of lives was now a question of judgment, requiring that same
instantaneous making up of his mind always necessary when his own life
had depended upon the exact placing of a rifle-ball in the skull of a
charging elephant. There was not a second to lose. Another slash of the
sea and the whole mass might go headlong down the slope, and yet to lift
the wrong timber in an effort to free Lemois might topple the entire
heap, as picking out the wrong match-stick topples a pile of jackstraws.
He ran his eye over the shattered room; ordered the two fishermen to
leave the wrecked building; selected, after a moment's pause, a heavy
joist lying across the sofa; stood by while Louis put his shoulder under
its edge, his enormous strength bearing the full brunt of the weight;
waited until it swayed loose, and then, grabbing Lemois firmly by the
coat-collar, dragged him clear and set him on his feet.
Gaston came next, limp and apparently dead--the blood trickling from
his head and spattering his rescuers.
The crowd shouted in unison as they caught sight of Lemois' gray head,
all the whiter from the grime of powdered plaster. Then came another and
louder shout, followed by another piercing shriek from Gaston's mother
as her boy's sagging, insensible body was brought clear of the wreck.
None of his bones were broken, none that Lemois could find; something
had struck the boy--some falling weight--perhaps a bust from one of the
bookcases over his head. That was the last the lad had known until he
found his mother kneeling beside him in the rain and mud, where the cold
wind and rain revived him.
But our work was not yet over. The miscellaneous assortment of precious
things housed in the garage must be rearranged before nightfall and
protected against breakage and leakage. Watchmen must be selected and
made comfortable in the garage, a telegram despatched to madame at her
apartment in Paris, with details of the catastrophe and salvage, and
another to her estate at Rouen, and, more important still, Gaston must
be carried home, put to bed, and a doctor sent for. This done, Herbert
and the rest of us could go back to the inn in Le Blanc's motor.
[Illustration: As her boy's sagging, insensible body was brought clear
of the wreck]
The first load brought Herbert, Brierley, and myself, Le Blanc driving:
Lemois had remained with Gaston. Mignon, with staring, inquiring eyes,
her apron over her head to protect her from the wet, met us at the outer
gate, but not a word was said by any of us about Gaston, a crack on a
fisherman's head not being a serious affair--and then again, this one
was as tough as a rudder-post and as full of spring as an oar--and then,
more important still, the poor child with her hungry, tear-stained eyes
had had trouble enough for one day, as we all knew. Later when Leà and
I were alone, I told her the story, describing Gaston's pluck and
bravery and his risking his life to save Lemois--the dear old woman
clasping her fingers together as if in church when I added that "he'd be
all right in the morning after a good night's rest."
"Pray God nothing happens to him!" she said at last, crossing herself.
"Mignon is only a child and it would break her heart. Monsieur Lemois
does not wish it, and there is trouble--much trouble--ahead for her, but
while there is life there is hope. He is a good Gaston--his mother and
I were girls together; she had only this one left--the boat upset and
the father was drowned off _Les Dents Terribles_ two years ago."
Louis, whose heart is as big as his body, was less cautious. He must
have a word with the girl herself. And so, when we had all gathered
before the fire to dry out--for most of us were still wet and all
ravenous--he called out to her in his cheery, hearty way:
"That is a plucky garçon of yours, mademoiselle. Monsieur Lemois would
have been flattened into a pancake but for him. When the house fell it
was Monsieur Gaston who jerked him away from the window and rolled a
sofa on top of him. Ah!--a brave garçon, and one who does you credit."
The girl--she was busying herself with her dishes at the time--blushed
and said: "Merci, monsieur," her eyes dancing over the praise of her
lover, but she was too modest and too well trained to say more.
Again Le Blanc's siren came shrieking down the road. This time it would
bring Lemois. I threw on another log to warm them both, and Louis began
collecting a small assortment of glasses, Mignon following with a
decanter.
Several minutes passed, during which we waited for the heavy tread of
fat Le Blanc. Then the door opened and Leà appeared; she was trembling
from head to foot and white as a ghost.
"Monsieur wants you--all of you--something has happened! Not you,
Mignon--you stay here."
Inside the court-yard, close to the door of the Marmouset, stood Le
Blanc's motor. Lemois was on the foot-board leaning over the body of a
man stretched out on the two seats.
