BETTER ACQUAINTANCE
The gardens of the Maison Léon d'Or were, in their way, unique. There
was no extent of open space, but the walks threaded everywhere a large
shrubbery, and in all sorts of corners and quiet places little dining
tables had been placed. Scarcely any one was in sight of any other
person, although they were so close together that all the time there
was a hum of voices. In the distance, down by the river, a large
gondola was passing slowly backwards and forwards, on which an
orchestra played soft music. Julien and Madame Christophor crossed the
narrow strip of lawn together and followed Monsieur Léon into the
graveled path bordered with fairy lamps.
"I have arranged for madame and monsieur," he announced, looking
backwards, "a table near the lilac tree of which madame is so fond. The
perfume, indeed, is exquisite. If madame pleases!"
They turned from the path on to another strip of lawn, which they
gained by rounding a large lilac bush. Here a small table was laid with
the whitest of cloths and the most dazzling of silver. An attentive
waiter was already arranging an ice-pail in a convenient spot. From
here the gardens sloped gently to the river, which was barely forty
yards distant. Although it was scarcely twilight, the men on the
gondola were lighting the lamps.
"Madame and monsieur will find this table removed from all chance
visitors," the proprietor declared. "If the dinner is not perfect,
permit that I wait upon you again. A word to the waiter and I arrive.
Madame! Monsieur!"
He retreated, with a bow to each. Julien, with a little laugh, took his
place at the table.
"Madame," he said, "your entertainment is charming."
"The entertainment is nothing," Madame replied, "but here at least is
one advantage--we are really alone. I do not know how you feel, but the
greatest rest in life to me is sometimes the solitude. There is no one
overlooking us, there is no one likely to pass whom we know. We are
virtually cut off from all those who know us or whom we know. My
friend, I would like you to remember this our first evening. Talk, if
you will, or be silent. For me it is equal. I, too, have thoughts which
I can summon at any time to bear me company. And there is the river. Do
you hear the soft flow of it, and the rustle of the breeze in the
shrubs, the perfumes, and--listen--the music? Ah! Sir Julien, I think
that we give you over here some things which you do not easily find in
your own country."
"You are right," he agreed slowly. "You give us a better climate, more
sympathetic companionship, a tenderer chicken, a more artistic salad."
"At heart you are a materialist, I perceive," she declared.
"We all are," he admitted. "Everything depends upon our power of
concealment."
The service of dinner commenced almost at once. There was something
excessively peaceful in the scene. The tables were so arranged that one
heard nothing of the clatter of crockery. The murmur of voices came
like a pleasant undernote. They talked lightly for some time of the
English theatres, of the stage generally, some recent memoirs--anything
that came into their heads. Then Julien was silent for several minutes.
He leaned slightly across the table. Their own lamp was lit now and
through the velvety dusk her eyes seemed to glow with a new beauty.
"Tell me," he begged, "you spoke of yourself a little time ago as
though you might have a personality at which I ought to have guessed.
Are you a woman of Society, or an artist, or merely an idler?"
"I have known something of Society," she replied. "I believe I may say
that I am something of an artist. It is very certain that I am not an
idler. Why ask me these questions? Let us forget to be serious tonight.
Let us remember only that we are companions, and that the hours, as
they pass, are pleasant."
"It is a philosophy," he murmured, "which brings its own retribution."
She shrugged her shoulders.
"All happiness is lost," she declared, "the moment you begin to try and
define it. It is a sensation, not a state of being. Let us drift. The
waters are not dangerous for you or for me."
Her words chilled him with a sudden memory. Then, in the act of helping
himself to wine, he paused. Some one had taken the table nearest to
them, dimly visible through the laurel bushes. He heard the voice of
the man who had been with Foster, giving the orders.
"Listen!"
There was no need for him to have spoken. Curiously enough, Madame
Christophor seemed also to have recognized the voice. Her hand fell
upon Julien's. He looked at her in surprise. Her cheeks were blanched,
her eyes blazing.
"You hear that voice?" she whispered.
Julien nodded.
"It is the voice of the only person in the world," she continued, "whom
I absolutely hate."
"You know whose it is, then?"
"Of course!" she replied.
"So do I," he muttered. "I have never seen the man's face, but I know a
little about him."
She shivered.
"Come," she said, "let us have our coffee later. We have finished
dinner and the moon is coming up. If we walk to the bottom there, we
shall see it from the bend of the river, and we shall escape from those
men."
