Collected Works of Booth Tarkington

by Booth Tarkington

  CHAPTER XXI

  MR. EARL PERCY and I sat opposite each other at dinner that evening. Perhaps, for charity’s sake, I should add that though we faced each other, and, indeed, eyed each other solemnly at intervals, we partook not of the same repast, having each his own table; his being set in the garden at his constant station near the gallery steps, and mine, some fifty feet distant, upon my own veranda, but moved out from behind the honeysuckle screen, for I sat alone and the night was warm.

  To analyse my impression of Mr. Percy’s glances, I cannot conscientiously record that I found favour in his eyes. For one thing, I fear he may not have recalled to his bosom a clarion sentiment (which doubtless he had ofttimes cheered from his native gallery in softer years): the honourable declaration that many an honest heart beats beneath a poor man’s coat. As for his own attire, he was even as the lilies of Quesnay; that is to say, I beheld upon him the same formation of tie that I had seen there, the same sensuous beauty of the state waistcoat, though I think that his buttons were, if anything, somewhat spicier than those which had awed me at the chateau. And when we simultaneously reached the fragrant hour of coffee, the cigarette case that glittered in his hand was one for which some lady-friend of his (I knew intuitively) must have given her All — and then been left in debt.

  Amedee had served us both; Glouglou, as aforetime, attending the silent “Grande Suite,” where the curtains were once more tightly drawn. Monsieur Rameau dined with his client in her own salon, evidently; at least, Victorine, the femme de chambre, passed to and from the kitchen in that direction, bearing laden trays. When Mr. Percy’s cigarette had been lighted, hesitation marked the manner of our maitre d’hotel; plainly he wavered, but finally old custom prevailed; abandoning the cigarette, he chose the cigar, and, hastily clearing my fashionable opponent’s table, approached the pavilion with his most conversational face.

  I greeted him indifferently, but with hidden pleasure, for my soul (if Keredec is right and I have one) lay sorrowing. I needed relief, and whatever else Amedee was, he was always that. I spoke first:

  “Amedee, how long a walk is it from Quesnay to Pere Baudry’s?”

  “Monsieur, about three-quarters of an hour for a good walker, one might say.”

  “A long way for Jean Ferret to go for a cup of cider,” I remarked musingly.

  “Eh? But why should he?” asked Amedee blankly.

  “Why indeed? Surely even a Norman gardener lives for more than cider! You usually meet him there about noon, I believe?”

  Methought he had the grace to blush, though there is an everlasting doubt in my mind that it may have been the colour of the candle-shade producing that illusion. It was a strange thing to see, at all events, and, taking it for a physiological fact at the time, I let my willing eyes linger upon it as long as it (or its appearance) was upon him.

  “You were a little earlier than usual to-day,” I continued finally, full of the marvel.

  “Monsieur?” He was wholly blank again.

  “Weren’t you there about eleven? Didn’t you go about two hours after Mr. Ward and his friends left here?”

  He scratched his head. “I believe I had an errand in that direction. Eh? Yes, I remember. Truly, I think it so happened.”

  “And you found Jean Ferret there?”

  “Where, monsieur?”

  “At Pere Baudry’s.”

  “No, monsieur.”

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  “No, monsieur.” He was firm, somewhat reproachful.

  “You didn’t see Jean Ferret this morning?”

  “Monsieur?”

  “Amedee!”

  “Eh, but I did not find him at Pere Baudry’s! It may have happened that I stopped there, but he did not come until some time after.”

  “After you had gone away from Pere Baudry’s, you mean?”

  “No, monsieur; after I arrived there. Truly.”

  “Now we have it! And you gave him the news of all that had happened here?”

  “Monsieur!”

  A world — no, a constellation, a universe! — of reproach was in the word.

  “I retract the accusation,” I said promptly. “I meant something else.”

  “Upon everything that takes place at our hotel here, I am silent to all the world.”

  “As the grave!” I said with enthusiasm. “Truly — that is a thing well known. But Jean Ferret, then? He is not so discreet; I have suspected that you are in his confidence. At times you have even hinted as much. Can you tell me if he saw the automobile of Monsieur Ingle when it came back to the chateau after leaving here?”

