The next day we were in Paris. We had a miserable crossing and two
miserable railway journeys. On neither of the lines could I get a
compartment to ourselves, both the French and English trains being
crowded to excess. On the steamboat Barbara was very ill, and I gave
her into the charge of the stewardess, being too unwell myself to
attend to her. We were not, as may be imagined, a very cheerful
couple, nor was this a cheerful commencement of our honeymoon. I did
my best, however, to keep up Barbara's spirits, but she continued to
be sad and despondent, and did not rally till we reached the gay city.
The bright sunshine and the animation of the streets did wonders for
us. I held her hand in mine as we drove to the hotel in which I had
engaged rooms, and life assumed a joyful aspect. The color came again
to Barbara's cheeks, the sparkle to her eyes.
"The worst is over, dearest," I said, "and we are together--and
alone."
She pressed my hand fondly.
Was I really in love? I cannot answer. The fire of youth was in my
veins, the light of hope was in my heart. Call it what you will--love,
passion, desire--Barbara was all in all to me, and our fond
endearments caused the hours to fly at lightning speed. The
embarrassments and mortifications of yesterday were forgotten; to-day
was ours, to enjoy. We dined at the hotel, by Barbara's plate a
caraffe of iced water, by mine a bottle of old Burgundy. At nine
o'clock, knowing that Barbara had some unpacking to do--for it was my
intention to remain in Paris a week--I said that I would take a stroll
in the streets, and would return at ten.
"It will take me quite two hours," she said, with a trembling
eagerness in her voice, "to get my boxes in order."
"I will return at eleven," I said gaily, kissing her.
I strolled through the brilliantly lighted streets in a dream of
delight. There was no Maxwell near to disturb me with his mocking
laughter. Barbara was her bright self again, and she and I were "man
and wife."
"Man and wife," I murmured. "Nothing can come between us now, nothing
can separate us. She is mine forever. I am really a married man."
I saw in the window of a jeweler's shop a brooch with two hearts
entwined. It was emblematical of Barbara's heart and mine, and I went
in and purchased it, and purchased also at a florist's a bouquet of
the loveliest flowers. It was now ten o'clock, and I had still an hour
to myself. A long time to carry a large bouquet of flowers amidst a
throng of people, but what cared I? Why should I hide my happiness?
Was I not proud of my beautiful Barbara, whose pure and innocent heart
I had won, and whose sweet companionship would brighten my days till
we were both old and white-haired? Let the whole world know that the
flowers were for my bride--let the whole world know that I was in
love. Was not this the city of love? The hum of merry voices
proclaimed it--the myriad stars, the soft air, the brilliant lights,
the animated gestures of men and women, all proclaimed it. There were
no dark shadows to blot the bright picture; joy was universal; there
was no sadness, no death, no cankered care to wither the glad hopes of
the future--all was light and love.
At a quarter to eleven I hastened to the hotel of which she was the
sun, and paced the boulevard a few yards this way, a few yards that,
and strolled into the courtyard, and looked at my watch, and
impatiently counted the seconds, and fretted and fumed until the
minute hand reached eleven. Then I eagerly mounted the stairs, and
entered our sitting-room.
The lights were burning, and the room had a cheerful appearance. A
communicating door led to the bedroom, and I listened at this door a
moment, but heard no sound from within. I arranged the bouquet of
flowers in a vase, which I filled with water, and then I turned out
the lights, with the intention of entering our bridal chamber. But the
door was fast. I tried very softly again and again to open it, and
then with greater force, but it would not yield.
"Barbara," I called in a low tone, "it is I. Why have you locked the
door?"
No answer reached my ears. I called several times, with the same
result. Long before this I had become alarmed, and had re-lit the gas
in the sitting-room. Stories of dark crimes committed in this city of
light flashed through my mind. The door was locked, but that might be
a blind. It was scarcely possible that Barbara could be in the room;
she had been decoyed from the hotel upon some pretense, perhaps by the
delivery of a false message from me. If so, what would be her fate?
And even supposing her to be in her room, how to account for the
frightful silence? Fool, criminal that I was to leave her alone, a
hapless woman in a strange city! It was I, and I alone, who had
brought the woman I loved into this perilous position.
I rushed down to the manager of the hotel, and asked if any visitors
had been admitted into my rooms during my absence, or any message
delivered to my wife. The manager, who was the soul of politeness, and
who was smoking a cigarette after the labors of the day, made
inquiries of the concierge and of the servants who had not retired to
rest. No person had called to see madame; no message had been taken to
her; she had not been seen to leave the hotel. Had she rung for
refreshment or assistance? No. Had any sounds of disturbance been
heard in her apartment? No, the apartment had been perfectly quiet.
Were they certain that madame could not have left the hotel without
being seen? It was not possible. She would have had to pass through
the courtyard, and the concierge or an assistant was constantly on the
watch, noting who came and who went. Then, how to account for the
facts of her bedroom door being locked and of her not answering to my
call? The servants could not account for it; the manager could not
account for it. With profuse apologies he hazarded a question. Was
madame subject to fainting fits? Was it that she had swooned? With my
permission he would accompany me to the apartment, and together we
could ascertain.
