Andree glanced at her watch as she emerged from the Metro at the
St.-Michel station that evening and noticed that it was almost exactly
seven o’clock. With quaint, almost stiff little steps she proceeded
across the Place, her eyes lowered with that charmingly unconscious
demureness which was a part of her, her thoughts directed inward, as
they always seemed to be. She had a gift of detachment; it was possible
for her to be in the midst of a crowd, and yet to seem and to be
unconscious of the crowd’s proximity or existence. She always seemed
grave, with a tiny hint of apprehension, and when, as she rarely did,
she raised her eyes to regard some passing individual, it was with a
sort of naïve wonder to discover that there was another human being in
her neighborhood.... That is how she impressed one. What she was really
thinking, how much she saw of what went on about her, nobody ever knew.
Kendall, who had studied her every mood, had not the least idea of what
her little head busied itself with. She was a dainty mystery to him. She
was a dainty mystery to everybody who felt an interest in her.
“Good evening, Mademoiselle Andree,” said a voice in her own language,
and she looked up with that childishly startled air which was hers
alone. It was Monsieur Robert, smiling with handsome boyishness and with
a twinkle of mischief in his eye. She regarded him gravely.
“Good evening, monsieur,” she replied, timidly.
“I have good fortune,” he said. “I have thought of you so often; I have
wished to meet you, and, behold! here you are.”
She made no reply, but stood looking at him questioningly.
“Is it permitted to say that mademoiselle is very pretty this evening—as
always?... Ah, we were to be friends, do you remember? It was agreed,
was it not? And some day we were to talk of many things ... of the
_Académie_ and the Comédie and of yourself. Was it not so?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“It is well.” He laughed gaily. “Then shall we talk this evening? You
shall dine with me, then.... It is impossible that you are much
occupied. Fortune could not be so unkind. You will dine with me and we
will talk of those plans of yours?”
She considered a moment unsmilingly, and Monsieur Robert wondered what
were her thoughts. It was impossible to guess.
“Yes,” she said, presently.
“There is a café at the corner of the rue Soufflot. Does that please
you?”
“Yes.”
He took his place at her side and they continued up the boulevard,
Andree silent and apparently preoccupied; Monsieur Robert laughing, gay,
exerting all his great charm and displaying his high abilities in droll
humor. Occasionally Andree looked up at him a moment and smiled, but for
the most part she was serious and gave what answers were required of her
in monosyllables. They found a table on the sidewalk of the café and
gave their orders.
“Mademoiselle desires to enter the _Académie_?” said he.
“Yes.”
“It is not easy to gain admission, which is correct. It is not every one
who is fit.... There are the examinations, which are difficult.”
“I have not fear of the examinations, for I have studied very much. It
is that—” She hesitated.
“That you have not an influential friend to make the recommendation. Is
that it?”
“Yes.”
He laughed easily. “Why do you wish to become an actress?”
“Because I must do something—I must find a career, because it is
necessary to eat. The stage is very well. I think I can do it; I have
always felt I was for the stage.”
“That is very well. One must feel so.... You have the beauty that
appeals, yes. You have the youth. You have the intelligence, that is
clear. Now, if only you have the talent, the genius—”
“One does not know.”
“Until one makes the attempt, it is true.... But I have a feeling it is
there, mademoiselle. Something tells me so. I am sure of it.”
“You are very amiable.”
“No.... No.... It is but the truth.... But there is much hard work. In
the _Académie_ one must work until one is ready to drop with fatigue.”
“It is nothing—if one succeeds.”
“True.... And the success is very good. Ah, mademoiselle, I can see the
success of you. Behold!... To-day you are not rich, is it not so? You
have no fame. But the future—what possibilities are there!... You
succeed in entering the _Académie_. That is possible. You work, you
study, you learn.... The teachers see that you have beauty, and they
search for the talent.... That is their way, and when they see it to be
present they make you work the harder and bestow upon you the extra
pains. Oh yes.... I can see it. Then, with good fortune, you take the
first prize of all the women, and that makes a place for you on the
stage of the Comédie Française. You shall be a _comédienne_—that is for
you.... And then—one day will come the great success....” He stopped
suddenly and regarded her.
