THE DUKE IN DOUBT
The short journey to Africa--over a calm and perfect sea, whose
waters were voices at her port to solace her, and where the stars
alone glowed down like friends upon her and seemed to understand--was
a torture to Julia Redmond. To herself she called her aunt cruel,
over and over again, and felt a prisoner, a caged creature.
Tremont found her charming, though in this role of Florence
Nightingale, she puzzled and perplexed him. She was nevertheless
adorable. The young man had the good sense to make a discreet
courtship and understood she would not be easily won. Until they
reached Algiers, indeed, until the night before they disembarked, he
had not said one word to her which might not have been shared by her
aunt. In accordance with the French custom, they never were alone.
The marquise shut her eyes and napped considerably and gave them
every opportunity she could, but she was always present.
The Duc de Tremont had been often in love during his short life. He
was a Latin and thought that women are made to be loved. It was part
of his education to think this and to tell them this, and he also
believed it a proof of his good taste to tell them this as soon as
possible.
He was a thoroughly fine fellow. Some of his forefathers had fought
and fallen in Agincourt. They had been dukes ever since. There was
something distinctly noble in the blond young man, and Julia
discovered it. Possibly she had felt it from the first. Some women
are keen to feel. Perhaps if she had _not_ felt it she might even
have hesitated to go to Algiers as his guest.
From the moment that the old duchess had said to Robert de Tremont:
"Julia Redmond is a great catch, my dear boy. I should like to have
you marry her," her son answered:
"_Bien, ma mère_," with cheerful acquiescence, and immediately
considered it and went to Tarascon, to the Château d'Esclignac. When
his mother had suggested the visit, he told her that he intended
making up a party for the Mediterranean.
"Why don't you take your godmother and the American girl? Miss
Redmond has an income of nearly a million francs and they say she is
well-bred."
"Very good, _ma mère_."
When he saw Miss Redmond he found her lovely; not so lovely as the
Comtesse de la Maine, whose invitation to dinner he had refused on
the day his mother suggested the Château d'Esclignac. The comtesse
was a widow. It is not very, very _comme il faut_ to marry a widow,
in the Faubourg St.-Germain. Miss Redmond's beauty was different.
She was self-absorbed and cold. He did not understand her at all,
but that was the American of her.
One of his friends had married an American girl and found out
afterward that she chewed gum before breakfast. _Pauvre_ Raymond!
Miss Redmond did not suggest such possibilities. Still she was very
different to a French _jeune fille_.
With his godmother he was entirely at ease. Ever since she had paid
his trifling debts when he was a young man, he had adored her.
Tremont, always discreet and almost in love with his godmother, kept
her in a state of great good humor always, and when she had suggested
to him this little party he had been delighted. In speaking over the
telephone the Marquise d'Esclignac had said very firmly:
"My dear Robert, you understand that this excursion engages you to
nothing."
"Oh, of course, _marraine_."
"We both need a change, and between ourselves, Julia has a little
mission on foot."
Tremont would be delighted to help Miss Redmond carry it out. Whom
else should he ask?
"By all means, any one you like," said his godmother diplomatically.
"We want to sail the day after to-morrow." She felt safe, knowing
that no worldly people would accept an invitation on twenty-four
hours' notice.
"So," the Duc de Tremont reflected, as he hung up the receiver, "Miss
Redmond has a scheme, a mission! Young girls do not have schemes and
missions in good French society."
"Mademoiselle," he said to her, as they walked up and down on the
deck in the pale sunset, in front of the chair of the Marquise
d'Esclignac, "I never saw an ornament more becoming to a woman than
the one you wear."
"The ornament, Monsieur?"
"On your sleeve. It is so beautiful. A string of pearls would not
be more beautiful, although your pearls are lovely, too. Are all
American girls Red Cross members?"
"But of course not, Monsieur. Are all girls anywhere one thing?"
"Yes," said the Duc de Tremont, "they are all charming, but there are
gradations."
"Do you think that we shall reach Algiers to-morrow, Monsieur?"
"I hope not, Mademoiselle."
Miss Redmond turned her fine eyes on him.
"_You hope not?_"
"I should like this voyage to last forever, Mademoiselle."
"How ridiculous!"
Her look was so frank that he laughed in spite of himself, and
instead of following up the politeness, he asked:
"Why do you think of Algiers as a field for nursing the sick,
Mademoiselle?"
