When Kendall went to the apartment for dinner Arlette came bustling into
the hall as she heard him open the door, and, poking again and again
with a pudgy finger toward the rear of the place, she exclaimed,
excitedly: “Monsieur Bert!... Monsieur Bert!...”
“Here?”
“_Oui, monsieur._” She grinned with delight.
“Hey, Bert!” shouted Ken, delighted, for he had feared he would not see
his friend again before he sailed. Bert came out of the door, half
shaved, with a towel about his neck, and shook hands after the manner of
healthy young men.
“Howdy, old-timer! Gosh! it seems good to get back to you and Arlette.
How have things been going without me? Seen Madeleine?”
“Haven’t seen her. Things have been going all right till to-day. This
morning the blow fell.”
“What blow?... You look as if somebody had stolen your pet goat.”
“I’m ordered to America. Leave Wednesday.”
“The devil!... Oh, say, that’s rotten luck! What’s the idea?”
“Don’t know. Just my confounded luck, I expect.”
“Wait a minute till I finish this shave and I’ll help you weep.... How’s
Andree?”
They were walking back to Bert’s room, and Ken did not answer until his
friend stood before the glass, razor in hand.
“She’s all right.”
“How did she take the news?”
“She doesn’t know.”
“Doesn’t know!”
“I just got my orders this morning. Won’t see her until to-morrow
night.”
“Coming to dinner?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll pull a party—farewell party with all the trimmings, eh? I’ll get
Madeleine and we’ll dig up a bottle of champagne and wring a _poulet_
out of Arlette if we have to call in the police to help us. I’ll bet
they would, at that.”
“It won’t be a very merry party,” said Ken, lugubriously.
Bert turned and looked at Ken. “Huh!... Something eating you again?”
“It’s a rotten mess. I don’t know what to do.”
“About Andree? It isn’t any mess at all. You’ve had a good time and
she’s had a good time. That’s all there is to it. Now you’ve got to go
home. She didn’t expect anything else.”
Ken was silent.
“Unless you’ve made her expect something else.... Now Madeleine and I
had an understanding right at the start,” said Bert.
“I wish I could get it off my mind for a couple of hours.”
“Get it off, then. We’ll go to the Folies or the Olympia or some place
to-night. To-morrow I’ll look up Madeleine.”
Ken was willing to go anywhere, to do anything, so long as he was helped
to keep Andree off his mind, and to think about something besides the
inevitability of the decision. So, after, they went to the Folies,
arriving after the performance had begun. They did not take seats, but
made their way through the big table-filled room to the theater proper,
and stood up with the crowd behind the railing. The house was full, but
even when the house was not filled many of the spectators remained in
the promenade to walk about and smoke and, possibly, to put themselves
in the way of being accosted by some of the numerous and sometimes
pretty _habituées_ of the place.
The entertainment was directed to the American soldier, and much of it
was in English. But it could not hold Kendall’s attention. It was, in
fact, a mediocre performance, with an act or so that was deserving of
attention. After seeing the perfection of the performances at the
Comédie Française Ken wondered at the halting stage management of this
popular music-hall. It hitched along. Choruses seemed to improvise
rather than to have been drilled. Nobody seemed to know just how to get
on and off the stage, and when a scene or an act or a chorus number
ended, it simply ended.... Every now and then animated conversations
broke out in the back of the theater, and ushers walked about through
the crowd, saying: “Hush!... Husss-sh!” The whole thing depressed Ken
instead of lifting his spirits, and he actually experienced a feeling of
disgust at the grand closing number in which the _première danseuse_
appeared as an American cowboy, in white tights and waving an American
flag.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said, impatiently.
“Suits me,” said Bert, and they jostled their way to the street,
ignoring more than one tentative “_Bon soir, monsieur_,” from young
women whose cheeks were not guiltless of what the phrase of the streets
termed camouflage.
“Want to walk home?” suggested Bert.
“Yes.” Ken did want to walk. He wanted to tire himself so that he could
sleep, for he was afraid of a sleepless night. So they started off
briskly, cutting through dark and narrow streets to the Boulevard
Haussmann and thence into the Avenue Friedland, which they followed to
the rue Beaujon and into the Avenue Hoche. They climbed the stairs of
the apartment, and Bert, as was his custom, searched the cupboards to
see if Arlette had left anything unconcealed that might be eaten. But
Arlette had been careful, as usual, and nothing was to be found except a
box of dry cookies. It was not Arlette’s intention that her young
officers should waste their substance by eating up her supplies at
unexpected hours.
