THE SYSTEM WORKS
I WAS in Paris for full four weeks, representing Sir Ezekiel (who was
laid up with asthma) on the International Commercial Conference on the
Regulation and Augmentation of the World’s Tonnage, a matter in which
our company was, of course, deeply interested. It was the best chance
I had yet secured of distinguishing myself in the business world. The
work, besides being important and heavy, was also interesting. The
waking intervals between our sessions and conferences were occupied
by luncheons, banquets, and _conversaziones_; if we dealt faithfully
with one another at the business meetings, we professed unlimited
confidence in one another on the social occasions. In fact, if we had
really believed all we said of one another after lunch or after dinner,
each of us would have implored his neighbor to take all the goods, or
tonnage, or money that he possessed and dispose of it as his unrivaled
wisdom and unparalleled generosity might dictate. We did not, however,
make any such suggestions in business hours; the fact that we did quite
the opposite prolonged the negotiations.
All of which brings me to the ungallant confession that the two ladies,
who had occupied so much of an idle man’s thoughts at Mentone, occupied
considerably less of a busy man’s at Paris. They were not forgotten,
but they receded into the background of my thoughts, emerging to the
forefront only in rare moments of leisure; even then my mental attitude
was one of greater detachment. I had a cold fit about the situation,
and some ungracious reflections for both of them. Absence and
preoccupation blunted my imagination, even when they did not entirely
divert my thoughts. My mind was localized; it did not travel far or for
long outside my daily business.
It was when our deliberations had almost reached a conclusion, as the
official report put it—when our agreement had gone to the secretaries
to be drafted in proper form—that I got a telegram from Godfrey Frost,
telling me that he would be in Paris the next day and asking me to dine
with him. Putting off some minor engagement which I had, I accepted his
invitation.
It was not till after dinner, when we were alone in his sitting room
at the hotel, that he opened to me what he had to say. He did it in a
methodical, deliberate way. “I’ve something to say to you. Sit down
there, and light a cigar, Julius.”
I obeyed him. Evidently I was in for a story—of what sort I did not
know. But his mouth wore its resolute look, not the smile with which he
had chaffed me after our meeting with Arsenio Valdez at Monte Carlo.
“The system worked,” he began abruptly.
“You won?” I asked, astonished.
“I don’t want you to interrupt for a little while, if you don’t mind.
Of course, I didn’t win; I never supposed I should. But the system
worked. I found Madame Valdez. Be quiet! After two nights of the
system, I politely—more or less politely—intimated that I was sick of
it; also that I didn’t see my way to finance any further the peculiarly
idiotic game which he played on his own account, in the intervals of
superintending the system. The man’s mad to think that he’s got a
dog’s chance, playing like that! He’d stayed with me in Monte those
two days. I said that I was afraid his wife would never forgive me if
I kept him from her any longer. He said that, having for the moment
lost _la veine_, he was not in a position to return my hospitality;
otherwise he and his wife would have been delighted to see me at Nice.
Well, with the usual polite circumlocutions, he conveyed to me that
there was a pleasant, quiet little hotel in Nice where he generally
stayed—when he was in funds, he meant, I suppose—and that, although
Madame Valdez was not staying there at present, she might be prevailed
upon to join him there, and certainly we should make a pleasant party.
‘I am _le bienvenu_ at a very cozy little place in Nice, if we want an
hour’s distraction in the evening. My wife goes to bed early. She’s
a woman with her own profession, and it takes her out early in the
morning.’ So that seemed all right, only—you can guess! I smoothed over
the difficulty. At that little hotel, at dinner on the next Sunday, I,
Valdez’s welcome guest, had the privilege of being presented to Madame
Valdez—or, as he called her, Donna Lucinda.”
“Yes, the system worked, Godfrey,” I observed.
He did not rebuke my interruption, but he took no heed of it. His own
story held him in its grip, whatever effect it might be having on his
auditor.