  “It had arrived the moment before he departed.”

  “Quite SO! I understand,” said I.

  “He related to me that Mademoiselle Ward had the appearance of agitation, and Madame d’Armand that of pallor, which was also the case with Monsieur Ward.”

  “Therefore,” I said, “Jean Ferret ran all the way to Pere Baudry’s to learn from you the reason for this agitation and this pallor?”

  “But, monsieur—”

  “I retract again!” I cut him off — to save time. “What other news had he?”

  There came a gleam into his small, infolded eyes, a tiny glitter reflecting the mellow candle-light, but changing it, in that reflection, to a cold and sinister point of steel. It should have warned me, but, as he paused, I repeated my question.

  “Monsieur, people say everything,” he answered, frowning as if deploring what they said in some secret, particular instance. “The world is full of idle gossipers, tale-bearers, spreaders of scandal! And, though I speak with perfect respect, all the people at the chateau are not perfect in such ways.”

  “Do you mean the domestics?”

  “The visitors!”

  “What do they say?”

  “Eh, well, then, they say — but no!” He contrived a masterly pretense of pained reluctance. “I cannot—”

  “Speak out,” I commanded, piqued by his shilly-shallying. “What do they say?”

  “Monsieur, it is about” — he shifted his weight from one leg to the other— “it is about — about that beautiful Mademoiselle Elliott who sometimes comes here.”

  This was so far from what I had expected that I was surprised into a slight change of attitude, which all too plainly gratified him, though he made an effort to conceal it. “Well,” I said uneasily, “what do they find to say of Mademoiselle Elliott?”

  “They say that her painting is only a ruse to see monsieur.”

  “To see Monsieur Saffren, yes.”

  “But, no!” he cried. “That is not—”

  “Yes, it is,” I assured him calmly. “As you know, Monsieur Saffren is very, very handsome, and Mademoiselle Elliott, being a painter, is naturally anxious to look at him from time to time.”

  “You are sure?” he said wistfully, even plaintively. “That is not the meaning Jean Ferret put upon it.”

  “He was mistaken.”

  “It may be, it may be,” he returned, greatly crestfallen, picking up his tray and preparing to go. “But Jean Ferret was very positive.”

  “And I am even more so!”

  “Then that malicious maid of Mademoiselle Ward’s was mistaken also,” he sighed, “when she said that now a marriage is to take place between Mademoiselle Ward and Monsieur Ingle—”

  “Proceed,” I bade him.

  He moved a few feet nearer the kitchen. “The malicious woman said to Jean Ferret—” He paused and coughed. “It was in reference to those Italian jewels monsieur used to send—”

  “What about them?” I asked ominously.

  “The woman says that Mademoiselle Ward—” he increased the distance between us— “that now she should give them to Mademoiselle Elliott! GOOD night, monsieur!”

  His entrance into the kitchen was precipitate. I sank down again into the wicker chair (from which I had hastily risen) and contemplated the stars. But the short reverie into which I then fell was interrupted by Mr. Percy, who
, sauntering leisurely about the garden, paused to address me.

  “You folks thinks you was all to the gud, gittin’ them trunks off, what?”

  “You speak in mysterious numbers,” I returned, having no comprehension of his meaning.

  “I suppose you don’ know nothin’ about it,” he laughed satirically. “You didn’ go over to Lisieux ‘saft’noon to ship ’em? Oh, no, not YOU!”

  “I went for a long walk this afternoon, Mr. Percy. Naturally, I couldn’t have walked so far as Lisieux and back.”

  “Luk here, m’friend,” he said sharply— “I reco’nise ‘at you’re tryin’ t’ play your own hand, but I ast you as man to man: DO you think you got any chanst t’ git that feller off t’ Paris?”

  “DO you think it will rain to-night?” I inquired.

  The light of a reflecting lamp which hung on the wall near the archway enabled me to perceive a bitter frown upon his forehead. “When a gen’leman asts a question AS a gen’leman,” he said, his voice expressing a noble pathos, “I can’t see no call for no other gen’leman to go an’ play the smart Aleck and not answer him.”

