The Human Arrow

by Félicien Champsaur

  She would have liked to read, but every time her gaze rests on the pages of the book she is holding on her knees, an obsessive thought prevents her from doing so. Sometimes, she remains for long minutes, staring, as if absorbed by intimate concerns, and only wakes up at the yapping of the dogs, which, while chasing one another, get their feet caught in her dress.

  Suddenly, a regular, unexpected sound coming from above makes her raise her head. Immediately, she shivers and straightens up, holding her breath, with a sudden blush on her young cheeks. The dogs, becoming anxious, fall silent and draw nearer to her. The noise, like the hum of a large bumble-bee, increases in intensity, and the astonished beasts huddle in their mistress’s skirts. Abruptly, above the trees of the neighboring property, the slender image of a monoplane appears in the sky, which passes on, like a bird hastening toward distant horizons.

  On hearing the noise, a lady between thirty and forty with a mild face, framed with hair that has scarcely begun to go grey, has opened the door at the top of the perron. Now, raising her eyes from time to time, she is coming toward the young woman, who calls to her gaily, in English; “Perhaps it’s him who’s passing overhead?”

  While her lips exhale this interrogation, Nelly Mackay raises her magnificent dark eyes to the Heavens and gazes, as if fascinated at the elegant silhouette of the monoplane, which is flying more rapidly than the fastest seagulls.

  The newcomer has replied, in English: “You’re in love with Henri Rozal? Well then, marry him!”

  Nelly slowly returned her gaze to the grey head. In a slightly tremulous voice, she said: “He isn’t in love with me!”

  “But who told you that Monsieur Rozal isn’t in love with you? I’d like to see a young man who isn’t blind or stupid remain insensible to our beauty and your millions!”

  “Oh, Aunt…don’t mention my millions. I’ve wished, so many times, to be poor, in order o be sure of the man who’ll marry me.”

  The benevolent aunt became impatient. “Don’t wish to be poor. Money makes a good partnership with love. Marry the man you love, then, since you have the means.”

  Having said that, the handsome aunt reflected briefly, and added: “I noticed the impression you made on that gentleman, at the painter Russell’s afternoon gathering the Monday before last.”

  Nelly’s face cleared, with frank joy. “What? Is that true, Aunt? You’re sure that I’m not indifferent to him?”

  “I’m quite convinced.”

  The dark eyes became somber again, however. “Then why didn’t he come back to Edmund Russell’s yesterday? His friend Turner was there—and you saw him on Thursday at Buc and on Saturday at Étampes. We’ve been by automobile to all the aerodromes he frequents. He was there—he saw us, and in spite of having made our acquaintance, he didn’t put himself out. He pretended not to know we were there, not to see us.”

  “Timidity, no doubt.”

  “No, Aunt, no! Henri Rozal isn’t timid. I think he’s avoiding me.”

  “Why excite yourself so, darling, and throw yourself at the first handsome chap who comes along?”

  “Oh, Aunt! Henry Rozal the first to come along! And it isn’t because he’s handsome that I love him.”

  “It’s because he flies an airplane, then? There are many others. They’re quite numerous, those who’ve made brilliant names for themselves in that dangerous sport.”

  “No one has undertaken such a grandiose endeavor. Then again, Aunt, truly, I don’t know myself how it happened. Others before him have courted me; some of them were certainly men of valor and noble ambition. Princes have asked for my hand in marriage, who were as handsome as he is—some even more so—but my heart was unmoved. Five minutes before hearing his name pronounced at Edmund Russell’s, I was completely unaware of his existence…but when I saw him, when I found out what he’d already done, and, above all, what he wanted to attempt—Paris to New York direct—when he spoke to me, a trifle haughtily, about his dream, I felt myself abruptly seized by a delightful anguish, and my entire body palpitated with an immense pleasure. Since then, what I feel has become a more profound sentiment, of whose immensity I’m conscious. My happiness has changed into sadness. I’m in love with Henri Rozal, and he isn’t in love with me!”

  Mrs. Flower spoke to her in French, using the intimate form of address. “You went to him, the first time. You spoke to him. Why didn’t you do that on Saturday at Étampes?”