"Easy now," Lemois whispered to Louis, who had pushed his way alongside
of the others crowding about the car. "He collapsed again as soon as you
all left. There is something serious I am afraid--that is why I brought
him here. His mother wanted to take him home, but that's no place for
him now. He must stay here to-night. We stopped and left word for the
doctor and he will be here in a minute. Be careful, Monsieur Louis--not
in there--upstairs."
Louis was careful--careful as if he were lifting a baby; but he did not
delay, nor did he take him upstairs. Picking up the unconscious
fisherman bodily in his arms, he bore him clear of the machine, carried
him through the open door of the Marmouset, and stretched him full
length on the lounge, tucking a cushion under his head as the lad sank
down into the soft mattress.
As the flare of the table candles stirred by the night wind lighted up
his face, Mignon, who had been pushing aside the chairs from out the
wounded man's way, believing it to be Le Blanc, sprang forward, and with
a half-stifled cry sank on her knees beside the boy. Lemois lunged
forward, stooped quickly, and grasping her firmly by the arm, dragged
her to her feet.
"Leave the room!--you are in the way," he said in low, angry tones.
"There are plenty here to take care of him."
Louis, who had moved closer to the girl, and who had already begun to
quiet her fears, wheeled suddenly and would have broken out in
instantaneous protest had not Leà, her lean, tall body stretched to its
utmost, her flat, sunken chest heaving with indignation, stepped in
front of Lemois.
"You are not kind, monsieur," she said coldly, with calm, unflinching
eyes.
"Hold your tongue! I do not want your advice. Take her out!--this is no
place for her!"
Louis' eyes blazed. Unkindness to a woman was the one thing that always
enraged him. Then his better judgment worked.
"Give her to me, Leà," he said. "Come, Mignon! Don't cry, child; he's
not hurt so bad; he'll be all right in the morning. Move away there, all
of you!" and he led the sobbing girl from the room.
A dull, paralyzing silence fell upon us all. Those of us who knew only
the gentle, kind-hearted, always courteous Lemois were dumb with
astonishment. Had he, too, received a crack on his head which had
unsettled his judgment, or was this, after all, the real Lemois?
The opening of the door and the hurried re-entrance of Louis, followed
by the doctor, a short, thick-set man with a bald head, for a time
relieved the tension.
"I was on my way near here when your messenger met me," called out the
doctor with a nod of salutation to the room at large as he dropped into
a chair beside the sufferer, thus supplanting Brierley, who during
Lemois' outburst had been wiping the blood-stained face and lips with a
napkin and finger-bowl he had caught up from the table.
There was an anxious hush; the men standing in a half-circle awaiting
the decision; the doctor feeling for broken limbs, listening to his
breathing, his hand on the boy's heart. Then there came a convulsive
movement and the wounded man lifted his head and gazed about him.
The doctor bent closer, studied Gaston's eyes for a moment, rose to his
feet, tucked his spectacles into a black leather case which he took from
his pocket, and said calmly:
"I think there's no fracture of the skull. I'll know definitely later
on. He is, as I at first supposed, suffering from shock and has
swallowed a lot of dust. He must have complete rest; get him to bed
somewhere and send for a woman in the village to take care of him. I'll
come to-morrow. Who carried him in here?"
Louis nodded his head.
"Then pick him up again and, if Monsieur Lemois is willing, put him in
the room on the ground floor at the end of the court. I can get at him
then from the outside without disturbing anybody. You, gentlemen, so I
hear, are down here for your pleasure and not to run a hospital, and so
I will see you are not disturbed."
Louis leaned down, picked the young fisherman up in his arms with no
more effort than if he had been handling a bag of flour, and carried him
out of the room, across the court, Leà following, and into the basement
chamber, where he laid him on the bed, leaving him with the remark:
"Now stay here and take care of him, Leà, no matter what Monsieur Lemois
says."
Meanwhile Lemois had poured out a glass of wine for the doctor, waited
until he had drank it, thanked him in his most courteous tones for his
promptness, bidden him good-night on the threshold, closed the door
behind him, and without a word to any of us had resumed his place by the
fire.
