THUS the three of us were again separated. Blanquette was enjoying
herself amongst the pigs and ducks of La Haye, whence she wrote letters
in which her joy in country things mingled with anxiety as to the
neglected condition of the Master; I led a pleasant but somewhat nervous
life in Somersetshire, spending hours in vain attempts to reconcile the
cosmic views of Paragot and an English vicar, and learning sometimes
with hot humiliation the correctitudes of English country vicarage
behaviour; and Paragot, his long legs dangling on each side of his
donkey, rode, as I thought, picturesquely vagrant, through the leafy
byways of France.
A fortnight after my arrival, however, he informed me by letter of his
resolve to stay in Paris. He had failed to find an ass of the true
vagabond character. The ideal ass he sought should be a companion as
well as a means of locomotion. He would not take an urban donkey into
the country against its will. To force any creature, man, woman, or ass,
out of the groove of its temperament were a crime of which he could not
be guilty. Then, again, Narcisse did not enter into the spirit of the
pilgrimage. He laid his head along his forepaws and glowered sullenly
instead of barking with enthusiasm. Again, when he announced his
intention of leaving Paris, Hercule groaned aloud and Madame Boin wept
so profusely that sitting beneath her counter he had to put up a
borrowed umbrella. Cazalet too, and a few others too poor for railway
fares, were staying in town. Also the Café Delphine had spoiled him for
the horrible alcohols of wayside cafés. And, lastly, what did it matter
where the body found itself so long as the soul had its serene
habitations?
The letter depressed me. I was beginning to see Paragot with the eyes of
a man. I felt that this inability to carry out an inspiration was a sign
of decay. The springs of action had weakened. Though the spirit thirsted
for sweet things, habit chained him to the squalor of the Café Delphine.
When the quiet Somersetshire household knelt around the drawing-room for
evening prayers, I speculated on the stage of intoxication at which my
lonely master had arrived.
I was a million miles from speculating on what was really happening, and
when I received a curt uncharacteristic note from Paragot a fortnight
later begging me to return to Paris at once, a day or two before the
formal expiry of my visit, it only occurred to me that he might be ill.
* * * * *
The crowded train steamed into the Gare Saint-Lazare at half past seven
in the morning. I was desperately anxious to get to Paragot, and bag in
hand I stood with a sickening feeling of suspense by the open door,
waiting for the train to slow down. I sprang out. In an instant the line
of porters were odd dots of blue in the throng that swarmed out of the
carriages. I became a mere ant in the heap, and struggled with the
others towards the barrier. After giving up my ticket, I set down my bag
to rest my strained arm for a minute, and looked around me. Then I
noticed a stranger approaching whose smiling face had an air of uncanny
familiarity. Where had I seen the long gaunt man before? He wore a silk
hat and a frock coat. My acquaintance with silk-hatted gentlemen in
Paris was limited. I picked up my bag.
"Ah! My little Asticot," cried the stranger. "How good it is to see
you."
I dropped my bag. I dropped my jaw. I would have dropped my brains had
they been loose. This cadaverous image of respectability was
Paragot--but a Paragot transmogrified beyond recognition even by me. His
hair was cropped short. His face was clean shaven. On his transfigured
head shone a flat brimmed silk hat. He wore a villainously fitting frock
coat buttoned across his chest, with long wrinkly creases stretching
horizontally from each button. His hands were encased in lemon coloured
gloves a size too large for him. When he extended his hand even my
bewilderment did not blind me to the half-inch of flat dead tips to the
fingers. Beneath his arm was an umbrella--on a broiling August morning!
He wore spats--in mid-summer! His trousers were fawn coloured. I could
only gape at him as he wrung me by the hand.
"You are surprised, my son."
"I did not expect you to meet my train, Master," said I.
"If one could anticipate all the happenings of life it would lose its
fascination. My son, go your way and do your duty, but believe in the
unexpected."
