He heard her; he looked up, and she waved, but there was no answering signal from him. For a moment she had a glimpse of his upturned, sullen face. She saw that he was tearing up her letter. He scattered the pieces on the pavement, turned, and walked away.
She closed the window. She sat down and stared at the chimney-pots of the houses across the way. She wanted to cry out, and no sound came. Her lover’s love was without understanding or compassion.
Sudden anger came to her aid. She could not be comforted, but she could be sustained by pride. She stood up, and with a flushed calmness opened the door of No. 5.
Marden’s eyes were waiting for her. He smiled faintly.
“Sister, you ought to be resting now.”
“Oh—I’m all right.”
He frowned slightly.
“No. I shan’t feel comfortable—unless you’re resting. I shan’t—really. Do go and lie down.”
And suddenly her eyes felt hot.
“All right, my dear. I’ve got to get you through to-night. And then you are going to get well.”
He answered her with a kind of serenity.
“Yes, I am going to get well.”
Never had she had to suffer such a night. A thirst for sleep assailed her; she felt both numb and in pain. She made herself strong coffee, and walked noiselessly up and down the corridor. Those hours were slipping away, hours that should have been her lover’s, and yet something in her consented. She went softly in and out of Marden’s room, and sat by his bed. It was as though even his sleeping self divined her presence, and was at rest. He was sleeping as he had not slept before. The restlessness had passed, those little moanings and twitchings. And something in her was glad with a gladness that gradually transcended her self’s pain. As she listened to his quiet breathing she too began to feel at peace. Something seemed to die in her, while other happiness became alive.
She watched the dawn come up. She had no wish now to hurry to the station and see the face of her lover. All that seemed far away, a dead thing, a pain that had passed. She felt strangely wakeful and alert, and presently she began to busy herself with all the day’s affairs, and to be glad of them. This was her life.
Pallant came at nine. He had to be early.
“How’s No. 5?”
“The best night he has had.”
She let Pallant go in alone. She waited. And presently he came out with a little, satisfied smile on his thin face.
“Splendid. He’ll do. Your case, Sister.”
Later still she was sitting on her own bed with an arm round the waist of Marden’s wife, and Marden’s wife was weeping.
“Oh, it seems too good to be true. It’s all through you, Sister. The doctor said so.”
Nellie Armitage gave a little laugh.
“My dear, that’s all right. But I can tell you one thing, I’m going to have a jolly good sleep to-night. And so—will you.”
FRANÇOIS
François was a good soul. He loved his dinner and he loved his daughter, but it could be said of him that his desire to dine had failed him whenever Désirée had been ill. A delicate child, and motherless, she had caused François many emotional qualms and some dyspepsia, and truthfully François could say to the world:
“You see, when I am worried it goes to my stomach.”
Incidentally, François had very little to worry about now that the war was over, and the franc had become stabilized. Désirée had grown up into a capable, clear-skinned, comely young blonde, and she had ceased to cause her father gastric qualms. She was an excellent cook and an expert needle-woman and she managed her father’s little villa on the hill-side below the Hotel Hesperides. On Sundays when François and his daughter drove in their Citroen coupé to spend the afternoon in the casino of St. Pierre, Désirée had the men round her. She could dance and she could dress; she was no fool, and she was the daughter of François.
It troubled François just a little. He might say to himself, “Of course—the girl will have to marry. It is nature, but I do not wish to be left alone. A man is so helpless, yes; a second marriage—no—no. Housekeepers can be the devil. Besides, how shall we find the man who is fit to marry my daughter—and inherit my fortune? If it is a question of happiness, well—well—the woman must be the autocrat in the home.”
At the Hotel Hesperides the unenlightened among the guests patronized François.
“Morning, François, what’s the weather going to do?”
Always, according to François, the weather was going to be fine. Fat, bland, sallow, and just a little sardonic, he was never out of countenance, or out of temper. He ruled the under-porters and the chasseurs like a Napoleon. Perched on his stool, or poised on his short, stout legs with his waistcoat bulging against the mahogany of the bureau, he issued stamps and changed money, dealt with letters, and supplied information.