Another embarrassing silence ensued. Every one felt that the incident,
if aggravated by any untimely remarks, might lead up to an outbreak
which would bring our visit to a premature close. And yet both Leà and
Mignon were so beloved by all of us, and the brutality of the attack
upon the little maid was so uncalled for, that we felt something was due
to our own self-respect.
Herbert, catching our suggestive glances, essayed the task. He was the
man held in most esteem by Lemois, and might perhaps be allowed to say
things which the old gentleman would not take from the rest; and then
again, whatever the outcome, Herbert could be depended upon to keep his
temper no matter what Lemois might answer in return.
"Mignon did nothing, monsieur, except show her love for her
sweetheart--why break out on her?" Herbert's voice was low, but there
was meaning behind it.
"I won't have this thing!" came the indignant retort, all his poise
gone. "That's why I broke out on her. Mignon is not for fishermen, nor
ditch-diggers, nor road-makers. She is like my child--I have other
things in store for her. I tell you I will not have it go on--she knows
why and Leà knows why! I have said so, and it is finished!"
"He about saved your life a little while ago. Does that count for
anything?" The words edged their way through tightly closed lips.
"Yes--for me; that is why I brought him home--but he has not saved
Mignon's life. He would wreck it. She will marry somebody else and he
will marry somebody else. There are too many thick-heads along the
coast now. I decide to steer clear of them."
Louis, who now that his human-ambulance trip was over, had returned to
the Marmouset, stood wondering. What had taken place in his absence was
a mystery. He had, after depositing his burden, taken Mignon to Pierre
and sat her down by the kitchen fire, where he had left her crying
softly to herself.
Lemois waited until Louis had found a seat and went on:
"You, gentlemen, are my friends, and so I will explain to you what I
would not explain to others. You wonder at what I have just said and
done. I try to do my duty--that is my religion, and my only religion. I
have tried to do it to-night. With your help I have done what I could to
save my friend's property, because she was away and helpless. She has
now left to her some of the things she loved. So it is with this girl.
Ten years ago I found her, a child of eight, crying in the street. For
months she had gotten up at daylight, had washed and dressed her two
baby brothers, cooked their breakfast, cleaned house, and tucked in her
bedridden mother; but, try as she would, she was late for school--not
once, but several times. This was against the rules, and when the
prizes and diplomas were given out, all she got was a scolding. Later on
she was dismissed. Because she had no other place to go, and because I
had no child of my own, I took her home with me. As I assumed all
responsibility for her, and she has no one but me, I shall carry it out
to the end, exactly as if she were my daughter. My own daughter should
not and would not marry a fisherman, neither shall Mignon. Madame la
Marquise de la Caux is in Paris, and I do what I can to look after her
belongings. Madame, Mignon's mother, is in heaven, and the remnant of
her people God knows where, and so I do what I can to look after their
child."
"But has the girl no say in the matter?" broke out Louis angrily. "You
are not to live with him--she is."
"That may make some difference in your country, Monsieur Louis, but it
makes no difference in mine. In France we parents and guardians are the
best judges of what is and what is not good for our children. Now,
gentlemen, let us brush it all away. It is very creditable to your
hearts to be so interested in the child; I do not blame you. She is very
lovely and very amusing, and when she leaves us--even with the man I
shall choose for her--it will be a great grief for me, for you see I am
quite alone in the world. So, Monsieur Herbert, there is my hand. Not to
have you understand me would be harder than all the rest, for I esteem
you as I do no other man. And you too, Monsieur Louis, with your big
arms and your big heart. Let us be friends once more. And now I am tired
out with the day's work, and if you do not mind I will say
'Good-night!'"
VII
IN WHICH OUR LANDLORD BECOMES BOTH ENTERTAINING AND INSTRUCTIVE
The experiences of the previous day had left their mark in stiffened
joints and blistered hands. Herbert was nursing a wrenched finger,
Lemois had discovered a bruised back, and Louis a strained wrist--slight
accidents all of them, unheeded in the excitement of the rescue, and
only definitely located when the several victims got out of bed the next
morning.
The real sufferer was Gaston. Two stitches had been taken in his shapely
head and, although he was quite himself and restless as a goat, the
doctor had given positive orders to Leà to keep him where he was until
his wound should heal. To this Lemois had added another and far more
cruel mandate, forbidding Mignon either outside or inside his bedroom
door under pain of death, or words to that effect.
