*CHAPTER VIII*
*STE. MARIE MEETS WITH A MISADVENTURE AND DREAMS A DREAM*
So on the next day these two rode forth upon their quest, and no questwas ever undertaken with a stouter courage or with a grimmerdetermination to succeed. To put it fancifully they burnt their towerbehind them, for to one of them at least--to him who led--there was nogoing back.
But after all they set forth under a cloud, and Ste. Marie took a heavyheart with him. On the evening before an odd and painful incident hadbefallen, a singularly unfortunate incident.
It chanced that neither of the two men had a dinner engagement thatevening, and so, after their old habit, they dined together. There wassome wrangling over where they should go, Hartley insisting upon_Armenonville_ or the _Madrid_ in the Bois, Ste. Marie objecting thatthese would be full of tourists so late in June, and urging the claimsof some quiet place in the Quarter, where they could talk instead oflistening perforce to loud music. In the end, for no particular reason,they compromised on the little Spanish restaurant in the Rue Helder.They went there about eight o'clock, without dressing; for it is a veryquiet place which the world does not visit, and they had a _sopa deyerbas_, and some _langostinos_, which are shrimps, and a heavenly_arroz_ with fowl in it, and many tender succulent strips of red pepper.They had a salad made out of a little of everything that grows green,with the true Spanish oil, which has a tang and a bouquet unappreciatedby the philistine; and then they had a strange pastry and some cheeseand green almonds. And to make them glad they drank a bottle of old redValdepenas, and afterwards a glass each of a special Manzanilla, uponwhich the restaurant very justly prides itself. It was a simple dinnerand a little stodgy for that time of the year, but the two men werehungry, and sat at table, almost alone in the upper room, for a longtime, saying how good everything was, and from time to time despatchingthe saturnine waiter, a Madrileno, for more peppers. When at last theycame out into the narrow street and thence to the thronged Boulevard desItaliens, it was nearly eleven o'clock. They stood for a little time inthe shelter of a kiosk, looking down the boulevard to where the Place del'Opera opened wide, and the lights of the Cafe de la Paix shone garishin the night, and Ste. Marie said--
"There's a street _fete_ in Montmartre. We might drive home that way."
"An excellent idea," said the other man. "The fact that Montmartre liesin an opposite direction from home makes the plan all the better. Andafter that we might drive home through the Bois. That's much farther inthe wrong direction. Lead on!"
So they sprang into a waiting fiacre, and were dragged up the steepstone-paved hill to the heights where _La Boheme_ still reigns, thoughthe glory of Moulin Rouge has departed, and the trail of tourist is overall. They found Montmartre very much _en fete_. In the Place Blanchewere two of the enormous and brilliantly lighted merry-go-rounds whichonly Paris knows--one furnished with stolid cattle, theatrical-lookinghorses, and Russian sleighs, the other with the ever-popular gallopingpigs. When these dreadful machines were in rotation mechanical organsconcealed somewhere in their bowels emitted hideous brays and shrieks,which mingled with the shrieks of the ladies mounted upon the gallopingpigs, and together insulted a peaceful sky.
The square was filled with that extremely heterogeneous throng which theParisian street _fete_ gathers together, but it was, for the most part,a well-dressed throng, largely recruited from the boulevards, and it wasquite determined to have a very good time in the cheerful harmless Latinfashion. The two men got down from their fiacre and elbowed a waythrough the good-natured crowd to a place near the more popular of themerry-go-rounds. The machine was in rotation. Its garish lights shoneand glittered, its hidden mechanical organ blared a German waltz tune,the huge pink-varnished pigs galloped gravely up and down as theplatform upon which they were mounted whirled round and round. A littlegroup of American trippers, sight-seeing, with a guide, stood near by,and one of the group, a pretty girl with red hair, demanded plaintivelyof the friend upon whose arm she hung: "Do you think mamma would beshocked if we took a ride? Wouldn't I love to!"
Hartley turned laughing from this distressed maiden to Ste. Marie. Hewas wondering with mild amusement why anybody should wish to do such afoolish thing, but Ste. Marie's eyes were fixed upon the galloping pigsand the eyes shone with a wistful excitement. To tell the truth it wasimpossible for him to look on at any form of active amusement withoutthirsting to join it. A joyous and care-free lady in a blue hat, whowas mounted astride upon one of the pigs, hurled a paper serpentine athim, and shrieked with delight when it knocked his hat off.
"That's the second time she has hit me with one of those things," hesaid, groping about his feet for the hat. "Here, stop that boy with thebasket!" A vendor of the little rolls of paper ribbon was shouting hiswares through the crowd. Ste. Marie filled his pockets with the things,and when the lady with the blue hat came round on the next turn, lassoedher neatly about the neck and held the end of the ribbon till it broke.Then he caught a fat gentleman, who was holding himself on by hissteed's neck, in the ear, and the red-haired American girl laughedaloud.
