English missionary who had taken up his quarters in a native village
some two miles away, in the low, marshy lands, and who from the very day
of his arrival had set to work to teach and care for the swarms of
native children who literally infested the settlement. Many of these had
been abandoned by their parents and would have perished but for his
untiring watchfulness. When the fever broke out he, with the assistance
of those of the natives whom he could bribe to help, had constructed a
rude hospital into which the little people were placed. These he nursed
with his own hands, and as children under ten years of age were less
liable to the disease than those who were older, and, when stricken,
easier to coax back to life, his mortality list was very much less than
our own.
"With our first deaths we would send for him to come up the hill and
perform the last rites over the poor fellows, but, as our lists grew, we
abandoned even this. Why I escaped at the time I do not know, unless it
was by sheer force of will. I have always believed that the mind has
such positive influence over the body that if you can keep it working
you can arrest the progress of any disease--certainly long enough for
the other forces of the body to come to its aid. So when I was at last
bowled over and so ill that I could not stand on my feet, or even turn
on my bed, I would have some one raise me to a sitting posture and then
I would deliberately shave myself. The mental effort to get the beard
off without cutting the skin; the determination to leave no spot
untouched; the making of the lather, balancing of the razor, and
propping up of the small bit of looking-glass so as to reflect my face
properly, was what I have always thought really saved my life.
"What I started to tell you, however, happened before I was finally
stricken and will make you think of the tales often heard of shipwrecked
men who, having given up all hope at the pumps, turn in despair and
break open the captain's lockers, drinking themselves into a state of
bestiality. It is the coward's way of meeting death, or perhaps it means
the great final protest of the physical against the spiritual--a mad
defiance of the inevitable--and confirms what some of our physiologists
have always maintained--that only a thin stratum of self-control divides
us from something lower than the beast.
"We had buried one of our bravest and best comrades, one whose name is
still held in reverence by all who knew him, and after we had laid him
in the ground an orgy began, which I am ashamed to say--for I was no
better than the rest--was as cowardly as it was bestial. My portable
india-rubber bath-tub, being the largest vessel in the camp, was the
punch-bowl, and into it was dumped every liquor we had in the place:
Portuguese wine, Scotch whiskey, Bass's ale, brown stout,
cognac--nothing escaped. You can imagine what followed. Those of our
natives who helped themselves, after a wild outburst of savagery, soon
relapsed into a state of unconsciousness. The exhilaration of the white
man lasted longer, and was followed by a fighting frenzy which filled
the night with horror. Men tore their clothes from their backs and,
half-naked, danced in a circle, the flickering light of the camp-fire
distorting their bodies into demons. It was hell let loose!
"I have got rather a strong head, but one cup of that mixture sent my
brain reeling. My fear was that my will would give way and I be tempted
to drink a second dipperful and so knocked completely out. With this
idea firmly in my mind, I watched my chance and escaped outside the
raging circle, where I found a pool into which I plunged my head. This
sobered me a little and I kept on in the darkness until I reached the
edge of the hill overlooking the missionary's settlement, the shouts of
the frenzied men growing fainter and fainter.
"As I sat there my brain began to clear. I noticed the dull light of the
moon shrouded in a deadly fog that rose from the valley below. In its
mysterious dimness the wraiths of mist and fog became processions of
ghosts stealing slowly up the hill--spirits of the dead on their way to
judgment. The swollen moon swimming in the drowsy vapor was an evil eye
from which there was no escape--searching the souls of men--mine among
them--I, who had been spared death and in return had defied all the laws
of decency. The cries of the forest rang in my ears, loud and insistent.
The howl of a pariah dog, the hoot of an owl, became so many
questions--all directed toward me--all demanding an answer for my sins.
Even the hum of myriads of insects seemed concerned with me, disputing
in low tones and deciding on my punishment.
"Gradually these sounds grew less insistent, and soft as a breath of
air--hardly perceptible at first--there rose from the valley below, like
a curl of smoke mounting into the stillness, a strain of low, sweet
music, and as suddenly ceased. I bent my head, wondering whether I was
dreaming. I had heard that same music, when I was a boy at home, wafted
toward me from the open window of the village church. How came it here?
