Kendall Ware leaned out of a window of the apartment, looking down at
the avenue beneath. He had an unobstructed view of the sidewalk as far
as the corner. It was time for Andree to arrive, and he was watching for
her. Taxicabs rattled past, a huge _camion_ manufactured in America and
driven by an American rumbled along; a French officer, resplendent with
gold braid and medals and red trousers, walked by gaily, a beautiful
woman on each side; the _concierge_ was sweeping the sidewalk in front
of the entrance; a child or two in the inevitable black outer garment or
smock played near a bench ... and then came Andree. She was all in
white, as he loved to see her best. Perhaps it was because she had been
all in white when he saw her for the first time. She looked very tiny
from his place four stories above the street, and he watched her with
something of the tender amusement with which one watches a child when it
is unconscious of one’s presence.
Andree approached in a determined, business-like manner. One could tell
at once that she had a destination in view. The quaint stiffness of her
gait was accentuated by the angle from which he looked at her, as was
her slenderness. He watched to see if she would turn her head or allow
her eyes to vary from that intent, straight-ahead gaze which seemed to
see nothing. They did not vary. She was prim. Prim was the word, he
thought.... The white tam was jaunty, but it did not give her an air of
jauntiness; instead of doing so it gave quite another impression—that of
inexperienced youth, youth untouched by the events of life, youth that
had yet to come to a knowledge that there was evil in the world. That
was a great deal for a tam-o’-shanter to tell, but somehow it managed to
tell it. Ken leaned farther out to watch her as she came directly
underneath, wondering if she would glance up at the windows.
She did glance upward, suddenly, as if something had fallen at her feet
and startled her. She saw Ken, but she neither smiled nor waved, and
dropped her eyes again as quickly as she had raised them. But there was
about her then an air of relief, as if she had sighed audibly.... He was
there waiting for her eagerly; she had seen it, and her apprehensions,
if she had any, were quieted.
Ken listened for her step upon the stairs, but heard no sound until the
door-bell rang with a sort of tentative, hesitating ring. It seemed as
if she could touch nothing without imparting some character, something
of her mood of the moment.... He opened the door and she raised her eyes
to his and looked into his face a moment, her face perfectly immobile.
She stood very straight and still, her arms stiffly at her sides.
“My dear,” he said, and held out his arms to her.
She smiled shyly, diffidently, as she allowed him to take her in his
arms and kiss her. She was not responsive, but seemed rather
speculative.... As if she were allowing this thing to happen to see if
it were really going to happen.... And then she returned his kiss
gravely, as much as to say: “Yes, this can really happen. It is so. I am
much relieved.”
“You are _triste_,” he said, anxiously.
“_Mais non.... Mais non...._”
“Then smile.”
“When I have climb’ many stairs I cannot smile.... But I am glad.... Who
is here?”
“Nobody.”
“Not Arlette?”
“Oh yes, of course. But Bert won’t be home to dinner.”
“It is well.... _Non, non_, you mus’ not take my _sac_. It is ver’
valuable—yes. I mus’ watch it ver’ careful. It has my tickets of the
bread.”
“I’ll hang it right here, and your jacket, or whatever you call it....
What have you been doing?”
“I have work _beaucoup_. Oh, it is ver’ tiresome to work! It is much
better jus’ to play all the days.... And you? Have you theenk of me?”
“Yes.”
“I do not believe—no, no, not once have you theenk of me. You are ver’
wicked—_très-méchante_. I shall to weep.”
“I think of you when I wake up, all the morning, at noon, all the
afternoon—”
“_Non, non, non!..._” She was laughing now. “Maybe one leetle
theenk—only. But I—oh, I have theenk of you ver’ much. I have theenk you
are _pas fidèle_.”
“I!... Not faithful!”
“Yes.” She nodded her head decidedly.
“Why do you say that? You know I am _fidèle_.”
“I have see’ you.”
“Seen me—where?”