  Nelly lowered her head. “When one is indifferent, one is as bold as can be, and I had never been afraid…but now, I feel tremulous at the thought of finding myself face to face with the man who has disturbed me. Oh, Aunt! If you only knew how defeated and desperate I am!”

  The two women are sitting on the rustic bench next to the basin with the marble rim covered in green slime, and they chatted, in English again, like irritated children. Around them, still chasing one another, running, barking, happy, undisciplined and unconscious, are the two beautiful white dogs, Pretty-Fox and Young-Fellow, devastating flower-bed here and there, yelping, bounding, breaking the stem of a hollyhock, flattening a gladiolus, fraying a colossal chrysanthemum, making the dead leaves fly up.

  IX. The God of the Shrewd

  The aunt and niece had been chatting for a few more minutes in that attitude of tenderness and despair when a chambermaid appeared.

  “What is it?” asked Nelly, looking up.

  “Monsieur Nasenberg is asking whether Mrs. Flower and Mademoiselle will see him.”

  “Certainly. Tell him he can find us here.”

  The young woman tidied her golden hair slightly, while Mrs. Flower got up and took a few steps toward the banker, who was coming down the steps of the perron at that moment.

  When he was not in his office at the bank and not talking business, Nasenberg was a man of the world. He was easy-going and extremely polite. He enquired immediately of Mrs. Flower as to what the two American ladies might desire. One of his German colleagues in New York had recommended him to them, and he had become their guide and friend in Paris.

  “You’re still happy with this house?”

  “Very. Nelly adores this garden. She’s very grateful to you for unearthing such a charming house for her. We also thank you for the delightful and curious objects with which you’ve decorated this home. You’re an artist, Monsieur Nasenberg, and you’ve been spoiling us.”

  Is she had known that the banker had not occupied himself at all with the installation, that he had made a deal with a skillful decorator for 150,000 francs and that he had charged his protégés the trivial sum of 300,000, perhaps Mrs. Flower would have been less sincerely enthusiastic about the confidant and friend that a Teutonic banker in New York had chosen for them. But Nelly Mackay was far too rich to look in the upholsterer’s accounts for the proof of the duplicity that, even though she suspected it, she preferred not to discover. So Nasenberg was able, at his leisure, to realize considerable profits by pretending to be useful to his protégées. Except that he was not content with the 200,000 or 300,000 francs he had earned by guiding and accommodating the two American ladies in Paris. He wanted to bring off a masterstroke, and that is why he had nurtured the project, seductive and easy to bring to a close, of marrying Nelly off.

  In the presence of Miss Mackay, Nasenberg immediately noticed the air of melancholy spread delicately over her face. Well, well, he said to himself. A sad young woman is a lovesick young woman. Have I arrived too late? He promised himself that he would soon find out whether there was a snake in the grass.

  “You’re content with your garden, then, Miss? Mts. Flower has given me a great deal of pleasure by telling me that I’ve been able to satisfy you.”

  Nelly extended her hand to the banker. “Thank you. The dwelling is delightful, and I like it very much.”

  “Then Paris will retain you for some time, since you’re happy here?”

  The young woman made no reply.

  Nasenberg adopted the quasi-paternal attitude of a devoted friend. “I beg your
pardon, Miss, if my question is indiscreet. But am I not your friend? Have not our New York bankers asked me to do the impossible to make sure that your sojourn in Paris will be an enchantment?”

  Nelly felt a spontaneous impulse. “Oh, Monsieur Nasenberg, you are indeed a friend, and no question from you could seem indiscreet. You have been so precious to us since our arrival…you’ve shown so much devotion...”

  “That I’m anxious because of the cloud glimpsed in the depths of your eyes...”

  “Oh! It’s visible, then?”

  “A devoted friend has no need of gross indications to divine a difficulty, no matter how furtive. I won’t ask you the cause of your sadness, but I would be desolate if it were boredom. Then I would be guilty, having not been able to spare you that.”

  Mrs. Flower interjected: “Don’t torment yourself, Monsieur Nasenberg—you have nothing to do with Nelly’s sadness. It’s only the slightly vague anxiety that a young woman is bound to feel in the not-very-lively company of an older person.”

