Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  His stare at me was protracted to an unseemly length before the sting of this remark reached him; it penetrated finally, however, and in his sharp change of posture there was a lightning flicker of the experienced boxer; but he checked the impulse, and took up the task of obliterating me in another way.

  “As I tell the little dame here,” he said, pitching his voice higher and affecting the plaintive, “I make no passes at a friend o’ her — not in front o’ her, anyways. But when it comes to these here ole, ancient curiosities” — he cackled again, loudly— “well, I guess them clo’es I see, that day, kin hand it out t’ anything they got in the museums! ‘Look here,’ I says to the waiter, ‘THESE must be’n left over f’m ole Jeanne d’Arc herself,’ I says. ‘Talk about yer relics,’ I says. Whoosh! I’d like t’ died!” He laughed violently, and concluded by turning upon me with a contemptuous flourish of his stick. “You think I d’know what makes YOU so raw?”

  The form of repartee necessary to augment his ill humour was, of course, a matter of simple mechanism for one who had not entirely forgotten his student days in the Quarter; and I delivered it airily, though I shivered inwardly that Miss Elliott should hear.

  “Everything will be all right if, when you dine at the inn, you’ll sit with your back toward me.”

  To my shamed surprise, this roustabout wit drew a nervous, silvery giggle from her; and that completed the work with Mr. Percy, whose face grew scarlet with anger.

  “You’re a hot one, you are!” he sneered, with shocking bitterness. “You’re quite the teaser, ain’t ye, s’long’s yer lady-friend is lukkin’ on! I guess they’ll be a few surprises comin’ YOUR way, before long. P’raps I cudn’t give ye one now ‘f I had a mind to.”

  “Pshaw,” I laughed, and, venturing at hazard, said, “I know all YOU know!”

  “Oh, you do!” he cried scornfully. “I reckon you might set up an’ take a little notice, though, if you knowed ‘at I know all YOU know!”

  “Not a bit of it!”

  “No? Maybe you think I don’t know what makes you so raw with ME? Maybe you think I don’t know who ye’ve got so thick with at this here Pigeon House; maybe you think I don’t know who them people ARE!”

  “No, you don’t. You have learned,” I said, trying to control my excitement, “nothing! Whoever hired YOU for a spy lost the money. YOU don’t know ANY-thing!”

  “I DON’T!” And with that his voice went to a half-shriek. “Maybe you think I’m down here f’r my health; maybe you think I come out f’r a pleasant walk in the woods right now; maybe you think I ain’t seen no other lady-friend o’ yours besides this’n to-day, and maybe I didn’t see who was with her — yes, an’ maybe you think I d’know no other times he’s be’n with her. Maybe you think I ain’t be’n layin’ low over at Dives! Maybe I don’t know a few real NAMES in this neighbourhood! Oh, no, MAYBE not!”

  “You know what the maitre d’hotel told you; nothing more.”

  “How about the name — OLIVER SAFFREN?” he cried fiercely, and at last, though I had expected it, I uttered an involuntary exclamation.

  “How about it?” he shouted, advancing toward me triumphantly, shaking his forefinger in my face. “Hey? THAT stings some, does it? Sounds kind o’ like a FALSE name, does it? Got ye where the hair is short, that time, didn’t I?”

  “Speaking of names,” I retorted, “‘Oil Poicy’ doesn’t seem to ring particularly true to me!”

  “It’ll be gud enough fer you, young feller,” he responded angrily. “It may belong t’ me, an’ then again, it maybe don’t. It ain’ gunna git me in no trouble; I’ll luk out f’r that. YOUR side’s where the trouble is; that’s what’s eatin’ into you. An’ I’ll tell you flat-foot, your gittin’ rough ‘ith me and playin’ Charley the Show-Off in front o’ yer lady-friends’ll all go down in the bill. These people ye’ve got so chummy with — THEY’LL pay f’r it all right, don’t you shed no tears over that!”

  “You couldn’t by any possibility,” I said deliberately, with as much satire as I could command, “you couldn’t possibly mean that any sum of mere money might be a salve for the injuries my unkind words have inflicted?”

