I awoke in a flood of brightest sunshine. From our window I could look
into the centre of a most enchanting little town, all built of white
limestone and granite. The June sunshine slanted on thatched roof and
painted gable, and fairly blazed on the little river slipping by under
the stone bridge in the square.
The streets and the square were alive with rosy-faced women in white
head-dresses. Everywhere the constant motion of blue skirts and
spotless coiffes, the twinkle of varnished socks, the clump! clump! of
sabots.
Like a black shadow a priest stole across the square. Above him the
cross on the church glowed like a live cinder, flashing its reflection
along the purple-slated roof from the eaves of which a cloud of
ash-gray pigeons drifted into the gutter below. I turned from the
window to encounter Sweetheart's eyes. Her lips moved a little, her
long lashes heavy with slumber drooped lower, then with a little sigh
she sat bolt upright. When I laughed, as I always did, she smiled,
a little confused, a little ashamed, murmuring: "Bonjour, mon chéri!
Quelle heure est-il?" That was always the way Sweetheart awoke.
"O dear, I am so rumpled!" she said. "Jack, get me the satchel this
minute, and don't look at me until I ask you to."
I unlocked the satchel, and then turning to the window again threw it
wide open. Oh, how sweet came the morning air from the meadows! Some
young fellows below on the bank of the stream were poking long cane
fishing-rods under the arches of the bridge.
"Sweetheart," I said over my shoulder, "I believe there are trout in
this stream."
"Mr. Elliott says that whenever you see a puddle you always say that,"
she replied.
"What does he know about it?" I answered, for I am touchy on the
subject; "he doesn't know a catfish from a--a dogfish."
"Neither do I, Jack dear, but I'm going to learn. Don't be cross."
She had finished her toilet and came over to the window, leaning out
over my shoulder.
"Where are we?" she cried in startled wonder at the little white town
and the acres of swaying clover. "Oh, Jack, is--is this the country?"
A man in uniform passing under our window looked up surprised.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded; then, seeing Sweetheart, he
took off his gold-laced cap, and added, with a bow: "This carriage goes
no farther, monsieur--madame----"
"Merci!" exclaimed Sweetheart, "we wish to go to Quimperlé!"
"And we have tickets for Quimperlé," I insisted.
"But," smiled the official, "this is Quimperlé."
It was true. There was the name written over the end of the station;
and, looking ahead, I saw that our car had been detached and was
standing in stately seclusion under the freight shed. How long it had
been standing so Heaven alone knows; but they evidently had neglected
to call us, and there we were inhabiting a detached carriage in the
heart of Quimperlé. I managed to get a couple of porters, and presently
we found all our traps piled up on the platform, and a lumbering
vehicle with a Breton driver waiting to convey us to the hotel.
"Which," said I to the docile Breton, "is the best hotel in Quimperlé?"
"The Hôtel Lion d'Or," he replied.
"How do you know?" I demanded.
"Because," said he mildly, "it is the only hotel in Quimperlé."
Sweetheart observed that this ought to be convincing, even to me,
and she tormented me all the way to the square, where I got even by
pretending to be horrified at her dishevelled condition incident to a
night's railway ride in a stuffy compartment.
"Don't, Jack! people will look at us."
"Let 'em."
"Oh, this is cruel! Oh, I'll pay you for this!"
And they did look at us--or rather at her; for from the time Sweetheart
and I had cast our lots together, I noticed that I seemed to escape the
observation of passers-by. When I lived alone in Paris I attracted a
fair share of observation from the world as it wagged on its Parisian
way. It was pleasant to meet a pretty girl's eyes now and then in the
throng which flowed through the park and boulevard. I really never
flattered myself that it was because of my personal beauty; but in
Paris, any young fellow who is dressed in the manner of Albion, hatted
and gloved in the same style, is not entirely a cipher. But now it was
not the same, by a long shot.
Sweetheart's beauty simply put me in my place as an unnoticed but
perhaps correct supplement to her.
She knew she was a beauty, and was delighted when she looked into her
mirror. Nothing escaped her. The soft hair threaded with sunshine,
which, when loosened, curled to her knees; the clear white forehead and
straight brows; the nose delicate and a trifle upturned; the scarlet
lips and fine cut chin--she knew the value of each of these. She was
pleased with the soft, full curve of her throat, the little ears, and
the colour which came and went in her cheeks.
But her eyes were the first thing one noticed. They were the most
beautiful gray eyes that ever opened under silken lashes. She approved
of my telling her this, which duty I fulfilled daily. Perhaps it may be
superfluous to say that we were very much in love. Did I say _were_?
I think that, as I am chanting the graces of Sweetheart, it might not
be amiss to say that she is just an inch shorter than I am, and that
no Parisienne carried a pretty gown with more perfection than she
did. I have seen gowns that looked like the devil on the manikin, but
when Sweetheart wore them they were the astonishment and admiration of
myself. And I do know when a woman is well dressed, though I am an art
critic.
Sweetheart regarded her beauty as an intimate affair between ourselves,
a precious gift for our mutual benefit, to be carefully treasured and
petted. Her attitude toward the world was unmistakable. The world might
look--she was indifferent. With our intimate friends she was above
being flattered. Clifford said to me once: "She carries her beauty as
a princess would carry the Koh-i-noor--she knows she is worthy of it,
and hopes it is worthy of her."
"We ought to be so happy that I am beautiful!" she would say to me.
"Just think, supposing I were not!"