"But what has happened?" I asked, again surveying his ill-fitting glory.
"The Comte de Verneuil is dead," he answered.
"Are you going to his funeral?"
"In these?" he cried holding up the lemon kids, "and this cravat?"
I noticed that he wore a floppy purple tie adorned with yellow spots,
outside the lapels of his coat. It required more than two glances to
take in all his detail.
"Besides," he added, "my distinguished patient was buried a fortnight
ago."
He looked at me with an amused smile, enjoying my mystification like a
child.
"You didn't know me."
"No, Master." I rubbed my eyes. "In fact I scarcely recognise you now."
"That is because I am again Gaston de Nérac," said he magnificently.
I had an idea that he must have come into the family fortune. But what
had the death of the Comte de Verneuil to do with it? I picked up my bag
again and walked with him to the exit. The hurrying crowd of passengers
by my train and of clerks and work-people pouring from suburban
platforms rendered conversation impossible.
At the station gates Paragot stood and watched the brisk life that
swarmed up and down the Rue Saint-Lazare and the Rue du Havre. Paris
awakens a couple of hours earlier than London. Clerks hurried by with
flat leather portfolios under their arms. Servants trotted to market, or
homewards, with the end of a long golden loaf protruding from their
baskets. Work-girls sped by in all directions. Omnibuses lumbered along
as at midday. Before the great cafés opposite, the tables were already
set out on the terrace and the awnings lowered, and white-aproned
waiters stood expectant. The whole scene was bathed in the gay morning
sunshine.
"It is good to be alive, Asticot," said my master. "It is good to be in
Paris. It is good to get up early. It is good to see the world's work
beginning. It is also good to feel infernally hungry and to have the
means of satisfying one's desires. But as, in the absence of Blanquette,
my establishment is disorganised, I think we had better have our
breakfast at a _crêmerie_ than in the Rue des Saladiers. We can talk
over our coffee."
I accompanied him across the street in a muddled condition of intellect,
casting sidelong glances at him from time to time, as if to assure
myself that he was real. Having just come from an English environment
where the niceties of costume were as rigidly observed as the niceties
of religion, I could not help marvelling at Paragot's attire. He looked
like a tenth-rate French provincial actor made up to represent a duke,
and in a country where none but actors and footmen are clean-shaven this
likeness was the more accentuated. Also the difference between Paragot
hairy and bearded and Paragot in his present callow state was that
between an old unbroken hazel nut and its bald, shrivelled kernel.
We entered the _crêmerie_, sat down and ordered our coffee and crisp
horse-shoe loaves. I think the _petit déjeuner_ at a _crêmerie_ is one
of the most daintily served meals in France. The morning dew glistens so
freshly on the butter, the fringed napkin is so spotless, the
wide-mouthed cups offer themselves so delicately generous. If everyone
breakfasted there crime would cease. No man could hatch a day's iniquity
amid such influences.
When we were half-way through, Paragot unbuttoned his frock coat and
took from his pocket a black-edged letter which he flourished before my
eyes. It was then that I noticed, to my great surprise, that he had cut
his finger-nails. I thought of Madame Boin.
"It is from the Comtesse de Verneuil, and it gives you the word of the
enigma."
"Yes, Master," said I, eyeing the letter.
"Confess, my little Asticot," he laughed, "that you are dying of
curiosity."
"You would tell me," said I, "that it was no death for a gentleman."
"You have a way of repeating my unsaid epigrams which delights me," said
he, throwing the letter on the table. "Read it."
I read as follows:
"CHÂTEAU MARLIER
près de Nevers.
13th Aug. 18--
"MY DEAR GASTON:
"The newspapers may have told you the news of my
husband's death on the 1st August. Since then I
have been longing to write to you but I have not
found the strength. Yet I must.