“Oh, you are ver’ wicked.... You deceive me mos’ cruel.” He could not
tell if she were serious or if she were teasing him. “Also I am mos’
_jalouse_. It is thees yo’ng girl—thees yo’ng American girl. I have see’
you with her las’ night.”
“Oh yes. We had dinner together. She has just come back to Paris for a
day or two.”
“Oh yes,” she mimicked. “I know thees leetle dinner. She tries to steal
you away from me.... You like her more than me. It is so. I see it.... I
shall take me a dagger and make her to die—so.” She laughed gaily.
“You don’t really believe I’m unfaithful at all. You’re just making fun
of me.”
“Did you bring her _here_?”
“Eh?... What’s that? Here? Maude Knox here?”
“And why not? Since you are not _fidèle_.”
“But you don’t understand. Maude Knox is an American girl. She
wouldn’t—I couldn’t—”
“Oh, it is so?... Then these American girls, they do not love. They are
stone or wood, is it so?... I do not onderstan’ these American girls.”
She was delightfully disgusted. “Sometime I shall cross the ocean to
observe these girls. It will be ver’ droll. America mus’ be a ver’
droll, ver’ serious country—where the girls do not love.”
“They do love. Of course they love.”
“Well, then, Why do you make such astonishment when I speak that she
comes here?”
He waggled his hand helplessly, and she, perceiving that she was teasing
him, put on greater pretense of seriousness.
“Ah, I see,” she said. “The American girl she say, ‘I love,’ and then
she enter into the convent.... She goes in the _jardin_ and see the bud
about to blossom, and she cover it weeth a veil. Is it not? Oh, such
love as thees! It is the love of the ice for the snow.”
“It’s different, Andree. I can’t explain it to you because I can’t
explain it to myself.”
“_Pouf!_ Different! Do you theenk I cannot perceive it is different? Oh
yes, monsieur. I perceive ver’ clearly ... the difference between alive
and dead.”
“You’re wrong. American girls can love—”
“How do you know?” she interrupted, impishly.
“—can love,” he persisted, “but all nice American girls marry—”
“To be sure. Ah, marriage—that is ver’ well. There is nothing against
marriage. Not in the least. Many people marry, and it is ver’ well. Why
not?...”
“I never can make you understand.”
“Nevair.... I cannot to onderstan’ what is not natural. Do you
onderstan’ if you see the river ron up the hill? _Mais non._ To love is
to love; to marry is to marry. It is not the same theeng altogether....”
“America is different.”
“You have say that bifore.... It mus’ be the fault of the girls.
_Oui...._ So far as I observe the men they are willing enough....
Perhaps they are so willing bicause at America they are always denied.
It is mos’ fortunate for them they come to Paris. Otherwise they would
die and not ever have been alive at all.”
“You’re a dear child and I love you and I almost understand what you’re
talking about. But you could never understand America—and sometimes I’m
glad of it.... And America never will be able to understand you.”
“What would Americans theenk of me if I come to New York?”
“They would think you were very lovely.”
“I do not mean _that_. I am not lovely. I am ver’ hideous. See, I cover
my face bicause you are afraid.”
“Let’s not bother about America—just about us.”
“But I am _jalouse_. I hate thees American yo’ng girl.”
“Fiddlesticks!”
“For all you say, I theenk she come here las’ night.”
“Now, look here—”
She laughed gaily and ran to the window. “See, I shall jump down and
die.... _Bon soir_, Arlette....”
“_Bon soir, mademoiselle. Dîner est servi._”
“It is well.... How does your little granddaughter carry herself?”
“Very well, mademoiselle. Even now she is in the kitchen and very
impatient to visit you and Monsieur Ken.”
“She must dine weeth us, mus’ she not, _cher ami_?”
“Of course. Set a place for her, Arlette. And tell her we shall have
some American cakes that I got at the commissary store.”
Arlette beamed with pride and satisfaction and padded about, setting a
third place at the table, waggling her head and whispering to herself as
she went. Ken and Andree seated themselves, and then Arlette appeared in
the door with little Arlette concealed among her skirts. The tiny head,
with its birdlike features, peeped out at them timorously.