Ken dreaded to go into his room alone and turn off the lights, so it was
Bert who made the first movement to go to bed. Ken carried in with him a
sleep-provoking book on militarism which an earnest friend had forced
upon him, undressed, and stretched himself on the bed with the small
light on his table to read by. He forced himself to read ... and
presently fell asleep.
The next day was filled with errands and shopping. He wandered about the
stores, selecting inexpensive souvenirs for his friends and presents for
his mother and father. It was hot, and it irritated him to push and
shove in the milling crowds that jammed the Printemps and the Galeries
Lafayette, but it kept him busy and gave him an excuse for pushing his
decision another hour and still another hour into the future.... His
last errand was the selection of a present for Andree, a farewell gift,
or a gift of some other sort. There had to be a gift, so he spent more
money than he could afford in a little bracelet of gold set with tiny
pearls.... Then he went home, for it was near the dinner hour.
Bert was there before him, wearing such an expression of sheepishness
and chagrin as Kendall had never seen before on his friend’s face.
“Where’s Madeleine?” he asked.
Bert grinned mirthlessly. “Don’t know,” he said.
“Isn’t she coming?”
“I left a note at her hotel inviting her.”
“Didn’t see her?”
“No. I went around to the hotel and there was a small boy in the
_concierge’s_ room. He said Madeleine was out with an American
officer.... Then I went up the street, and pretty soon I thought I saw
her with a lieutenant. They were a block away and I hustled up to make
sure, but they turned off and disappeared. Looked like she caught sight
of me and ducked.... Anyhow, I went back and left a note. Maybe I was
mistaken.”
“Serves you right,” said Ken. “You were so darn sure—you with your
understandings.... Three weeks were too much for her, and she’s passed
you up for somebody who isn’t always telling her she’s just a temporary
arrangement.”
“Go chase yourself,” said Bert. “It makes no difference in my young
life.”
But Ken noticed that every minute or so Bert strolled with elaborate
nonchalance to the window and looked down the street. Ken smiled. Bert’s
manner was not that of a man whose heart suffers, but who has taken an
injury to his pride....
“Here comes Andree,” said Bert.
Ken did not go to look, as he usually did. It was not that he did not
want to see Andree, but her arrival brought his affairs to the acute
stage. He had put off and put off the struggle to reach a decision; had
occupied his mind with other matters, crowding out as much as was
possible any thoughts of Andree and of what he was going to do about
her. True, the thing had been with him always, lurking in the background
and ready to step out at the least encouragement. But he had not
approached it directly. It had been a sort of dull ache that he was
always conscious of, but which he had been able to stifle. Now she was
coming, was almost at the door. It would be a matter of minutes only
before he would have to tell her that he was going away.... Even now he
did not admit to himself that he had reached a partial decision, indeed
that he had not required to make a decision upon one point. That was
taking her with him. He had told himself that it would be possible to
marry her and to take her on the transport that carried him, but it was
self-deception, and he knew it was self-deception. In his heart he knew
now, as he had known, that to-night he would say good-by to Andree and
go to America without her.... He might come back for her, might even
marry her before he went away, to have her follow him on another vessel.
But there would be a parting, temporary or permanent....
He had never asked himself if Andree would marry him. The idea that she
would not do so had never entered his head, which was significant. It
was that which made his decision doubly difficult, for she was wholly in
his hands, had given herself to him to do with as he pleased, and her
life was his to break if he wished to do so.... He persuaded himself
that his hesitation was more on her account than his own, that it would
be impossible for her to be happy in the conditions which would be found
in America, or that perhaps it would be impossible. He believed that he
was trying to decide what would be best for her—or almost believed it.
It may be that he was not wholly selfish, not thinking solely of himself
and of the effects of his marriage with Andree upon himself. At any
rate, his anxiety for her was very real and very disturbing.
She was coming up the stairs utterly unconscious of what awaited her,
confident in a future with him which would not be disturbed for so long
a time that it need not now be considered. An event that is a year
distant is very far away to a young girl. If Andree had known she would
lose Kendall in a year she would not have thought about it now ... nor
until the year was drawing to a close. It is the ability to hope that
makes this possible. Something might turn up within the year.... But now
she was stepping into the event! In a few minutes she would hear his
voice telling her that he was going away to-morrow—not in a year, not in
a month, but _to-morrow!_... When he told her that he must tell her
more. A mere announcement of his departure would not suffice; he must
supplement it by telling her if their good-bys were forever, or for a
few days or months....