"Forgive me for the cruel things I said on the
last unhappy night we met. I did not know what I
do now. Before my husband died he told me the true
circumstances of the money transaction. My husband
bought me, it is true, Gaston, but you did not
sell me. You sacrificed all to save my father from
prison and me from disgrace. You have lived
through everything a brave, loyal gentleman, and
even on that hateful night you kept silent. But
oh, my friend, what misery it has been to all of
us!
"I shall be in Paris on the 28th--Hôtel Meurice.
If you care to see me will you make an
appointment? I would meet you at any place you
might suggest. The flat in the Avenue de Messine
is dismantled and, besides, I shrink from going
back there. Yours sincerely,
"JOANNA DE VERNEUIL."
"You see, my son, what she calls me--a brave, loyal gentleman," he
cried, with his pathetic boastfulness. "Thank Heaven she knows it. I
have kept the secret deep in my heart all these years. One must be a man
to do that, eh?" He thumped his heart and drank a draught of coffee.
Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
He eyed the brown stain disgustedly.
"That," said he, "is Paragot peeping out through Gaston de Nérac. You
will have observed that in the polite world they use table-napkins."
"The Comtesse de Verneuil," said I, bringing back the conversation to
more interesting matters, "writes that she will be in Paris on the 28th.
It was the 28th yesterday."
"I am aware of it. I have been aware of it for a fortnight. Yesterday I
had a long interview with Madame la Comtesse. It was very satisfactory.
To-day I pay her a ceremonious visit at eleven o'clock. At twelve I hope
you will also pay your respects and offer your condolences to Madame.
You ought to have a silk hat."
"But, Master," I laughed, "If I went down the Boul' Mich' in a silk hat,
I should be taken up for improper behaviour."
"You at least have gloves?"
"Yes, Master."
"Remember that in this country you wear both gloves while paying a call.
You also balance your hat on your knees."
"But Madame de Verneuil is English," I remarked.
"She has learned correct behaviour in France," he replied with the
solemnity of a professor of deportment. "You will have noticed in her
letter," he continued, "how delicately she implies that the Hôtel
Meurice would not be a suitable rendezvous. In my late incarnation I
doubtless should have surprised the Hôtel Meurice. I should have pained
the Head Porter. In my live character of Gaston de Nérac I command the
respect of flunkeydom. I give my card----"
He produced from his pocket and flourished in the air an ornate, heavily
printed visiting-card of somewhat the size and appearance of the Three
of Spades. I felt greatly awed by the sight of this final emblem of
respectability.
"I give my card," he repeated, "and the Hôtel Meurice prostrates itself
before me."
While Paragot was playing on the lighter side of the conjuncture, my
mind danced in wonder and delight. I read the letter, which he left in
my hands, several times over. He was cleared in Joanna's eyes; nay more,
he stood revealed a hero. The generous ardour of youth bedewed my
eyelids.
"Master," I cried, "this must be wonderful news for you."
He nodded over his coffee cup.
"You are right, my little Asticot; it is," he answered gravely.
* * * * *
When I called at the Hôtel Meurice at noon, I was conducted with
embarrassing ceremony to Madame de Verneuil's private sitting-room, and
on my way I rehearsed, in some trepidation, the polite formula of
condolence which Paragot had taught me. When I entered, the sight of
Joanna's face drove polite formulæ out of my head. She was dressed in
black, it is true, but the black only set off the shell pink of her
cheeks and the blue of her eyes which were no longer frozen, but laughed
at me, as if a visit of condolence were the gayest event possible.
"It is so good of you, Mr. Asticot, to come and see me. Mr. de Nérac
tells me you have travelled straight from Somerset in order to do it.
How is the West Country looking? I am of the West Country myself--one of
these days you will let me shew it you. I like him much better, Gaston,
dressed like an Englishman, instead of in that dreadful student get-up,
which makes him look like a brigand. Yes, England has agreed with him.
Oh! do take off your gloves and put your hat down. I am not a French
mamma with a daughter whose hand you are asking. Gaston, I am sure you
told him to keep on his gloves!"