  Once more he seemed upon the point of destroying me physically, but, with a slight shudder, controlled himself. Stepping close to me, he thrust his head forward and measured the emphases of his speech by his right forefinger upon my shoulder, as he said:

  “You paint THIS in yer pitchers, m’ dear friend; they’s jest as much law in this country as they is on the corner o’ Twenty-thoid Street an’ Fif’ Avenoo! You keep out the way of it, or you’ll git runned over!”

  Delivering a final tap on my shoulder as a last warning, he wheeled deftly upon his heel, addressed Miss Elliott briefly, “Glad t’ know YOU, lady,” and striking into the by-path by which he had approached us, was soon lost to sight.

  The girl faced me excitedly. “What IS it?” she cried. “It seemed to me you insulted him deliberately—”

  “I did.”

  “You wanted to make him angry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh! I thought so!” she exclaimed breathlessly. “I knew there was something serious underneath. It’s about Mr. Saffren?”

  “It is serious indeed, I fear,” I said, and turning to my own easel, began to get my traps together. “I’ll tell you the little I know, because I want you to tell Mrs. Harman what has just happened, and you’ll be able to do it better if you understand what is understandable about the rest of it.”

  “You mean you wouldn’t tell me so that I could understand for myself?” There was a note of genuine grieved reproach in her voice. “Ah, then I’ve made you think me altogether a hare-brain!”

  “I haven’t time to tell you what I think of you,” I said brusquely, and, strangely enough, it seemed to please her. But I paid little attention to that, continuing quickly: “When Professor Keredec and Mr. Saffren came to Les Trois Pigeons, they were so careful to keep out of everybody’s sight that one might have suspected that they were in hiding — and, in fact, I’m sure that they were — though, as time passed and nothing alarming happened, they’ve felt reassured and allowed themselves more liberty. It struck me that Keredec at first dreaded that they might be traced to the inn, and I’m afraid his fear was justified, for one night, before I came to know them, I met Mr. ‘Percy’ on the road; he’d visited Madame Brossard’s and pumped Amedee dry, but clumsily tried to pretend to me that he had not been there at all. At the time, I did not connect him even remotely with Professor Keredec’s anxieties. I imagined he might have an eye to the spoons; but it’s as ridiculous to think him a burglar as it would be to take him for a detective. What he is, or what he has to do with Mr. Saffren, I can guess no more than I can guess the cause of Keredec’s fears, but the moment I saw him to-day, saw that he’d come back, I knew it was THAT, and tried to draw him out. You heard what he said; there’s no doubt that Saffren stands in danger of some kind. It may be inconsiderable, or even absurd, but it’s evidently imminent, and no matter what it is, Mrs. Harman must be kept out of it. I want you to see her as soon as you can and ask her from me — no, persuade her yourself — not to leave Quesnay for a day or two. I mean, that she absolutely MUST NOT meet Mr. Saffren again until we know what all this means. Will you do it?”

  “That I will!” And she began hastily to get her belongings in marching order. “I’ll do anything in the world you’ll let me — and oh, I hope they can’t do anything to poor, poor Mr. Saffren!”

  “Our sporting friend had evidently seen him with Mrs. Harman to-day,” I said. “Do you know if they went to the beach again?”

  “I only know she meant to meet him — but she told me she’d be back at the chateau by four. If I start now—”

  “Wasn’t the phaeton to be sent to the inn for you?”

  “Not until six,” she returned briskly, folding her easel and strapping it to her camp-stool with precision. “Isn’t it shorter by the woods?”

  “You’ve only
to follow this path to the second crossing and then turn to the right,” I responded. “I shall hurry back to Madame Brossard’s to see Keredec — and here” — I extended my hand toward her traps, of which, in a neatly practical fashion, she had made one close pack— “let me have your things, and I’ll take care of them at the inn for you. They’re heavy, and it’s a long trudge.”

  “You have your own to carry,” she answered, swinging the strap over her shoulder. “It’s something of a walk for you, too.”

  “No, no, let me have them,” I protested, for the walk before her WAS long and the things would be heavy indeed before it ended.

