MANET CICATRIX
Olga Tcherny sat at a long window in the villa of the Duchesse d'Orsay
and looked out over the sparkling sands upon the gleaming sea.
Trouville was gay. The strand was flecked with the bright colors of
fashionable pilgrims who sat or strolled along the margin of the waves,
basking in the warm sun, recuperating from the rigors of the Parisian
spring. White sails moved to and fro upon the horizon and a mild air
stirred the lace curtains in Olga's window, which undulated lightly,
their borders flapping joyously with a frivolous disregard for the
somber mood of the guest of the house.
Olga's gaze was afar, quite beyond the visible. Her horizon was inward
and limitless, and though she looked outward she saw nothing. Her
brows were tangled, the scarlet of her lips was drawn in a thin line
slightly depressed at the outer corners and the toe of her small
slipper tapped noiselessly upon the rug. It was nothing, of course, to
be bored, for when she was not gay she was always bored; but there was
a deeper discontent in her whole attitude that that which comes from
mere ennui, an aggressive discontent, sentient rather than passive, a
kind of feline alertness which needed only an immediate incentive to
become dangerous. Upon the dressing-table beside her was Hermia
Challoner's telegram, explaining her failure to reach Trouville; in her
fingers a letter from a friend in Rouen telling her of John Markham's
visit to that city and of his departure. Both the telegram and the
letter were much crumpled, showing that they had been taken out and
read before. There seemed no doubt about it now. John Markham had
received her letters announcing her arrival in Normandy and had in
spite of them fled from Havre, from Rouen, to parts unknown, where
neither Olga's rosily tinted notes nor Olga's rosily tinted person
could reach him. She had hoped that Hermia's arrival from Paris would
have made existence at Trouville at least bearable, but Hermia's change
of mind explained by the belated telegram had made it evident that Fate
was conspiring to her discomfort and inconvenience. To make matters
the worse the Duchesse had taken upon herself an attack of the gout
which made her insupportable, and Pierre de Folligny, Olga's usual
refuse in hours like these, had gone off for a week of shooting at the
Château of a cousin of the Duchesse's, the Comte de Cahors.
Hermia's change of plans had disappointed her; for, jealous as she was
of the years between them, Hermia always added a definite note of color
to her surroundings, or a leaven of madness--which made even sanity
endurable. There seemed just now nothing in her prospect but a dreary
waste of the usual--the beach, the inevitable sea, the Casino, tea,
more beach, with intervals of fretful _piquet_ with the Duchesse, an
outlook both gloomy and disheartening. Indeed it had been some weeks
now since things had gone quite to her liking, and her patience, never
proof against continued disappointment, was almost at the point of
exhaustion. The letters she had written John Markham, one from New
York telling of her immediate departure, another from Paris hoping to
see him at her hotel, a third from Trouville, assuming the miscarriage
of the other two--cool, friendly notes, tinetured with a nonchalance
she was far from feeling, had failed of their purpose, and save for a
brief letter telling of his departure form Rouen, he had not given the
slightest evidence of his appreciation of her efforts toward a platonic
reconciliation. She had not despaired of him and did not despair of
him now, for it was one of her maxims that a clever woman--a woman as
clever as she was--could have any man in the world if she set her cap
for him.
Her self-esteem was at stake. She consoled herself with the thought
that all she needed was opportunity, which being offered, she would
succeed in her object, by fair means if she could, by other means if
she must. She smiled a little as she thought how easily she could have
conquered him had she chosen to be less scrupulous in the use of her
weapons. She could have won him at "Wake Robin" if some silly
Quixotism hadn't steeled her breast against him--more than tat, she
knew that in spite of herself she would have won him if it hadn't been
for Hermia. Hermia had discovered a remarkable faculty for
unconsciously interfering with her affairs. Unconsciously? It seemed
so--and yet--
The slipper on the floor tapped more rapidly for a moment and then
stopped. Olga rose, her lips parting in a slow smile. It was curious
about Hermia--there were moments when Olga had caught herself wondering
whether Hermia wasn't more than casually interested in her elusive
philosopher. Hermia's decision to follow her to Europe had been made
with a suddenness which left her motives open to suspicion. Olga had
learned from Georgette, who had got it from Titine, that notes had
passed between Hermia and Markham, for Georgette, whatever the
indifference of her successes as a hairdresser, had a useful skill at
surreptitious investigation. This morning Georgette had received a
note from Titine who was in Paris where she had been left by her
mistress to do some shopping and to await Hermia's return. Titine had
expressed bewilderment at the disappearance of her mistress, who had
left Paris in her new machine with the avowed intention of reaching
Trouville by night. Georgette had imparted this information to Madame
while she was doing her hair in the morning, and as the hours passed
Olga found her mind dwelling more insistently on the possible reasons
for Hermia's change of plans. Where was she? And who was with her?
