REVELATIONS
“I could be very angry with you if I wished,” said Madame Ghita,
presently, “at certain things your attitude has seemed to imply. It
is true that I had never promised to give up the prince; but you have
appeared to think that I would consent to share him.”
Selden was conscious that his cheeks were crimson.
“Madame,” he stammered, “madame....”
“I am not angry,” she said sadly; “only I regret that you do not know
me better. Perhaps if you did, you would not have thought that of me.”
“Yes, I was a brute,” agreed Selden humbly, still hot with shame and
contrition. “Can you forgive me?”
“Ah, yes!”
“But at least you will prescribe a penance,” he persisted; “a severe
one!”
“Shall I?” she smiled at him. “Very well. Hereafter you will be my
friend, yes?”
“All my life,” he promised. “But that is not a penance--that is a
reward.”
“Ah, my friend,” she said, laughing, “do not be too sure! I can be
very exacting, sometimes. So you may find it a penance--a very heavy
one--before you have finished!”
“I am proud to take the risk,” he said, covering her hand for a moment
with his own. “We must pledge this friendship!”
She nodded assent, and a waiter took the order and hurried away.
“What is it you propose to do with young Davis?” asked Selden, after a
moment.
“Are you concerned for him also?” inquired Madame Ghita, drily.
“Not in the least--only curious. I suppose you know that they are
planning to marry him to the Princess Anna?”
A flame of anger sprang into madame’s eyes.
“But he wants too much, that old king!” she cried. “He forgets that
there are other people in the world. Well, in this he shall be
disappointed!”
“You will marry Davis to Mlle. Fayard, I suppose?”
“It will not be my doing--he loves her.”
“Yes, I think he does,” Selden agreed.
“And she is a good girl, Cicette; not very clever, perhaps, but more
clever than is he. She will make him a good wife. Between us, we will
educate him. He is not bad at bottom, but he is very ignorant. It seems
impossible that any man should be so ignorant; it is impossible except
in America.”
“He has never had to learn anything; he has grown up with his eyes
shut; he has been spoiled by a mother who is too fond of him.”
“Cicette is fond of him, but she will not spoil him--not in that way.
He has one great virtue--he is kind hearted and generous.”
“Yes,” remarked Selden; “too much so, perhaps. I noticed that he was
staking Mlle. Fayard at the table out yonder. That was not wise.”
“No, it was not,” agreed madame quickly. “I did not know it--I will
see that it does not occur again. Every one seeing it would believe
that they are lovers. But it is not true--I have taken care of that;
and, indeed, he has never suggested such a thing. There is one point
in the character of American men which I find truly admirable--which
even gives me to marvel,” she added. “They are nice to women without
demanding anything in return; they will help a girl, just for the
pleasure of it, without expecting to be paid in any other way. No other
men are like that. And Cicette--she is not silly. Do you know what is
her dream? To marry a good man, to settle down, to have many children,
and to be faithful to her husband. That is the dream, perhaps, of every
woman,” she went on, musingly, “but many of us cannot bring ourselves
to make the necessary sacrifices. We lack strength of character.
Cicette is different. She understands things; she will be very good to
him, and she will not expect too much. He will be very happy with her.
She will not be exacting. She will guide him, without annoying him.”
“Heaven knows he needs guidance!” Selden agreed.
“You will not oppose it, then?” she asked, looking at him anxiously.
“Oppose it? What right have I to oppose it? But I don’t even wish to;
on the contrary, I have half-promised to intercede for him with his
mother.”
“That is good of you!” she said, and her eyes were shining again.
“Oh, come!” he protested. “I want to do it! You are absurdly grateful
for little things!”
“They have always meant so much to me--the little things!” she said.
“Of course, if I had any sense,” he went on roughly, to hide his
emotion, “I’d keep out of it, since it is no affair of mine.”
“Ah, well,” she began, and stopped.
“You were going to say that neither is his sister’s future any affair
of mine. But it is, in a way, since without knowing it, I helped her to
make up her mind; so I want the prince to treat her fairly. Where is
the prince to-night?”
“He telephoned that his father is ill.”
“Very ill?”
“I do not think so. He has been exerting himself too much. He forgets
that he has eighty years.”
“He is a wonderful old man,” said Selden. “It is a pity he did not pass
on his qualities to his grandson.”
“Perhaps his great-grandson will inherit them,” suggested madame, “and
some American ones, as well.”
“I confess,” said Selden, smiling, “that, absurd as it may sound,
something like that has been in my mind.”
“How serious you are!” she commented. “Do you plan that far ahead for
yourself also?”
“To my great-grandson? Oh, no; I haven’t even got to the children yet!”
“But you expect to marry?”
“Some day, perhaps. But not while I am merely a wandering newspaper
man. It wouldn’t be fair to the woman. Some day, I suppose, I shall
settle down. The trouble is I don’t want to settle down--not for a long
time. You see, I’m like those women you spoke of--not willing to make
the necessary sacrifices--without strength of character.”
“You have not even a little friend?” she asked, quite simply.
“No. Oh, I don’t pose as a saint,” he added, hastily. “But I have been
tremendously busy and tremendously interested in other things, which
have kept my mind occupied. Besides, I am a coward--I’m afraid I’d
marry her, if she was very nice to me!”
“There are women who like to wander too--who make good companions on
the road.”
“I know it, but....”
“Confess,” she broke in, “the real reason is that you have never been
in love.”
“Yes,” he said soberly, watching the waiter as he filled their glasses.
“I am ashamed to confess it, because it proves that I am lacking
somewhere--but I suppose that is the real reason.” He picked up his
glass and touched it to hers. “To our new friendship, which will never
grow old!”
“That is the nicest toast I ever drank,” she said, and raised her glass
to her lips.
“Tell me,” he went on, after a moment, “you said something at lunch
to-day which puzzled me.”
“What was it?”
“You said to the countess that you had always understood she was
Jeneski’s friend. What did you mean by that?”
She hesitated.
“Are you very fond of her?”
“I am not fond of her at all.”
“Is it true?”
“Quite true. She repels me.”
She took a quick little breath.
“All I know is what the prince has told me,” she said, “that Jeneski
was living with a woman known as the Countess Rémond, whom he had met
in America, and who had been married to Lappo’s illegitimate son, and
that he had had a small estate restored to her.”
“She hates Jeneski now,” said Selden. “They quarrelled, I suppose.”
“Or perhaps he never was her lover--gossip like that starts easily.”
“Yes--she said something to me just to-night--what was it? Oh, yes,
that he found women less fascinating than politics.”
“Well, so do you. So do most men--if not politics, then something
else--we are always second to something. But that is as it should
be--it is a sign of strength. Life has taught me that.”
“I wish you would tell me something about your life,” said Selden.
“You really wish it?”
“I have heard so many things....”