  In simple dignity he turned his back upon me and strolled to the other end of the courtyard, leaving me to the renewal of my reverie.

  It was not a happy one. My friends — old and new — I saw inextricably caught in a tangle of cross-purposes, miserably and hopelessly involved in a situation for which I could predict no possible relief. I was able to understand now the beauty as well as the madness of Keredec’s plan; and I had told him so (after the departure of the Quesnay party), asking his pardon for my brusquerie of the morning. But the towering edifice his hopes had erected was now tumbled about his ears: he had failed to elude the Mursiana. There could be no doubt of her absolute control of the situation. THAT was evident in the every step of the youth now confidently parading before me.

  Following his active stride with my eye, I observed him in the act of saluting, with a gracious nod of his bare head, some one, invisible to me, who was approaching from the road. Immediately after — and altogether with the air of a person merely “happening in” — a slight figure, clad in a long coat, a short skirt, and a broad-brimmed, veil-bound brown hat, sauntered casually through the archway and came into full view in the light of the reflector.

  I sprang to my feet and started toward her, uttering an exclamation which I was unable to stifle, though I tried to.

  “Good evening, Mr. Percy,” she said cheerily. “It’s the most EXUBERANT night. YOU’RE quite hearty, I hope?”

  “Takin’ a walk, I see, little lady,” he observed with genial patronage.

  “Oh, not just for that,” she returned. “It’s more to see HIM.” She nodded to me, and, as I reached her, carelessly gave me her left hand. “You know I’m studying with him,” she continued to Mr. Percy, exhibiting a sketch-book under her arm. “I dropped over to get a criticism.”

  “Oh, drawin’-lessons?” said Mr. Percy tolerantly. “Well, don’ lemme interrup’ ye.”

  He moved as if to withdraw toward the steps, but she detained him with a question. “You’re spending the rest of the summer here?”

  “That depends,” he answered tersely.

  “I hear you have some PASSIONATELY interesting friends.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Ah, don’t you know?” she responded commiseratingly. “This is the most scandalously gossipy neighbourhood in France. My DEAR young man, every one from here to Timbuctu knows all about it by this time!”

  “All about what?”

  “About the excitement you’re such a VALUABLE part of; about your wonderful Spanish friend and how she claims the strange young man here for her husband.”

  “They’ll know more’n that, I expec’,” he returned with a side glance at me, “before VERY long.”

  “Every one thinks I am so interesting,” she rattled on artlessly, “because I happened to meet YOU in the woods. I’ve held quite a levee all day. In a reflected way it makes a heroine of me, you see, because you are one of the very MOST prominent figures in it all. I hope you won’t think I’ve been too bold,” she pursued anxiously, “in claiming that I really am one of your acquaintances?”

  “That’ll be all right,” he politely assured her.

  “I am so glad.” Her laughter rang out gaily. “Because I’ve been talking about you as if we were the OLDEST friends, and I’d hate to have them find me out. I’ve told them everything — about your appearance you see, and how your hair was parted, and how you were dressed, and—”

  “Luk here,” he interrupted, suddenly discharging his Bowery laugh, “did you tell ’em how HE was dressed?” He pointed a jocular finger at me. “That WUD ‘a’ made a hit!”

  “No; we weren’t talking of him.”

  “Why not? He’s in it, too. Bullieve me, he THINKS he is!”

  “In the excitement, you mean?”

  “Right!” said Mr. Percy amiably. “He goes round holdin’ Rip Van Winkle Keredec’s hand when the ole man’s cryin’; helpin’ him sneak his trunks off t’ Paris — playin’ the hired man gener’ly. Oh, he thinks he’s quite the boy, in this trouble!”

  “I’m afraid it’s a small part,” she returned, “compared to yours.”

  “Oh, I hold my end up, I guess.”

  “I should think you’d be so worn out and sleepy you couldn’t hold your head up!”

  “Who? ME? Not t’-night, m’little friend. I tuk MY sleep’s aft’noon and let Rameau do the Sherlock a little while.”

  She gazed upon him with unconcealed admiration. “You are wonderful,” she sighed faintly, and “WONDERFUL!” she breathed again. “How prosaic are drawing-lessons,” she continued, touching my arm and moving with me toward the pavilion, “after listening to a man of action like that!”