He rose hastily to his feet. She led the way down the path. Here and
there they caught a glimpse of other tables as they passed--little
parties of two or four, all very gay. Madame breathed more freely as
they progressed. Presently they passed through an iron gate into a
field, already half-mown. The perfume of the fresh-cut grass came to
them with an almost overpowering sweetness. Her hand fell upon his arm.
"Forgive me," she begged, "I am not really a weak woman. I do not think
that there is any other sound in life which I hate so much as the sound
of that voice."
They walked in silence along the narrow path. Soon they reached the
edge of the river. A few steps further on was a seat, of which they
took possession. In the distance the gondola, on fire now with lamps,
was playing a waltz. A bat flew for a moment about their heads.
Somewhere in the woods a long way down the river a nightingale was
singing.
"I am not often so foolish," she murmured. "Once--let me tell you
this--once I had a dear little friend. She was very sweet, but a little
too trusting, too simple for the life here. She found a lover. She
thought she had found the happiness of her life. Poor child! For a
month, perhaps, she was happy. Then he forced her to give up her little
home and her savings and go upon the stage. He preferred a mistress
from the theatres. She worked hard, but, sweetly pretty though she was,
she was not very successful. Then she caught cold. She began to lose
her health--and she lost her lover."
"Brute!"
"The child got worse," madame went on. "Presently they told her that it
was consumption. She went to a hospital and she wrote a pathetic little
note to the man. He tore it up. There had been an article in the papers
a few weeks before proving that consumption was among the diseases
which were more or less infectious. He sent her a few brutal lines and
a trifle of money, with a warning that there was to be no more. He
never went to see her. The child grew worse. I used to sit with her
sometimes. I saw her look down upon the river, almost as we are looking
now, and her eyes would grow soft and wet with tears, and she would
tell me in whispers of the evenings she had spent with him, when the
love had first come, and how sweet and tender he was. There must be
something wrong, she was sure. He did not understand, he could not know
how ill she really was. She prayed for the sight of him. I put her off
with one excuse after another, but one day the fear of death was in her
eyes, the terror came to her, she was afraid. She was afraid of dying
alone, of going into a strange country, no one to hold her. I went to
the man, I begged him to come and see her. He scoffed at me. If she had
consumption, she was better dead. He would have flirted with me if I
had let him. I can hear his voice now--brutal, jeering, hideous! It was
the voice, Sir Julien, which we heard ten minutes ago at the next
table. Do you wonder that I hate it?"
"And the little girl?" he asked.
"When I returned without him," she answered, "the little girl was
dead."
They were both silent, listening to the splash of the water and to the
distant music.
"Life is like that," she went on. "We pass through it lightly enough,
but Heaven only knows the number of little tragedies against which our
skirts must brush. Sometimes they leave impressions, sometimes we grow
callous, but the horror of that man's voice will stay with me
always.... Shall we go back now? You would like your coffee."
"Sit here for five minutes more," he begged. "Tell me, did you know
that the man was a spy?"
She looked at him curiously.
"How is it that you know so much about him?"
"He is sitting there with an Englishman who comes from our Intelligence
Department," Julien explained. "They were speaking together of some
one--I believe it was myself--speaking in none too friendly terms.
There was a woman, too, whose name they coupled with mine, but I could
not hear that. I made some inquiries about the man. I was told that he
was in the suite of the German Ambassador."
She nodded.
"Whoever or whatever he is," she said, "he is something to be abhorred.
Hush! There is some one coming down the footpath."
They sat quite silent. Some instinct seemed to tell them who it was.
Suddenly they heard the voice--rasping, unpleasant.
"You have bungled the affair, Foster. It is not well-managed; it is not
clever. You were to have brought him to me, to have let me know the
instant he reached Paris. I would have seen him. Just as he was, I
should have succeeded. Now it may be that this woman has warned him
already. She is very clever. If she has him, he will not escape."
Foster's voice was inaudible, but whatever he said seemed to anger his
companion.
"Thunder and lightning!" they heard the man exclaim. "Am I a fool that
you talk to me like this? Yes, I go to him--I go to him to-night, but I
tell you that it is too late! If it is too late, there is but one thing
to be done. You are a coward, Foster!"