“Ah, well, you shall know the truth. I should like you to know--though
there is really not much to tell. My father was a merchant of lace, a
traveller, you understand, selling it to the shops in various towns.
One of these shops was at Périgueux, and was managed by a young woman
with whom my father fell in love. They married and moved to Paris,
where they opened a magasin--not to sell to persons, but to other
shops--you understand?”
“What we call a wholesaler.”
“Yes. They did very well and the business grew until it occupied the
whole first floor of a building on the Rue de Rivoli near the Chatelet.
My mother really managed it, but she found time nevertheless to have
two children--two girls. My sister resembled her; but I resembled my
father, and he was very fond of me. He still travelled from town to
town, taking orders for the business; sometimes he would take me with
him. He would wash and dress me in the morning, and comb my hair, and
in the evening I would sit at the table with all the men, listening to
their talk, and understanding more than they imagined. We were very
happy together; but he was a strange man, and once he got an idea into
his head, it never left him. For example, he had once lost a parcel
through the carelessness of a porter at a railway station, and had
made a vow that no porter should touch his baggage in future. So at
every stop, he would send the porters away with dreadful insults and
stagger along the platform with his great cases of lace on his back,
and I would follow very much ashamed, for I could see that people were
laughing at him. However it made no difference.
“But those good times did not last. My father began to gamble, and
the habit grew so strong that in the end my mother could scarcely
find the money to meet the bills each month. When he came home, there
were scenes, terrible scenes, during which he sometimes threw all the
dishes into the street. Then he would promise to reform; but always
the habit was too much for him; it was like a disease, getting worse
and worse. I do not know what happened at the end--I was only fourteen
years old--but one evening I went to his room to call him to dinner. I
knocked, but he did not answer. I opened the door and saw him sitting
in his chair before his desk. I ran to him and threw my arms around
him, and he fell over against me. He was dead. He had shot himself.”
She stopped for a moment, and passed her hand before her eyes.
“That was the end of the business,” she went on. “It was taken away
from us to pay the debts--everything was sold. My sister and I were
sent to England to a convent school--it was there I got such English
as I have--and mother went to work again in a shop. It was very hard
for her, but there was nothing else to be done. We were gone three
years. When we came back, she had married again, a maître de danse at
the Opéra. He was old and very eccentric and all that he wanted of my
mother was that she should make a home for him; and she did, a very
good one. It was not amusing, but it was better than working in a shop.
“Then came the war, and for a time there was no more dancing, so to
amuse himself and keep himself occupied, he gave lessons to me and to
my sister. With my sister he soon stopped and sent her to learn to be
a typist; but with me he kept on all day, every day, until I dropped
with fatigue--not dancing only, but many other things--how to walk, how
to talk, how to acknowledge an introduction, how to hold my fork, how
to eat from my spoon--he said the French are pigs because they take
their soup from the end of the spoon instead of from the side. He was
very clever--a little mad, perhaps. But to him I owe everything.
“He was mad about the drama--but the classics only. Whenever there
was a great play at the Comédie or the Odéon, he took me to see
it--fortunately he could get tickets, or we should have been ruined.
When there was no performance, we spent the evening reading--Racine,
Molière, Hugo--I know them all by heart. And then when at last the
Opéra opened again, every day he took me with him to rehearsal, and
before long I was in the ballet. A year later, the première danseuse
fell ill one night and I took her place and did so well that I was
given an engagement.
“You know, perhaps, what the life of the stage is--there are no
reticences, no privacies. If you have ever been to the Opéra on the
night of a ballet, you have noticed that the front row of seats is
empty until the ballet is about to begin; then a number of old men
come in and take the seats. Most of them have decorations; many of
them are famous in art or literature or diplomacy--and each carries an
opera-glass. They have come to see the girls--especially the particular
girl each of them is protecting; and when the ballet is over, they come
back and watch the girls dress and carry them off to supper somewhere.
“Well, it was from that my step-father protected me. He could not
protect me from the knowledge of what was going on, from the loose talk
and coarse jests; but at least I remained vierge. It was a greater
merit on his part than on mine, for those old men disgusted me, but
he could have made a little fortune. Perhaps he had something else in
his mind for me--something greater. At any rate, in the end he made my
mother come with me to watch over me better than he could, and every
night I went home between them. Everybody called them the Dragons.
“And then, one night after I had danced very well, the director brought
Danilo back and introduced him to my mother and to me. I thought him
very handsome and distinguished. Then my step-father came and they
talked together for many minutes, my step-father shaking his head all
the time. Finally we went home, and my step-father was very silent all
the way.
“After that, the prince came back almost every evening and talked to
us, and brought me little gifts of flowers and bon-bons. Once he gave
me a ring, but my mother made me return it. He scarcely glanced at the
other girls, though they did all they could to attract him; and he had
other talks with my step-father. At last one day my step-father took me
to his study and bade me sit down.
“‘My child,’ he said, ‘you are twenty-two years old, and it is time
you thought of your future. I shall not be able to watch over you much
longer, for some day my weak heart will stop beating, and before that
I should like to see you range yourself. This prince, now--what do you
think of him?’
“‘He is not bad,’ I said, ‘but he is too young.’
“‘You are right, and if it was merely the question of a protector, I
would prefer an older man; he would know better how to value you, and
you would have the benefit of his experience. But none of those old
fellows would marry you.’
“‘Do you mean that the prince will marry me?’ I asked, astonished.
“‘You will not be his wife, exactly,’ said my step-father, ‘and yet you
will be more than his mistress,’ and he explained to me as well as he
could what a morganatic marriage is. ‘Some day he will have to marry
again for reasons of state, but by that time you will have acquired a
knowledge of the world, a certain position, and should be able to look
out for yourself. He has not much money, but a prince does not lack
money like an ordinary man, for there are always people willing to
provide it just for the privilege of being seen with him. It will be a
great education for you and I advise you to accept.’
“‘But my dancing,’ I objected.
“‘My child,’ he said, ‘I will speak to you frankly. You are a good
dancer, but you will never be a great artist. No--your place is in the
world.’
“‘But will his family consent?’ I asked.
“‘Yes. He has caused them many anxieties, and they wish him to settle
down with some nice girl until they can find a very wealthy wife for
him. That is not possible at present. Of course they will wish to see
you. What do you say?’
“What could I say except yes? It was, as my step-father said, a great
opportunity--much better than I could have hoped for. A few days later
Baron Lappo came to see me. He approved of me, and so the marriage was
arranged. Behold the result,” and she offered herself with a little
gesture, as a showman might offer his wares.
“The result is wholly admirable,” said Selden. “Yes, you were right to
accept. And your step-father?”
“His heart stopped beating one day as he had foretold,” she answered,
her lips trembling. “He was the best man I ever knew.”
“But your mother is living?”