Why sing it? Why torture me with it--who would never see home again?
"I struggled to my feet, steadied myself against a cotton-tree, and
fixed my eyes on the valley below; my ears strained to catch the first
recurrent note. Again it rose on the night air, this time strong and
clear, as if a company of angels were singing.
"I knew now!
"It was the hymn my friend the missionary had taught the children.
"I plunged down the hill, stumbling, falling, only to drag myself to my
feet again, groping my way through the dense night fog and the tangle of
undergrowth, until I reached the small stockade at the foot of the
incline which circled the missionary station. Crossing this ground, I
followed the path and entered a small gate. Beyond it lay a flat piece
of land cleared of all underbrush, and at its extreme end the rude
bamboo hut of a hospital filled with sick and dying children.
"Once more on the deadly night air rose the hymn, a note of exaltation
now, calling me on--to what I knew not, nor did I care, so it would ease
the grinding fear under which I had lived for weeks.
"Suddenly I came to a halt. In the faint moonlight, within a dozen yards
of me, knelt the figure of a man. He was praying--his hands upraised,
his face lifted--the words falling from his lips distinctly audible. I
moved nearer. Before him was a new-made grave--one he had dug
himself--to cover the body of a child who had died at sunset.
"It was a moment I have never forgotten, and never want to forget.
"On the hill above me were the men I had left--a frenzied body of
bestial cowards who had dishonored themselves, their race, and their
God; here beside me, huddled together, a group of forest children--spawn
of cannibal and savage--racked with fever, half-starved, many of them
delirious, their souls rising to heaven on the wings of a song.
"And then the kneeling man himself!--his courage facing death every hour
of the day--alone--no one to help--only his Maker as witness. I tell
you, gentlemen, that when I stood beside him and looked into his eyes,
caught the tones of his voice, and watched the movement of his fingers
patting the last handfuls of earth over the poor little nameless body,
and realized that his only recompense lay in that old line I used to
hear so often when I was a boy--'If ye have done it unto the least of
these, ye have done it unto me'--I could have gone down on my knees
beside him and thanked my Creator that He had sent me to him."
IX
IN WHICH MADAME LA MARQUISE BINDS UP BROKEN HEADS AND BLEEDING HEARTS
The morning brought us two most welcome pieces of news, one being that
Gaston, his head swathed in bandages, had, with the doctor's approval,
gone home an hour before breakfast, and the other that our now adorable
Madame la Marquise de la Caux, with Marc as gentleman-in-waiting, would
arrive at the Inn some time during the day or evening, the exact hour
being dependent upon her duties at the site of her "ruin." These pieces
of news, being positive and without question, were received with the
greatest satisfaction, Gaston's recovery meaning fresh roses in Mignon's
cheeks and madame's visit giving us another glimpse of her charming
personality.
That which was less positive, because immediately smothered and sent
around in whispers, were rumors of certain happenings that had taken
place shortly after daybreak. Mignon, so the word ran, before seeking
her little cot the night before, had caught a nod, or the lift of Leà's
brow, arched over a meaning eye, or a significant smile--some sort of
wireless, anyway, with Leà as chief operator, and a private wire to
Louis' room, immediately over Gaston's. What she had learned had kept
the girl awake half the night and sent her skipping on her toes at the
break of dawn to the little passageway at the far end of the court-yard,
where she had cried over Gaston and kissed him good-by, Leà being deaf
and dumb and blind. All this occurred before the horrible old bogie
(Lemois was the bogie), who had given strict orders that everything
should be done for the comfort of the boy before he left the Inn, was
fairly awake; certainly before he was out of bed.
"By thunder!--I could hardly keep the tears out of my eyes I was so
sorry for her," Louis had said when he burst into my room an hour before
getting-up time. "I heard the noise and thought he was suffering again
and needed help, and so I hustled out and came bump up against them as
they stood at the foot of the stairs. I wasn't dressed for company and
dared not go back lest they should see me, and so I flattened myself
against the wall and was obliged to hear it all. I'm not going to give
them away; but if any girl will love me as she does that young fellow
she can have my bank account. And he was so manly and square about it
all--no snivelling, no making a poor face. 'It is nothing, Mignon--I am
all right. Don't cry,' he kept saying. 'Everything will come out our way
in the end.' By Jove!--I wish some girl loved me like that!"