“Can you not see it? To-day you—you are very charming, but you are
merely you. You have nothing, you are nothing. You have a room, perhaps,
for which you pay seventy francs a month. Am I not right? You are not
happy. You are hidden.... But then comes a wonderful night. You make the
great success. Paris is at your feet. Paris adores you.... What does it
mean? Ah, mademoiselle, one can scarcely imagine it. It means a career,
a great success in life. It means to be adored, to have all that a
beautiful woman can desire.... It means applause and the envy of all the
world—everything! everything!... What a change! What a wonderful
change!”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes glowing.
“It means that famous men will compete for your favor. You will be
pointed out everywhere, received everywhere.... The papers will speak of
your every movement.... You will be happy.”
“Yes,” she said.
Then his manner changed, his enthusiasm seemed to die, and he looked
steadily into her face.
“But before it all comes one must enter the _Académie_.”
“It is so.”
“Mademoiselle, do you want very much to do so?”
“Oh, greatly! greatly!”
“Then it shall be. I guarantee it.”
“Oh, monsieur!”
He leaned over the table, his face serious now, his handsome eyes eager.
“If mademoiselle will be kind,” he said.
She looked at him an instant and let her eyes fall.
“Ah,” she said.
“I love you.... I adore you.”
“No,” she replied, with the merest hint of a smile. “It is not so. You
do not love me.”
“You are very lovely.... You are poor—you shall be rich. You are
unknown—you shall be famous.... And I love you.”
She did not lift her eyes now, but sat very still and looked at her
plate. Her face told him nothing; it had not altered its expression of
detached gravity—and it intrigued him, made her the more desirable
because he could not understand her. Her lips quivered, she closed her
eyes and drew a little breath which was almost a sigh.
“It cannot be, monsieur.”
He sat erect, astonished, really astonished.
“You—you refuse?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“You refuse fame and wealth and all that may be yours?”
“It is necessary, monsieur.”
“And why? Why?”
“Because, monsieur, I love, and I am happy.... I am faithful.... I am
very happy.”
He stared, unbelieving. Then, “It is the American officer—this Capitaine
Ware?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“You—you throw it all away for him—for this foreigner? You throw away
your chance—your career?... It is absurd, impossible!... But look,
mademoiselle. These Americans they do not remain. There is the war.
To-morrow, the next day, he may be ordered away—he may be sent back to
America.... He will go away from you and leave you lonely.... For a
week, a month, will you throw away your life? Oh, mademoiselle, think!
It would be terrible.”
She smiled. “It is the first happiness I have known.... I love him,
monsieur, and he loves me. We are very happy.... Life is not good. It is
very bad, but there may be the little moments of happiness, and they are
most sweet. Does monsieur understand? There may be grief and loneliness
to follow, but those little moments—they are all of life.... Nothing
else is to be considered. It is as you say.... It may be a week, a
month, but I would not lose it, not for all you promise me.... And I am
constant, I am faithful.... If I must buy my little moments with this
career, then I shall pay—oh, so happily. Do you not understand? At all
events, one can remember them while life lasts.... They will make a long
life sweet.... And so, monsieur, it cannot be. I have considered and I
have chosen....”
It was at this moment, the moment when Andree was surrendering her
future, passing by the call of Fame and closing her ears to the knock of
Opportunity, that Kendall Ware glared at her above the bushes that shut
in the front of the café.... It was this moment that he saw—a wonderful,
a glowing, a superb moment. He saw a miracle, and his eyes were shut so
that it was not apparent to him....
Monsieur Robert was silent for a space, during which one might have told
the numbers to twenty, and then he arose, very gravely, dignified now,
courtly. He lifted Andree’s hand and bowed over it and his lips touched
it in token of respect and of honor.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, quietly, “I have said that I love you.... It is
true.... I have seen a great thing, a beautiful thing.... I am proud
that I have kissed your hand. From this moment I revere two women—my
mother and yourself....”
She smiled up at him with that quaint smile of hers, that smile which
was half lost child, half banished fairy. “It is nothing ...” she said.
“May I walk on with you?” he asked.
She shook her head, and then extended her hand. “Good-by, monsieur,” she
said.
He accompanied her to the open walk. “Good-by, mademoiselle,” he said,
softly, and stood looking after her until she reached the distant
Panthéon and turned the corner. Then he sighed and smiled and shook his
head and walked away. “The women of France!...” he said aloud, and there
was a hushed wonder in his voice.