It was the first day of June. In the Luxembourg Gardens a soft breeze
stirred the tender chestnut leaves, and blew sparkling ripples across
the water in the Fountain of Marie de Medicis.
The modest little hothouse flowers had quite recovered from the shock
of recent transplanting and were ambitiously pushing out long spikes
and clusters of crimson, purple and gold, filling the air with spicy
perfume, and drawing an occasional battered butterfly, gaunt and seedy,
from his long winter’s sleep, but still remembering the flowery days of
last season’s brilliant debut.
Through the fresh young leaves the sunshine fell, dappling the glades
and thickets, bathing the gray walls of the Palais du Sénat, and almost
warming into life the queer old statues of long departed royalty, which
for so many years have looked down from the great terrace to the Palace
of the King.
Through every gate the people drifted into the gardens, and the winding
paths were dotted and crowded with brightly-colored, slowly-moving
groups.
Here a half dozen meager, black-robed priests strolled silently amid
the tender verdure; here a noisy crowd of children, gamboling awkwardly
in the wake of a painted rubber ball, made day hideous with their
yells.
Now a slovenly company of dragoons shuffled by, their big shapeless
boots covered with dust, and their whalebone plumes hanging in straight
points to the middle of their backs; now a group of strutting students
and cocottes passed noisily, the girls in spotless spring plumage, the
students vying with each other in the display of blinking eyeglasses,
huge bunchy neckties, and sleek checked trousers. Policemen, trim
little grisettes (for whatever is said to the contrary, the grisette is
still extant in Paris), nurse girls with turbaned heads and ugly red
streamers, wheeling ugly red babies; an occasional stray zouave or
turco in curt Turkish jacket and white leggings; grave old gentlemen
with white mustache and military step; gay, baggy gentlemen from St
Cyr, looking like newly-painted wooden soldiers; students from the
Ecole Polytechnique; students from the Lycée St Louis in blue and red;
students from Julien’s and the Beaux Arts with a plentiful sprinkling
of berets and corduroy jackets; and group after group of jingling
artillery officers in scarlet and black, or hussars and chasseurs in
pale turquoise, strolled and idled up and down the terrace, or watched
the toy yachts braving the furies of the great fountain.
Over by the playgrounds, the Polichinel nuisance drummed and squeaked
to an appreciative audience of tender years. The “Jeu de paume” was
also in full swing, a truly exasperating spectacle for a modern tennis
player.
The old man who feeds the sparrows in the afternoon, and beats his wife
at night, was intent on the former cheerful occupation, and smiled
benevolently upon the little children who watched him, open mouthed.
The numerous waterfowl—mallard, teal, red-head, and dusky—waddled and
dived and fought the big mouse-colored pigeons for a share of the
sparrow’s crumbs.
A depraved and mongrel pointer, who had tugged at his chain in a wild
endeavor to point the whole heterogeneous mass of feathered creatures
from sparrow to swan, lost his head and howled dismally until dragged
off by the lean-legged student who was attached to the other end of the
chain.
Gethryn, sprawling on a bench in the sunshine, turned up his nose.
Braith grunted scornfully.
A man passed in the crowd, stopped, stared, and then hastily advanced
toward Gethryn.
“You?” said Rex, smiling and shaking hands. “Mr Clifford, this is Mr
Bulfinch; Mr Braith,”—but Mr Bulfinch was already bowing to Braith and
offering his hand, though with a curious diminution of his first
beaming cordiality. Braith’s constraint was even more marked. He had
turned quite white. Bulfinch and Gethryn, who had risen to receive him,
remained standing side by side, stranded on the shoals of an awkward
situation. The little _Mirror_ man made a grab at a topic which he
thought would float them off, and laid hold instead on one which upset
them altogether.
“I hope Mrs Braith is well. She met you all right at Vienna?”
Braith bowed stiffly, without answering.
Rex gave him a quick look, and turning on his heel, said carelessly:
“I see you and Mr Braith are old acquaintances, so I won’t scruple to
leave you with him for a moment. Bring Mr Bulfinch over to the music
stand, Braith.” And smiling, as if he were assisting at a charming
reunion, he led Clifford away. The latter turned, as he departed, an
eye of delighted intelligence upon Braith.
To renew his acquaintance with Mr Bulfinch was the last thing Braith
desired, but since the meeting had been thrust upon him he thanked
Gethryn’s tact for removing such a witness of it as Clifford would have
been. He had no intention, however, of talking with the little _Mirror_
man, and maintained a profound silence, smoking steadily. This conduct
so irritated the other that he determined to force an explanation of
the matter which seemed so distasteful to his ungracious companion. He
certainly thought he had his own reasons for resenting the sight of
Braith upon a high horse, and he resumed the conversation with all the
jaunty ease which the calling of newspaper correspondent is said to
cultivate.
