Despite Bert Stanley’s crudities and carelessness and boisterousness, he
had no mean capacity for friendship. He was fond of Kendall Ware with
that sort of friendship which one so often finds in men of his character
for others of finer fiber. He did not understand Kendall, nor did he try
overly hard to understand him; it was enough that he liked him and
rather admired him. Sometimes his attitude toward his friend was of
humorous tolerance. He laughed to himself when Ken took some slight
affair with gravity and seriousness. He thought Ken was a bit queer and
moody. As for himself, he took things as they presented themselves and
made the best of it, not inquiring into causes and not caring about
results unless there was a possibility of their presenting themselves in
too unpleasant fashion.
For instance, he had seen Kendall thrown into somber mood by a
discussion of the unhappy future of hundreds of thousands of French
girls deprived of men with whom to marry. Of course it did look a bit
tough on the women, Bert thought, but what can you expect? And what
could one do about it? He put this thought into words.
“Do about it?” Kendall replied, gloomily. “That’s the devil of
it—there’s nothing that can be done about it. They’re just up against
it.... Poor devils!”
“Oh, it’ll come out all right somehow,” Bert said, with a shrug.
“They’ll find men somewhere.”
“Find men!... There aren’t any men. You can’t take a stick and whittle
out men.”
“Then what in thunder is the use worrying about it? It’s so, and that’s
all there is to it. No use getting gloomy.”
“But it makes me gloomy. It’s so rotten unfair. It’s horrible. Just
think of what it means to them!...”
“Just don’t think about it and you’ll be better off.”
It was this sort of thing that Bert failed to understand. He could
imagine a man worrying because he was out of a job, or because he had
broken his leg, or because his house was on fire; but why anybody should
go out of his way to fuss over something that seemed to him like a
rather distant abstraction, he failed to comprehend. But Ken always did
it.
Bert could never understand the effect of the sight of Paris on his
friend. Of course it was a regular city, different from New York and
Chicago, but there was no use to rave about it or to stand on a bridge
mooning and looking at a row of buildings. Paris meant a good time of an
exotic sort to Bert—and that was all. He was willing to agree that the
town was beautiful if anybody insisted, but what was the use of
insisting? A town was a town. It wasn’t what a town looked like that
made it a good place to be; it was the business opportunities of the
town and the opportunities for pleasure when business was over for the
day. He went with Kendall to see Notre Dame, and wondered why in the
dickens anybody had ever gone to the trouble to hew all those ugly
carvings out of stone, or why they should run fringes of them around a
church. It was a sort of dingy old place, anyhow.... Now for a regular
building, give him the Hôtel de Ville. That was something like, because
it might have been the post-office or a railroad station in New York. He
would have traded his chance to see all the ramshackle cathedrals in
France for one sight of the Woolworth Building. Now there was something!
There was some use in going to see that structure! It was capable of
astonishing him—but only because it was so lofty. To see it of a spring
morning with the hazy sun tipping its golden peak meant nothing to him
except looking at a tall building early in the day.... There wasn’t a
high building in Paris! But Ken wanted to poke around to see such things
as Notre Dame, and if he got pleasure out of it, that was his business.
Nevertheless, Bert saw dimly that Kendall had something admirable which
was denied to him. Not that he wanted it especially! He was very well
satisfied, but somehow he admired Ken for having it and liked him the
better for it.... And Ken was always philosophizing about things, and
advancing theories, and worrying about morals, and splitting hairs of
right and wrong. To Bert certain things were wrong, and the rest didn’t
matter. It was wrong to murder and to steal or to kick a child or to
cheat at cards or in any other game. As for the bulk of the rest of the
possible acts of man, he saw them as neuter, and not mattering much....
But Ken could get up a moral argument over the way he spread his bread!
And these arguments had the power to upset his friend completely, to
make him gloomy, to worry him.... It was utter nonsense, but it was a
part of Ken and Ken was his friend.