The bell rang and he went to the door and opened it. She stood there
very demure and self-contained and grave—dressed in white as he had seen
her first. She lifted her eyes to his and smiled and then became grave
and wistful again, for she saw that he was not happy.... He held out his
arms to her and drew her in, realizing that it was the last time he
should ever draw her slender daintiness through that door, the last time
she would ever enter that apartment. It was the beginning of the end of
that phase in their lives, of the untrammeled romance, the quaint
mystery, the adventurous sweetness.
“You are _triste_,” she said, anxiously. “Is it that you have worked too
hard?”
He shook his head.
“You are not _joyeux_ to see me.”
He took her face between his hands and looked down into her deep-shaded
eyes. “You must not say that.... You must never say that. It is not
true.”
“Then I am ver’ glad.” She smiled. “Monsieur Bert and Mademoiselle
Madeleine they are here?”
“Bert is here, but Madeleine hasn’t come.”
“I desire her to be here.” She stepped into the _salon_ and spoke to
Bert. “You shall go to fetch her. Now.... Now. You shall run ver’ fast.”
“I asked her to come,” said Bert.
“And she would not?” Andree’s voice showed profound astonishment.
“I’m afraid she got tired of waiting for me to come back to Paris.”
“But no, that ees not possible. She would not be tired to wait. She
would be ver’ glad when you return.”
“We’ll see. If she isn’t here in five minutes she won’t be coming.”
“Why do you theenk?”
“Because I guess she has another American officer. I think I saw her
with one to-day.”
“Oh, _non, non, non!_ That would be ver’ bad. I do not believe.
Mademoiselle Madeleine is _fidèle_. You shall see.”
“Why are you so sure, mademoiselle?”
“_Pourquoi?..._” She shrugged her shoulders. “Bicause it would be so. If
Monsieur Ken should go for three week, for three mont’, for three year,
I should wait and be _très-fidèle_. I should find no other _officier
américain_. _Non, non_, it would not be well.”
“There’s Arlette’s head,” said Ken.
“No need to wait,” Bert said, irritably. “She won’t come.”
“We should wait,” said Andree.
“Until a quarter past seven, then.”
But a quarter past seven arrived and Madeleine did not arrive.
“Let’s eat,” said Bert. “She’s given me the sack.”
“_Pauvre Monsieur Bert._ It ees ver’ sad. Oh, she is _très-méchante_,
ver’ naughty. I do not onderstan’.”
They went out to the table and sat down. Kendall sat in gloomy silence,
Bert was suffering from wounded vanity, and Andree looked from one to
the other uncomfortably.
“It is _nécessaire_ to smile,” she said, and touched Ken’s hand with her
finger-tips.
“I don’t feel much like smiling, _mignonne_.”
“_Pourquoi?_”
Arlette entered with the _potage_ to save him from replying to her
question, and, placing the huge bowl in the middle of the table, stood
regarding Andree dolefully, with two big tears standing on her fat
cheeks.
“Even Arlette makes to weep,” said Andree. “It is ver’ strange. What is
happen?”
“_Pauvre mademoiselle! ... pauvre mademoiselle!..._” said Arlette, and,
turning very abruptly, she scuttled out of the room.
“_Qu’est-ce que c’est?..._ Why does she speak this theeng?” She turned
startled eyes upon Ken.
He hesitated, bit his lip, then he reached out and took her hand and
pressed it to his lips. “I have been ordered to America,” he said,
baldly.
She did not speak, did not stir. It seemed to him that her expression
did not alter by so much as a shade. She was _still_. It was almost as
if animation were suspended. Andree did not turn her eyes from his face,
nor did she move or speak. She did not gaze at him questioningly nor
accusingly nor imploringly—she merely gazed with that accompaniment of
_stillness_!... He felt that he must speak and break that quietness
which he could feel as with a physical pain.
“I got my orders yesterday.... I—it didn’t seem possible. I couldn’t
believe it.... I only knew yesterday.” He felt that he must clear
himself of any guilt of concealment, of having known of this thing and
kept it from her.
“_Quand?_” she said.
“I go to-morrow night—to Brest, and then to America.”
She turned to her plate and began to eat. She had uttered no complaint,
shed no tear, done none of the things he had dreaded she might do. There
had been no painful scene, but he was not relieved. She was so _still_!
He fumbled in his pocket and took out the little jeweler’s package and
removed the bracelet. She watched him gravely, with no outward sign of
emotion, and when he reached for her hand she gave it to him
unprotestingly. He snapped the bracelet about her wrist. She looked down
at it, and then up into his face.