“Oh, yes; she lives with my sister. My sister married a little
bourgeois shopkeeper. They manage the business much better than he
could.”
“And Mlle. Fayard?”
“She is the daughter of my step-father’s younger sister. I promised him
to look after her.”
Selden looked at her musingly. How far she had already travelled
from her humble beginning! How interesting it would be to watch her
future--to see what she made of herself, to what heights she rose.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I am thinking you will go far,” he said. “Some day a man will be prime
minister because of you, or there will be a great poem, a great play, a
great picture of which you were the inspiration; and I shall go to the
minister or to the artist and congratulate him, and say, ‘Monsieur, I
foretold this long ago, one evening at Monte Carlo!’”
Her eyes were shining again and she laid her hand lightly upon his.
“Perhaps you are right, my friend,” she said, “but it is not of that I
am thinking.”
“What are you thinking?”
“That I hope to find love some day,” she said, and raised her hand for
an instant to her eyes.
PART IV.--THURSDAY
CHAPTER XIX
SELDEN TAKES AN INVENTORY
“I hope to find love some day!”
Those words were in Selden’s mind when he went to sleep that night and
when he awoke next morning, and he lay for a long time thinking of the
woman who had uttered them and of the story she had told him. To find
love some day--there was a fit ambition for every human heart! But how
often it was pushed aside by greed, by cynicism, by selfishness, by
fear--by any number of cold and worldly things!
As it had been with himself. He could not but admit it. Perhaps in some
thin and far-off fashion, he still hoped to find love some day; there
had been moments haunted by a vision of himself seated cosily before a
glowing hearth, and not alone; but somehow, as the years passed, that
figure sitting there in slippered ease had grown older and older, grey
haired, even a little stiff in the joints from long campaigning. It had
remained himself, indeed, but always himself thirty years hence.
For it is not only true that a rolling stone gathers no moss, but
wishes to gather none; as time goes on, even grows to fear moss, or
anything else that mars the hard smoothness which enables it to keep on
rolling.
Selden had been rolling, now, for many years. It was his first
assignment to foreign work, to cover one of the Balkan wars, which had
enabled him to cast loose his anchors, and he had never been seriously
tempted to pick them up again. He had come to love rolling for its own
sake. The wandering life of the special writer was congenial to his
blood. It was of intense interest, for it enabled him to get past the
fire-lines at every holocaust, and it gave him a prestige, a sense of
power, impossible to any sedentary job. The thought of being chained
to a desk--of being chained even to a house--revolted him. He wanted
always to be able to throw his things into a bag and take the road at a
moment’s notice, without the necessity of explanations to any one, or
anything to hold him back.
For a long time he had told himself that it was his career he was
jealous of--that nothing should touch that. It should be his task to
interpret Europe to America and America to Europe--to labour night and
day to bring the peoples of the old and the new worlds to a mutual
comprehension and a common interest. But of late, questionings had
crept in, whispered doubts. Was he really accomplishing anything, was
he really going ahead?
As he lay there that morning thinking it over, taking such inventory of
himself as he could, he realized that it was no longer any thought for
his career which drove him on, but merely the force of habit. He had
reverted to type. The stone had been rolling so long that rolling had
become a second nature.
For in spite of the convention which women sedulously foster and even
sometimes believe, man is not by nature a domestic animal. He has
been partially tamed by centuries of restraint, his spirit has been
broken by the manifold burdens laid upon him; for generation after
generation, all the pillars of society have struggled to convince him
that the greatest blessings he can hope to win in this world are a wife
and children and that his highest privilege is to labour to support
them; all the forces of law, of civilization, of public opinion,
have conspired to hobble, shackle and coerce him. And yet, in spite
of everything, he sometimes manages to break loose; while few women
suspect what moments of desperation often overwhelm even the meekest
father of a family.
Selden had broken loose. Now, at last, he was beginning to wonder
whether freedom was worth the price.
As for his career, he had reached its apex. He could go on writing
specials, yes; he could go on casting a feeble light into the dark
corners of the earth, dissecting the motives of public men, perhaps
influencing public opinion a little--a very little; but he would never
be any more powerful, any better known, than he was at that moment.
Indeed, his influence and his fame must both diminish--imperceptibly
for a while perhaps, but none the less surely, for he could not hope
that the future would by any possibility bring such opportunities as
the past six years had brought. From this point onward his career could
be only a descent.
Besides, he was himself growing weary of the game. The world had gone
stale, had gone cold and sceptical. The fine enthusiasms, the wide
sympathies, the common brotherhood of war days had waned and vanished.
And his own enthusiasms had vanished too. He remembered bitterly the
ardour with which he had gone to work to combat the traducers of the
League of Nations, and with what certainty of success. He had felt
sure of his country, of her generous soul, her instinct for right, her
jealousy of her honour, and he had never recovered from the shock when
she denied the League. It had left him stunned and incredulous.
He had buckled on his armour again and laboured to set her right, but,
so far as he could see, with absolutely no result. He had simply wasted
his time. The doctrine of world effort, of world helpfulness, of world
responsibility, which he had preached with such conviction, had fallen
upon deaf or hostile ears. So he preached it no longer. He was worn out.
But what remained? Nothing that seemed to him worth while. Oh, he could
still bring some food to Austria’s starving children; he could still
help or hinder the plans of a petty king; he could still take France’s
part in her struggle against isolation. But other men could do that
just as well as he.
Perhaps it would be better worth while if he could make a woman happy;
a woman whom no other man could make happy....
But how imbecile to suppose there was such a woman! And if there
were, what had he to offer her? To drag her down with him on his long
descent? No--that was a journey which he would make alone!
And at this point he threw off the covers, bounded out of bed, rang
for breakfast, and plunged into his bath, which he made much colder
than usual.
He needed bracing. He was getting soft.
After breakfast he settled resolutely to work on the last of his
Austrian articles--a summary of the situation, not half so desperate as
certain financiers had pictured it, for nothing could deprive Vienna
of her position at the very centre of the system along which flowed
the trade of central Europe. He kept doggedly at work until it was
finished, and as he read it over he decided that it was the best of the
lot. At least, he told himself, he had not forgotten how to write!
So it was to a composed and apparently normal Selden that the card of
Mr. Charles Wharton Davis was presently handed in, with that young
gentleman close behind it. It seemed to Selden, as he greeted him, that
his air was unusually subdued.
“You didn’t wait for me last night,” Davis began, accusingly.
“No--did you finally break the bank?”
“Damn the bank! I want to talk to you seriously.”
“All right; fire ahead. But sit down, won’t you?”
Davis sat down and looked about the room for a moment, as though trying
to find a place to begin.
“I had another talk with mother this morning,” he said finally.
“About Miss Fayard?”
“Yes. She got quite violent--says she has other plans for me--that
she’ll tie up all my money.”