We ascertained nothing; we discovered no clue to the mystery. The door
defied all our efforts to open it, and no reply was given to our
summons. The suspense was maddening.
"See, monsieur," said the manager, stooping, and putting his eye to
the key-hole, "the door is locked from within. The key is in the lock.
Be tranquil; madame is safe; she has fallen into a sound sleep. I
myself sleep so soundly that----"
I interrupted him impatiently.
"If my wife has fallen asleep she must be awakened."
He did not see the necessity; if I would be patient madame would
herself awake when she had slept enough; then all would be well.
"My wife must be awakened," I repeated vehemently.
"Undoubtedly," he then said, falling complacently into my humor. "If
you insist, monsieur, madame must be awakened."
"But how?" I cried, in a fever of anxiety, which with every passing
moment grew more intense.
"As monsieur says," he replied, with exasperating coolness, "but how?"
"The lock must be forced."
"A million pardons, monsieur. The lock of the door is of a particular
kind. It is not a common lock--no, no. It was put on especially for a
distinguished visitor, who frequently occupies this apartment. It is
what is called a patent lock, and is the property of our distinguished
visitor. I cannot consent that it shall be forced."
"Then we will have a piece cut out of the door. By that means we can
reach the key, and turn the lock from within."
"Again a million pardons. The door is of oak; it was made for our
distinguished visitor. I cannot consent, monsieur, that the door shall
be destroyed."
"Hang you! Stand aside!"
I pushed him away, and applied my shoulder to the door. I was young, I
was strong, but I might as well have set myself against a rock. The
door held firm and fast, and the noise I made did not arouse Barbara.
Even in the midst of my despair I heard the manager remark, "These
eccentric English!" Finding my efforts vain, I beat the panels with my
fists. A servant entered, and whispered to the manager.
"Desist, monsieur," he said, stepping forward, "you are disturbing our
visitors. It cannot be permitted. In the adjoining apartment is a sick
gentleman. He has already inquired whether there is a fire or an
earthquake. If monsieur pleases, there is another way.'
"What is it? Quick--quick!"
"The window of madame's room looks out upon a courtyard at the back.
It is easily reached by a ladder. The night is warm; madame may have
left her window unfastened----"
I stopped any further explanation by hurrying him to the courtyard at
the back. On the way he insisted upon informing me that the hotel was
of the highest character and eminently respectable. No robbery had
ever taken place in it; no crime had ever been committed within its
walls. Madame was fatigued by her journey, and had probably taken an
opiate. I should find her asleep in her bed quite safe--quite safe.
"The ladder--the ladder!" I cried, in a frenzy. "Where is the ladder?"
It was soon brought--though I thought it an age before it was fixed
against the wall--and a porter commenced to ascend. But I pulled him
back with a rough hand, and said I would go up myself. "These
eccentric English!" I heard the manager again remark to those
assembled around him.
His surmise was correct. The window was closed but not fastened; I
pushed it open and stepped into the room.
It was dark, but by the light admitted through the open window I saw
the form of my wife huddled upon the bed. I laid my hands upon her and
called, "Barbara--dear Barbara!" A faint moan was the only response.
"Great God!" I cried. "She is dying!"
I swiftly lighted the gas, and the room was flooded with light. Then I
discovered the horrible truth. An empty brandy bottle rolled from the
bed to the floor, and on the dressing table was a corkscrew with the
cork still in it. The cork was new, and the bright capsule by its side
denoted that the bottle must have been full when it had been opened. I
bent over Barbara's stupefied form, the fumes of liquor which tainted
her hot breath were sickening. My wife was not dying. She was drunk!
The whole room was in a state of disorder; the bed curtains were torn,
articles of feminine attire were scattered about, brushes and combs
and other toilet requisites had been swept from the table, a chair had
been upset; but at that moment I took little note of these signs, my
attention being centred upon the degrading human spectacle which lay
before me on the bed--my wife, the woman I had idealized as an
embodiment of purity and simplicity.
I was not allowed to remain long undisturbed; I heard a smart rapping
at the bedroom door, and I became instantly conscious that I had a new
part to play. I closed and fastened the window, and drew the curtains
across it, I lowered the gas almost to vanishing point, and then,
turning the key in the lock, I opened the door just wide enough to see
the manager's face.
"Madame is safe?" he inquired.
"Quite safe," I replied.
"As I said. Asleep?"
"Yes, asleep."
"As I said. There has been no crime or robbery?"
"There has been no crime or robbery."
"And madame is well?"
"Quite well."
"I trust you are satisfied, monsieur."
"Perfectly satisfied."
"Is anything more required?"
"Nothing more."
"No assistance of any kind? The chambermaid is here. Shall she attend
to madame?"
"Her assistance is not needed. Good-night."
"Good-night, monsieur."
As he and the attendants left the adjoining room, I heard him remark
for the third time, "These eccentric English!"