“It is ver’ pretty,” she said, “and you are mos’ good to me....” That
was all, but every now and then he saw her staring at the bracelet and
staring at it as if it were something strange and inexplicable. Once she
reached across with her other hand and touched it, felt of it, as if to
assure herself that it was really there, an actual thing and not
imagined.
Ken tried to talk, Bert tried to talk, but the effort was futile. Dead,
cold silences fell.... The sensations of that meal would remain with
Kendall as long as he should live, a recurrent nightmare. Presently Bert
arose. He did a thing which he had never done before—lifted Andree’s
hand and touched it with his lips.
“I must go, mademoiselle,” he said. “Good-by.”
“Good-by, Monsieur Bert,” she said.
Then they were alone!
In the _salon_ he drew her down beside him on the sofa and held her
close.
“I am very sad, _mignonne_,” he said. “I love you....”
She studied his face a moment and smiled at very trifle of a smile.
“That is well,” she answered.
“I am not going away because I want to. It is orders. I have to obey.”
“_C’est la guerre_,” she said, gravely.
“Yes, it is the war, but it’s cruel—it’s rotten. I want to stay here, to
stay with you.”
“I wish that also,” she said.
Something was demanded of him. He must say something, must not keep this
child in agony, not knowing what he intended to do with respect to her.
It was her right to know.... He must decide, and he must tell her....
But again he put it off. There was time enough, and before he told her
there was still the chance of one last happy evening.... He wanted that,
wanted the memory of it, if nothing more.
“_Mignonne_, do you love me?” he asked.
“It is certain.”
“Very much?”
“I cannot say how much.”
“America is not far,” he said, with some idiotic intention to comfort
her. “The ocean can be crossed in a week.”
“That is true,” she said.
Her head was against his breast, her eyes staring into her lap. Ken
looked straight before him, thinking, thinking. His mind was very clear,
as if lighted by that painful white light which seemed to pour in upon
his consciousness in moments of mental stress. It seemed to him as if
his eyes could pierce the walls if he willed it, as if his memory could
show him every minute incident in his whole life, as if he could see and
understand everything—everything. He drew her to him fiercely, but even
as he was sensing the softness of her slender body against his side he
was seeing the vestibule of the Presbyterian church, he was watching it
function. The individuals stood before him as if alive, every well-known
feature distinct. It was photographic. He could see changes of
expression, hear whispers, see cautious hands placed before gossiping
lips ... and he could see himself passing through that little group with
Andree on his arm!...
He could see his own home—his return to it. He could see his mother and
feel the hostility that sprang to life the instant her eyes rested on
Andree. He could read his mother’s thoughts ... and his father’s. There
was the one bright spot. He could see his father kissing Andree
diffidently and patting her hand and telling her how glad he was to see
her and asking how his son had ever managed to capture such a pretty
girl.... There would be no doubt of her welcome at his father’s
hands.... But his mother—that cold hostility, that hard-eyed
suspicion!... And then, when she had him alone, the catechism he would
undergo, and the resentment and jealousy she would exhibit....
He could see his friends and the neighbors of his childhood with their
crass curiosity and their hints and whispers.... He knew their every
thought ... could see their eyes fixed on Andree speculatively ... some
of them hopefully!
It was that he would have to take her, too.... And then, if the story
should come out!... But that would be little worse.... Perhaps he
exaggerated, perhaps he saw his old friends and acquaintances in
characters which were not truly theirs. There might have been more
charity among them than he perceived, more kindness and less narrowness
and insularity.... But he did not see them except as he feared they
might be.
What of himself? How would he feel to find himself married to a girl who
had violated the standards of Plymouth Rock, even though he had been the
one to profit by that violation?... Even if none ever found it out but
himself? He would know it.... It would constantly be recurring to him—or
would it not? He did not know. The thing did not affect him now. It did
not make Andree the less desirable and lovable and _good_. Perhaps that
would persist—but his prejudices were deep-seated, had their roots in an
older generation and were not lightly to be cast out....
But he loved her.... In spite of all that he saw and felt and feared, he
knew that he loved her, and that to know she was removed forever from
his life would be to lose a wonderful thing that he could not bear to
lose.... The decision lay between love and expediency.... If only he
could live in Paris and never return to America! How easy it would be
then!
“Will you miss me?” he asked, clumsily.
She stirred in his arms and held her face up to his. “I shall be ver’
sad,” she said.
“Suppose—suppose something should happen to me and I could never come
back?”
She held his hand very tightly. “I do not know,” she said. “I cannot to
theenk of that.”