Such an expression of happiness had settled, too, on Leà's face as she
brought our coffee, that Herbert caught up his sketch-book and made her
stand still until he had transferred her dear old head in its white cap
to paper. Then, the portrait finished--and it was exactly like her--what
a flash of joy suffused Mignon's face when he called to her and
whispered in her ear the wonderful tale of why he had drawn it and who
was to be its proud possessor; and when it was all to take place, a bit
of information that sent her out of the room and skipping across the
court, her tiny black kitten at her heels.
It was, indeed, a joyous day, with every one in high good humor,
culminating in the wildest enthusiasm when the sound of a siren,
followed by the quick "chug-chug" of the stop brake of madame's motor,
announced the arrival of that distinguished woman an hour ahead of time.
[Illustration: Herbert caught up his sketch-book and ... transferred her
dear old head ... to paper]
"Ah!--gentlemen!" she shouted out, rising from her seat, both hands
extended before any of us could reach her car, "I have come over to
crown you with laurel! Oh, what a magnificent lot of heroes!--and to
think you saved my poor, miserable little mouse-trap of a villa that has
been trying all its life to slide down hill into the sea and get washed
and scrubbed. No, I don't want your help--I'm going to jump!" and out
she came, man's ulster, black-velvet jockey cap, short skirt, high
boots, and all, Marc following.
"And now, Monsieur Marc, give me a little help--no, not here--down below
the seat. Careful, now! And the teakwood stand is there too--I steadied
them both with my feet. There, you dear men!"--here she lifted the
priceless treasure above her head, her eyes dancing--"what do you think
of your punch-bowl? This is for your choicest mixtures whenever you
meet, and not one of you shall have a drop out of it unless you promise
to make me honorary member of your coterie, with full permission to
stay away or come just as I please. Isn't it a beauty?--and not a crack
or scar on it--Old Ming, they tell me, of the first dynasty. There, dear
Lemois, put it among your things, but never out of reach."
She had shaken every one's hand now and was stamping her little feet in
their big men's boots to keep up her circulation, talking to us all the
while.
"Ah, Monsieur Louis, it was you who carried out my beloved
piano--Liszt played on it, and so did Paderewski and Livadi,
and a whole lot of others, until it gave out and I sent it down
here, more for its associations than anything else. And you too,
Monsieur Herbert"--and she gave him a low curtsy, as befitted his
rank--"you-were-a-_real-major-general_, and saved the life of that poor
young fisherman; and you, Lemois, rescued my darling miniatures and my
books. Yes--I have heard all about it. Oh!--it was so kind of you
all--and you were so good--nothing I really loved is missing. I have
been all the morning feasting my eyes on them. And now let us all go in
and stir up the fire--and, please, one of you bring me a thimbleful of
brandy. I have rummaged over my precious things until I have worked
myself into a perspiration, and then I must drive like Jehu until I get
chilled to the bone. Catch cold!--my dear Monsieur Brierley--I never
catch cold! I should be quite ashamed of myself if I did."
We were inside the Marmouset now, Marc unbuttoning her outer garments,
revealing her plump, penguin-shaped body clothed in a blouse of
mouse-colored corduroy with a short skirt to match, her customary red
silk scarf about her throat; the silver watch with its leather strap,
which hung from the pocket of her blouse, her only ornament.
"Take my cap, please," and she handed it to the ever-obsequious Marc,
who always seemed to have lost his wits and identity in her presence.
This done, she ran her fingers through her fluff of gray hair, caught it
in a twist with her hand, skewered it with a tortoise-shell pin, and,
with a "So! that's all over," drew up a chair to the blaze and settled
herself in it, talking all the time, the men crowding about her to catch
her every word.
"And now how about that young fisherman? Thank you, Monsieur Herbert.