  “Go your ways,” she laughed, and as my hand still remained extended she grasped it with her own and gave it a warm and friendly shake. “Hurry!” And with an optimism which took my breath, she said, “I know YOU can make it come out all right! Besides, I’ll help you!”

  With that she turned and started manfully upon her journey. I stared after her for a moment or more, watching the pretty brown dress flashing in and out of shadow among the ragged greeneries, shafts of sunshine now and then flashing upon her hair. Then I picked up my own pack and set out for the inn.

  Every one knows that the more serious and urgent the errand a man may be upon, the more incongruous are apt to be the thoughts that skip into his mind. As I went through the woods that day, breathless with haste and curious fears, my brain became suddenly, unaccountably busy with a dream I had had, two nights before. I had not recalled this dream on waking: the recollection of it came to me now for the first time. It was a usual enough dream, wandering and unlifelike, not worth the telling; and I had been thinking so constantly of Mrs. Harman that there was nothing extraordinary in her worthless ex-husband’s being part of it.

  And yet, looking back upon that last, hurried walk of mine through the forest, I see how strange it was that I could not quit remembering how in my dream I had gone motoring up Mount Pilatus with the man I had seen so pitiably demolished on the Versailles road, two years before — Larrabee Harman.

  CHAPTER XVII

  KEREDEC WAS ALONE in his salon, extended at ease upon a long chair, an ottoman and a stool, when I burst in upon him; a portentous volume was in his lap, and a prolific pipe, smoking up from his great cloud of beard, gave the final reality to the likeness he thus presented of a range of hills ending in a volcano. But he rolled the book cavalierly to the floor, limbered up by sections to receive me, and offered me a hearty welcome.

  “Ha, my dear sir,” he cried, “you take pity on the lonely Keredec; you make him a visit. I could not wish better for myself. We shall have a good smoke and a good talk.”

  “You are improved to-day?” I asked, it may be a little slyly.

  “Improve?” he repeated inquiringly.

  “Your rheumatism, I mean.”

  “Ha, yes; that rheumatism!” he shouted, and throwing back his head, rocked the room with sudden laughter. “Hew! But it is gone — almost! Oh, I am much better, and soon I shall be able to go in the woods again with my boy.” He pushed a chair toward me. “Come, light your cigar; he will not return for an hour perhaps, and there is plenty of time for the smoke to blow away. So! It is better. Now we shall talk.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I wanted to talk with you.”

  “That is a — what you call? — ha, yes, a coincidence,” he returned, stretching himself again in the long chair, “a happy coincidence; for I have wished a talk with you; but you are away so early for all day, and in the evening Oliver, he is always here.”

  “I think what I wanted to talk about concerns him particularly.”

  “Yes?” The professor leaned forward, looking at me gravely. “That is another coincidence. But you shall speak first. Commence then.”

  “I feel that you know me at least well enough,” I began rather hesitatingly, “to be sure that I would not, for the world, make any effort to intrude in your affairs, or Mr. Saffren’s, and that I would not force your confidence in the remotest—”

  “No, no, no!” he interrupted. “Please do not fear I shall misinterpretate whatever you will say. You are our friend. We know it.”

  “Very well,” I pursued; “then I speak with no fear of offending. When you first came to the inn I couldn’t help seeing that you took a great many precautions for secrecy; and when you afterward explained these precautions to me on the ground that you feared somebody might think Mr. Saffren not quite sane, and that such an impression might injure him later — well, I could not help seeing that your explanation did not cover all the ground.”

  “It is true — it did not.” He ran his huge hand through the heavy white waves of his hair, and shook his head vigorously. “No; I knew it, my dear sir, I knew it well. But, what could I do? I would not have telled my own mother! This much I can say to you: we came here at a risk, but I thought that with great care it might be made little. And I thought a great good thing might be accomplish if we should come here, something so fine, so wonderful, that even if the danger had been great I would have risked it. I will tell you a little more: I think that great thing is BEING accomplish!” Here he rose to his feet excitedly and began to pace the room as he talked, the ancient floor shaking with his tread. “I think it is DONE! And ha! my dear sir, if it SHOULD be, this big Keredec will not have lived in vain! It was a great task I undertake with my young man, and the glory to see it finish is almost here. Even if the danger should come, the THING is done, for all that is real and has true meaning is inside the soul!”