“She came just as if she were an invited guest, and rather a shy one
at that; a timid handshake for Valdez, a distant, shy bow for me. He
greeted her as he might have a girl he was courting, but who would
generally have nothing to do with him—who had condescended just this
once, you know. Only she said to him—rather bashfully—‘Do you like the
frock I bought, Arsenio?’ It was a pretty little frock—a brightish
blue. Quite inexpensive material, I should say, but very nicely put
together; and it suited her eyes and hair. What eyes and hair she has,
by Jove, Julius!”
He had told me not to interrupt; I didn’t.
“Why didn’t you tell me what she was like?” he asked suddenly and
rather fiercely.
“It was what you told me you meant to find out for yourself, Godfrey.”
“Well, we sat there and had dinner. She seemed to enjoy herself
very much; made a good dinner, you know, and seemed to accept his
compliments—Valdez’s, I mean—with a good deal of pleasure; he was
flowery. I didn’t say much. I was damned dull, in fact. But she glanced
at me out of the corner of her eye now and then. Look here, Julius, I’m
an ass at telling about things!”
“I’ve known better _raconteurs_; but get on with it, if you want to.”
“Want to? I must. As a matter of fact, I’ve come to Paris just to tell
you about it. And now I can’t.”
“She isn’t exactly easy to describe, to—to give the impression of. But
remember—I know her.”
He had been walking up and down; he jerked himself into a chair, and
relit his cigar—it had gone out. “I don’t much remember what we talked
about at first—oh, except that she said, ‘I don’t like your gambling,
and I should hate to be dependent on your winnings, Arsenio.’—My God,
his winnings! He leant across the table towards her—he seemed to forget
me altogether for the minute—and said, ‘I never make you even a present
out of them except when I back Number 21.’ She blushed at that, like
a girl just out of the schoolroom. Rather funny! Some secret between
them, I suppose. The beggar was always backing twenty-one; though he
very seldom brings it off. What’s his superstition? Did he meet her
when she was twenty-one, or marry her when she was, or was it the date
when they got married, or what?”
“It’s the date—the day of the month—when she and Waldo didn’t get
married,” I explained.
“By Jove! Then they’re—they’re lovers still!” The inference which
Godfrey thus drew seemed to affect him considerably. He sat silent for
a minute or two, apparently reflecting on it and frowning sullenly.
Then he went on. “Then Valdez said, with one of his grins, ‘Mr. Frost
can give you news of some old friends, Lucinda.’ She wasn’t a bit
embarrassed at that, but she didn’t seem interested either. She was
just decently polite about it—hoped they were all well, was sorry to
hear of Waldo’s wound, wished she had happened to meet you and asked
if you were coming back—I’d mentioned that you’d gone to Paris on this
job of yours. In fact, she didn’t shirk the subject of the family, but
she treated it as something that didn’t matter to her; she looked as if
she was thinking of something else all the time. She often gives you
that kind of impression. Valdez had never referred again to her joining
us at the hotel—staying there with us, I mean; and he said nothing
about it at this meeting. I could only suppose that she had refused.
And now, when she got up to go, he didn’t propose that we, or even he
himself, should escort her. I made some suggestion of the kind, but she
just said, ‘Oh, no, thank you, I’d rather go by myself.’ And off she
went—about half-past nine. We finished the evening playing baccarat—at
least I did—at the little hell to which he had already taken me. He
seemed very much at home there; all the people of the place knew him,
laughed and joked with him; but he didn’t often play there; he doesn’t
much care about baccarat. He used to sit talking with the proprietor,
a fat old Jew, in the corner, or chatting with the fellow who changed
your money for you, with whom he seemed on particularly friendly terms.
All that part of it was a bore, but she always went away early, and one
had to finish the evenings somewhere.”
“Oh, then she came again, did she?” I asked.