It was not to be wondered at, therefore, that the day was passed
quietly, the men keeping indoors, although the storm had whirled down
the coast, leaving behind it only laughing blue skies and a light wind.
The one exciting incident was a telegram from madame la marquise,
thanking Lemois and his "brave body of men" for their heroic services
and adding that she would come as soon as possible to inspect what she
called her "ruin," and would then give herself the pleasure of thanking
each and every one in person. This was followed some hours later by a
second despatch inquiring after the wounded fisherman and charging
Lemois to spare no expense in bringing him back to health; and a third
one from Marc saying he had gone to Paris and would not be back for
several days.
The absorbing topic, of course, had been Lemois' outbreak on Mignon and
subsequent justification of his conduct. Louis was the most outspoken of
all, and, despite Lemois' defence, valiantly espoused the girl's cause,
the rest of us with one accord pledging ourselves to fight her battles
and Gaston's, no matter at what cost. Brierley even went so far as to
offer to relieve Leà, during which blissful interim he would smuggle
Mignon in for a brief word of sympathy, but this was frowned upon and
abandoned when Herbert reminded us that we were in a sense Lemois'
guests and could not, therefore, breed treachery among his servants. To
this was added his positive conviction that the girl's sufferings would
so tell upon the old man that before many days he would not only regret
his attitude, but would abandon his ambitious plans and give her to the
man she loved.
If Lemois had any such misgivings there was no evidence of it in his
manner. But for an occasional wry face when he moved, due to the blow of
the overturned sofa, he was in an exceptionally happy frame of mind. Nor
did he show the slightest resentment toward any one of us for not
agreeing with him. Even when the twilight hour arrived--a restful hour
when the fellowship of the group came out strongest, and men voiced the
thoughts that lay closest to their hearts--no word escaped him. Music,
church architecture, the influence of Rodin and Rostand on the art and
literature of our time, French politics--all were touched upon in turn,
but not a word of the condition of Gaston's broken head nor the state
of Mignon's bleeding heart--nothing so harrowing. Indeed, so gay was
he, so full of quaint sayings and odd views of life and things, that
when Brierley sat down at the spinet and ran his fingers over the keys,
giving us snatches of melodies from the current music of the day, he
begged for some mediæval anthems "as a slight apology to my suffering
ears," and when Brierley complied with what he claimed was an old
Italian chant, having found the original in Padua, Lemois branched off
into a homily on church music which evinced such a mastery of the
subject that even Brierley, who is something of a musician himself, was
filled with amazement. Indeed, the discussion was in danger of becoming
so heated that the old man, with a twinkle in his eye, relieved the
tension with:
"No, you are quite wrong, Monsieur Brierley, if you will forgive me for
saying so. Your chant is not Italian; it is Spanish. I have a better way
of knowing than by searching among musty libraries and sacristies. When
your fingers were touching the keys I looked around my Marmouset to see
who was listening beside you gentlemen. I soon discovered that the two
heads on Monsieur Herbert's chair were glum and solemn; they might have
been asleep so dull were they. My old Virgin in the corner, which I
found in Rouen, and which is unquestionably French, never raised her
eyes; but the two carved saints over your head, the ones I got in
Salamanca when I was last there, were overjoyed. One smiled so sweetly
that I could not take my eyes from her, and the other kept such perfect
time with his head that I was sorry when you stopped. So you see, your
chant is unquestionably Spanish, and I am glad."
Nor did his spirits flag when dinner was over and he took his place by
the coffee-table, handing Mignon the tiny cups without even a look of
reproach at the demure, sad-eyed girl who was keeping up so brave a
heart.
The change was a delightful one to the coterie. As long as the
embarrassing situation continued there was no telling what might happen.
A question of cuisine could be settled by more or less cayenne, but the
question of a marriage settlement was another affair. Press him too far
and the old gentleman might have bundled us all into the street and
thrown our trunks after us.
The wisest thing, therefore, was to meet his cordiality more than half
way, an easy solution, really, since his _amende honorable_ of the night
before had put us all on our mettle. He should be made to realize and at
once that all traces of ill feeling of every kind had been wiped out of
our hearts.