  “It was in connection with the risk you have mentioned that I came to talk,” I returned with some emphasis, for I was convinced of the reality of Mr. Earl Percy and also very certain that he had no existence inside or outside a soul. “I think it necessary that you should know—”

  But the professor was launched. I might as well have swept the rising tide with a broom. He talked with magnificent vehemence for twenty minutes, his theme being some theory of his own that the individuality of a soul is immortal, and that even in perfection, the soul cannot possibly merge into any Nirvana. Meantime, I wondered how Mr. Percy was employing his time, but after one or two ineffectual attempts to interrupt, I gave myself to silence until the oration should be concluded.

  “And so it is with my boy,” he proclaimed, coming at last to the case in hand. “The spirit of him, the real Oliver Saffren, THAT has NEVER change! The outside of him, those thing that BELONG to him, like his memory, THEY have change, but not himself, for himself is eternal and unchangeable. I have taught him, yes; I have helped him get the small things we can add to our possession — a little knowledge, maybe, a little power of judgment. But, my dear sir, I tell you that such things are ONLY possessions of a man. They are not the MAN! All that a man IS or ever shall be, he is when he is a baby. So with Oliver; he had lived a little while, twenty-six years, perhaps, when pft — like that! — he became almost as a baby again. He could remember how to talk, but not much more. He had lost his belongings — they were gone from the lobe of the brain where he had stored them; but HE was not gone, no part of the real HIMSELF was lacking. Then presently they send him to me to make new his belongings, to restore his possessions. Ha, what a task! To take him with nothing in the world of his own and see that he get only GOOD possessions, GOOD knowledge, GOOD experience! I took him to the mountains of the Tyrol — two years — and there his body became strong and splendid while his brain was taking in the stores. It was quick, for his brain had retained some habits; it was not a baby’s brain, and some small part of its old stores had not been lost. But if anything useless or bad remain, we empty it out — I and those mountain’ with their pure air. Now, I say he is all good and the work was good; I am proud! But I wish to restore ALL that was good in his life; your Keredec is something of a poet. — You may put it: much the old fool! And for that greates’ restoration of all I have brought my boy back to France; since it was necessary. It was a madness, and I thank the good God I was mad enough to do it. I cannot tell you yet, my dear sir
: but you shall see, you shall see what the folly of that old Keredec has done! You shall see, you shall — and I promise it — what a Paradise, when the good God helps, an old fool’s dream can make!”

  A half-light had broken upon me as he talked, pacing the floor, thundering his paean of triumph, his Titanic gestures bruising the harmless air. Only one explanation, incredible, but possible, sufficed. Anything was possible, I thought — anything was probable — with this dreamer whom the trump of Fame, executing a whimsical fantasia, proclaimed a man of science!

  “By the wildest chance,” I gasped, “you don’t mean that you wanted him to fall in love—”

  He had reached the other end of the room, but at this he whirled about on me, his laughter rolling out again, till it might have been heard at Pere Baudry’s.

  “Ha, my dear sir, you have said it! But you knew it; you told him to come to me and tell me.”

  “But I mean that you — unless I utterly misunderstand — you seem to imply that you had selected some one now in France whom you planned that he should care for — that you had selected the lady whom you know as Madame d’Armand.”

  “Again,” he shouted, “you have said it!”

  “Professor Keredec,” I returned, with asperity, “I have no idea how you came to conceive such a preposterous scheme, but I agree heartily that the word for it is madness. In the first place, I must tell you that her name is not even d’Armand—”

  “My dear sir, I know. It was the mistake of that absurd Amedee. She is Mrs. Harman.”

  “You knew it?” I cried, hopelessly confused. “But Oliver still speaks of her as Madame d’Armand.”

  “He does not know. She has not told him.”

  “But why haven’t you told him?”

  “Ha, that is a story, a poem,” he cried, beginning to pace the floor again— “a ballad as old as the oldest of Provence! There is a reason, my dear sir, which I cannot tell you, but it lies within the romance of what you agree is my madness. Some day, I hope, you shall understand and applaud! In the meantime—”