“I hope Mrs Braith found no difficulty in meeting you in Vienna?”
“Madame was not my wife, and we did not meet in Vienna,” said Braith
shortly.
Bulfinch began to stare, and to feel a little less at ease.
“She told me—that is, her courier came to me and—”
“Her courier? Mr Bulfinch, will you please explain what you are talking
about?” Braith turned square around and looked at him in a way that
caused a still further diminution of his jauntiness and a proportionate
increase of respect.
“Oh—I’ll explain, if I know what you want explained. We were at
Brindisi, were we not?”
“Yes.”
“On our way to Cairo?”
“Yes.”
“In the same hotel?”
“Yes.”
“But I had no acquaintance with madame, and had only exchanged a word
or two with you, when you were suddenly summoned to Paris by a
telegram.”
Braith bowed. He remembered well the false dispatch that had drawn him
out of the way.
“Well, and when you left you told her you would be obliged to give up
going to Cairo, and asked her to meet you in Vienna, whither you would
have to go from Paris?”
“Oh, did I?”
“And you recommended a courier to her whom you knew very well, and in
whom you had great confidence.”
“Ah! And what was that courier’s name?”
“Emanuel Pick. I wasn’t fond of Emanuel myself,” with a sharp glance at
Braith’s eyes, “but I supposed you knew something in his favor, or you
would not have left—er—the lady in his charge.”
Braith was silent.
“I understood him to be your agent,” said the little man, cautiously.
“He was not.”
“Oh!”
A long silence followed, during which Mr Bulfinch sought and found an
explanation of several things. After a while he said musingly:
“I should like to meet Mr Pick again.”
“Why should _you_ want to meet him?”
“I wish to wring his nose two hundred times, one for each franc I lent
him.”
“How was that?” said Braith, absently.
“It was this way. He came to me and told me what I have repeated to
you, and that you desired madame to go on at once and wait for you in
Vienna, which you expected to reach in a few days after her arrival.
That you had bought tickets—one first class for madame, two second
class for him and for her maid—before you left, and had told her you
had placed plenty of money for the other expenses in her dressing case.
But this morning, on looking for the money, none could be found. Madame
was sure it had not been stolen. She thought you must have meant to put
it there, and forgotten afterwards. If she only had a few francs, just
to last as far as Naples! Madame was well known to the bankers on the
Santa Lucia there! etc. Well, I’m not such an ass that I didn’t first
see madame and get her to confirm his statement. But when she did
confirm it, with such a charming laugh—she was very pretty—I thought
she was a lady and your wife—”
In the midst of his bitterness, Braith could not help smiling at the
thought of Nina with a maid and a courier. He remembered the tiny
apartment in the Latin Quarter which she had been glad to occupy with
him until conducted by her courier into finer ones. He made a gesture
of disgust, and his face burned with the shame of a proud man who has
received an affront from an inferior—and who knows it to be his own
fault.
“I can at least have the satisfaction of setting that right,” he said,
holding two notes toward the little _Mirror_ man, “and I can’t thank
you enough for giving me the opportunity.”
Bulfinch drew back and stammered, “You don’t think I spoke for that!
You don’t think I’d have spoken at all if I had known—”
“I do not. And I’m very glad you did not know, for it gives me a chance
to clear myself. You must have thought me strangely forgetful, Mr
Bulfinch, when the money was not repaid in due time.”
“I—I didn’t relish the manner in which you met me just now, I confess,
but I’m very much ashamed of myself. I am indeed.”
“Shake hands,” said Braith, with one of his rare smiles.
The notes were left in Mr Bulfinch’s fingers, and as he thrust them
hastily out of sight, as if he truly was ashamed, he said, blinking up
at Braith, “Do you—er—would you—may I offer you a glass of whiskey?”
adding hastily, “I don’t drink myself.”
“Why, yes,” said Braith, “I don’t mind, but I won’t drink all alone.”
“Coffee is my tipple,” said the other, in a faint voice.
“All right; suit yourself. But I should think that rather hot for such
a day.”
“Oh, I’ll take it iced.”
“Then let us walk over to the Café by the bandstand. We shall find the
others somewhere about.”
They strolled through the grove, past the music-stand, and sat down at
one of the little iron tables under the trees. The band of the Garde
Republicaine was playing. Bulfinch ordered sugar and Eau de selz for
Braith, and iced coffee for himself.
Braith looked at the program: No. 1, Faust; No. 2, La Belle Hélène.
“Rex ought to be here, he’s so fond of that.”
