothingmore than what a vast majority of women have forgiven and forgotten.It's never too late to mend. Cut loose, my dear Vane--cut loose fromMirabelle, and go back to the girl you really care for. You'll have todeny a few things, of course, and swallow some humiliation; but don'tget tragic over it. In affairs like this, the first course ishumble-pie, but the _piece de resistance_ is invariably fatted calf!"
"Cut loose from Mirabelle," repeated Andrew. "Cut loose from Mirabelle?"
"Obviously. There's one infallible way, my friend."
Radwalader raised his right hand lightly, and chafed with his thumb thetips of his first and second fingers.
"Money?" demanded Andrew.
"Of course! And you may thank your stars that you're in a position tocommand it. Many a chap has gone under because he couldn't pay the piperwhen the bill came in. You can; and there's no reason under heaven whyyou should let this matter trouble you. Wait a moment!"--as Andrew wasabout to speak--"let me explain. I'm not the sort that cuts into otherpeople's affairs as a rule. I detest meddling, and ordinarily I don'twant to be bothered with what doesn't concern me. But I like you,Vane--I do, heartily. I'd be more sorry than a little to see you introuble. What's more, I feel to a certain extent responsible, as I wasthe one to introduce you. Well, then--suppose you leave the whole affairto me. I know the world, and especially Paris, and more especiallyMirabelle Tremonceau. Leave it in my hands. Even if she's ugly about it,I can probably get you out, all clear, for fifteen or twenty thousandfrancs, where it might cost you fifty if you undertook to engineer thething yourself. What do you say?"
"Say?" repeated Andrew, with a little, mirthless laugh, "why, simplythat you don't understand. Mirabelle wouldn't accept money from me."
"Oh, not money, like that," said Radwalader, "not money out of apurse--'one, two, three, _and_ two make five. I think that's correct,madam, and thank _you_!' No, I grant you--probably she wouldn't. But aPanhard, or a deposit at her bankers', or diamonds--that would bedifferent."
"No--no," said Andrew, shaking a single finger from side to side."You're all wrong. You don't get the situation at all. When a womanloves a man--"
"Love?" broke in Radwalader. "Piffle! Leave it to me, my dear sir, andin twenty-four hours I'll prove to you that Mirabelle Tremonceau'sspelling of the word 'love' begins with the symbol for poundssterling!"
"And Margery?" faltered Andrew.
"I saw Miss Palffy at Poissy," said Radwalader. "She's still stayingthere, you know. Now, if you'd told me that _she_ loved you, I'd havebelieved you. She was looking wretchedly, I thought."
He paused for a moment, to give the words their proper effect, and thenplayed his highest card.
"Did you receive a telegram from her after you left Poissy?"
Andrew stared blankly at him, moistening his lips.
"A telegram?" he said. "A telegram?"
"I thought you didn't," replied Radwalader, "and told her so. It seemsshe sent one, and was surprised you hadn't answered."
"A telegram!" said Andrew again. "Do you realize what that means,Radwalader? Why, it would have made all the difference in the world! Atelegram? No, of course I never received it! And I've been--I've been--"
His voice broke suddenly.
"My God! Radwalader, but fate is hard!"
"Fate, in this instance," remarked Radwalader, "_is_ hard--hard cash.Don't let any false quixotism blind you to that, Vane. I've shown youthe way out. Think it over, and when you're ready, come to me."
He crumpled his napkin, and rose. He had played. Now it was forMirabelle to trump the trick.
The Transgression of Andrew Vane: A Novel Page 16