“I know,” said Selden, smiling. “She wants you to marry the Princess
Anna.”
“My God!” groaned Davis, his face turning pale with horror.
“That--that--why, she’s got a moustache, Selden! No; I won’t do it!
Look here, you’ve got to help me. I’ve done my part.”
“Suppose you tell me about that first,” Selden suggested.
“Oh, it was just as I thought,” said Davis, disgustedly. “Sis knew all
about it. She fired up and told me to mind my own business. None of my
family takes me seriously. Mother thinks this is just a boy and girl
affair. It’s not--I’m a man and I’m going to be treated as a man!”
“Wait a minute,” said Selden; “you’re getting ahead of your story. Tell
me exactly what you said to your sister.”
“I asked her if she knew that Danilo had a morganatic wife, because if
she didn’t know it, I thought it was my duty to tell her so.”
“Yes; and what did she say?”
“She said of course she knew it; that that was all arranged, and that
she wished I would attend to my own affairs, which certainly required
my attention! I said yes, I knew they did, and that if she wanted to be
a real sister to me, she’d help me out--that I’d fallen in love with
the sweetest girl on earth....”
“Go ahead,” Selden encouraged, as Davis paused. “What did she say to
that?”
“She said ‘Piffle!’ or something like that; and then I got mad, and
told her that she couldn’t fool me--that I had seen through her from
the start--all that fol-de-rol about helping that little stinking
country out there--when her whole object was just to get even with
Jeneski because he had thrown her over....”
“Wait a minute!” Selden interrupted, sitting bolt upright. “What do you
mean by that? Do you mean that Jeneski and your sister were engaged to
be married?”
“Oh, no; I was just laying it on a little heavy. But Jeneski and father
were always chewing the rag in the library of evenings, and sis used
to hang around and pretend she understood, and all she could talk
about was Jeneski and the wonderful things he was going to do. She was
certainly crazy about him. And then all at once she shut up, and after
a while I learned that Jeneski had pulled out for Europe--so I just put
two and two together. But I may be all wrong.”
“What did your sister say when you made this--er--accusation?”
“Oh,” said Davis, with a grin; “the door slammed about then.”
Selden sat for a moment looking at him. Could this be the key to Myra
Davis’s conduct? It fitted certainly, or seemed to--and yet....
“So, since I couldn’t get any sympathy at home, I came over here,”
Davis concluded.
“Well, you are not going to get much here,” said Selden. “If you want
to be treated like a man you’ve got to act like one, and a man doesn’t
drink too much champagne whenever he gets the chance, nor fool away
his time at a roulette table, nor live off of money somebody else has
earned. I think it is a good thing your money is tied up--maybe you
will have to go to work. And I’ll never ask your mother to turn it
over to you--not till you have proved there is something in you. I
_might_ ask her to allow you something to live on till you can find a
job, and I _might_ point out to her that Miss Fayard is a darn sight
too good for you, but not till you promise to brace up!”
Davis’s face had darkened a little at the beginning of this tirade, but
it was radiant before Selden finished.
“I’ll do anything you say,” he protested. “I know I’ve been a good deal
of a rotter. Just give me a chance!”
“All right,” said Selden. “That’s exactly what I’m proposing to do.”
“Then I’ll go tell Cicette it’s all settled,” and Davis jumped to his
feet.
“How do you mean settled?” Selden demanded.
“I’m going to reform, and you’re going to see Mother. That’s the
bargain, isn’t it?”
“I’m going to see your mother _after_ you have reformed.”
“Well, this is after,” Davis pointed out with a grin. “I reformed fully
five minutes ago. Look here, old man,” he went on more seriously,
“don’t think I’m not eternally grateful--I am.”
“Shut up and get out!” Selden ordered. He was beginning really to like
the boy.
“Come and have lunch with me,” Davis suggested. “Maybe Madame Ghita
will let me take Cicette, if you’re along.”
“Good Lord! I’ve an engagement for lunch!” and Selden jerked out his
watch. “I can just make it. Get out of here!”
“All right,” said Davis. “But remember, my fate is in your hands!”
* * * * *
Half an hour later, Selden and Scott sat down together at a little
table on the terrace of Amirauté’s, among the olive trees, high above
the sea, and attacked a great dish of tiny sole, browned to a crisp
and unbelievably sweet and delicate, which Scott had ordered. And
after that there were tournados garnished with slices of foie gras.
And finally there was a basket of fruit and nuts--figs from the oases
of the Sahara, grapes from Malaga, oranges from Morocco, paper-shelled
almonds and walnuts from the Aurès....
They had talked of desultory things, of old experiences, during the
meal; but with the coffee and cigars, Scott brought the talk abruptly
back to the present.
“Anything new about the restoration?” he asked.
“No--except that I heard last night Jeneski is on his way here.”
Scott whistled softly.
“What do you suppose he expects to do?”
“Heaven knows.”
“He will stir up some excitement, anyway,” said Scott. “I met him
once--he’s an electric sort of fellow; you can almost see the sparks
flying when he gets excited. And he will be excited all right--but it
seems to me the person to be pitied most in this affair isn’t Jeneski
or Miss Davis, but Danilo.”
“Why do you pity him?”
“Well, if it was me,” said Scott slowly, “I wouldn’t give up a woman
like Madame Ghita--not for any throne on earth. And neither would you,”
Scott added, looking at him.
“No, I wouldn’t,” Selden agreed, gazing out across the water; “not if
she loved me.”
“You mean she doesn’t love the prince? Well, I suppose not. She is a
very extraordinary woman. She got me to talking about you last night,”
he added in another tone; “she wanted to know all about you.”
“Yes,” said Selden; “she told me you had been blowing off. I could see
what you were trying to do. I appreciate it, old man.”
Scott nodded curtly.
“It is finished, then--her affair with the prince?”
“Yes.”
“That’s fine!” said Scott, and nodded again. “What are you going to do,
now you have finished your Balkan stuff?” he asked, after a moment.
“I don’t know. I was thinking about it this morning. The fact is,
Scott, I have lost my edge. I’m beginning to go downhill.”
“Nonsense!” Scott protested. “Downhill! You make me tired!” But there
was a certain anxiety in his eyes as he looked at Selden.
“It is true, though. You know what I have been working for and how I
have failed. The League is dead so far as America is concerned.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Anyway, my people have intimated that I might as well quit writing
about it--nobody wants to read that sort of stuff any more, it seems.”
Scott puffed his cigar reflectively for a moment.
“I’m inclined to think you are right, old man, in a certain sense,”
he said at last. “As a special correspondent, you have reached the
summit--you can’t go any higher because there is no higher place to go
to. But that doesn’t mean you are going to give up fighting for the
things you believe in. You have a following--I don’t think you realize
how large it is; and right now is the time for you to strike out for
something bigger.”