He felt a sort of duty to look after Ken, a responsibility for him. He
was actually troubled sometimes by one of Ken’s moods and deliberately
thought up means to cheer him.... And now he was really worried. He had
never seen Kendall as he had appeared last night. Something out of the
ordinary had happened. Most likely it was nothing that the ordinary
fellow would think twice about, but the Lord only knew how it would
affect Ken. Anyhow, Ken thought he was in some sort of trouble, and Bert
was really disturbed. He had wanted to do something about it last night,
but Madeleine had prevented, and now he felt rather guilty. Putting on
his bathrobe and slippers, he went to Ken’s door and opened it softly.
Ken was sitting up in bed, staring out of the window.
“Morning,” said Bert, affably.
“Morning,” replied Kendall, shortly.
“Um!... Cheerful, ain’t you? Say, what’s eating you, anyhow?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing, my aunt’s knee-cap! Come through. What’s carried off your
goat?”
Kendall did not reply.
“Get up and have breakfast. I hear Arlette in the kitchen. You’ll feel
better after you’ve had a bowl of chocolate warming up your tummy.”
“I don’t want any breakfast.”
“Huh?...” Bert was beginning now to be seriously troubled. “Say, what’s
the matter, anyhow? Is it Andree?”
“I’ve just been a damn fool, that’s all.”
“Ought to be used to it,” said Bert, flippantly, and then, more
seriously, “Say, you don’t mean to say that you’ve gone and went and
fallen in love with her, or anything like that?”
“Look here,” Ken said, morosely, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I do,” said Bert, with a grin, “so we’re going to talk. I’m the
biggest, and I can doggone well hold you while we thrash it out. Now
tell it to your uncle. Are you in love with Andree?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“That means you are.... What about it? Say, you don’t mean you’re
worrying about _marrying_ her, do you?”
Ken laughed unpleasantly. “I wouldn’t marry her if she was the last
woman on earth. I never want to see her again. I never want to think
about her again.”
“Huh! Had a row, eh?”
“No.”
Bert glowered at his friend a minute. “I don’t know whether you are
interested or not, but you give me an acute pain. Why in blazes can’t
you go along and have a good time like a fellow ought to without always
landing into the middle of something that fusses you all up? You think
too darn much.... Now there’s Madeleine and I—you don’t see me doing any
worrying or scrapping, do you? Well!... Nor falling in love. You bet you
don’t! When I fall in love it will be with some American girl, and then
I’ll settle down and raise a family and wear slippers in the evening.
But now I’m out to have what fun is going before I get my style cramped.
I like Madeleine and she likes me.... That’s all. I’m giving her a good
time, and she’s a good fellow—but that’s all there is to it. She knows
it and I know it, and there you are. I saw to that right at the
start-off. I told her. You bet I did! I said to her, ‘Now look here,
young lady, we’re just playing, understand. There’s nothing serious
about this. I’m going back to America some day, and when I do, it’s
good-by.’ And she feels the same way about it.... And that’s the only
system.”
Arlette came shuffling into the room after Kendall’s shoes and responded
to Bert’s greeting with a grin and a bob of her head.
“Arlette,” said Bert, “Monsieur Ken’s in love. You’ve had experience,
eh? What’s to be done about it?”
“Eh?... In love!... _Mon Dieu!_ What does one do about it? One makes
nothing. Either one is in love or one is not.... I have been in love.”
She wagged her head sagely.
“I knew it. I could tell it just by looking at you. What did you do?”
“I married ... and now I have grandchildren, and love is no more for
me.... But I remember it, messieurs.... Yes, yes, I often think of it.
Is that not droll?” Again she waggled her head.
“But Monsieur Ken is in love and he doesn’t seem to like it.”
“It happens so,” she said. “There is both joy and sorrow. But monsieur
is loved in return. I have perceived it. Why, then, is he not joyous?”
“You tell the answer. I don’t know.”