  “Oh, Aunt!” Nelly exclaimed. “Why do you say such things? You’re delightfully young, and I love you very dearly.”

  Mrs. Flower shook her head. “We have no lack of distractions. Here in the American colony we’ve found very cheerful people who have rapidly introduced us to the prodigious resources and joys of every sort that Paris offers its inhabitants. As you can imagine, the daughter of the machine-tool king has had invitations from all directions—too many, in fact; we’ve refused many opportunities to amuse ourselves. Besides, Nelly has a horror of wearying, conventional and often stupid society occasions.”

  Nasenberg seemed to be deep in laborious thought. Abruptly, point-blank, he addressed himself to the young woman: “You ought to marry, Miss.”

  At first she went pale, then blushed—but quickly collecting herself and desirous of avoiding a subject she dreaded and loved at the same time, she burst out laughing.

  “Oh, my dear Monsieur. You’re the hundredth person to give me that advice. Except that it’s very difficult for a young woman like me to get married...”

  “Why is that?”

  “My millions prohibit me from knowing whether a man might love me for myself, and I’ll only marry a man who loves me truly and who will be able to interest me and make my heart beast faster. You see how demanding I am!”

  Nasenberg bowed. “You could be even more demanding, for you’ve forgotten to mention your dazzling beauty. Isn’t that, too, a fortune? Rich a you are in every way, however, Mademoiselle, know that even so, Paris must have at your disposal the rare bird that you desire. There are many handsome, intelligent, remarkable young men, here, marvelously endowed—a great many! And I’m sure that, if one of them paid court to you a little—with your permission, of course—true love would not take long to build its charming bond of union between you.”

  Nelly laughed again, and then said: “How well you talk, Monsieur Nasenberg. One might think that you had a suitor to introduce to me.”

  The banker pinched his lips. “I’m trying to make you happy,” he replied.

  “With whom? A great name, no doubt, with a dilapidated château in the provinces. No, I have no desire to become a princess or a duchess, like so many of my compatriots. Duchesse de Créqui, for example, for Jean de Créqui is pressing me hard. Besides, it’s a little out of fashion. The majority of these marriages have ended lamentably, and I beg your pardon for informing you that in America, French gentlemen—those who seek to espouse our dollars—are somewhat discredited.”

  “I do not, Mademoiselle, have any princes to offer you, unless you desire one. Seeking your happiness, however, and possessing a little experience, I’ve deduced that you need an exceptional husband. Would you, then, like me to introduce into your path, without any ceremony and without any obligation, two or three remarkable men who could mingle with any crowd whatever, but whom you alone would be able to discover?”

  “You’re amusing. Yes, presented thus, the offer is original and I find a certain attraction therein. Instead of bringing me a few selected candidates one after another, they’ll be mingled with the crowd of adorers—and it would then be for them to distinguish themselves, or for me to recognize them. It’s tempting.”

  Nasenberg blushed with pleasure. “Well then?” he said.

  “I’m in no hurry. The man I marry will be someone involved in the sort of activity he has chosen. It doesn’t matter whether he’s titled or not, rich or poor, ugly or handsome. The man I choose will differ from the rest in his intelligence, his determination, his ambition.”

  The banker started. “An ambitious man,” he said, “is a master. I have one. He will soon be great in politics: Maurice Lamentin. Three years a deputé, he’s already a force in Parliament, and his opinions are heeded in the party groups. When he makes a speech...”

  “A loquacious unintellectual. Keep your Polichinelle, Monsieur Nasenberg. It’s a man of action with whom I want to associate my life, not a maker of phrases, a Barsac,20 a profiteer of those who believe in him.”

  The banker suppressed a scowl. Two down! My only hope is Rozal! Suddenly brightening his physiognomy with keen enthusiasm, he exclaimed: “Ah! Men of action! I understand! They alone ought to make a pretty woman’s heart beast faster.”

  Nelly Mackay could not keep her face straight. She started laughing wholeheartedly, and said: “I’ll wager that you have a man of action too?”

  “But of course! And an admirably audacious one, with a prowess toward which you cannot remain indifferent.”