“She came to dinner the next three nights; once again to dine with
Arsenio; he’d got some funds from somewhere and actually insisted on
paying for those two dinners—I was footing the general hotel bill, of
course; twice as my guest. She was always much the same; cool, quiet,
reserved, but quite pleasant and amused. Presently I got the idea that
she was amused at me. I caught her looking at me sometimes with a smile
and a sort of ruminative look in her eyes; once, when I smiled back,
she gave a little laugh. The fact is, I suppose, she saw I admired her
a good deal. Well, that brought us to the Thursday. I had to go over to
the works that day, and I spent the night with our manager. I didn’t
get back till Friday evening, and then I found that Valdez, getting
bored, I suppose, and having some money in his pocket, had gone off to
Monte Carlo. Rather cool, but I expect he couldn’t help it. He left
word that he’d be back next day. I spent an infernally dull evening by
myself at that dreary little hole of a hotel. I almost had the car out
again and went back to Villa San Carlo, It would have saved a lot of
trouble if I had!
“I’m not going to tell you what I felt; I’m not good at it. I’ll tell
you what I did, and you can draw your own conclusions. I was quit of
Valdez for a bit; I spent all the next day on my feet, prowling about
the town, looking for her; because, after all, she must be somewhere in
the place. And I knew that she had a job. So I reckoned the likeliest
chance to happen on her in the streets was during the _déjeuner_ hour.
So I didn’t lunch, but prowled round all that hour. My next best chance
would be the going home hour; you see that?”
“The business mind applied to gallantry is wonderful,” I replied. “Now
a mere poet would have lain on the sofa and dreamt of Donna Lucinda!”
“But I had to put in the time in between—always with the off-chance, of
course. I got pretty tired, and, when I found myself up at Cimiez about
four o’clock, I felt like a cup of tea, so I turned into the first
hotel I came to. One of those big affairs, with palm gardens and what
not; the ‘Imperial Palace’ it called itself, I think. I pushed through
one of those revolving doors and came into a lounge place—you know the
sort of thing?
“I sat down at a table about halfway down the lounge and ordered tea.
Then I lit a cigarette and looked about me. Round about the door there
were a lot of showcases, fitted on to the wall, with jewelry, silver
plate, and so on, displayed in them. There was another large one, full
of embroidered linen and lace things; it was open, and at it, sampling
the goods and chattering away like one o’clock, were Mrs. Forrester
and Eunice Unthank—no, not Nina too, thank Heaven! Because the neat
girl who was selling, or trying to sell, the stuff, was Madame Valdez!
I picked up a copy of the day before yesterday’s _Temps_ from the
next table, held it before my face, and peered at them over it. She
wasn’t in her blue frock now; she wore plain black, with a bit of white
round the neck; short skirt and black silk stockings. They brought my
tea; I drank it with one hand and held the _Temps_ up with the other;
naturally I didn’t want Mrs. Forrester and Eunice to see me!
“They were the deuce of a time—Lord, I could buy or sell half Europe
in the time a woman takes over a pocket-handkerchief!—but I didn’t
mind that; I had my plan. At last they went; she did up their parcel
and went with them to the door, with lots of ‘Thank you’ and ‘Good-by’
(they spoke English) on both sides. It was past five; I waited still,
and meanwhile finished and paid for my tea. I saw her making entries
in a ledger; then she went through the case, checking her stock, I
suppose; then, just as a clock struck five-thirty, she shut the case
with a little bang and turned the key; then she disappeared into a
cupboard or something, and came back in her hat and jacket. By that
time I was by the door, with my hat and stick in my hand. We met just
by her case—which, by the way, had on it in large gilt letters, _Maison
de la Belle Étoile_, Nice.
“‘Good-evening,’ I said. ‘May I have the pleasure of walking home with
you, Madame Valdez?’
“She didn’t seem surprised. ‘I’m Mademoiselle Lucie here,’ she said,
smiling. ‘Oh, yes, if you like. Take me down to the Promenade—by the
sea. I’m half stifled.’
“We said hardly anything on the way down—at any rate, nothing of any
importance; and it was dusk; I could see her face only dimly. When we
got to the Promenade, and the wind from the sea caught us in the face,
she sighed, ‘Ah!’ and suddenly took my arm. ‘Was it a fluke, or did you
come to look for me? Did Arsenio tell you?’
