Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  She neither stirred nor turned her eyes.

  “ — In the end — Listen to me.”

  “I am wi-willing to.”

  “Because it will be then as it is now; as it was when even I didn’t know it — as it must be always, for me. Only one person in the world can ever matter to me — now.... There’s no escape from it for me.”

  “Do — do you wish to — escape?”

  “Cecil!” he said under his breath.

  “They’re dancing, below,” she said leaning over the gallery, one soft white hand on the polished rail, the other abandoned to him — carelessly — as though she were quite unconscious where it lay.

  “They are dancing,” she repeated, turning toward him — which brought them face to face, both her hands resting listlessly in his.

  A silence, then:

  “Do you know,” she said, “that this is a very serious matter?”

  “I know.”

  “And that it’s probably one of those dreadful, terrible and sudden strokes of Fate?”

  “I know.”

  “And that — that it serves me right?”

  He was smiling; and she smiled back at him, the starry beauty of her eyes dimming a trifle.

  “You say that you have chosen a ‘Voice,’” she said; “and — do you think that you would be the last man to go to sleep?”

  “The very last.”

  “Then — I suppose I must make my choice.... I will ... some day.... And, are you going to dance with me?”

  He raised her hands, joining them together between his; and she watched him gravely, a tremor touching her lips. In silence their hands fell apart; he stepped nearer; she lifted her head a little — a very little — closing her lids; he bent and kissed her lips, very lightly.

  That was all; they opened their eyes upon one another, somewhat dazed. A bell, very far off, was sounding faintly through the falling snow — faintly, persistently, the first bell for Christmas morning.

  Then she took the edges of her silken gown between thumb and forefinger, and slowly, very slowly, sank low with flushed cheeks, sweeping him an old-time curtsey.

  “I — I wish you a Merry Christmas,” she said.... “And thank you for your wish.... And you may take me down, now” — rising to her slim and lovely height— “and I think we had better dance as hard as we can and try to forget what our families are likely to think of what we’ve done.... Don’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said seriously, “I do.”

  “And that’s what comes of running after trains, and talking to fat conductors, and wearing chinchilla furs, and flouting the Mystic Three!” added Williams throwing away his cigar.

  CHAPTER XII

  IN WHICH A MODEST MAN MAUNDERS

  “In my opinion,” said I, “a man who comes to see Paris in three months is a fool, and kin to that celebrated ass who circum-perambulated the globe in eighty days. See all, see nothing. A man might camp a lifetime in the Louvre and learn little about it before he left for Père Lachaise. Yet here comes the United States in a gigantic “mônome” to see the city in three weeks, when three years is too short a time in which to appreciate the Carnavalet Museum alone! I’m going home.”

  “Oh, papa!” said Alida.

  “Yes, I am,” I snapped. “I’d rather be tried and convicted in Oyster Bay on the charge of stealing my own pig than confess I had ‘seen Paris’ in three months.”

  We had driven out to the Trocadero that day, and were now comfortably seated in the tower of that somewhat shabby “palace,” for the purpose of obtaining a bird’s eye view of the “Rive Droite” or right bank of the Seine.

  Elegant, modern, spotless, the Rive Droite spread out at our feet, silver-gray squares of Renaissance architecture inlaid with the delicate green of parks, circles, squares, and those endless double and quadruple lines of trees which make Paris slums more attractive than Fifth Avenue. Far as the eye could see stretched the exquisite monotony of the Rive Droite, discreetly and artistically broken by domes and spires of uncatalogued “monuments,” in virgin territory, unknown and unsuspected to those spiritual vandals whose hordes raged through the boulevards, waving ten thousand blood-red Baedekers at the paralyzed Parisians.

  “Well,” said I, “now that we have ‘seen’ the Rive Droite, let’s cast a bird’s-eye glance over Europe and Asia and go back to the hotel for luncheon.”