Olga ran rapidly through her mental list of Hermia's acquaintances and
seemed to be able to account for the where-abouts or engagements of all
those who might have been her companions.
What if-- She started impatiently, walked across the room and looked
out into the Duchesse's rose garden. Really, Markham's importance in
her scheme of things was getting to be intolerable. It infuriated her
that this obsession was warping her judgment to the point of imagining
impossibilities. Hermia and Markham? The idea was absurd. And yet
somehow it persisted. She turned on her heel and paced the floor of
the room rapidly two or three times. She paused for a moment at her
dressing-table and then with a quick air of resolution rang for her
maid.
"Georgette," she announced, "I shall have no need of you for a day or
two. I would like you to go to Paris,"
Georgette smiled demurely, concealing her delight with difficulty. To
invite a French maid to go to Paris is like beckoning her within the
gates of Paradise.
"_Oui, Madame_."
"I need two hats, a parasol and some shoes. You are to go at once."
"_Bien, Madame_."
"You know what I desire?"
"_Oh, oui, parfaitement, Madam_--a hat for the green afternoon robe and
one of white--"
"And a parasol of the same color, shoes--of suede with the new heel,
dancing slippers of white satin and a pair of pumps."
"I comprehend perfectly."
"You are to return her to-morrow. The train leaves in an hour. That
is all."
Georgette withdrew to the door but as she was about to lay her hand
upon the knob she paused.
"And, Georgette," her mistress was saying lazily, "you will see Titine,
will you not?"
"If I have the time, Madame--"
"If you should see Titine, Georgette, will you not inquire where and
with whom Miss Challoner has gone automobiling?"
The eyes of the maid showed a look of comprehension, quickly veiled.
"I shall make it a point to do so, Madame."
Olga yawned and looked out the window.
"Oh, it isn't so important as that--but, Georgette, if you
could--discreetly, Georgette--"
"I comprehend, Madame."
When she was gone Olga threw herself on a couch upon the terrace and
read a French Play just published. There was a heroine with a past who
loved quite madly a young man with a future and she succeeded in
killing his love for her by the simple expedient of telling him the
truth. At this point Olga dropped the book upon the flagging and sat
up abruptly, her face set in rigid lines.
Silly fool! What more right had he to her past than she had to his.
The world had changed since _that_ had been the code of life. That
code was a relic of the dark ages when the Tree of Knowledge grew only
in the Garden of Eden. Now the Tree of Knowledge grew in every man's
garden and in every woman's.
She marveled that a dramatist of modern France could have gone back
into the past for such a theme. It was the desire to seem original, of
course, to be different from other writers--an affectation of
naïveté, quite out of keeping with the spirit of the
hour--unintelligent as well as uninteresting. (You see Olga didn't
believe in the double standard.)
She got up, spurning the guilty volume with her foot and walked out
into the rose garden. But their odor made her unhappy and she went
indoors. She began now to regret that she had not gone down to the
house party of Madeleine de Cahors at Alençon. At least Pierre de
Folligny would have been there--Chandler Cushing, and the Renauds--a
jolly crowd of people among whom there was never time to think of one's
troubles--still less to brood over them as she had been doing to-day.
The return of her maid from Paris added something to the sum of her
information. Miss Challoner had left her hotel at ten in the morning
in her new machine with an intention of making a record to Trouville.
Titine was to follow her there when the shopping should be finished.
In the meanwhile a telegram had come dated at Passy, telling of the
change in plans, with orders for Titine to remain in Paris until
further notice. Several days had passed and Titine still waited in
Miss Challoner's apartment at the hotel which was costing, so Titine
related, three hundred francs a day. It was all quite mystifying and
Titine was worried, but then Mademoiselle was no longer a child and, of
course, Titine had only to obey orders.
Olga listened carelessly, examining Georgette's purchases, and when the
maid had gone she sat for a long time in her chair by the window
thinking.
At last she got up suddenly, went down into the library and found the
paper booklet of the _Chemins de Fer de l'État. In this there was a
map of Normandy and Brittany and after a long search she found the name
she was looking for--Passy--south from Evreux on the road to
Dreux--this was the town from which Hermia's telegram to Titine had
been sent.
Olga's long polished finger nail shuttled back and forth. Here was
Paris, there Rouen, here Evreux--there Alençon. Curious! Hermia with
her machine doing in half a day from Paris what John Markham had taken
four days from Rouen to do afoot. What more improbable? And yet
entirely possible!
She took the _livret_ to her room where she could examine it at her
ease and sent to the garage for a road map which had been left in the
car of the Duchesse. The _livret_ and map she compared, and diligently
studied, arriving, toward the middle of the afternoon, at a sudden
resolution.