Mr Bulfinch was mixing, in a surprisingly scientific manner for a man
who didn’t drink himself, something which the French call a
“coquetelle”; a bit of ice, a little seltzer, a slice of lemon, and
some Canadian Club whiskey. Braith eyed the well-worn flask.
“I see you don’t trust to the Café’s supplies.”
“I only keep this for medicinal purposes,” said the other, blinking
nervously, “and—and I don’t usually produce it when there are any
newspapermen around.”
“But you,” said Braith, sipping the mixture with relish, “do you take
none yourself?”
“I don’t drink,” said the other, and swallowed his coffee in such a
hurry as to bring on a fit of coughing. Beads of perspiration clustered
above his canary-colored eyebrows as he set down the glass with a gasp.
Braith was watching the crowd. Presently he exclaimed:
“There’s Rex now,” and rising, waved his glass and his cane and called
Gethryn’s name. The people sitting at adjacent tables glanced at one
another resignedly. “More crazy English!”
“Rex! Clifford!” Braith shouted, until at last they heard him. In a few
moments they had made their way through the crowd and sat down, mopping
their faces and protesting plaintively against the heat.
Gethryn’s glance questioned Braith, who said, “Mr Bulfinch and I have
had the deuce of a time to make you fellows hear. You’d have been
easier to call if you knew what sort of drink he can brew.”
Clifford was already sniffing knowingly at the glass and turning looks
of deep intelligence on Bulfinch, who responded gayly, “Hope you’ll
have some too,” and with a sidelong blink at Gethryn, he produced the
bottle, saying, “I don’t drink myself, as Mr Gethryn knows.”
Rex said, “Certainly not,” not knowing what else to say. But the
fondness of Clifford’s gaze was ineffable.
Braith, who always hated to see Clifford look like that, turned to
Gethryn. “Favorite of yours on the program.”
Rex looked.
“Oh,” he cried, “Belle Hélène.” Next moment he flushed, and feeling as
if the others saw it, crimsoned all the deeper. This escaped Clifford,
however, who was otherwise occupied. But he joined in the conversation,
hoping for an argument.
“Braith and Rex go in for the Meistersinger, Walküre, and all that
rot—but I like some tune to my music.”
“Well, you’re going to get it now,” said Braith; “the band are taking
their places. Now for La Belle Hélène.” He glanced at Gethryn, who had
turned aside and leaned on the table, shading his eyes with his
program.
The leader of the band stood wiping his mustache with one hand while he
turned the leaves of his score with the other. The musicians came in
laughing and chattering, munching their bit of biscuit or smacking
their lips over lingering reminiscences of the intermission.
They hung their bayonets against the wall, and at the rat-tat of
attention, came to order, standing in a circle with bugles and
trombones poised and eyes fixed on the little gold-mounted baton.
A slow wave of the white-gloved hand, a few gentle tips of the wand,
and then a sweep which seemed to draw out the long, rich opening chord
of the Dream Song and set it drifting away among the trees till it lost
itself in the rattle and clatter of the Boulevard St Michel.
Braith and Bulfinch set down their glasses and listened. Clifford
silently blew long wreaths of smoke into the branches overhead. Gethryn
leaned heavily on the table, one hand shading his eyes.
Oui c’est un rêve;
Un rêve doux d’amour—
The music died away in one last throb. Bulfinch sighed and blinked
sentimentally, first on one, then on the other of his companions.
Suddenly the little _Mirror_ man’s eyes bulged out, he stiffened and
grasped Braith’s arm; his fingers were like iron.
“What the deuce!” began Braith, but, following the other’s eyes, he
became silent and stern.
“Talk of the devil—do you see him—Pick?”
“I see,” growled Braith.
“And—and excuse me, but can that be madame? So like, and yet—”
Braith leaned forward and looked steadily at a couple who were slowly
moving toward them in deep conversation.
“No,” he said at last; and leaning back in his seat he refused to speak
again.
Bulfinch chattered on excitedly, and at last he brought his fist down
on the table at his right, where Clifford sat drawing a caricature on
the marble top.
“I’d like,” cried Bulfinch, “to take it out of his hide!”
“Hello!” said Clifford, disturbed in his peaceful occupation, “whose
hide are you going to tan?”
“Nobody’s,” said Braith, sternly, still watching the couple who had now
almost reached their group.
Clifford’s start had roused Gethryn, who stirred and slowly looked up;
at the same moment, the girl, now very near, raised her head and Rex
gazed full into the eyes of Yvonne.
Her glance fell and the color flew to her temples. Gethryn’s face lost
all its color.
“Pretty girl,” drawled Clifford, “but what a dirty little beggar she
lugs about with her.”