  My sarcasm was lost on my daughters because they had moved out of earshot. Alida was looking through a telescope held for her by a friend of Captain de Barsac, an officer of artillery named Captain Vicômte Torchon de Cluny. He was all over scarlet and black and gold; when he walked his sabre made noises, and his ringing spurs reminded me of the sound of sleigh-bells in Oyster Bay.

  My daughter Dulcima was observing the fortress of Mont-Valerien through a tiny pair of jewelled opera-glasses, held for her by Captain de Barsac. It was astonishing to see how tirelessly De Barsac held those opera-glasses, which must have weighed at least an ounce. But French officers are inured to hardships and fatigue.

  “Is that a fortress?” asked Dulcima ironically. “I see nothing but some low stone houses.”

  “Next to Gibraltar,” said De Barsac, “it is the most powerful fortress in the world, mademoiselle. It garrisons thousands of men; its stores are enormous; it dominates not only Paris, but all France.”

  “But where are the cannon?” asked Dulcima.

  “Ah — exactly — where? That is what other nations pay millions to find out — and cannot. Will you take my word for it that there are one or two cannon there — and permit me to avoid particulars?”

  “You might tell me where just one little unimportant cannon is?” said my daughter, with the naïve curiosity which amuses the opposite and still more curious sex.

  “And endanger France?” asked De Barsac, with owl-like solemnity.

  “Thank you,” pouted Dulcima, perfectly aware that he was laughing.

  Their voices became low, and relapsed into that buzzing murmur which always defeats its own ends by arousing parental vigilance.

  “Let us visit the aquarium,” said I in a distinct and disagreeable voice. Doubtless the “voice from the wilderness” was gratuitously unwelcome to Messieurs De Barsac and Torchon de Cluny, but they appeared to welcome the idea with a conciliatory alacrity noticeable in young men when intruded upon by the parent of pretty daughters. Dear me, how fond they appeared to be of me; what delightful information they volunteered concerning the Trocadero, the Alexander Bridge, the Champ de Mars.

  The aquarium of the Trocadero is underground. To reach it you simply walk down a hole in France and find yourself under the earth, listening to the silvery prattle of a little brook which runs over its bed of pebbles above your head, pouring down little waterfalls into endless basins of glass which line the damp arcades as far as you can see. The arcades themselves are dim, the tanks, set in the solid rock, are illuminated from above by holes in the ground, through which pours the yellow sunshine of France.

  Looking upward through the glass faces of the tanks you can see the surface of the water with bubbles afloat, you can see the waterfall tumbling in; you can catch glimpses of green grass and bushes, and a bit of blue sky.

  Into the tanks fall insects from the world above, and the fish sail up to the surface and lazily suck in the hapless fly or spider that tumbles onto the surface of the water.

  It is a fresh-water aquarium. All the fresh-water fish of France are represented here by fine specimens — pike, barbels, tench, dace, perch, gudgeons, sea-trout, salmon, brown-trout, and that lovely delicate trout-like fish called l’Ombre de Chevallier. What it is I do not know, but it resembles our beautiful American brook-trout in shape and marking; and is probably a hybrid, cultivated by these clever French specialists in fish-propagation.

  Coming to a long crystal-clear tank, I touched the glass with my finger-tip, and a slender, delicate fish, colored like mother-of-pearl, slowly turned to stare at me.

  “This,” said I
, “is that aristocrat of the waters called the ‘Grayling.’ Notice its huge dorsal fin, its tender and diminutive mouth. It takes a fly like a trout, but the angler who would bring it to net must work gently and patiently, else the tender mouth tears and the fish is lost. Is it not the most beautiful of all fishes?

  “‘Here and there a lusty trout;

  Here and there a Grayling—’

  “Ah, Tennyson knew. And that reminds me, Alida,” I continued, preparing to recount a personal adventure with a grayling in Austria— “that reminds me — —”

  I turned around to find I had been addressing the empty and somewhat humid atmosphere. My daughter Alida stood some distance away, gazing absently at a tank full of small fry; and Captain Vicômte Torchon de Cluny stood beside her, talking. Perhaps he was explaining the habits of the fish in the tank.