“Such as what?” asked Selden sceptically.
“I haven’t thought it out--but what I see at this moment is a great
liberal weekly, with you as editor-in-chief and the strongest kind of
a staff--the kind you could get together better than any other man
I know. I have thought for a long time that the day of the literary
monthly--the Scribner, Harper, Century type--is about over, and that
the time is ripe for the liberal weekly, dealing in a large way with
world affairs and social progress and politics--and art and literature
too, of course. I know there are already three or four, but they are
all handicapped by some sort of mental bias or astigmatism or spiritual
dyspepsia. Now is the time for the real thing. And you are the man to
start it.”
Selden laughed a little bitterly.
“I didn’t know you were such a dreamer, Scott!”
“It isn’t a dream.”
“Yes, it is. Apart from all question of myself, where is the money to
come from? You don’t imagine it would be self-supporting?”
“Of course not--not for a long time. It must have financial
backing--the right sort--strong enough to make it independent in every
way.”
“But how can a liberal paper hope to get financial backing? How can any
paper get financial backing without mortgaging its opinions? It can’t
be done.”
“Yes, it can,” said Scott. “At least, I believe it can. There must
be one disinterested millionaire somewhere in the world! I’ll take a
look for him. Meanwhile, there is another thing you want to do: get
married--to the right woman.”
“I suppose you’ve already got her picked out for me,” remarked Selden,
with irony.
“As it happens, I have,” said Scott coolly. “I was talking to her last
night.”
Selden stared at him, all his blood in his face.
“Do you mean Madame Ghita?” he asked.
“Of course I do,” Scott answered curtly.
“But look here,” Selden stammered, “you’re joking, of course! Do you
suppose I’d have the nerve ... I’m not good enough for her ... I’m not
big enough....”
“Of course you’re not,” broke in Scott impatiently. “But that doesn’t
matter, if you can make her happy. Think what it would mean to live
with a woman like that!”
“Yes,” said Selden, between set teeth; “I have thought....”
“And she could make any man big--if she loved him!”
“Ah, yes,” agreed Selden hoarsely, “if she loved him! She couldn’t love
me!”
“I don’t know,” retorted Scott; “women do strange things sometimes. Why
not ask her?”
And he threw away his cigar and called for the bill.
CHAPTER XX
A PHILOSOPHER DISCOURSES
It was not merely, or even principally, to arrange the articles of
settlement that the Baron Lappo had gone so hastily to Paris. The terms
of the articles had already been agreed upon, after exhaustive debates
with Mrs. Davis’s solicitor, tentative drafts had been exchanged, and
the final one was even then in the baron’s hands, with but a minor
detail or two needing correction--trivial matters, easily arranged by
post.
But the royal exchequer was low--empty, as a matter of fact; and the
need of replenishment was so urgent that the baron had excused himself
a few minutes after Selden’s departure from the betrothal dinner,
changed hurriedly into travelling clothes while his valet packed his
bag, and had managed to catch the Paris express.
He had reached Paris early the following afternoon, had driven straight
to the rooms of a private banker in Rue Lafitte, who, forewarned by
wire, was awaiting him, and had at once, as was his habit, placed all
his cards on the table. These cards had been examined carefully by
a fat gentleman with a black curly beard and a type of countenance
unmistakably Hebraic, and had proved so satisfactory that the baron
was able to get away at the end of an hour, and to catch Mrs. Davis’s
solicitor upon his return from a leisurely lunch. The final details of
the settlement were soon agreed upon and arrangements made to have the
official copies prepared at once.
He had then spent an hour at the Quai d’Orsay, and another half-hour
at the British Embassy in Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré; had gone back to
Rue Lafitte for a final talk with his banker, and then to the offices
of the solicitor in the Avenue de l’Opéra, where the official copies of
the agreement were awaiting him, and had arrived at the Gare de Lyon in
time to catch the train for Marseilles leaving at 8:50, very tired but
triumphant.
It was about the middle of the next afternoon that he stepped out
again upon the platform at Nice, entered the car which was awaiting
him, and was whirled away to the Villa Gloria, where he found the king
recovering from the heart attack of the previous day.
It had been a severe one, brought on, as always, by over-eating. The
king was a gourmet, not to say a glutton, with not always the strength
to resist temptation. It was one of Baron Lappo’s duties to supply this
strength. In his absence, the task usually devolved upon the Princess
Anna; but she had been ill the day before, and the chef had been so
ill-advised as to prepare a rich pillaff of which the king was very
fond--with the consequence that for a time he had been very ill indeed.
The baron uttered no reproaches, but there was that in his look which
would have made the king blush, if he had not already been so rubicund.
“Do not be cross with me, my old friend,” he said. “It is the only
pleasure I have left.”
“But at this moment,” the baron pointed out, “Your Majesty should be
very careful. It would be most unfortunate if the impression got about
that you are subject to such attacks.”
“I am not dead yet,” said the king; “though I confess that for a time I
was uncertain about it. You have the papers?”
“They are here,” and the baron spread them out. “Everything is as we
wished.”
“What are the exact figures?” asked the king.
“The estate, when all the debts had been settled and the taxes paid,
amounted to seventy-five millions. Of this a third was left to the
daughter, a third to the son, and a third to the wife, the wife’s share
to be held in trust, after her death, for any grandchildren. The son’s
share is also in trust; the daughter’s is to be paid over to her upon
her marriage, but must remain her property, not her husband’s.”
“We cannot object to that,” said the king. “She will have, then, how
much?”
“About twenty-five million dollars, Sire.”
“That is how much in the currency of our country?”
“At present rates, nearly three billions.”
“Ah,” said the king thoughtfully, “what cannot be done with such a sum!
Half of it will suffice!”
“That is also my opinion,” said the baron.
“And the remainder can be put aside as a foundation for our house. If
we could get the boy also....”
“His money will never be really his--it is held in trust for his
children.”
“Magnificent!” said the king. “It would make our house the richest in
Europe. Yes, we must arrange it. But meanwhile, my good Lappo, as you
know, we have nothing. Did you see Hirsch?”
“Yes, Sire; and he is willing to make a loan--three hundred thousand
francs, to be repaid one month after the marriage. The terms,” added
the baron, “are rather stiff.”
“No matter,” said the king, who was used to stiff terms. “When can we
get the money?”
“I have arranged for the notary and an official of Hirsch’s bank to
come this evening, prepared to pay it over after Your Majesty and
Danilo have signed the necessary papers. Danilo must not fail to be
present.”
“Good,” said the king; “I will attend to that. This does more to cure
me than all the doctors,” he added. “There is no illness so annoying
as lack of money! And the settlement--that also must be signed without
delay.”
“I had thought of to-morrow morning,” said the baron.
“Very well,” agreed the king; “you will make the arrangements.”