François had been the concierge at the Hotel Hesperides for seventeen years, and since the hotel had prospered François had prospered with it. He had deserved to prosper. Certain of the hotel’s yearly patrons asserted that François was the hotel, and that without him things would have been very different. They were not far wrong.
François had gathered his golden apples in the garden of the Hesperides. In tips and perquisites his post was worth some hundred thousand francs a year. But there were other pickings, presents from the local garage and from the St. Pierre shops, even douceurs from the St. Pierre physicians. François could recommend or he could damn, and being a Frenchman who had climbed industriously to his particular perch he behaved as the logician. He had created his position and its opportunities and he used them. He took toll of those sycophantic shopkeepers who were eager to sell their millinery, bijouterie, and antiques. A particular barber shaved Monsieur François gratis during the season.
But that was not all. François had turned his savings to good account. He was part owner of an hotel at Vichy; he financed the local motor-bus service between St. Pierre and Cannes. He owned his own villa, and two or three other villas. He was a very warm man.
More than once an intimate had asked him the obvious question:
“Why do you continue as concierge——?”
François’ little eyes had twinkled.
“Because I like it. Because I am used to it. Because it brings me in—oh, well—never mind.”
His confession was candid and honest. He liked the life of the hotel, the coming and going, and the consciousness of secret power. He was the Hotel Hesperides, oh—yes, much more than people knew. Sitting in his bureau he could watch and listen and keep a finger on the hotel’s pulse. He knew at once when the patrons were grumbling, and just what that grumbling was worth. He knew the people who mattered, and those whom it was necessary to put upon the black list. Another year, when they wrote for rooms, there would be no accommodation.
People amused him, especially those who were haughty. He was bland and polite even to the snobs and the new rich, but he chuckled in his wise belly. To many of these casual creatures he was just a little fat man in a frock coat, a servant, an underling to whom they chucked fifty-franc notes.
“François, I want the bus to call at the chemist’s.”
“Certainly, madame.”
“Give me some clean notes. These are too filthy.”
“Certainly, madame.”
But François had his dislikes, and among them could be counted Mrs. Billington-Smythe who had patronized the Hesperides for two successive winters. Mrs. Billington-Smythe patronized everybody. She was an elderly widow and excessively wealthy, with a face like a macaw’s, and a voice that was metallic. To her François applied the word: “Formidable.” She was a terror, and like many rich women—as mean as skimmed milk.
When the Management received a letter from Mrs. Billington-Smythe stating that she was to be expected at the Hotel Hesperides late in January, and that the little suite that she had occupied for two seasons was to be reserved for her, the Management consulted François.
; “What shall we do about it?”
Monsieur Martino the proprietor lacked the succulent swagger and the smooth aplomb of the born hotelier. He was too sensitive, and he took complaints too seriously.
François shrugged.
“Formidable! Is it necessary?”
Monsieur Martino argued that considering the world crisis—one could not afford to offend clients.
“Last year—she offended a general, two colonels, and an ex-lord mayor of London,” said François. “She cannot play cards without losing her temper. She went away without tipping the head-waiter.”
“We have a different head-waiter this year.”
Again François shrugged.
“Well, give her that suite over the kitchen close to the luggage lift. If she makes a row about it”—and again he shrugged.
Monsieur Martino blinked at him.
“I must put someone very important into that suite—then we can assure her that it is impossible to make a change.”
“Put the Baron Bergamo into it. He has tusks.”
“Excellent. I see madame says that she is bringing her own chauffeur.”
“Poor devil!” said François.
He was more of a prophet than he knew. Mrs. Billington-Smythe arrived on a Friday with a new and luxurious car and a new and most unluxurious chauffeur. Not that the fellow’s appearance was out of keeping with the polish of the car. He was a dark, thin, good-looking young man whose eyes somehow suggested anxieties, secret humiliations and hunger. He helped his mistress out of the car, and François noticed that Mrs. Billington-Smythe’s hand lingered rather possessingly on the young man’s arm.