Herbert, who, as usual when any patching up was to be done, was chief
pacificator, opened the programme by becoming suddenly interested in the
several rare specimens of furniture that enriched the room in which we
sat, complimenting Lemois on his good taste in banishing from his
collection the severe, uncomfortable chairs and sofas of Louis XIV and
XV, and calling special attention to the noble Spanish and Italian
specimens about us, with wide seats, backs, and arms, where, even in the
old days, tired mortals could have lounged without splitting their
stockings or disarranging their wigs, had the dons and contessas worn
any such absurdities.
"Quite true, Monsieur Herbert, but you must remember that the
aristocrats of that day never sat down--their mirrors were hung too high
for them to see themselves should they recline. It was an era of high
heels and polished floors, much low bowing, and overmuch ceremony. And
yet it was a delightful period, and a most instructive one, for the
antiquary, even if it did end with the guillotine. I have always thought
that nothing so clearly defines the taste and intelligence of a nation
as their furniture and house decoration. The frivolities of the Monarchs
of the period is to be found in every twist and curve of their several
styles, just as the virility and out-door life of the Greeks and Romans
are expressed in their solid-marble benches and carved-stone sofas.
Since I have no place in my gardens for ruins of this kind, I do not
collect them--nor would I if I had. There should be, I think, a certain
sane appropriateness in every collection, even in so slight a one as my
own, and a Greek garden with a line of motor cars on one side and a
Normandy church on the other would, I am afraid, be a little out of
keeping," and he laughed softly.
"But you haven't kept close to that rule in this room," said Herbert,
gazing about him. "We have everything here from Philip the Second to
Napoleon the Third."
"I have kept much closer than you think, Monsieur Herbert. The panels,
ceiling, furniture, and stained glass, as well as the fireplace, are
more or less of one period. The fixtures, such as the andirons,
candelabra, and curtains, might have been obtained in one of the
antiquary shops of the day--if any such existed; and so could the china,
silver, and glass. What I had in mind was, not a museum, but a room that
would take you into its arms--a restful, warm, enticing room--one full
of surprises, too"--and he pointed to his rarest possession, the Black
Virgin, half hidden in the recess of the chimney breast. "You see, a
very rare thing is always more effective when you come upon it suddenly
than when you confront it in the blaze of a window or under a fixed
light. Your curiosity is then aroused, and you must stoop to study it. I
arrange these surprises for all my most precious things.
"Here, for instance"--and he crossed the room, opened a cabinet, and
brought from its hiding-place a crystal chalice with a legend in Latin
engraved in gold letters around the rim, placing it on the table so that
the light from the candelabra could fall upon it--"here is something now
you would not look at twice, perhaps, if it were put in the window and
filled with flowers. It must be hidden away before you appreciate it. I
found it in a convent outside of Salamanca some years ago. It is
evidently the work of some old monk who spent his life in doing this
sort of thing, and is a very rare example of that kind of craftsmanship.
Be very careful, Monsieur Louis, you will break the monk's heart, as
well as my own, if you smash it."
"Brierley is the man you want to look out for," answered the painter,
bending closer over the precious object. "He'll be borrowing it to mix
high-balls in unless you keep the cabinet locked."
"Monsieur Brierley is too good for any such sacrilege. And now please
stand aside, and you, Monsieur High-Muck, will you kindly move your
arm?" and he lifted the vase from the cloth and replaced it in the
cabinet, adding with a shrewd glance, "You see, it is always wise to
keep the most precious things hidden away, with, perhaps, only an edge
peeping out to arouse your curiosity--and I have many such."
"Like a grisette's slipper below a petticoat," remarked Louis _sotto
voce_.
"Quite like a grisette's slipper, my dear Monsieur Louis. What a nimble
wit is yours! Only, take an old man's advice and don't be too curious."
Every one roared, Louis louder than any one, and when quiet reigned once
more Herbert, who was determined to keep the talk along the lines which
would most interest our landlord, and who had examined the chalice with
the greatest interest, said, pointing to the cabinet:
"And now show us something else. Here I have lived with these things for
weeks at a time and yet am only beginning to find them out. What else
have you that is especially rare?"