“I have also to report,” said the baron, “an attitude of benevolent
neutrality on the part of the French and British governments. They have
no disposition to interfere, so long as there is no bloodshed. Italy,
of course, we can count on. Our success, therefore, seems assured,
unless the prince....”
“Do not worry about Danilo,” said the king. “He will do as I tell
him--he knows his duty. You have provided for his wife?”
“I have caused an offer to be made her.”
“By whom?”
“By the Countess Rémond.”
“Ah, yes,” said the king reflectively. “You think you can trust her?”
“Absolutely, Sire. She has reasons to be grateful to me--and to hate
Jeneski.”
“You are right not to count too much upon gratitude,” said the king;
“but hate--yes, that is better. She is a clever woman. We must not
forget her,” and he turned to the papers on his desk.
The baron retired to his cabinet to look through his mail, and there he
found the report from the countess of her interview with Madame Ghita,
and of her acceptance. But it contained no reference to the receipt of
the telegram from Goritza heralding Jeneski’s arrival.
The baron read the report attentively, especially a long postscript
in which Selden’s name occurred, and nodded approval once or twice.
Then he ordered his car, made a careful toilet and presently sallied
forth to call upon Mrs. Davis in her villa at Cimiez; and, after a most
satisfactory conversation with her, directed his chauffeur to proceed
by the coast road to Monte Carlo.
* * * * *
Selden had declined Scott’s proffer of a lift back to his hotel.
“No, I’ll walk,” he said. “It will do me good.”
The moment had come when he must arrange his future--when he must
decide what he was going to do. He felt that he must be alone, that
he could not meet any of the actors in the drama--certainly not Madame
Ghita--until that decision had been reached. And he was the prey of
many and violent emotions, for he began to perceive that the decision
might not rest wholly in his hands. Scott was a fool, of course, in
thinking there was any chance for him; but at least he must make up his
mind whether he should try to win her or whether he should flee.
It was evident that his only sure safety lay in flight; he could no
longer trust himself; and he told himself again and again that he was
a fool to hesitate. Yet to flee from such a woman--wasn’t that more
foolish still? The thought of life with her turned him giddy, set his
blood on fire....
But how could he support her? There was no admiring public ready to pay
for the privilege of dining with a newspaper man! Even if he had been
willing to accept life on such terms. And she would have to renounce
the king’s bounty, for it was equally impossible for him to live on
money acquired as that would be. But what right had he to ask her to do
that? What had he to offer in return? No, he couldn’t do it! He must go
away!
And then the memory of her eyes, of her voice, rent him anew. He was in
love! He! In love!
He stood away and looked at himself with a sneer. What a pitiable
object he had become!
Yes, he must go away--at once.
When he finally got back to his room, he hauled out his bag and began
to pack--slowly, with long periods of abstraction.
It was thus the baron found him. It needed but a glance at Selden’s
tortured face to tell that astute old student of human nature what was
amiss.
“Yes, I am back, you see,” he said, as he took the proffered chair.
“Everything is arranged, and I have come to ask you to do Madame Davis
and myself one more favour. I have no shame--I am always asking!”
“What is the favour?”
“The articles of settlement are to be signed to-morrow morning. Mrs.
Davis would consider it a very great favour, and so should I, if you
would sign as a witness in her behalf.”
Selden hesitated.
“There is nothing in the terms of the settlement to which you could
object,” went on the baron. “The entire fortune of Miss Davis remains
absolutely in her hands. The prince gets nothing, except a small
annuity. We preferred it so. We hope, of course, that she will choose
to use a portion of her fortune to rehabilitate our country--which
will be her country also--but the bulk of it will be conserved for the
benefit of her children.”
Still Selden hesitated.
“Come,” said the baron, “tell me frankly what is in your thought.”
“I am wondering,” said Selden, “whether Miss Davis will be happy. It is
evident that she is not in love.”
“Not, at least, with the prince,” supplemented the baron.
“What do you mean?”
“I may be wrong,” said the baron, “because I do not understand
your women; but I have observed Miss Davis as carefully as I
could--naturally, since I had need to do so!--and I have become more
and more convinced that somewhere in her life there has been an unhappy
love affair, from which she has never quite recovered. That happens,
does it not, even to American girls?”
“Yes, of course,” said Selden.
“I admit it does not seem probable, but it is the only explanation I
can find of a thing which has appeared to me very strange. For the only
question she has asked herself, apparently, about this marriage is not
whether she would be happy, but whether she would be useful.”
“Yes,” said Selden again; “she asked me just that.”
“Not for a moment, so far as I could see, has she thought of love.
That, I confess, seemed to me unnatural; though perhaps American
girls do not think of love,” and the baron shrugged his shoulders
helplessly. “Or perhaps they are ashamed of it. I do not know. As for
happiness--are your American marriages always happy?”
“No, not always,” Selden admitted with a smile.
“I have never seen one that appeared so,” said the baron; “not as a
French marriage is very often happy. To me, American husbands and wives
seem merely bored with each other. Why should two people stay together
when they would be happier apart?”
“You see only the worst ones over here; and a lot of people are held
together by habit, by fear of ridicule or loss of position. We are
cowards in that respect.”
“Yes; we are not like that. For one thing, our women try to keep
themselves interesting to their men, and they are not ashamed of love.
They do not consider a husband merely a source of funds--a bank. Very
often they manage his affairs for him, and better than he could. The
attitude of the husband, too, is different. With you, women are an
ornament; with us, they are a passion.”
“Too much so, perhaps,” commented Selden.
“It may be; yes, no doubt our men are less faithful than yours, but
they are also less cruel. They do not outlaw a woman because she
has had a lover; they do not regard her as therefore ruined. It was
Dumas--was it not?--who pointed out that a woman’s virginity belongs,
not to the first man who possesses her, but to the first man she truly
loves, to whom for the first time she really surrenders--for it is to
him only she gives everything. Well, our men believe that.”
“Yes,” said Selden in a low voice; “yes....”
“And after all,” went on the baron, lighting a cigarette, “it is a much
greater compliment to a man--a much more difficult thing to achieve--to
be a woman’s last lover than it is to be her first one. To be a woman’s
first lover--that is nothing; she is curious, she wishes to know what
love is, she has not perfected her defence. A man needs only to be a
little good-looking and not too stupid. But to be her last one, that is
different. To emerge victorious from the comparisons that she makes, to
impress her as no one else has done, to awaken something in her that no
one else has been able to awaken, to cause her to say to herself, ‘I
will seek no further--I am content! I love him!’ To accomplish that, a
man must be very clever, very intelligent. It is a triumph. There is no
higher tribute.”
“Perhaps it is a tribute Miss Davis will pay the prince,” suggested
Selden, with a smile.