François bowed. He met the whole world and bowed to it. Besides, he and the Management were prepared for a fracas.
“Madame has had a good journey?”
Mrs. Billington-Smythe was tired and out of temper.
“Your roads get worse and worse.”
François might have said the same thing about her temper.
He passed her to Monsieur Martino. Monsieur Martino would have to explain the situation. And then François heard the chauffeur addressing him in very good French.
“Where do I garage? And where do I—quarter myself?”
François gave the young man a quick scrutiny. He knew his English pretty thoroughly. He could tell who was “it” and who was not, and obviously Mrs. Billington-Smythe’s chauffeur was a gentleman rigged out in a smart uniform of buff and black.
“The garage is behind the hotel. Turn to the left.”
He smiled with friendliness, and the tired young man seemed glad of any friendliness.
“Thanks. Yes—I ought to have remembered. I stayed here once before.”
And then François remembered him. The young man had been a visitor and not a chauffeur. Well—well! The world was upside down.
François returned to the white and gold vestibule of the Hotel Hesperides in time to hear the angry voice of Mrs. Billington-Smythe scolding poor Monsieur Martino.
“It is perfectly disgraceful. I shall go on to Cannes. I have spent hundreds of pounds in your hotel and you put someone else in my suite.”
Monsieur Martino kept bowing and rubbing his hands.
“I am very sorry, madame, but we had already arranged our reservations before madame’s letter arrived.”
“I told you when I left that you might expect me this winter.”
“But, madame, one can never be sure.”
“I—always keep my word. Show me this other suite. I will stay a few nights and then go on to Cannes.”
Mrs. Billington-Smythe was conducted upstairs in the lift and introduced to her new apartments. She did not like them and she said so, but she deigned to accept them. Monsieur Martino would give her the first refusal of any other suite that became vacant. And who was this Baron Bergamo—anyway? An Italian? Monsieur Martino had put Italy before England! Some people had no sense of proportion.
“Send up my luggage—at once.”
“Yes, madame.”
“And send me the floor-waiter. I want tea.”
Monsieur Martino went downstairs and spoke to François.
“She says she will go on to Cannes next week.”
François smiled a little cynical smile.
“I think—not. She has the skin of an elephant. She will stay here. Our food is very good.”
Mrs. Billington-Smythe behaved as François said she would behave, for the Hotel Hesperides had many advantages. The golf course lay just at the foot of the hill, and in the evening some sixty people sat down to play bridge. Also, the cuisine was excellent. Mrs. Billington-Smythe played golf; it was execrable and formidable golf, but she played it, and every morning her chauffeur—Mr. Jack Kenneth Woodhill—had to parade outside the hotel with her golf clubs. He stood there, erect and rigid, like a self-conscious and shy young guardsman on sentry-go. He had an air of not wishing to be looked at. Probably, it was not a question of snobbery, but he was ashamed of being the property of Mrs. Billington-Smythe.
François observed things.
He noted that Mr. Woodhill had to report to the lady three times a day, at half-past eight in the morning, at two, and at six-thirty. He received orders, and François had a suspicion that he might receive more than orders. He carried himself as though he loathed his livery and his own soul; he was a mixture of shyness and defiance. He kept very much to himself.
The Hotel Hesperides had to have its joke about Mrs. Billington-Smythe and her pretty lad. Jack Woodhill’s hair had a natural wave, but the hotel would have it that Mrs. Billington-Smythe produced that wave with her caresses.
When Mr. Woodhill was not on duty he changed into an old but well-pressed lounge suit and went for long and solitary walks. He climbed the hills and followed the paths through the pinewoods. He was a very unhappy young man.
François, lunching at home at the Villa des Fleurs, spoke to his daughter concerning Mr. Woodhill.