No, that is quite enough; a thimbleful of cognac is just what I
need--more than that I have given up these many years. Come!--the young
fisherman, Lemois. Is he badly hurt? Has he a doctor? How long before he
gets well? Can I go to see him as soon as I get warm? Such a brave
lad--and all to save my miserable jim-cracks."
Both of Lemois' hands were outstretched in a low bow. "We could do no
less than rescue your curios, madame. Our only fear is that we may have
left behind something more precious than anything we saved."
"No, I have not missed a single thing; and it wouldn't make any
difference if I had; we love too many things, anyway, for our good. As
to the house--it is too funny to see it. I laughed until I quite lost my
breath. Everything is sticking out like the quills on a mad hedgehog,
and the porch steps are smashed flat up against the ceiling. Oh!--it is
too ridiculous! Just fancy, only the shelf in my boudoir is left where
it used to be, and the plants are still blooming away up in the air as
if nothing had happened. But not a word more of all this!" and she rose
from her seat. "Take me to see the poor fellow at once!"
Again Lemois bowed, this time with the greatest deference. The exalted
rank of his guest was a fact he never lost sight of.
"He is not here, madame," he said in an apologetic tone; "I have sent
him home to his mother."
"Home!--to his mother?--and after my despatch. Oh!--but I could take so
much better care of him here! Why did you do it?"
"For the best of reasons--first, because the doctor said he might go,
and then because I"--and he lowered his voice and glanced around to see
if Mignon had by any chance slipped into the room--"because," he added
with a knowing smile, "it is sometimes dangerous to have so good-looking
a fellow about."
"So good of you, Lemois," she flashed back; "so thoughtful and
considerate. Twenty years ago I might have lost my heart, but----"
"Oh, but, madame--I never for an instant--" He was really frightened.
"Oh, it was not _me_, then!" and one of her ringing, silvery laughs
gladdened the room. "Who, then, pray?--certainly not that dear old woman
with the white cap who--Oh!--I see!--it is that pretty little Norman
maid. Such a winning creature, and so modest. Yes, I remember her
distinctly. But why should not these two people love each other? He is
brave, and you say he is handsome--what better can the girl have?"
Lemois shrugged his shoulders in a helpless way, but with an expression
on his obstinate face that showed his entire satisfaction with his own
course.
Madame read his thoughts and turned upon him, a dominating ring in her
voice. "And you really mean, Lemois, that you are playing jailer, and
shutting up two hearts in different cells?"
Lemois, suddenly nonplussed, hesitated and looked away. We held our
breaths for his answer.
"Ah, madame," he replied at last slowly, all the fight knocked out of
him, "it is not best that we discuss it. Better let me know what madame
la marquise will have for dinner--we have waited all day until your
wishes were known."
"Nothing--not a crumb of anything until I find out about these lovers.
Did you ever know anything like it, gentlemen? Here on one side are
broken heads and broken hearts--on the other, a charming old gentleman
whom I have known for years, and whom I love dearly, playing bear and
ready to eat up both of these young turtle doves. When I remonstrate he
wants to know whether I will have my chicken roasted on a spit or _en
casserole_! Oh, you are too silly, Lemois!"
"But she is like my daughter, madame," replied Lemois humbly, and yet
with a certain dignity.
"And, therefore, she mustn't marry an honest young fisherman. Is that
what you mean?"
Lemois merely inclined his head.
"And pray what would you make of her--a countess?"
A grim baffled smile ruffled the edges of the old man's lips as he tried
again to turn the conversation, but she would not listen.
"No, I see it all! You want some flat-chested apothecary, or some fat
clerk, or a notary, or a grocer, or--Oh, I know all about it! Now do you
go and get your dinner ready--anything will suit me--and when it is over
and Monsieur Herbert is firmly settled in his big chair, with the funny
heads listening to everything we say, I am going to tell you a story
about one of your mismated marriages, and I want you to listen, Monsieur
Bear, with your terrible growl and your great claws and your ugly
teeth. No, I won't take any apologies," and another laugh--a whole chime
of silver bells this time--rang through the room.
