“What matter how little the door, if it only lets you in!”
PARIS, always in a glitter, struck both Cynthia and Geoffrey as being
almost too emphatically the same.
They separated after the dear, delicious lightness of the earliest
French meal, one to go to the studios and try to get a skilled but
unpractised hand in again, the other whimsically to the lecture-rooms,
an atmosphere congenial, but thin and uncolored to one fresh from the
active fight. So the first week passed, and quite unconsciously they
began to imbibe the gay French surface, the triumphant shrug at the
disagreeable, the bright intensity of the absorbing present. It was not
that they forgot or felt less, but as if straight from the seriousness
of the downstairs rooms they had strayed into the nursery and were
playing at being children again. It was one morning on her way to the
studio that Cynthia met an old acquaintance of hers, an emphatic
American girl, who exclaimed in the arresting tones of her
countrywomen:—
“Why, Cynthia Grant, is that you!” Cynthia turned smiling.
“Millicent!” she said, “in Paris?”
“Why, certainly,” laughed Millicent gayly; “didn’t you know I was
married. I couldn’t keep it up any longer. You remember Clifton Perval?
He was that set! I _had_ to give in to him! But come right away home
with me, Cynthia; I’ve the most perfectly lovely flat you ever saw!”
Cynthia felt suddenly human.
“All right,” she said, “I’ll give myself a holiday. So you are actually
_living_ in Paris. You always wanted to, didn’t you?”
“_Want_ to? I was just crazy. But I let my husband know I’d be planted
_here_ or nowhere! So we just came. Launcelot will be just as pleased to
see us——”
“Who is Launcelot?” laughed her friend.
“My little boy. Why, didn’t I tell you?” Her bright, keen face clouded a
little. “Yes, I’ve got a child.” She paused flatly, and then fell back
with ready gush on an easier line. “Don’t you think Launcelot a real
pretty name? I told Clifton I’d take nothing common. No William-George
effects for me! So his name is Launcelot Cummins Perval. Cummins was my
name, you remember, before I married. Oh, here we are. Now isn’t it a
charming location? It’s so sweet and central.” Cynthia nodded.
They were taken up almost to the top of a high building. The flat was
evidently small and inexpensive. As they entered Cynthia was struck with
the effect of an aggressive effort to conceal. Everything seemed
unnaturally placed so as to hide something else, and to block views.
There were a quantity of unnecessary things, and some very bad pictures.
Millicent had never had much art though she had a great deal of talent,
but the talent had deteriorated and the art vanished.
Sitting on the floor, his head a mass of dark curls, with wide, blue,
astonished eyes, was a little fellow of about six, in quaint, tight
black velvet trousers. He looked at his mother wistfully.
“You said he would come back,” he exclaimed sorrowfully; “but he hasn’t
for hours and hours!”
“Why, Launcelot, how silly you are,” cried his mother; “come here, right
away, and shake hands with this lady. Aren’t you _glad_ to see mother
come home so soon?”
The child rose obediently and advanced towards Cynthia. His eyes were
heavy with the difficulty to express his thoughts, his eyebrows were
knitted painfully. Cynthia’s eyes grew tender as they met his.
“What have you lost, sonnie?” she asked gently.
“Oh, it’s Tony that’s goned away,” he began eagerly.
“The child’s bird escaped out of the window this morning,” his mother
explained contemptuously; “Marie opened the cage, or something. The
thing squealed awfully; it’s rather a relief. Now, Launcelot, you go
back to your bricks, and mother will give you some candy by-and-bye.”
But Cynthia held the child’s hand.
“I want to hear about Tony,” she said firmly. The boy’s eyes were full
of tears, but he controlled himself manfully.
“If God has taken him,” he said, “I think it’s very selfish. God has
birds and birds, and I only had Tony.”
“Why, Launcelot Perval,” exclaimed his mother in shocked tones,
“whatever do you mean? You’re a very naughty boy to talk so; mother’ll
have to punish you if you say such things.” The boy ignored his mother.