“He loves Mademoiselle Andree; Mademoiselle Andree loves him. She is
very pretty, very sweet.... Well, then?” She made a gesture with her
arms as if to say that the thing was beyond human comprehension.
“All the Americans are mad,” said Bert in French, employing the phrase
of the streets.
“It is true,” said Arlette, nodding. “I have seen it.”
“And when they are in love they are madder than ever.”
“It may well be believed.”
“Oh, get out and leave me alone, both of you,” Ken said, morosely.
“Nothing of the sort. Explain carefully the difficulty to Arlette and
me. We are the council of experts.”
“It’s nothing—except that I was a fool to get mixed up in this kind of a
thing. It’s rotten.”
“It’s his conscience, Arlette,” said Bert, with mock impressiveness.
“When the conscience makes to interfere in a matter of love,” said
Arlette, “it means either that one is not in love at all or that one is
jealous. Love, messieurs, is its own conscience.”
“Madeleine said you were jealous last night. Two experts agree....
Jealous! Um!...”
“I’m not jealous, you gibbering idiot. I—It’s just that I thought Andree
was something and find she’s not.... It’s the whole idea over here. I
thought it was right—and it’s rotten. I was losing my balance. I thought
wrong could be right.”
“It never can be when the other fellow does it,” said Bert, with more
acuteness than usual. “Then you’re not worrying about marrying Andree?
And you have discovered that you’re being very wicked, and so you’re in
the dumps, and you’re figuring on calling the whole thing off and living
a noble and austere life. Huh!... What happened last night? You can’t
fool your uncle. You got a letter from home, and then something
happened. What was it?”
“I saw Andree with that actor.”
“_Mon Dieu!_” exclaimed Arlette, and she passed off, as though
frightened, to her kitchen.
“You saw them together? Where?”
“In a café?”
“Yes—go on.”
“That’s all.”
“And you—Oh, say—all this cat-fit is because you saw Andree in a café
with another man! Get out!”
“With that particular man. You know what Jacques said about him.... You
know Andree wants to get into the _Conservatoire_ and on the stage. I
introduced them—”
“More fool you,” said Bert, succinctly.
“It was plain enough. She could use him. She needed his influence—so—Oh,
what’s the use? I don’t want to talk about it.”
Bert thought that Ken’s view was altogether likely. And why not? But he
conceived it to be his duty to argue against it in his friend’s
interest. “Just a case of plain, or garden, jealousy. Nothing to it. You
see them together in a café and jump to conclusions. Didn’t hang around
to see where they went?”
“Certainly not.”
“Made up your mind with a snap—and then, because you were jealous, and
it looked as if your nose was out of joint, you hollered sour grapes. In
a second it all got to be immoral and naughty—and you’re worked up to a
state of mind.... If this actor had never come along, and if Andree had
loved you alone and all that, would it have been wrong?... Of course
not, and you know it.”
Ken did not reply, but he had an uncomfortable feeling that Bert was
right.
“You’d better give her a chance to explain—or did you burst in on the
party and rear and tear all over the place?”
“They never knew I saw them.”
“Then, old son, you’d better let Andree tell you about it. Madeleine
says she loves you and Arlette says she loves you—and, believe me,
they’re experts.”
“If she loves me, and then would do such a thing, it’s all the worse....
I’ll never see her again.”
“Well, if your mind’s made up, there’s the end of the whole thing. Get
up and eat and forget it.... The river’s full of fish.”
“You don’t think I’d try it again. Never!... I’ve been a fool, and a
rotten fool.... I fooled myself into thinking one could do this kind of
thing and not be wrong. I got it into my head that our ideas of morals
in America were old-fashioned and narrow and absurd, and that the French
were right.”
“Of course you’d have to philosophize about it.”
“Well, I’m through now. I’ve got what was coming to me—and right on top
of it there was a letter from mother.”
“I’ll bet I know the kind. I’ve stayed at your house, you know.”
“Do you think—” Ken bit his lips and stopped.