"When the thing stops," said Ste. Marie, "I'm going to take a ride, justone ride. I haven't ridden a pig for many years." Hartley jeered athim, calling him an infant, but Ste. Marie bought more serpentines, andwhen the platform came to a stop clambered up to it, and mounted theonly unoccupied pig he could find. His friend still scoffed at him andcalled him names, but Ste. Marie tucked his long legs round the pig'sneck and smiled back, and presently the machine began again to revolve.
At the end of the first revolution Hartley gave a shout of delight, forhe saw that the lady with the blue hat had left her mount and was makingher way along the platform towards where Ste. Marie sat hurlingserpentines in the face of the world. By the next time round she hadcome to where he was, mounted astride behind him, and was holdingherself with one very shapely arm round his neck, while with the othershe rifled his pockets for ammunition. Ste. Marie grinned, and thepublic, loud in its acclaims, began to pelt the two with serpentinesuntil they were hung with many-coloured ribbons like a Christmas-tree.Even Richard Hartley was so far moved out of the self-consciousness withwhich his race is cursed as to buy a handful of the common missiles, andthe lady in the blue hat returned his attention with skill and despatch.
But as the machine began to slacken its pace, and the hideous wail andblare of the concealed organ died mercifully down, Hartley saw that hisfriend's manner had all at once altered, that he sat leaning forwardaway from the enthusiastic lady with the blue hat, and that the paperserpentines had dropped from his hands. Hartley thought that the rapidmotion must have made him a little giddy, but presently, before themerry-go-round had quite stopped, he saw the man leap down and hurrytowards him through the crowd. Ste. Marie's face was grave and pale. Hecaught Hartley's arm in his hand and turned him round, crying in a lowvoice--
"Come out of this as quickly as you can! No, in the other direction. Iwant to get away at once."
"What's the matter?" Hartley demanded. "Lady in the blue hat toofriendly? Well, if you're going to play this kind of game, you might aswell play it."
"Helen Benham was down there in the crowd," said Ste. Marie. "On theopposite side from you. She was with a party of people who got out oftwo motor-cars, to look on. They were in evening things, so they hadcome from dinner somewhere, I suppose. She saw me."
"The devil!" said Hartley under his breath. Then he gave a shout oflaughter, demanding--
"Well, what of it? You weren't committing any crime, were you? There'sno harm in riding a silly pig in a silly merry-go-round. Everybody doesit in these _fete_ things." But even as he spoke he knew how extremelyunfortunate the meeting was, and the laughter went out of his voice.
"I'm afraid," said Ste. Marie, "she won't see the humour of it. GoodGod, what a thing to happen! _You_ know well enough what she'll thinkof me.
"At five o'clock this afternoon," he said bitterly, "I left he
r with agreat many fine high-sounding words about the quest I was to give mydays and nights to--for her sake. I went away from her like a--knightgoing into battle--consecrated. I tell you, there were tears in hereyes when I went. And now, now, at midnight, she sees me riding agalloping pig in a street _fete_ with a girl from the boulevards sittingon the pig with me and holding me round the neck before a thousandpeople. What will she think of me? What but one thing can she possiblythink? Oh, I know well enough! I saw her face before she turned away.
"And," he cried, "I can't even go to her and explain--if there'sanything to explain, and I suppose there is not. I can't even go toher. I've sworn not to see her."
"Oh, I'll do that," said the other man. "I'll explain it to her, if anyexplanation's necessary. I think you'll find that she will laugh at it."But Ste. Marie shook his head.
"No, she won't," said he. And Hartley could say no more, for he knewMiss Benham, and he was very much afraid that she would not laugh.
They found a fiacre at the side of the square and drove home at once.They were almost entirely silent all the long way, for Ste. Marie wasburied in gloom, and the Englishman, after trying once or twice to cheerhim up, realised that he was best left to himself just then, and so heldhis tongue. But in the Rue d'Assas as Ste. Marie was gettingdown--Hartley kept the fiacre to go on to his rooms in the Avenue del'Observatoire--he made a last attempt to lighten the man's depression.He said--
"Don't you be a silly ass about this! You're making much too much ofit, you know. I'll go to her to-morrow or next day and explain, andshe'll laugh--if she hasn't already done so.
"You know," he said, almost believing it himself, "you are paying her adashed poor compliment in thinking she's so dull as to misunderstand alittle thing of this kind. Yes, by Jove, you are!"
Ste. Marie looked up at him, and his face, in the light of the cab-lamp,showed a first faint gleam of hope.
"Do you think so?" he demanded. "Do you really think that? Maybe I am.But-- O Lord, who would understand such an idiocy? Sacred imbecile thatI am: why was I ever born? I ask you." He turned abruptly and began toring at the door, casting a brief "Good-night," over his shoulder. And,after a moment, Hartley gave it up and drove away.