  My daughter Dulcima and Captain de Barsac I beheld far down the arcades, strolling along without the faintest pretence of looking at anything but each other.

  “Very well,” thought I to myself, “this aquarium is exactly the place I expect to avoid in future—” And I cheerfully joined my daughters as though they and their escorts had long missed me.

  Now, of course, they all expressed an enthusiastic desire to visit every tank and hear me explain the nature of their contents; but it was too late.

  “No,” said I, “it is damp enough here to float all the fishes in the Seine. And besides, as we are to ‘see’ the Rive Droite, we should hasten, so that we may have at least half an hour to devote to the remainder of France.”

  From the bowels of the earth we emerged into the sunshine, to partake of an exceedingly modest luncheon in the Trocadero restaurant, under the great waterfall.

  Across the river a regiment of red-legged infantry marched, drums and bugles sounding.

  “All that territory over there,” said De Barsac, “is given up to barracks. It is an entire quarter of the city, occupied almost exclusively by the military. There the streets run between miles of monotonous barracks, through miles of arid parade grounds, where all day long the piou-pious drill in the dust; where the cavalry exercise; where the field-artillery go clanking along the dreary streets toward their own exercise ground beyond the Usine de Gaz. All day long that quarter of the city echoes with drums beating and trumpets sounding, and the trample of passing cavalry, and the clank and rattle of cannon. Truly, in the midst of peace we prepare for — something else — we French.”

  “It is strange,” said I, “that you have time to be the greatest sculptors, architects, and painters in the world.”

  “In France, monsieur, we never lack time. It is only in America that you corner time and dispense it at a profit.”

  “Time,” said I, “is at once our most valuable and valueless commodity. Our millionaires seldom have sufficient time to avoid indigestion. Yet, although time is apparently so precious, there are among us men who spend it in reading the New York Herald editorials. I myself am often short of time, yet I take a Long Island newspaper and sometimes even read it.”

  We had been walking through the gardens, while speaking, toward a large crowd of people which had collected along the river. In the centre of the crowd stood a taxicab, on the box of which danced the cabby, gesticulating.

  When we arrived at the scene of disturbance the first person I saw distinctly was our acquaintance, the young man from East Boston, hatless, dishevelled, all over dust, in the grasp of two agents de police.

  “He has been run over by a taxi,” observed De Barsac. “They are going to arrest him.”

  “Well, why don’t they do it?” I said, indignantly, supposing that De Barsac meant the chauffeur was to be arrested.

  “They have done so.”

  “No, they haven’t! They are holding the man who has been run over!”

  “Exactly. He has been run over and they are arresting him.”

  “Who?” I demanded, bewildered.

  “Why, the man who has been run over!”

  “But why, in Heaven’s name!”

  “Why? Because he allowed himself to be run over!”

  “What!” I cried. “They arrest the man who has been run over, and not the man who ran over him?”

  “It is the law,” said De Barsac, coolly.

  “Do you mean to tell me that the runner is left free, while the runnee is arrested?” I asked in deadly calmness, reducing my question to legal and laconic language impossible to misinterpret.

  “Exactly. The person who permits a vehicle to run over him in defiance of the French law, which says that nobody ought to let himself be run over, is liable to arrest, imprisonment, and fine — unless, of course, so badly injured that recovery is impossible.”

  Now at last I understood the Dreyfus Affaire. Now I began to comprehend the laws of the Bandarlog. Now I could follow the subtle logic of the philosophy embodied in “Alice in Wonderland” and “Through the Looking-Glass!”

  This was the country for me! Why, certainly; these people here could understand a man who was guilty of stealing his own pig.

  “I think I should like to live in Paris again,” I said to my daughters; then I approached the young man from East Boston and bade him cheer up.

  He was not hurt; he was only rumpled and dusty and hopping mad.

  “I shall pay their darned fine,” he said. “Then I’m going to hire a cab and drive it myself, and hunt up that cabman who ran over me, by Judas!”