“‘No, he didn’t. I’ve hunted the town all day for you. And I’ve found
you at last. Arsenio’s gone to Monte Carlo.’
“‘I know he has. Why did you want to find me? You needn’t worry about
me. I’m all right. I’ve got a very good situation now. I find it’s
easier work to sell things than to make them, Mr. Frost. And the
_patrons_ are pleased with me. They say I have an ingratiating way that
produces business! I wonder whether I was ingratiating with that woman
and girl just now! They spent three hundred francs!’
“Do you know the sudden change that comes in her voice when she means
to be extra friendly? I can’t begin to describe it—something like the
jolliest kitten in the world purring! No, that’s absurd——Oh, well!
What she said was, ‘I like you and I like your dinners. But aren’t you
rather silly to do it?’ Yes, she was very friendly, but just a bit
contemptuous too. ‘Because you’re a great young man, aren’t you? And
I’m a _midinette_! Besides, you know about me, I expect. And so you’ll
know that Arsenio and I are married. Ask your cousin, Mr. Frost.’
“All I said was, ‘I’m glad you like me.’ She laughed. ‘And you like me?
Why?’
“Then I made a most damned fool of myself, Julius. I don’t really know
how I came to do it, except that the thing’s true, of course. I’ve
laughed at the thing myself ever since I laughed at anything—in revues,
and _Punch_, and everywhere. I said,—yes, by Jove, I did!—I said,
‘You’re so different from other women, Donna Lucinda!’
“What an ass! Of course you can’t help laughing too, Julius! But,
after all, I’m glad I did make such an ass of myself, because she just
burst into an honest guffaw—and so did I, a minute later. We became a
thousand times better friends just in that minute.”
Godfrey paused in his narrative and gazed at me. I am afraid that a
smile still lingered on my face. “You didn’t do yourself justice; you
tell the story very well,” I said.
“Of course I wasn’t quite such an ass as I sounded,” said he. “What I
really meant, but couldn’t exactly have said, was——”
“I know exactly what it was, Godfrey. But I think it was much cleverer
of you to know you meant it than it is of me to know that you meant
it. You meant that Donna Lucinda Valdez has a personality markedly
different from that possessed by Lady Dundrannan?”
“I don’t suppose that I did know that I meant it—at that moment.”
“But you know that you mean it now?”
“That—and more,” he said.
“Your idea of seeing whether Arsenio’s system worked seems to have led
you a little further than you contemplated,” I observed. He had chaffed
me that evening, after my dinner at Arsenio’s—or Nina’s—expense; he had
aired his shrewdness. I seemed entitled to give him a dig.
“Are you surprised?” he asked, after a pause, suddenly, taking not the
least heed of my gibe.
There were a hundred flippant answers that I might have given him. But
I gave him none of them. His young, strong face wore a dour look—the
look of a man up against something big, determined to tackle it, not
yet seeing how. The animation which had filled him, as he warmed to
his story, had for the moment worked itself out. He looked dull,
heavy, tired.
“No, I’m not surprised,” I said. “But what’s the use? You know her
story.”
“What do you mean by that?” he demanded, rather peremptorily.
“She threw up everything in the world for Arsenio Valdez; she still
blushes like a school-girl when Arsenio backs Number 21. They’re
lovers still, as you yourself said a little while ago. Well, then——!
Besides—there’s Nina. Are you going to—desert?”
“Nina?” He repeated the name half-absently; perhaps the larger share
of his attention was occupied by the other part of my remarks. “Yes,
Nina, of course!” But, as he dwelt on the thought of Lady Dundrannan
(suddenly, as it seemed, recalled to his mind), his look of depression
disappeared. He smiled in amusement—with an element of wonder in it;
and he spoke as if he were surprising me with a wonderful discovery.
“I say, Julius, Lucinda positively laughs at Nina, you know!”