“Enter, mademoiselle,” said Andree. “See, she has eyes only for Monsieur
Ken, is it not? She is my rival.... I shall not dine weeth her. She is
ver’ bad and wicked.”
Arlette pushed her granddaughter ahead of her, muttering to her in
French.
“_Bon soir, monsieur. Bon soir, mademoiselle_,” she said in a tiny
voice.
“Arlette!” prompted her grandmother, and set her head on one side and
made her eyes very large and round while she awaited the result of her
prompting. Little Arlette looked at her grandmother, then at Ken and
Andree in turn, and said, with the most comical manner of pride in
achievement, “Goo’-by, gent’men.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Andree, “she has learned English to make me sad! With
these accomplishments she will make short work of me.”
Ken lifted the child into her place and tilted her delicate, fragile,
fairy face upward. “You shall give me a kiss and make her very jealous,”
he said, whereupon she kissed him, keeping one eye on Andree to observe
results, and was much gratified to see her rival cover her face with her
hands to hide her grief.
“I go to America with him,” she said to Andree. “I do not know if it is
America of the North or America of the South. It does not matter. I am
to be his wife.”
“Ah, already you are American,” said Andree, slyly. “You theenk only of
marry.”
“And we shall live in a toy-shop and eat nothing but candy,” said Ken.
“Americans are very rich,” observed little Arlette. “My grandmother has
told it to me—and that I must teach my husband that it is wicked to be
careless with one’s money.... We shall not dine upon pullet.”
“You see what it is to marry,” said Andree. “Already you are denied what
you desire.... I theenk mademoiselle makes a marriage of money.”
“It is not a marriage of money, is it, _mignonne_? No. It is for true
love you marry me, is it not?”
“Oh yes, yes! I love monsieur very much.”
“But what is to become of me? I, too, love monsieur ver’ much,” said
Andree.
Arlette observed her gravely and pondered. “You, too, shall be his wife,
mademoiselle,” she said.
“Ah ... it seems I was wrong. After all, little Arlette is not wholly
American.”
The dinner was finished and Ken carried little Arlette into the _salon_
on his shoulder. She cuddled between him and Andree on the sofa,
insisted upon holding his hand, and looked at Andree with calculating
eye.
“Have you no new _chansons, petite_?” asked Ken.
“_Oui, monsieur._” And she stood up with a most serious air, taking her
position just so and smoothing down her skirts. Then she tilted up her
little chin and, with her eyes fixed gravely on Ken’s face, she sang a
song of many verses while her grandmother stood in the door and bobbed
and grinned and made signs of a great satisfaction.... It was not like a
child singing, Ken thought, but like some playfellow of elves and
fairies. There were about her a daintiness, an ethereal quality, a
purity which was something more than merely human and of the flesh....
He wondered what life held for her; wondered if Andree might not have
been just such a child with just such characteristics as she. He thought
it possible ... for Andree retained some of those characteristics even
now.
He lifted the child in his arms and kissed her, and Arlette took her
away.
“You must come often,” Ken said, “because we are to be married.”
“Yes, monsieur. That is understood.... It was America of the North, was
it not?”
“It was.”
“I shall remember.... _Bon soir, monsieur. Bon soir, mademoiselle._” And
she was gone.
“I have many rivals,” said Andree. “It is not well.”
“There is only one _you, mignonne_.”
“But yes, there is only one _me_, but there are many others. Little
Arlette, thees yo’ng American girl.... I wish to know thees yo’ng
American girl. I will meet her.” She nodded her head several times. “You
will have her come here or we shall dine together.”
“Nothing doing!”
“Oh, what is thees you say? I do not onderstan’. Give me the
_dictionnaire_.”
“The dictionary won’t help. I mean I won’t do it.”
“_Pourquoi?_”
“There you are again. _Pourquoi.... Toujours pourquoi._”
“It is well to ask why many times. If one does not ask why, then many
unpleasant theengs may happen. If one asks why—then one knows and can
weigh the results. _N’est-ce pas?_ I like to know where I am marching.”