“No, and I’m not going to. I’m satisfied. What’s the use wasting energy
thinking when it doesn’t earn you anything? You got a jolt and a sermon,
and between them they’ve given you a mental twister.... After we’ve
walked down to the office you’ll feel better, son.... Get up before I
haul you out.”
Kendall got heavily out of bed while Bert returned to his own room to
dress. When one is Kendall Ware’s age the morning should be the
pleasantest part of the day, and usually it is so. One does not arise
weary and irritable, but joyously, looking forward to the day that is
coming.... This morning Ken left his bed like a man of sixty whose
digestion has become the primary consideration of his life, and who is
not fit to enter human society before noon. He had not slept well, his
head was heavy—and he despised himself. At any rate, he fancied he
despised himself, which makes for the same result. There was the sharp
grief of youth as well, and one does not wisely who belittles the griefs
of youth. It seems to be true that the energies which make youth
wonderful give of their strength to the pain that youth can feel.... Now
he was certain he had loved Andree and he had never experienced anything
that compared with the distress and chagrin at his discovery that he had
loved an unworthy object. He had idealized Andree, had made of her
something more than human, something above the laws of humanity, mystic,
of the stuff of which fairies are made, and she had been proved dross
and himself a self-deluded fool.... He was bitter against himself and
her. His thoughts made him well worthy to accept a high place in the
company of those who gathered in the vestibule of his church at home....
He approached the table without appetite, and Arlette, when she brought
in the pitcher of chocolate, eyed him sidewise and askance, and waddled
out, shaking her head uneasily. He could hear her muttering to herself,
and it annoyed him, because he knew she was troubled about him. Bert had
chosen to leave him alone and to let the thing run its course, so the
breakfast was a silent one. They put on their overseas caps and
descended the stairs without a word.
In the passageway the _concierge_ was waiting for them with the friendly
smile which had always made his returnings to the apartment seem more
like homecomings. She rested on her broom and wished them good morning.
“Your national _fête_ is but a few days away,” she said. “It is made a
national _fête_ for us also—this fourth day of July. All Paris—all
France will make it a day the like of which has not been seen. I hear
this on all sides.... It is a pleasure to me to have American officers
in this house. I am envied. I speak only the truth. Therefore I hope
messieurs the American officers will procure for me flags of their
country to hang from their windows. It will be an honor. Will messieurs
see to this matter?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Bert. “I’ll get them for you to-day.”
“Many thanks,” she said, and returned to her sweeping.
“Nice old lady,” said Bert. “They’re all nice. Cordial lot—these French
people.... I wonder how we would act in America if we had a couple of
millions of foreign soldiers planted down on us. Mostly we’re
disagreeable to strangers.”
Ken did not answer. He was staring straight before him and thinking,
thinking, thinking. His thoughts were intolerant thoughts, uncharitable,
narrow. It was of thoughts such as his, persisted in until they become
habitual, that are born the hanging of witches and the burning of
martyrs.... They were not natural to him, and they filled him with
discomfort and restlessness. He had a vague sense that he was being not
altogether fair, and that he was condemning the whole because of a fault
in a part. All France must not necessarily be evil because Andree had
proved to be faithless, but he was declaring it to be evil. There was no
good in it; there was no good in anything except the ruthless bigotry
which had taken possession of him. There was no God but Puritanism, and
Narrowness was its prophet....
They reached the Élysées Palace Hotel in which were their offices. He
had not enjoyed his walk; there had been none of that pleasure which
always before he derived from the great open stretches and wide
boulevards of Paris. Beauty had ceased to exist or to signify.... He had
a sensation of being shriveled up and dried—of lifelessness, and his
thoughts seemed to rub against one another like sand-paper.... He saw it
all as the unpleasant process of a moral awakening; it was not that; it
was the disgruntlement of a youth over a love-affair gone awry....
“Hope it wears off during the day,” said Bert.
Ken only grunted, and turned up the stairs.