"There has been quite a deputation of the Red Cross women lately
going from Paris to the East."
"But," said the young man, "there are poor in Tarascon, and sick,
too. There is a great deal of poverty in Nice, and Paris is the
nearest of all."
"The American girls are very imaginative," said Julia Redmond. "We
must have some romance in all we do."
"I find the American girls very charming," said Tremont.
"Do you know many, Monsieur?"
"Only one," he said serenely.
Miss Redmond changed the subject quickly and cleverly, and before he
knew it, Tremont was telling her stories about his own military
service, which had been made in Africa. He talked well and
entertained them both, and Julia Redmond listened when he told her of
the desert, of its charm and its desolation, and of its dangers. An
hour passed. The Marquise d'Esclignac took an ante-prandial stroll,
Mimi mincing at her heels.
"_Ce pauvre_ Sabron!" said Tremont. "He has disappeared off the face
of the earth. What a horrible thing it was, Mademoiselle! I knew
him in Paris; I remember meeting him again the night before he left
the Midi. He was a fine fellow with a career before him, his friends
say."
"What do you think has become of Monsieur de Sabron?"
Miss Redmond, so far, had only been able to ask this question of her
aunt and of the stars. None of them had been able to tell her.
Tremont shrugged his shoulders thoughtfully.
"He may have dragged himself away to die in some ambush that they
have not discovered, or likely he has been taken captive, _le pauvre
diable_!"
"France will do all it can, Monsieur..."
"They will do all they can, which is to wait. An extraordinary
measure, if taken just now, would probably result in Sabron being put
to death by his captors. He may be found to-morrow--he may never be
found."
A slight murmur from the young girl beside him made Tremont look at
her. He saw that her hands were clasped and that her face was quite
white, her eyes staring fixedly before her, out toward Africa.
Tremont said:
"You are compassion itself, Mademoiselle; you have a tender heart.
No wonder you wear the Red Cross. I am a soldier, Mademoiselle. I
thank you for all soldiers. I thank you for Sabron ... but, we must
not talk of such things."
He thought her very charming, both romantic and idealistic. She
would make a delightful friend. Would she not be too intense for a
wife? However, many women of fashion joined the Red Cross. Tremont
was a commonplace man, conventional in his heart and in his tastes.
"My children," said the marquise, coming up to them with Mimi in her
arms, "you are as serious as though we were on a boat bound for the
North Pole and expected to live on tinned things and salt fish.
Aren't you hungry, Julia? Robert, take Mimi to my maid, will you?
Julia," said her aunt as Tremont went away with the little dog, "you
look dramatic, my dear, you're pale as death in spite of this divine
air and this enchanting sea." She linked her arm through her
niece's. "Take a brisk walk with me for five minutes and whip up
your blood. I believe you were on the point of making Tremont some
unwise confession."
"I assure you no, _ma tante_."
"Isn't Bob a darling, Julia?"
"Awfully," returned her niece absent-mindedly.
"He's the most eligible young man in Paris, Julia, and the most
difficult to please."
"_Ma tante_," said the girl in a low tone, "he tells me that France
at present can do practically nothing about finding Monsieur de
Sabron. Fancy a great army and a great nation helpless for the
rescue of a single soldier, and his life at stake!"
"Julia," said the marquise, taking the trembling hand in her own,
"you will make yourself ill, my darling, and you will be no use to
any one, you know."
"You're right," returned the girl, "I will be silent and I will only
pray."
She turned from her aunt to stand for a few moments quiet, looking
out at the sea, at the blue water through which the boat cut and
flew. Along the horizon was a mist, rosy and translucent, and out of
it white Algiers would shine before many hours.
When Tremont, at luncheon a little later, looked at his guests, he
saw a new Julia. She had left her coat with the Red Cross in her
cabin with her hat. In her pretty blouse, her pearls around her
neck, the soft flush on her cheeks, she was apparently only a
light-hearted woman of the world. She teased her aunt gently, she
laughed very deliciously and lightly flirted with the Duc de Tremont,
who opened a bottle of champagne. The Marquise d'Esclignac beamed
upon her niece. Tremont found her more puzzling than ever. "She
suggests the chameleon," he thought, "she has moods. Before, she was
a tragic muse; at luncheon she is an adorable sybarite."