“I don’t want you to meet Miss Knox, because you would not understand
each other at all.”
“I theenk we would. But I shall meet her jus’ the same. ... She is the
kind of girl Americans marry. I wish to study why.”
“She would be studying you, too.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Of course. One woman always studies
another. It is natural.... I do not know why, unless it is to determine
if the woman can take one’s lover away, or if one can take the woman’s
lover away from her.... I theenk that is it.”
“But suppose you didn’t want the woman’s lover?”
“That is of no importance. It is still ver’ well to be able to say to
oneself that it would be possible to take that woman’s lover if it was
desired.”
“1 don’t like to hear you talk like that!”
“_Pourquoi?_” Andree’s eyes were big with surprise.
“It doesn’t sound nice.... It sounds—oh, it doesn’t sound like _you_.”
She put her cheek against his. “Then I will not say it if you do not
like.... I do not want any other man. I want only you.... Do you love
me?”
“Yes.”
“No, I do not believe. You love this yo’ng American girl because she
theenks only of marry.... You will marry thees yo’ng girl.”
“I’m not going to marry anybody.”
“Americans always do. It is the law of the country. You have said it.”
“You know I love you.”
“I am afraid bicause of thees yo’ng girl.”
“Nonsense. I can’t marry anybody, Andree. All I have in the world is my
captain’s pay. Nobody can tell how long the war will last, nor how long
I will be held in the service after it is over—and when I am discharged
... well, what then? I don’t know. There’s nothing to look forward to
but war ... just this and nothing else.”
She stroked his hand reflectively. “It is well,” she said, after a
moment. “While there is war you shall be here. We shall theenk of
nothing else.... _Après la guerre_”—she made a little gesture with both
hands—“then we shall see.... I theenk you will be _fidèle_ w’ile it is
that you remain in France. I am satisfy—for now.”
“You don’t believe I love you.”
She mused, and then with that characteristic gesture of poking downward
with her index finger she said: “I theenk many things. I theenk that I
know jus’ one kind of love, and it ees _love_, it ees for all time and
for all thing’. It ees for marry or for not marry. But I theenk you have
two kinds of love—_oui_. Perhaps it ees _américain_—the custom of the
country. One love for pleasure and—how do you say?—one love for
business.... Listen, my friend. Do the pleasure love and the business
love never come at the same time and for the same yo’ng girl? Eh?”
“I have never loved anybody but you.” He paused. “You know all about
such things, _mignonne_. Is it possible for a woman to love two men at
the same time—or for a man to love two women at the same time?”
She laughed. “It ees the las’ half of the question you wish for to have
answer.... I theenk it ees different weeth man and woman. The woman she
love only one. She give all.... The man—maybe. It ees ver’ difficult.
But I theenk if there ees one large love that it ees all.... And I
theenk, Monsieur Ken, that one day you go away and leave me _solitaire_.
Oh, I shall to weep.” She clenched her fists and dug them into her eyes,
and then laughed up at him. “See, I am ver’ _triste_.... You mus’ make
me to be joyous.”
She was right, he thought. There could be but one love, one great love.
How could he think otherwise, for was she not there, close beside him,
her breath upon his cheek, her wonderful eyes turning up to his face
every now and then with that inquiring, wondering, speculating glance
that spoke to his heart? ... One love, marvelous, sweet, _good_. He
could even pause to assert its virtue.... Maude Knox became very dim,
intangible. Andree was here, present, living—in all the mystery of her
and all the foreign allurement.... This was love. This was an amazing
sweetness without which his life would be immeasurably the poorer. It
was a permanent thing—could not be uprooted at a moment’s notice. He
knew that it had altered, was altering, his whole life, and he was glad.
Whatever might come of it, he was glad.... Something had been given to
him which would remain a miraculous possession so long as light entered
his eyes or reason blossomed in his soul....
“Andree,” he said, tremulously. “Andree....”
She sighed with content. “I am ver’ happy,” she replied. “Ever’thing is
ver’ well....”