_A tale of a lover who was pledged to a sweetheart who had
been in her grave for more than a century, and of the
striking death that menaced him--a story of Jules de
Grandin_
* * * * *
The autumn dusk had stained the sky with shadows and orange oblongs
traced the windows in my neighbors' homes as Jules de Grandin and I
sat sipping kaiserschmarrn and coffee in the study after dinner. "_Mon
Dieu_," the little Frenchman sighed, "I have the _mal du pays_, my
friend. The little children run and play along the roadways at Saint
Cloud, and on the Ile de France the pastry cooks set up their booths.
_Corbleu_, it takes the strength of character not to stop and buy
those cakes of so much taste and fancy! The Napoleons, they are crisp
and fragile as a coquette's promise, the eclairs filled with cool,
sweet cream, the cream-puffs all aglow with cherries. Just to see them
is to love life better. They----"
The shrilling of the door-bell startled me. The pressure on the button
must have been that of one who leant against it. "Doctor Trowbridge; I
must see him right away!" a woman's voice demanded as Nora McGinnis,
my household factotum, grudgingly responded to the hail.
"Th' docthor's offiss hours is over, ma'am," Nora answered frigidly.
"Ha'f past nine ter eleven in th' marnin', an' two ter four in th'
afthernoon is when he sees his patients. If it's an urgent case ye
have there's lots o' good young docthors in th' neighborhood, but
Docthor Trowbridge----"
"Is he here?" the visitor demanded sharply.
"He is, an' he's afther digestin' his dinner--an' an illigant dinner
it wuz, though I do say so as shouldn't--an' he can't be
disturbed----"
"He'll see me, all right. Tell him it's Nella Bentley, and I've _got_
to talk to him!"
De Grandin raised an eyebrow eloquently. "The fish at the aquarium
have greater privacy than we, my friend," he murmured, but broke off
as the visitor came clacking down the hall on high French heels and
rushed into the study half a dozen paces in advance of my thoroughly
disapproving and more than semi-scandalized Nora.
"Doctor Trowbridge, won't you help me?" cried the girl as she fairly
leaped across the study and flung her arms about my shoulders. "I
can't tell Dad or Mother, they wouldn't understand; so you're the only
one--oh, excuse me, I thought you were alone!" Her face went crimson
as she saw de Grandin standing by the fire.
"It's quite all right, my dear," I soothed, freeing myself from her
almost hysterical clutch. "This is Doctor de Grandin, with whom I've
been associated many times; I'd be glad to have the benefit of his
advice, if you don't mind."
She gave him her hand and a wan smile as I performed the introduction,
but her eyes warmed quickly as he raised her fingers to his lips with
a soft "_Enchante, Mademoiselle_." Women, animals and children took
instinctively to Jules de Grandin.
Nella dropped her coat of silky shaven lamb and sank down on the study
couch, her slim young figure molded in her knitted dress of coral
rayon as revealingly as though she had been cased in plastic
cellulose. She has long, violet eyes and a long mouth; smooth, dark
hair parted in the middle; a small straight nose, and a small pointed
chin. Every line of her is long, but definitely feminine; breasts and
hips and throat and legs all delicately curved, without a hint of
angularity.
"I've come to see you about Ned," she volunteered as de Grandin lit
her cigarette and she sent a nervous smoke-stream gushing from between
red, trembling lips. "He--he's trying to run out on me!"
"You mean Ned Minton?" I asked, wondering what a middle-aged physician
could prescribe for wandering Romeos.
"I certainly do mean Ned Minton," she replied, "and I mean business,
too. The darn, romantic fool!"
De Grandin's slender brows arched upward till they nearly met the
beige-blond hair that slanted sleekly backward from his forehead.
"_Pardonnez-moi_," he murmured. "Did I understand correctly,
_Mademoiselle_? Your _amoureux_--how do you say him?--sweetheart?--has
shown a disposition toward unfaithfulness, yet you accuse him of
romanticism?"
"He's not unfaithful, that's the worst of it. He's faithful as Tristan
and the chevalier Bayard lumped together, _sans peur et sans
reproche_, you know. Says we can't get married, 'cause----"
"Just a moment, dear," I interrupted as I felt my indignation
mounting. "D'ye mean the miserable young puppy cheated, and now wants
to welch----"
* * * * *
Her blue eyes widened, then the little laughter-wrinkles formed around
them. "You dear old mid-Victorian!" she broke in. "No, he ain't done
wrong by our Nell, and I'm not asking you to take your shotgun down
and force him to make me an honest woman. Suppose we start at the
beginning: then we'll get things straight.
"You assisted at both our debuts, I've been told; you've known Ned and
me since we were a second old apiece, haven't you?"