  Mr. Percy, establishing himself comfortably in a garden chair at the foot of the gallery steps, was heard to utter a short cough as he renewed the light of his cigarette.

  My visitor paused upon my veranda, humming, “Quand l’Amour Meurt” while I went within and lit a lamp. “Shall I bring the light out there?” I asked, but, turning, found that she was already in the room.

  “The sketch-book is my duenna,” she said, sinking into a chair upon one side of the centre table, upon which I placed the lamp. “Lessons are unquestionable, at any place or time. Behold the beautiful posies!” She spread the book open on the table between us, as I seated myself opposite her, revealing some antique coloured smudges of flowers. “Elegancies of Eighteen-Forty! Isn’t that a survival of the period when young ladies had ‘accomplishments,’ though! I found it at the chateau and—”

  “Never mind,” I said. “Don’t you know that you can’t ramble over the country alone at this time of night?”

  “If you speak any louder,” she said, with some urgency of manner, “you’ll be ‘hopelessly compromised socially,’ as Mrs. Alderman McGinnis and the Duchess of Gwythyl-Corners say” — she directed my glance, by one of her own, through the open door to Mr. Percy— “because HE’LL hear you and know that the sketch-book was only a shallow pretext of mine to see you. Do be a little manfully self-contained, or you’ll get us talked about! And as for ‘this time of night,’ I believe it’s almost half past nine.”

  “Does Miss Ward know—”

  “Do you think it likely? One of the most convenient things about a chateau is the number of ways to get out of it without being seen. I had a choice of eight. So I ‘suffered fearfully from neuralgia,’ dined in my own room, and sped through the woods to my honest forester.” She nodded brightly. “That’s YOU!”

  “You weren’t afraid to come through the woods alone?” I asked, uncomfortably conscious that her gaiety met a dull response from me.

  “No.”

  “But if Miss Ward finds that you’re not at the chateau—”

  “She won’t; she thinks I’m asleep. She brought me up a sleeping-powder herself.”

  “She thinks you took it?”
/>
  “She KNOWS I did,” said Miss Elliott. “I’m full of it! And that will be the reason — if you notice that I’m particularly nervous or excited.”

  “You seem all of that,” I said, looking at her eyes, which were very wide and very brilliant. “However, I believe you always do.”

  “Ah!” she smiled. “I knew you thought me atrocious from the first. You find MYRIADS of objections to me, don’t you?”

  I had forgotten to look away from her eyes, and I kept on forgetting. (The same thing had happened several times lately; and each time, by a somewhat painful coincidence, I remembered my age at precisely the instant I remembered to look away.) “Dazzling” is a good old-fashioned word for eyes like hers; at least it might define their effect on me.

  “If I did manage to object to you,” I said slowly, “it would be a good thing for me — wouldn’t it?”

  “Oh, I’ve WON!” she cried.

  “Won?” I echoed.

  “Yes. I laid a wager with myself that I’d have a pretty speech from you before I went out of your life” — she checked a laugh, and concluded thrillingly— “forever! I leave Quesnay to-morrow!”

  “Your father has returned from America?”

  “Oh dear, no,” she murmured. “I’ll be quite at the world’s mercy. I must go up to Paris and retire from public life until he does come. I shall take the vows — in some obscure but respectable pension.”

  “You can’t endure the life at the chateau any longer?”

  “It won’t endure ME any longer. If I shouldn’t go to-morrow I’d be put out, I think — after to-night!”

  “But you intimated that no one would know about to-night!”

  “The night isn’t over yet,” she replied enigmatically.

  “It almost is — for you,” I said; “because in ten minutes I shall take you back to the chateau gates.”

  She offered no comment on this prophecy, but gazed at me thoughtfully and seriously for several moments. “I suppose you can imagine,” she said, in a tone that threatened to become tremulous, “what sort of an afternoon we’ve been having up there?”

  “Has it been—” I began.

  “Oh, heart-breaking! Louise came to my room as soon as they got back from here, this morning, and told me the whole pitiful story. But they didn’t let her stay there long, poor woman!”