Above, in the long shallow front room of his flat, with the threewindows overlooking the Gardens, Ste. Marie made lights, and after muchrummaging unearthed a box of cigarettes of a peculiarly delectableflavour, which had been sent him by a friend in the Khedivial household.He allowed himself one or two of them now and then, usually in sorrowfulmoments, as an especial treat. And this seemed to him to be the momentfor smoking all there were left. Surely his need had never beengreater. In England he had, of course learnt to smoke a pipe, but pipesmoking always remained with him a species of accomplishment; it neverbrought him the deep and ruminative peace with which it enfolds theAnglo-Saxon heart. The _vieux Jacob_ of old-fashioned Parisian Bohemiainspired in him unconcealed horror, of cigars he was suspicious because,he said, most of the unpleasant people he knew smoked cigars: so hesoothed his soul with cigarettes, and he was usually to be found withone between his fingers.
He lighted one of the precious Egyptians, and after a first ecstaticinhalation went across to one of the long windows, which was open, andstood there with his back to the room, his face to the peaceful fragrantnight. A sudden recollection came to him of that other night a monthbefore, when he had stood on the Pont des Invalides with his eyes uponthe stars, his feet upon the ladder thereunto. His heart gave a suddenexultant leap within him when he thought how far and high he hadclimbed, but after the leap it shivered and stood still when thisevening's misadventure came before him.
Would she ever understand? He had no fear that Hartley would not do hisbest with her. Hartley was as honest and as faithful as ever a friendwas in this world. He would do his best. But even then---- It was thegirl's inflexible nature that made the matter so dangerous. He knewthat she was inflexible, and he took a curious pride in it. He admiredit. So must have been those calm-eyed ancient ladies for whom otherSte. Maries went out to do battle. It was wellnigh impossible toimagine them lowering their eyes to silly revelry. They could not stoopto such as that. It was beneath their high dignity. And it was beneathhers also. As for himself, he was a thing of patches. Here a patch ofexalted chivalry--a noble patch--there a patch of bourgeois child-likelove of fun; here a patch of melancholic asceticism, there one ofsomething quite the reverse. A hopeless patchwork he was. Must she notshrink from him when she knew? He could not quite imagine herunderstanding the wholly trivial and meaningless impulse that hadprompted him to ride a galloping pig and cast paper serpentines at theassembled world.
Apart from her view of the affair he felt no shame in it. The moment ofchildish gaiety had been but a passing mood. It had in no way slackenedhis tense enthusiasm, dulled the keenness of his spirit, lowered hishigh flight. He knew that well enough. But he wondered if she wouldunderstand, and he could not believe it possible. The mood ofexaltation in which they had parted that afternoon came to him, and thenthe sight of her shocked face as he had seen it in the laughing crowd inthe Place Blanche.
"What must she think of me?" he cried aloud. "What must she think ofme?"
So for an hour or more he stood in the open window staring into thefragrant night, or tramped up and down the long room, his hands behindhis back, kicking out of his way the chairs and things which impededhim--torturing himself with fears and regrets and fancies, until at lastin a calmer moment he realised that he was working himself up into anabsurd state of nerves over something which was done and could not nowbe helped. The man had an odd streak of fatalism in his nature--thatwill have come of his southern blood--and it came to him now in hisneed. For the work upon which he was to enter with the morrow he hadneed of clear wits, not scattered ones; a calm judgment, not disorderednerves. So he took himself in hand, and it would have been amazing toany one unfamiliar with the abrupt changes of the Latin temperament, tosee how suddenly Ste. Marie became quiet and cool and master of himself.
"So for an hour or more he stood in the open windowstaring into the fragrant night."]
"It is done," he said with a little shrug, and if his face was for amoment bitter it quickly enough became impassive. "It is done, and itcannot be undone--unless Hartley can undo it. And now, _revenons a nosmoutons_!
"Or at least," said he, looking at his watch--and it was between one andtwo--"at least to our beds!"
So he went to bed, and, so well had he recovered from his fit ofexcitement, he fell asleep almost at once. But, for all that, thejangled nerves had their revenge. He who commonly slept like the dead,without the slightest disturbance, dreamed a strange dream. It seemedto him that he stood spent and weary in a twilit place, a waste place atthe foot of a high hill. At the top of the hill She sat upon a sort ofthrone, golden in a beam of light from heaven--serene, very beautiful,the end and crown of his weary labours. His feet were set to the ascentof the height whereon she waited, but he was withheld. From the shadowsat the hill's foot a voice called to him in distress, anguish ofspirit--a voice he knew, but he could not say whose voice. It besoughthim out of utter need, and he could not turn away from it.
Then from those shadows eyes looked upon him, very great and dark eyes,and they besought him too; he did not know what they asked, but theycalled to him like the low voice, and he could not turn away.
He looked to the far height, and with all his power he strove to set hisfeet towards it--the goal of long labour and desire--but the eyes andthe piteous voice held him motionless, for they needed him.
From this anguish he awoke trembling. And after a long time, when hewas composed, he fell asleep once more, and once more he dreamed thedream.
So morning found him pallid and unrefreshed. But by daylight he knewwhose eyes had besought him, and he wondered, and was a little afraid.
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