  That night I met Williams at the Café Jaune by previous and crafty agreement; and it certainly was nice to be together after all these years in the same old seats in the same café, and discuss the days that we never could live again — and wouldn’t want to if we could — alas!

  The talk fell on Ellis and Jones, and immediately I perceived that Williams had skillfully steered the conversation toward those two young men — and I knew devilish well he had a story to tell me about them.

  So I cut short his side-stepping and circling, and told him to be about it as I wanted to devote one or two hours that night to a matter which I had recently neglected — Sleep.

  “That Jones,” he said, “was a funny fellow. He and Ellis didn’t meet over here; Ellis was before his time. But they became excellent friends under rather unusual circumstances.

  “Ellis, you know, was always getting some trout fishing when he was over here. He was a good deal of a general sportsman. As for Jones — well, you remember that he had no use for anything more strenuous than a motor tour.”

  “I remember,” I said.

  CHAPTER XIII

  A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE

  Well, then, the way that Ellis and Jones met each other — and several other things — was this. It chanced to be in the northern forests, I believe — both were fishing, neither knew the other nor was even aware of their mutual proximity.

  Then the wind changed abruptly, blowing now from the south; and with the change of wind Ellis fancied that he smelled green wood burning. A few minutes later he was sure of it; he stood knee-deep in the stream sniffing uneasily, then he lifted his trout-rod, reeled in his line, and waded silently shoreward, his keen nose twitching.

  Ah! There it was — that misty bluish bloom belting a clump of hemlocks. And the acrid odor grew, impregnating the filtered forest air. He listened, restless eyes searching. The noise of the stream filled his ears; he tightened the straps of his pack, shortened his trout rod, leaving line and cast on, and crawled up the ravine, shoulder-deep in fragrant undergrowth, until the dull clash of flashing spray and the tumult of the falls were almost lost in the leafy depths behind.

  Ranker, stronger, came the pungent odor of smoke; halting to listen he heard the hissing whisper of green wood afire; then, crawling up over an enormous boulder, he saw, just beyond and below, a man in tweeds, squatting on his haunches, and attempting to toss a flapjack over a badly constructed camp-fire.

  The two young men caught sight of one another at the same instant; alert, mistrustful, each stared at the other in questioni
ng silence while the first instinct of unpleasant surprise lasted.

  “How are you?” said the man, cautiously.

  “Good-morning,” replied Ellis. “When the wind turned I scented your fire down the stream. Thought I’d see what was burning.”

  “Are you up here fishing?” inquired he of the tweeds.

  “Yes; came here by canoe to the forks below. I am out for a week by myself. The Caranay water is my old-time trail.... Looks like a storm, doesn’t it?”

  “Anything doing with the trout?”

  “Not much; two in the falls pool that come an ounce short of the pound. I should be glad to divide — if you are shy on trout.”

  Again they regarded one another carefully.

  “My name,” said the man by the fire, “is Jones — but that can’t be helped now. So if you’ll overlook such matters I’ll be glad of a trout if you can spare one.”

  “My name is Ellis; help yourself.”

  The man by the fire glanced at the burnt flapjack, scraped it free from the pan, tossed it into the bushes, and straightened to his full height.

  “Come into camp, Mr. Ellis,” he said, politely. The freemasonry of caste operates very quickly in the wilderness; Ellis slid down the boulder on the re-enforced seat of his knickerbockers, landing, with hob-nailed shoes foremost, almost at the edge of the fire. Then he laid his rod aside, slipped the pack to the ground, unslung his creel, and, fishing out a handkerchief, mopped his sunburnt countenance.

  “Anything else you’re short of, Mr. Jones?” he asked, pleasantly. “I’m just in from the settlements, and I can let you have a pinch of almost anything.”

  “Have you plenty of salt?” inquired Jones, wistfully.

  “Plenty; isn’t there anything else? Bacon? Sugar?”

  “Matches?”

  Ellis looked at him keenly; good woodsmen don’t run short of matches; good woodsmen don’t build such fires.

  “Certainly,” he said. “Did you have an accident?”