They came out into the open, on the path which fringed the river, and
they were immediately silent. They came strolling along and noticed for
the first time the two figures upon the seat. Instantly they began to
talk upon some local subject. No escape was possible. In a few minutes
they were opposite the bench. Foster started a little. The other man's
face darkened. He ventured upon a bow. Madame Christophor looked at him
as one might look upon some strange animal. Foster hesitated for a
moment, but his companion pushed him along.
"I think," she whispered, "that that man would like to do me an
injury."
Julien was watching their retreating forms.
"I don't understand what Foster is doing there, or what the dickens
they were talking about," he said thoughtfully. "I think if you don't
mind," he added, "we will return."
"Why are you so suddenly uneasy?" she asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Apparently," he answered, "you know who I am and everything about me.
I, on the other hand, am ignorant almost of your very name. There are
certain circumstances connected with my late career which make it
inadvisable--"
"Oh, I know all that you are going to say!" she interrupted. "But ask
yourself. Have I made any attempt whatever to ask you a single
unbecoming question?"
"You certainly have not," he confessed.
"Your little friend returns," she whispered. "See!"
Foster came back to them, slowly, with reluctant footsteps. He had the
appearance of a man bent upon a mission which he dislikes.
"Sir Julien," he said, as he drew near, "would you grant me a moment's
interview?"
Julien looked at him.
"You probably know my address," he replied coldly. "You can call there
and see me. At present I am engaged."
"Sir Julien, the matter is of some importance," Foster persisted. "I
have a friend who is anxious to meet you. It would be an affair of a
few words only, and perhaps an appointment afterwards."
"Is the friend to whom you refer the person with whom you were walking
just now?" Julien inquired.
"Yes!" Foster admitted. "If you can spare me a moment I can explain--"
"You need explain nothing," Julien interrupted. "Understand, please,
that I decline absolutely to make that person's acquaintance."
Foster looked away from Sir Julien to the woman who stood by his side.
"Am I to take this as final?" he asked.
Julien turned on his heel.
"Absolutely," he said. "The little I know of the person with whom you
seem to be spending the evening makes me feel more inclined to pitch
him into the river than to make his acquaintance. As a matter of fact,
Foster, I don't know, of course, under what instructions you are acting
over here, but I should not have considered him exactly a companion for
you."
Foster started. A new fear had suddenly broken in upon him.
"I am doing my best to carry out instructions, sir," he declared. "I do
not understand why you should take so prejudiced a view of my friend."
"It is, perhaps," Julien replied, "because I know more about him than
you seem to. Good night!"
They walked slowly back to the gardens. The woman was thoughtful.
"I am sorry," she said, "that those people came along to spoil our
first evening together. I am glad, though, that you refused to meet the
German. All that he would have done would have been to try and fill
your mind with suspicions of me. Haven't you found me harmless?"
"I am not sure," he answered.
She laughed softly.
"Ah, me!" she exclaimed, "I gave you an opening, didn't I, and one must
remember that of late years the men of your nation have established a
reputation over here for gallantry. Harmless, at least, so far as
regards tearing political secrets from your bosom?"
"As a matter of fact," Julien remarked, "there are not so many secrets
between France and England, are there?"
"Thanks in some measure to you," she reminded him. "You take it for
granted, I notice, that I am a Frenchwoman."
He looked at her in great surprise.
"Why, indeed, yes! Is there any doubt about it?"
"My mother was an American," she told him.
"Tell me your real name?" he asked suddenly.
"On the contrary, I am going to beg you not to try and discover it. Let
us remain as we are for a little time. You are lonely here and you need
companionship, and I am very much in the same position. You are a hater
of women and I have sworn eternal enmity against all men. We are so
safe, and solitude is bad for us."
He smiled.
"You are very kind," he said, "but as for me, I am only starting my
wanderings. I want to go on through Algiers to Morocco, to Egypt, and
later to the east. I never meant to stay long in Paris."
"I do not blame you," she declared. "Sooner or later you must find your
way where the battle is. Paris is not a city for men. One loiters here
for a time, but one passes on always. Never mind, while you stay here I
shall claim you."
They drove back to Paris through the perfumed stillness of the long
spring night. Madame had instructed her chauffeur to drive slowly, and
more than one automobile rushed past them, with flaring lights and
sounding horn. In one they caught a glimpse of Foster and his
companion, whispering together as they raced by. Madame half closed her
eyes with a little shiver.
"Those men again!" she exclaimed, "They say that Estermen never
abandons a chase. You may still find him waiting for you in your
hotel!"