He must decide.... He must decide.... But he was afraid; he _could not_
decide—not now, not yet.... There were hours ahead of them.
She asked nothing of him, made no demands, but waited, waited. He could
feel her waiting, hoping for some word, some assurance that he was not
going to desert her forever, that he would come back to her—and he could
not give that assurance ... not yet.
“It might be six months; it might be a year before I could come back.”
She smiled. “I would be here,” she said.
“And _fidèle_?”
“You know,” she answered. “There would be no thought only jus’ for
you....”
“But America is strange. It would not be Paris. You might be unhappy
there.”
“That ees ver’ silly.... Where you are I shall always be happy.”
He leaped to his feet and paced up and down the room, then stopped
suddenly before her. “What shall I do?... What shall I do?” he said,
hoarsely.
“I cannot say. I do not know.”
“You know I love you.”
“I believe.”
“I can’t decide. I can’t tell what to do.... I don’t know what I can do,
what will be possible.”
She made no answer.
“Can’t we pretend just for a while, just for a few hours, that I am not
going and that everything is going along just as it is? Can’t we have
just one more little moment of happiness?”
“It ees not _facile_—not easy—to pretend so.”
“But we will try ... I want to see you smile. I want to see you happy
once more. I’ve got to see you happy.”
She sat erect and smiled, then the smile faded and she clenched her
little fists in her lap. “Oh, I shall be so _solitaire_, so lonely—so
lonely....” It was her only departure from that still calmness, her only
approach to emotion, to giving away to grief, and it passed swiftly.
“See, I make to laugh now. For thees night I shall laugh, bicause you
wish it, and I do not wish you to be sad and to make thees _grimace_....
You mus’ sit here beside me now thees minute. You mus’ to sit here and
love me so ver’ much, and we shall be mos’ happy.... Oh, I shall theenk
of thees Monsieur Bert and how ver’ fonny his face made itself to look.
He is ver’ droll—thees high yo’ng man.... It ees ver’ bad that you do
not have a piano, for then I can dance for you.... You must to get a
piano ver’ quickly—now, now.... You shall send out to fetch one or I
shall go away....”
“_Mignonne ... mignonne...._” he said, and buried his face in her
lap....
She sat looking down at him very gravely, stroking his hair with her
soft, slender fingers....
* * * * *
The taxicab hurried them down the Champs Élysées through the cool
morning air—on their last ride together in Paris.... He was conscious of
the city about them, of the essence of the marvelous city from which he
was so soon to depart.... There is something in the air of Paris,
something that one cannot escape, something intangible, enticing,
exciting.... He would miss it, miss it very much.... Andree, too, was
looking out of the window. She sat very still and did not speak. Her
face was grave and expressionless with that look of abstraction which
she wore as some wild bird of the forest wears its protective
coloring.... He reached out and took her hand, holding it silently....
His decision had not been made. He had given her neither assurance of
his return nor had he told her that they were about to part forever....
He did not know, and he could not decide ... there were now only
minutes—seconds. He could see the Élysées Palace Hôtel ahead, his
destination, where he would say good-by to her.... And again, with a
weakness which made him despise himself, he evaded the issue.
“You will write to me—often?” he asked.
“Yes.... And you?” It was her first question since he had told her he
was to go; the first time she had demanded anything of him.
“I shall write. I shall tell you everything.... Everything will come
right somehow. It must come right.”
“I have not your address.” She spoke very calmly.
He wrote it on a slip of paper and handed it to her.
“But you have not my address—nor my name.” She smiled with that quaint
lightening of the face which always stirred him to tenderness.
He had not wanted to know her name nor her address. He had loved the
mystery of it and of her. But the mystery must end. He gave her his
memorandum—book and she wrote, but he did not look at the page, closing
the book and placing it in his pocket.... She was still a mystery—he
would look when it became necessary to look, and not before.
The taxicab was stopping. They looked at each other, but even now she
gave no sign of distress, shed no tear.
“_Mignonne...._” he whispered, and drew her into his arms. “Good-by....
Good-by.... I love you....”
“Good-by,” she said, gravely. “I also love you ... and I shall be always
_fidèle_.”
He opened the door and alighted; then he turned and lifted her hand to
his lips. She did not smile; her face was immobile, her eyes were fixed
on his face with a strange expression of detachment, of abstraction. He
kissed her hand again and turned abruptly away. But he could not leave
her so.... He turned; the taxi was starting. He called and ran toward
the curb, but the chauffeur did not hear.... He was too late; the
machine gained headway and swept around the corner—and she was gone....