It was a futile day and he was glad when it came to an end. It was not
until he was hanging his cap on the hall tree that he remembered Andree
was to come—to come there to dine this evening. He paused with hand in
mid-air as he recalled how they had made the plan. Hereafter she was not
to meet him at the Metro, but would come directly to the apartment. It
would be better, and there was something exquisitely attractive about
it. He had been very happy. Her lips had been close to his as she had
given her promise to come there to him; the perfume of her had been in
his nostrils, and in that maddening way of perfumes it returned now
unasked and undesired. It was almost as if she were there, close to him,
but invisible. He remembered that she had lain in his arms at the
moment, smiling, sweet, a marvelous creature to be treasured with a
great tenderness.... And she had gone from that to a meeting with
another man—to purchase material success at the price of spurious
love!...
What should he do? He did not want to see her, felt that he could not
undergo the ordeal of seeing her.... He snatched his cap and turned to
the door, only to replace it again on the hall tree and to stand
wavering, undecided.... He did not know it, would not admit it, but his
heart cried out to see her, to feel the delight of her presence.... He
despised her, but he loved her.... As one does at such moments, he
sought refuge in sophistry. It was necessary for him to see her this
last single time. He must tell her that he had detected her infamy and,
with harsh words, cast her out of his life. He told himself that this
was both appropriate and essential.... Yes, he would allow her to come
and would admit her—and then—and then she should hear the truth, the
bald truth. She should hear what a decent man thought of such behavior
as hers.... Not that it would benefit her or change a character that
could be guilty of the thing of which she was guilty.... But he had to
accuse her.... It was the desire, the cruel desire, which comes to every
man at some moment, for some cause, to inflict agony on the one he most
loves....
Kendall glanced at his watch. It wanted fifteen minutes to seven, the
hour at which Andree would arrive, so he went into the _salon_, there to
pace up and down, restlessly composing dignified but biting speeches one
after the other and forgetting them as soon as composed.... Bert entered
and spoke to him, but Kendall only growled, and Bert passed into his own
room with a shrug. From the door to the window Kendall paced, and from
the window to the door, to and fro, with rapid, excited stride. As the
moment of Andree’s arrival neared, his thoughts became less coherent and
himself more apprehensive. He felt that it was his duty to be very
angry, so he worked himself up to anger.... Then came a soft, timid rap
at the door.
He strode into the hall and flung the door open savagely. There stood
Andree, fragile, lovely, appealing, her face turned up to his with that
wistful question which it always wore when they first met. She looked so
dainty, so small, so sweet!... Her eyes met his and waited a moment for
his smile of welcome before they smiled. Always she seemed to be
afraid—afraid that she would not read welcome in his eyes. He remembered
it, and her look accused him. He stood silent, staring. Her lips parted
at the strangeness of his manner and he saw astonishment grow in her
dark-shaded eyes.... He found the rage up to which he had worked himself
slipping away from him; as he looked down at her it even seemed
impossible to believe that she was not all he had thought her to be.
There was an innocence, a trustfulness about her.
“Come in, mademoiselle,” he said, coldly, stepping back to permit her to
pass.
She entered slowly, diffidently. He could see that she was surprised,
hurt by his manner, and a feeling of guilt overtook him. She stopped
near him and turned expectantly.... He understood. He was expected to
act the lover; she was awaiting his lover-like greeting.... He
discovered how much bolder and more resolute one may be in anticipation
than at the required moment.
“Do not take off your things,” he said, striving to keep his voice
steady and emotionless. “Will you come in here?”
She obeyed silently, with a silence that came from sudden apprehension.
He followed her and stood before her, searching for words with which to
begin, and she, her face grave and a little sad, as was its custom,
stood very still, but once or twice her eyes turned upward quickly to
read his face. The speeches he had prepared against this moment had
hidden themselves away, and he was left with an uncomfortable feeling of
inadequacy to the event. He hesitated; the silence became unsupportable,
and he began with sudden harshness, a harshness that a little frightened
himself when he heard it.