Pick heard and turned, his eyes falling first on Gethryn, who met his
look with one that was worse than a kick. He glanced next at Braith,
and then he turned green under the dirty yellow of the skin. Braith’s
eyes seemed to strike fire; his mouth was close set. The Jew’s eyes
shifted, only to fall on the pale, revengeful glare of T. Hoppley
Bulfinch, who was half rising from his chair with all sorts of
possibilities written on every feature.
“Let him go,” whispered Braith, and turned his back.
Bulfinch sat down, his eyes like saucers. “I’d like—but not now!” he
sputtered in a weird whisper.
Clifford had missed the whole thing. He had only eyes for the girl.
Gethryn sat staring after the couple, who were at that moment passing
the gate into the Boulevard St Michel. He saw Yvonne stop and hastily
thrust something into the Jew’s hand, then, ignoring his obsequious
salute, leave him and hurry down the Rue de Medicis.
The next Gethryn knew, Braith was standing beside him.
“Rex, will you join us at the Golden Pheasant for dinner?” was what he
said, but his eyes added, “Don’t let people see you look like that.”
“I—I—don’t know,” said Gethryn. “Yes, I think so,” with an effort.
“Come along, then!” said Braith to the others, and hurried them away.
Rex sat still till they were out of sight, then he got up and turned
into the Avenue de l’Observatoire. He stopped and drank some cognac at
a little café, and then started on, but he had no idea where he was
going.
Presently he found himself crossing a bridge, and looked up. The great
pile of Notre Dame de Paris loomed on his right. He crossed the Seine
and wandered on without any aim—but passing the Tour St Jacques, and
wishing to avoid the Boulevard, he made a sharp detour to the right,
and after long wandering through byways and lanes, he crossed the foul,
smoky Canal St Martin, and bore again to the right—always aimlessly.
Twilight was falling when his steps were arrested by fatigue. Looking
up, he found himself opposite the gloomy mass of La Roquette prison.
Sentinels slouched and dawdled up and down before the little painted
sentry boxes under the great gate.
Over the archway was some lettering, and Gethryn stopped to read it:
La Roquette
Prison of the Condemned
He looked up and down the cheerless street. It was deserted save by the
lounging sentinels and one wretched child, who crouched against the
gateway.
“Fiche moi le camp! Allons! En route!” growled one of the sentinels,
stamping his foot and shaking his fist at the bundle of rags.
Gethryn walked toward him.
“What’s the matter with the little one?” he asked.
The soldier dropped the butt of his rifle with a ring, and said
deferentially:
“Pardon, Monsieur, but the gamin has been here every day and all day
for two weeks. It’s disgusting.”
“Is he hungry?”
“Ma foi? I can’t tell you,” laughed the sentry, shifting his weight to
his right foot and leaning on the cross of his bayonet.
“Are you hungry, little one?” called Gethryn, pleasantly.
The child raised his head, with a wolfish stare, then sank it again and
murmured: “I have seen him and touched him.”
Gethryn turned to the soldier.
“What does he mean by that?” he demanded.
The sentry shrugged his shoulders. “He means he saw a hunchback. They
say when one sees a hunchback and touches him, it brings good luck, if
the hunchback is neither too old nor too young. Dame! I don’t say
there’s nothing in it, but it can’t save Henri Rigaud.”
“And who is Henri Rigaud?”
“What! Monsieur has not heard of the affair Rigaud? Rigaud who did the
double murder!”
“Oh, yes! In the Faubourg du Temple.”
The sentry nodded. “He dies this week.”
“And the child?”
“Is his.”
Gethryn looked at the dirty little bundle of tatters.
“No one knows the exact day set for the affair, but,” the sentry sank
his voice to a whisper, “between you and me, I saw the widow going into
the yard just before dinner, and Monsieur de Paris is here. That means
tomorrow morning—click!”
“The—the widow?” repeated Gethryn.
“The guillotine. It will be over before this time tomorrow and the
gamin there, who thinks the bossu will give him back his father—he’ll
find out his mistake, all in good time—all in good time!” and
shouldering his rifle, the sentry laughed and resumed his slouching
walk before the gateway.
Gethryn nodded to the soldier’s salute and went up to the child, who
stood leaning sullenly against the wall.
“Do you know what a franc is?” he asked.
The gamin eyed him doggedly.
“But I saw him,” he said.
“Saw what?” said Gethryn, gently.
“The bossu,” repeated the wretched infant vacantly.
“See here,” said Gethryn, “listen to me. What would you do with twenty
francs?”
“Eat, all day long, forever!”
Rex slipped two twenty-franc pieces into the filthy little fist.
“Eat,” he murmured, and turned away.