"I am responsible for his decorum, Joanna," said my Master, solemnly.
I noticed that he too had discarded hat, gloves and umbrella which lay
forlorn on a distant table. Still his coat was buttoned, and he sat bolt
upright on his chair. Madame de Verneuil's silvery voice rippled on. She
was girlishly excited.
"I have persuaded Mr. de Nérac to lunch with me," she said happily. "And
you must do the same. Will you ring the bell? We'll have it up here. And
now tell me about Somerset."
Never was there a sweeter lady than mine. Yes, I call her mine; and with
reason. Was she not the first vision of gracious womanhood that came
into my childhood's world? Up to then woman to me was my mother and Mrs.
Housekeeper. Joanna sprang magically, as in an Arabian Night, out of an
old stocking. Never was there a sweeter lady than mine. She welcomed me
as if such things as wash-tubs, tambourines, Café Delphines and
absinthiated Paragots had never existed, and I were one of her own
people.
"How I long to get back," she cried when I had told her of my modest
exploits at the Ewings. "I have not been to Melford for five years. When
will you come, Gaston?"
They had evidently made good use of their previous interviews.
"I am going to live in England," she explained. "At first I shall stay
with my mother at Melford. She is an old friend of Mr. de Nérac's. Oh,
Gaston, she does so want to see you--I have told her the whole story--of
course she knew all my poor father's affairs. And I have a cousin whose
people live at Melford too, Major Walters--I don't think you know him--a
dear fellow. He has just been at Nevers helping me to settle up things.
He is my trustee. You must be great friends."
"I remember the name," said Paragot.
"Why of course you ought to," she cried prettily with a laugh and a
blush. "I had forgotten. You were pleased to be jealous of him. Mr.
Asticot, you will have to forgive us for dragging memories out of the
dust heap. It is all so very long ago. Dear me!" Her face grew pathetic.
"It is very long ago, Gaston."
"Thirteen years," said he.
I calculated. Joanna was a grown-up woman about to be married when my
age was six. I suddenly felt very young indeed.
The waiters set the lunch. Joanna, most perfect of hostesses, presided
gaily, cracked little jokes for my entertainment and inspired me with
the power of quite elegant conversation. Paragot preserved his correct
demeanour and, to my puzzledom, spoke very little. I wondered whether
the repressive influence lay in the spats or the purple cravat with the
yellow spots. As a painter I didn't like the cravat. He drank a great
deal of water with his wine. I noticed him once pause in the act of
conveying to his mouth a bit of bread held in his fingers with which he
had mopped up the sauce in his plate, and furtively conceal it between
his cutlet bones--a manoeuvre which, at the time, I could not
understand. In the _Quartier Latin_ we cleaned our plates to a bright
polish with bits of bread. How else could you consume the sauce?
At the end of the meal Joanna gave us permission to smoke.
"I won't smoke, thank you," said Paragot politely.
"Rubbish!" laughed Joanna, whereupon Paragot produced a cigarette case
from the breast pocket of his frock coat. Paragot and a cigarette-case!
Once more it was _abracadabrant_! He also refused cognac with his
coffee.
After a time, still feeling that I was very young, and that my seniors
might have further confidential things to say to each other, I rose to
take my leave. Paragot rose too.
"I would ask you to stay, Gaston, if I hadn't my wretched lawyer to see
this afternoon. But you'll come in for an hour after dinner, won't you?
No one knows I'm in Paris. Besides, at this time of year there is no one
in Paris to know."
"Willingly," said Paragot, "but _les convenances_----"
Joanna's pretty lips parted in astonishment.
"You--preaching the proprieties?--My dear Gaston!"
I turned to the window and looked at the Tuileries Gardens which baked
in the afternoon sun. The two spoke a little in low voices, but I could
not help overhearing.
"Is it true, Gaston, that you have wanted me all these years?"
"I want you as much now as I did then."
"I, too," whispered Joanna.