“I was not thinking of Miss Davis,” said the baron; “but it is
possible. The prince is not without brains. At least, I trust she will
be happy as well as useful. I give you my word, as a man of honour,
that I shall do everything in my power to make her so.”
“I am sure of it,” said Selden; “and I shall be glad to be present
to-morrow morning as Mrs. Davis’s witness.”
“Thank you,” said the baron. “At eleven.”
He made a little motion as if to rise, then, glancing again at Selden’s
face, lighted another cigarette and settled back in his chair.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said. “What has been going on here?”
“Nothing has been going on. I have been doing a little work--and
annoying myself a great deal.”
“Annoying yourself? About what, if I may ask?”
“About my future.”
“Ah!” said the baron. “Does it not please you--your future?”
“As a matter of fact,” answered Selden, with a crooked grin, “I have
suddenly discovered that my future is behind me.”
The baron took a long puff of his cigarette and exhaled the smoke
slowly.
“Your Americanisms sometimes puzzle me,” he said. “What you mean, I
suppose, is that you do not at this moment see ahead of you any work
which seems as important as that which you have already done.”
“Not at this moment, or any moment. Worse still, I am beginning to
despair of human nature; I....”
“But you are wrong--very wrong,” broke in the baron. “Here am I, with
at least twice your age, my whole life spent in the most cynical of
all professions, and my admiration for human nature grows stronger and
stronger, day by day. I listen to the pessimists with a smile--the
prophets of evil do not frighten me. I grant all their contentions:
that man is naturally evil, that he has used such glimmering light of
reason as he may possess only to become more bestial than the beasts,
that five thousand years of civilization have culminated in five years
of atrocity, fiendishness and insanity; yes, but in the midst of it
all, in the very worst of it, there were flashes of splendour--flashes
of kindliness, and courage and self-sacrifice. There is something of
that in all of us--and that is the miracle. It should not astonish us
that men are full of ignorance and vice, but that they are capable of
the heroisms they sometimes attain. You have been looking at the wrong
side of the shield, my friend.”
“Perhaps I have,” agreed Selden, in a low voice.
“Well, turn it over,” said the baron. He paused a moment, evidently in
doubt whether to go on. “I am an old man,” he continued at last, “and
I have seen a great deal of life; also I esteem you very highly--so
you will permit me to say something which in another might seem an
impertinence. It is this: do not fear to seize happiness when it comes
your way; do not hesitate, or draw back, or run away. It is a rare
thing, happiness--a very rare and fleeting thing; even at best, we can
only hope to taste it briefly now and then. How silly, how cowardly to
permit a single moment of it to escape! That,” he added, “is all I have
learned in the sixty years that I have been on earth. But many men do
not learn even that--not until it is too late!”
He sat for a moment longer looking at Selden with his wise old eyes;
then he rose abruptly.
“Good-bye, my friend,” he said. “Till to-morrow--at eleven.”
CHAPTER XXI
THE UNLIT LAMP
It was a decidedly nervous and shaken Selden who dressed for dinner
that evening. For the first time in his life he had committed what is
for a journalist the unpardonable sin--he had permitted his feelings to
become involved in an affair which he had set himself to watch from the
outside. He had ceased to be an observer and had become a participant.
Yet permitted was scarcely the word, for he seemed to have had no
volition in the matter. He had been drawn in against his will. But,
he told himself grimly, it was because his struggles to escape had
been half-hearted. He might have saved himself had he heeded the
first signals of danger. It was his cursed inability to make up his
mind that had brought him to his present pass. He had dabbled with
temptation--and now it was too late: the whirlpool had him!
No; that was not true either. Let him at least be man enough to be
candid with himself: he could escape, even now, if he really wanted to.
He had only to finish packing his bag, go to the station, get aboard
the first train, and permit it to carry him away. But that was such a
cowardly thing to do.
“Oh, own up, you idiot!” he groaned between his teeth. “It’s not
because it is cowardly you don’t do it! Own up! It’s because you don’t
want to escape!”
And, staring at himself in the glass, he realized that this was the
truth--he had got down to it at last. He didn’t want to escape. It was
finished. He might still struggle a little in an instinctive sort of
way, but unless some power outside himself seized him and threw him
clear....
Yes, and in that event he had the horrid consciousness that he would
fight with all his strength against that power!
“What is it I am afraid of?” he asked himself. “The baron is right. A
man is a fool not to seize happiness when it comes his way!”
If he could only have happiness without capitulation! If he could have
love fighting at his side for some great ideal! That were to be blessed
indeed. But if love should drag him down--well, even then, he would
have love!
Why had the baron talked to him like that? Was it, perhaps, that he had
some inkling.... And old Scott, too....
The sharp ringing of his telephone bell startled him out of his
thoughts.
“This is Davis,” said the voice at the other end. “What are you doing
to-night?”
“Nothing in particular,” Selden answered; the only thing he had
definitely planned was to go to the club in the hope of finding Madame
Ghita there.
“Then come up and have dinner with us.”
“Who is ‘us’?”
“Madame Ghita, Miss Fayard and myself. We are having a dinner to
celebrate a very special event--one in which you are particularly
interested.”
“Where is the prince?” asked Selden.
“He can’t come until later--he just telephoned us not to wait for
him--he has to sign some papers of some sort. Three would be deadly,
and madame suggested that I ask you.”
Selden’s heart was beating like a drum. It was the Rubicon.
“Where is the dinner?” he asked, in a voice muffled by emotion.
“In madame’s apartment, here in the hotel--third floor. Will you come?”
“Please come, M. Selden!” said madame’s voice softly.
It was all over--he took the plunge.
“Of course I will come,” he said. “Thank madame for me.”
“Oh, you can thank her yourself,” said Davis, with a chuckle. “We will
give you fifteen minutes.”
“All right,” Selden agreed, and placed the receiver back on its rack.
He gave a last critical look at himself, retied his tie, then caught up
coat and hat, descended to the lobby and hurried out to the florist’s
at the corner, where he bought two preposterously expensive bunches
of roses. He paid for them with a thrill of satisfaction--for the
first time in his life he was being foolish; he had cut loose from the
moorings of common-sense; he had let himself go!
Flowers in hand, he hurried back to the hotel and presented himself at
the door of Madame Ghita’s apartment.
He was entirely cool, now; quite himself; and was able to present
the flowers to the ladies and exchange the usual greetings without
a tremor. Only he suspected an uncanny discernment in the long look
Madame Ghita gave him as she thanked him for the roses.
She was looking incredibly lovely in a clinging gown of dark,
wine-coloured velvet, without ornamentation, and as she moved away from
him to place the roses in a vase and order dinner to be served, he
drank in again the exquisite grace of her figure, the queenly pose of
her head, the regal way in which she moved. And a sudden shaft of fear
struck through him. How could he hope to win a woman like that!
She came back in a moment, and motioned them to table.