“I never intended to see you again,” he said, “but I forgot you were
coming here to-night.” He spoke in English, rapidly, but she understood
him, for her eyes lifted now and remained fixed on his own, dark,
frightened, appealing. He looked into them and turned hastily away.
There was a magic in them that he feared; they seemed so pure, so
honest.... Her lips parted a little, but she did not speak.
“I loved you,” he said, hoarsely, “and I trusted you.... I thought you
were good and honest. I trusted you, do you understand? Trusted you and
believed in you.” Words were coming more easily now, and with facility
in speech returned what he fancied to be his righteous anger. “I was a
fool.... I thought that you, even brought up in this city, in this way
of life, could be good and faithful.... You fooled me—I should have
known better. It was my own fault.... But I’ve got my lesson. I’ve seen.
I know now.... I loved you—I was all ready to love you—but I despise
you.... Do you understand? I despise you. You are bad—bad. You said you
loved me and you gave me your love—and it was all a lie.... How many
other men are you telling the same thing? Is every day given to
somebody?” He was bitter now, cruelly bitter.
She did not speak, but stared up at him as though she did not believe,
at least as if she did not understand. Her face was pitiful in its
surprise and pain. Motionless, without movement or gesture, she stood
and looked up into his face as a dog might look into the face of his
master, knowing that master is about to shoot him to death.
“I never want to see you again. I want to forget you. I wish I could
forget that I ever saw you and all that has happened. Probably it
doesn’t matter to you. Maybe you don’t see any harm in what you’ve
done—but it was squalid and contemptible.”
His voice rose with his anger and she shrank back from him. Bert,
startled, came hurrying into the room and stopped with amazement.
“Ken,” he exclaimed, “easy ... easy. What’s all this?”
“Please go away, Bert.... I’m telling her what I think of her.... Go
away.”
Bert looked curiously at Andree, who did not move her eyes from
Kendall’s face, and then he shook his head.
“No need to shout,” he said. “You’re excited, old man.” He turned to
Andree. “You mustn’t mind him. He’s wrought up about something.”
Andree did not appear to notice that Bert was present.
He laid his hand on Kendall’s arm. “Come along,” he said. “Don’t say
something you’ll be sorry for.... If you want Andree to go away, I’ll
take her.... Come on into your room.” He was really apprehensive, for
Kendall’s eyes glowed somberly, his face was convulsed with toxic
emotion.
Ken shook off his friend’s hand. “Leave me be.... This is my affair.” He
pointed to the door. “Go!...” he said to Andree, his voice quivering.
“You don’t know what you’ve done—what miserable thing you’ve done.... I
despise you.... I despise you....”
Bert stepped forward and touched her arm. “You’d better go, I guess,” he
said in a low tone. “Ken’s pretty excited. Let me take you down.” His
voice was sympathetic.
Andree did not move. “Oh, I do not onderstan’.... I do not onderstan’
...” she said, like a frightened child.
“Don’t lie,” said Kendall, furiously. “Go!... And never come back....
I’ll never see you again.”
She stood an instant more, her eyes seeking his, demanding of his. Then,
very slowly, very quietly, without sob or even a quiver of her dainty
lips, she turned and walked to the door. There she paused and turned to
look at him again, rather drooping, hopeless, appealing.... “Oh, it is
not well.... I do not onderstan’,” she said.
Kendall turned his back.... In another instant the door had opened and
closed and Andree was gone. He stood with hands clenched, experiencing a
certain unholy satisfaction. He had done the thing thoroughly. He had
finished it. He had told her what he thought of her, and he was rid of
her forever.
Presently Bert returned. He walked up to his friend with a grim look
upon his usually nonchalant face. “That was pretty average brutal,” he
said. “Maybe it’s good Presbyterian to do that sort of thing.... If it
is, I thank God I’m a heathen.... That poor little kid! Did you see her
face?...”