“Presumably, it is a case of Cain. He is—perhaps—what the English call a ‘rotter.’ And yet—the young man has good eyes. I remember him and his parents. They were gentil. He was not much more than a boy when he stayed here.”
Désirée was interested. All good women are interested in rotters, especially tragic rotters, and Désirée had come to know Mr. Woodhill by sight. He did not look méchant. He seemed to carry about with him a forlorn indignation. His eyes might have said: “Don’t speak to me, please. I’m unspeakable. I should have died in the war.”
Désirée asked no questions. Some women do not need to ask questions. She had inherited her father’s shrewdness. She was not sentimental, but she had feelings. She would always know, too, just what she wanted and how to get it. She was the only person who could make François do that which he might not wish to do.
She said: “Why should we not be kind to the poor young man?”
François sipped his coffee.
“Ah, yes, perhaps. We will see.”
Now, François, fat and fiftyish, could be as full of resource as any D’Artagnan. He could seize an occasion, and the occasion chanced as follows. François was walking down the hill path to his villa, and it so happened that Mrs. Billington-Smythe’s chauffeur was behind him. Mr. Woodhill was going for a walk. François contrived to drop his wallet on the path. He knew just how much money that wallet contained. It was a hot day, and he walked on, holding his hat and wiping his forehead with a large handkerchief. He did not look back. He was fat innocence in a frock coat.
He was within fifty yards of the villa when he heard himself hailed.
“Monsieur François.”
He faced about. Mr. Woodhill was coming down the path with the wallet in his hand.
“Excuse me, but did you drop this?”
François raised astonished hands.
“Voilà—how careless of me! It must have come out with my handkerchief. I heard nothing fall.”
Mr. Woodhill smiled, handed him the wallet, was thanked, and growing suddenl
y shy, passed on.
Inside his own gate François examined the contents of the wallet. A one-thousand franc note, five-hundred franc notes, six ten-franc notes, seven five-franc notes. All correct!
He smiled. Mr. Woodhill had not pinched a penny.
Said François to his daughter: “I think we might be a little kind to that Mr. Woodhill. I think he is bon garçon. We will see.”
But François prevaricated. Supposing——? If Désirée was to have a husband, he—François—— Meanwhile, circumstances intervened and challenged François’s prevarications.
When going shopping in St. Pierre it was possible to save half a mile by taking the hill path that snaked its way among the heather and the cistus and the aromatic shrubs and cork oaks of that southern country. Désirée often took this path, for the road was so very dusty and full of autos. She was coming back from St. Pierre one afternoon after having her hair attended by to Monsieur Paul, when she was waylaid by a swarthy little vagabond who sprang out of the undergrowth. He demanded money. He had expected to plunder one of the rich English ladies from the Hesperides.
Désirée had courage. She confronted the fellow, and told him exactly what she thought of him. Such behaviour was fatuous. It would only land him in prison, and if it was a matter of hunger, he could come to the Villa des Fleurs and a meal would be given him.
The bandit grinned at her.
“Hand over your purse, my dear.”
He blocked the path, and when she still hesitated he produced a rather ugly-looking knife. He was making suggestive gestures with the knife when Mrs. Billington-Smythe’s chauffeur appeared round a curve of the path.
Mr. Woodhill had his hands in his pockets. He stood still and stared, and having summed up the situation he removed his hands from his pockets, bent down and collected two hefty stones from the rough edge of the path. The stones were as large as Jaffa oranges. He advanced with one in either hand.
“Permit me, mademoiselle.”
He addressed the brigand.
“Clear out, quit. I’m not feeling sweet-tempered to-day.”
The fellow snarled at him, and then made a quick lunge in Mr. Woodhill’s direction, ducking and putting up an arm to shield his face. The knife, held point upwards, suggested the ripping horn of a rhino. Mr. Woodhill swung a long leg, and his boot made a lucky contact with the fellow’s fist, and almost at the same moment he discharged one of his young rocks downwards upon the blackguard’s head. It sufficed. The fellow pitched forward, rolled into the maquis, and lay still.
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