  “Ah!” Nelly thought about Rozal. “Monsieur Nasenberg, let’s abandon this topic of conversation, please. You’ve amused my briefly, but you can’t have any suspicion of the thoughts you’ve awakened in me. Later, perhaps, your idea might find me less hostile. At this moment, I can’t think about marriage. At least, I can’t think about it so long as I’m obsessed with a dream I’ve formed.”

  “I didn’t know—I beg your pardon.”

  On seeing the banker so disconsolate, Nelly felt herself softening.. “Oh, my dear friend…I can see that you really have been thinking about my happiness. Thank you, but, to you alone I’ll confess the truth. I’m in love with someone.”

  This time, Nasenberg did not flinch. Inside, however, he was raging. Too late, damn it! he said to himself. Too late! I should have made my move sooner, mistrusted myself...

  He never considered a game as lost, however. He risked a question: “If I can be useful to you, Mademoiselle, I am at your disposal. And if you do not deem me worthy of being your confidant...”

  Nelly blushed. She had been caught unawares; she had not envisaged the eventuality of confiding in anyone but her aunt.

  The latter, divining what was going through the young woman’s mind, intervened. “Monsieur Nasenberg, Nelly’s chagrin comes from the fact that she believes that her love is not reciprocated.”

  “What? A man can be blind enough or stupid enough”—without knowing it, he employed the same qualifications that Mrs. Flower had used—“to remain indifferent to so much charm, youth and splendid beauty? But who is this wretch?”

  Nelly smiled sadly. “There’s no proof that he doesn’t love me. One thing alone is certain: he avoids me! You’re too good a friend, my dear Monsieur, for you not to have my entire confidence. The man I love is Henri Rozal, the engineer and aviator.”

  The businessman started, and exclaimed, involuntarily: “But where did you meet him?”

  “At the home of one of our friends, an American painter, ten days ago—a regular at the house brought him along. Do you know Monsieur Rozal, then?”

  In spite of his self-control, Nasenberg was pale. Should he rejoice or be anxious? His thoughts mingled confusedly within his head, colliding with one another in an obscure chaos. He replied, frankly: “I know him very well, Mesdames.”

  Nelly’s face lit up. “Ah! So much the better! So much the better!”

  The banker looked at her. Her large dark eyes, so sad just a little w
hile before, enclosed an intense hope, an anguish of joy that impressed him strongly. He was slightly reassured. Considering the young woman’s face, radiant and anxious at the same time, he was sure of the love she felt for Rozal. So the latter, cleverly, must have been able to arrange to meet her, or, at any rate, to come to her attention, to produce an impression on her. Having succeeded, he was feigning the classic indifference in order to confirm his victory, to make sure of her capture, her complete conquest. Oh, the Devil! he thought. He’s very good—terribly! Perhaps even too good; I’ll have to keep an eye on him. But this is working out very well, very well indeed!

  Why, though, had Rozal done all this without alerting him, and keeping him up to date? While the pretty American and her aunt told him about their automobile excursions from one aerodrome to the next, in the hope of meting Henri Rozal, he reflected: The rascal want to by-pass me. But the piece of paper—have you forgotten that? You’ve signed it, my lad, and you’ll have to pay up! Oh, the swine! For the money man, of course, there was no other possibility than that of a stratagem attempted by Rozal to deny him his commission. He’ll claim that he was introduced independently of me.

  The aviator had taken him by surprise. He had not seen him in this light, and he could not prevent himself, in spite of his anger, feeling a genuine admiration. I should have been more careful. I was an imbecile to tell him her name. He didn’t waste any time, the animal! Oh, he moved quickly! She wants a man of action does she? Well, I think, this time, she’ll get her wish!

  He was extracted from the harsh thoughts he was mulling over by a question from Mrs. Flower.

  “You know him, Monsieur Nasenberg—tell us what kind of man this Rozal is.”

  “I have nothing to add to Miss Nelly’s impression: Henri Rozal is an admirable person, endowed with genius, and I can’t think of a better match for a young woman of the elite, intelligent and courageous.”

  “Why courageous?” asked Nelly.

  “Why, Henri Rozal risks breaking his neck every day!”