She might have been an intrusive fly. He brushed her away. Cynthia
understood.
“But perhaps God didn’t take him,” she suggested thoughtfully. The boy’s
face brightened, but clouded again.
“He lives in the sky,” he said; “and that’s where Tony went. He must
have flown straight to God, and I think God _ought_ to have sent him
back,” his lips quivered again. “I’ve waited hours and hours,” he
repeated mournfully.
“God has got such a lot of things to do,” she said, “perhaps He will
send him back to-morrow. Don’t you think you could wait till to-morrow,
Launcelot?”
“Why, really, Cynthia,” laughed her friend, “I can’t let you encourage
the child in such notions. Now, look here, Launcelot, if you will be a
good boy, and not worry any more, I’ll ask papa to buy you another
Tony.” She was a good-natured woman, but she missed the point.
“Oh, but there isn’t another Tony,” he said looking at his mother
reproachfully; “there aren’t two mes nor two Gods, mama?”
“Oh, do be quiet, Launcelot,” she cried falling back on the dense weapon
of her authority; “of course there aren’t two Gods. I shall send for
Marie to take you away!”
This threat closed the discussion. The child went back to the window,
and gazed wistfully at the roofs, still wondering at his unanswered
prayer.
Millicent showed Cynthia her flat. Cynthia began to understand the
pathetic concealments. They were very poor.
“We manage to have good times, though,” Millicent explained. “We get
around and see things. Men don’t like women being _too_ economical, and
I don’t believe in it myself. They just spend and spend, and then make a
row over the bills. I don’t see why we shouldn’t spend too; it don’t
make much more of a row, for they put it down to us anyway! But it’s
very unfortunate our having that child!” She cast an impatient glance at
the little fellow in his odd-shaped, out-grown clothes. “Sometimes I
positively don’t know which way to turn. His father and I don’t know
what to make of him—he’s that funny! It doesn’t rightly seem as if he
was our child!”
“He’s a dear little fellow,” said Cynthia pityingly; “I wish you would
let me take him home for this afternoon, I would bring him back at
bedtime. I shall be all alone.”
“Why, that’s real sweet of you, Cynthia,” said Mrs. Perval. “Clifton and
I want so much to have a nice afternoon with some French friends of
ours—Monsieur le Comte de Mouselle and his sister. He’s the most
perfectly charming man. Do you know him?” Cynthia shook her head.
Millicent tittered. “He’s just wild about _me_,” she said, “but of
course I know how to deal with him. _They_ can’t take me in, you bet!
but I’ll be real pleased,” she added, seeing Cynthia’s attention wander,
“to let you have Launcelot for this afternoon as soon as Marie can get
him ready.” Ten minutes later the two left the flat. Mrs. Perval, her
hands on her hips, talking to them as they went.
“Now, Launcelot, be sure you’re a good boy, and mind what you say.
Cynthia, don’t let him worry you—please. I’ll be _real_ pleased to see
your brother again, Cynthia. Give him my love, and tell him——”
Whatever she was to tell him was lost on the way downstairs. Cynthia and
the boy felt suddenly free, their eyes sparkled, they clasped each
other’s hands tightly—the world lay before them, the great glittering
Paris world, rich with delights. A French-woman with bright, bright eyes
passed them. The boy pressed a little closer to Cynthia.
“The streets roar so,” he said fearfully. “Do you think it’s at all
likely there’s any lions about?”
“They are always careful to shut them up,” Cynthia explained, “when boys
go out with friends.”
They had a wonderful lunch and lots of marvellous French cakes, and if
there were any lions they remembered that “friends” didn’t like them,
and kept within bounds. Cynthia felt for the first time that she could
breathe without it hurting her. To be alive and separate is so terrible
to love. The child’s hand in hers made her look past herself into a
world more beautiful and infinitely higher than her dreams.