"What a pity it is," she continued after her opponent had left the room,
"that people who get old forget so soon what their own youth has meant
to them. He takes this child, puts a soul into her by his kindness, and
then, when she becomes a woman, builds a fence around her--not for her
protection but for his own pride. It will be so much more _honorable_,
he says to himself, for the great house of Lemois to have one of his
distinguished waifs _honorably_ settled in an _honorable_ home," and she
lifted her shoulders ever so slightly. "Not a word, you will please
note, about the girl or what _she_ wants--nothing whatever of that kind.
And he is such a dear too. But I won't have it, and I'm going to tell
him so!" she added, her brown eyes blazing as her heart went out once
more to the girl.
All through the dinner the marquise made no further reference to the
love affair, although I could see that it was still on her mind, for
when Mignon entered and began moving about the room in her demure,
gentle way, her lids lowered, her pretty head and throat aglow in the
softened light, I saw that she was following her every gesture. Once,
when the girl replenished her plate, the woman of birth, as if by
accident, laid her fingers on the serving-woman's wrist, and then there
flashed out of her eyes one of those sympathetic glances which only a
tender-hearted woman can give, and which only another woman, no matter
how humble her station, can fully understand. It was all done so quickly
and so deftly that I alone noticed it, as well as the answering look in
Mignon's eyes: full of such gratitude and reverence that I started lest
she should betray herself and thus spoil it all.
With the coffee and cigarettes--madame refusing any brand but her
own--"I dry every bit of my tobacco myself," she offered in explanation,
"and roll every cigarette I smoke"--we settled ourselves in pleased
expectation, Herbert, as usual, in the Florentine; our guest of honor
beside a small table which Lemois had moved up for her comfort, and on
which he had placed a box of matches and an ashtray; Brierley stretched
out on the sofa with a cushion at his back; Lemois on a low stool by the
fire; Louis and I with chairs drawn close. Even the big back log, which
had been crooning a song of the woods all the evening, ceased its hum as
if to listen, while overhead long wraiths of tobacco smoke drifted
silently, dimming the glint and sparkle of copper, brass, and silver
that looked down at us from the walls.
"And now, madame," said Herbert with a smile, when both Leà and Mignon
had at last left the room, "you were good enough to say you had a story
for us."
"No," she answered gayly. "It is not for you. It is for our dear Lemois
here," and she shook her head at him in mock reproval. "You are all too
fine and splendid, every one of you. You keep houses from tumbling to
pieces and rescue lovers and do no end of beauteous things. He goes
about cutting and slashing heads and hearts, and never cares whom he
hurts."
Lemois rose from his seat, put his hand on his shirt-front--a favorite
gesture of his--bowed humbly, and sat down again.
"Yes, I mean it," she cried with a toss of her head, "and I have just
been telling these gentlemen that I am going to put a stop to it just as
soon as I can find out whether this young hero with the broken head is
worth the saving, and that I shall decide the moment I get my eyes on
him. Pass me my coffee, Lemois, and give me my full share of
sugar--three lumps if you please--and put four into your own to sweeten
your temper, for you will need them all before I get through.
"The story I promised you is one of sheer stupidity, and always enrages
me when I think of it. I have all my life set my face against this
idiotic custom of my country of choosing wives and husbands for other
people. In any walk of life it is a mistake; in some walks of life it is
a crime. This particular instance occurred some twenty years ago in a
little village near Beaumont, where I lived as a girl. Outside our far
gate, leading to the best fields, was the house of a peasant who had
made some thousands of francs by buying calves when they were very
small, fattening them, and driving them to the great markets. He was big
and coarse, with a red face, small, shrewd eyes, and a bull neck that
showed puffy above his collar. He was loud, too, in his talk and could
be heard above every one else in the crowd when the auction sales were
being held in the market. But for his blue blouse, which reached to his
feet, he might have been taken for one of his own steers.
"The wife was different. Although she was of the same peasant stock, a
strain of gentleness and refinement had somehow crept in. In everything
she was his opposite--a short woman with narrow shoulders and small
waist; a low, soft voice, and a temper so kindly and even that her
neighbors loved her as much as they hated her husband. And then there
was a daughter--no sons--just one daughter. With her my acquaintance
with the family began, and but for this girl I should have known nothing
of what I am going to tell you.