“Let us sit down,” she said. “You here at my left, M. Selden; you at my
right, M. Davis; you there, Cicette.”
As they took their seats Selden saw that she had placed one of his
roses in her bosom, and his hands began to tremble a little, in spite
of his efforts to control them. He was grateful that Davis was babbling
away excitedly.
“It was great for you to come, old man,” he said; “perfectly gorgeous.
Imagine a dinner with an empty place!”
Selden chilled at the words. Yes, it was true; he was there in another
man’s place; this apartment was another man’s apartment; this woman....
He had an impulse to rise--to run away. It was not at table only he was
seeking to take another man’s place. The thought was almost more than
he could bear.
“I had a premonition the place would be empty unless M. Selden
consented to come,” said Madame Ghita softly.
Davis stared at her.
“But you were doubtful if he would....”
“I knew that M. Selden had many engagements,” said madame, her colour
mounting a little. “Nevertheless, I permitted myself to hope.”
Selden felt his heart revive. So the place was really his!
“You are very good to me, madame,” he murmured, and then he caught
Cicette’s eyes on him, very round and shining. Well, let the whole
world see; he did not care!
But Davis was too engrossed in his own affairs to notice anything.
“I told you, you know,” he rattled on, “that this was a very special
occasion. Confound it, I can’t keep it any longer!” he added, as
Cicette made a motion to silence him, and he caught her hand and held
it. “Waiter, fill the glasses! Selden, old man, I want you to drink to
the health of the sweetest girl in the world--the future Madame Davis!”
and he raised Cicette’s hand to his lips with more grace than Selden
imagined he possessed.
“With all my heart!” cried Selden, deeply moved. “I congratulate you,
Davis; and you also, mademoiselle.”
“Thank you,” said Davis, and held out his hand across the board. “You
said that as though you meant to do it!”
“I do mean it. She is charming. She will make you a good wife. Take
care that you make her a good husband.”
At that, the bride-to-be gave him her hand to kiss. “You also are very
charming,” she said in rapid French, “and I hope that some day it will
be my turn to wish you good fortune.” She glanced at Madame Ghita’s
face, and suddenly sprang to her feet and ran around the table and
kissed her. “You are a darling!” she whispered in her ear; “a big, big
darling, the dearest of the world!”
Madame held her close for a moment, and then sent her back to her seat.
“You must be sensible,” she said.
“Oh, yes, I shall be sensible, do not fear,” Miss Fayard assured her.
“And I shall try to be, as you say, monsieur, a good wife. But he has
need of control, has he not? A strong hand, hein?”
“Truly,” agreed Selden; “a very strong hand. Do not hesitate to apply
it, mademoiselle, right from the beginning!”
“See here,” protested Davis, “don’t talk so fast. Or speak English.”
“I also learn ze Eengleesh,” laughed Miss Fayard. “Oh, already I spik
heem verree well. But ees eet not ridicule, ce nom-la--Madame Davees!”
“Well, it is going to be yours,” said Davis grimly, “so you’ll have to
make the best of it. You understand,” he went on to Selden, “this is
between ourselves as yet. We’ve got to square things with Mother before
it’s announced.”
“She will never consent, never!” cried Miss Fayard, lapsing into her
native tongue.
“Oh, yes, she will,” said Davis. “Old Selden has promised to help me.
And if she doesn’t, it won’t make any difference. I’m of age. We won’t
starve.”
Selden looked at him with interest; already he detected in him a new
spirit. He was more of a man.
“Yes, I will help,” he said; “but whether your mother consents or
not, you were right not to wait. There is a very great English poet,”
he went on to Madame Ghita, “named Robert Browning--perhaps you have
heard of him--and he was a great poet because he was first of all
a great philosopher. One of his poems is about a man who loved the
wife of another man, and she also loved him, and they decided to go
away together and be happy. But first one thing intervened, and then
another; the days slipped by, and the months and the years--before they
knew it, age was upon them, their blood grew cold--it was too late.”
“Yes--and then?” asked Madame Ghita, who had been listening with
shining eyes.
“Browning points out that their indecision, their cowardice, was far
worse, far more damning, than if they had seized their happiness,
though that was a crime, and he adds that a man should contend to
the uttermost for his life’s set prize, be it what it will--vice or
virtue--for the worst sin of all is ‘the unlit lamp and the ungirt
loin.’”
“And he is right,” said madame in a low voice.
“Of course he is right--that is why I tell Davis he is wise to seize
his happiness while it is within reach. Whether his mother consents or
not--that does not matter.”
“Is it true, then, monsieur,” asked the girl, who had been listening to
all this with great eyes, “that in America one can marry without the
consent of the parents?”
“But yes,” Selden assured her. “With us it makes no difference whether
or not the parents consent. Many times they do not even know about it
until after their children are married.”
“It is scarcely to be believed!”
“America, mademoiselle,” said Selden, whose spirit had suddenly lifted
its wings within him, “is the land of youth, for youth, about youth.
We are young; we permit our young people to tyrannize over us; our
literature, our theatre, concerns itself only with their love affairs,
which are always innocent and always end in a happy marriage. And
in that marriage it is always the woman who dominates. The man is
tolerated, because to a marriage a man is necessary; but he has only
one function--to provide a pedestal upon which the woman may stand; and
but one duty, to worship her all his life. He has promised to do so,
and he must keep that promise, no matter how silly and useless he may
find her to be. That is the convention, the proper thing, to which all
good Americans subscribe.”
“I know! I know!” cried Cicette. “I have seen them--the man following
his wife like a footman--a beast of burden.”
“Yes,” said Selden, laughing. “It is only in America the woman walks in
front.”
“But there is one thing I cannot understand,” went on Cicette, “that
there are so many American women who leave their husbands at home when
they come to Europe.”
“Why not?” Selden demanded. “What need has the husband of culture or
relaxation? His function is to earn the living.”
“But is it not dangerous? Those deserted husbands--do they not find
some one....”
“Some of them do--but most of them just keep on toiling away. The
American husband is incredibly docile and incredibly faithful.”
“So I do well to marry an American?”
“Undoubtedly!”
“And he does well to marry a Frenchwoman,” said Madame Ghita, “for,
in spite of her gay manner, in spite of her apparent thoughtlessness,
she is good and very serious at bottom. She will give herself to her
husband utterly, without reservation; she will live only for his
career; she will be ceaselessly vigilant for his interests; if he is
ill, she will nurse him; if he has bad fortune, she will console him;
she will herself prepare the dishes he likes to eat, happy to serve
him....”
“Yes,” agreed Selden; “men are more precious over here, more cherished.
You have always had more women than men. With us, as with every
frontier nation, it has been the other way--and we still preserve the
frontier tradition--it is the women who are at a premium!”
“It is deeper than that!” protested madame; “it is in the heart.”