A PHILOSOPHER IN A QUANDARY
Clarissa carried a double burden the next day, but she breasted the
keen morning air so briskly that whatever her own thoughts upon the
subject she gave no sign of her increasing responsibilities. Yet Cupid
sat perched upon the pack which Philidor had been at such pains to
fasten. Yvonne alone of the three was out of humor and she moved along
silently, suppressing the joyous mood of her companion by answers in
monosyllables and a forbidding expression which defied conciliation.
As nothing seemed to please her, Philidor, too, relapsed into silence
and swinging his stick, walked on ahead, whistling gaily. But that
only provoked her mood the more, and when she overtook him she made him
stop.
His silence seemed even more exasperating.
"Oh, if you have nothing to say to me," she said petulantly at last,
"I'd much rather you whistled."
He glanced at her before replying.
"You motto of the Golden Rose needs amending," he said.
"What would you add?"
"Patience," he laughed.
"Clarissa is patient," she sniffed. "The _bon Dieu_ preserve me from
the patient man."
It was clear that she meant to affront him and she succeeded admirably,
for Philidor flushed to the brows. Then catching her in his arms
without more ado, he kissed her full on the lips.
"I'm no more patient that I should be," he said.
She flung away from him, pale and red by turns, struggling between
anger and incomprehension.
"Oh!" she stammered at last. "That you _could_!"
She brushed the back of her hand across her lips and then her eyes
blazing at him, turned and walked rigidly on her way. He watched her a
moment, his anger cooling quickly, then caught the bridle of Clarissa
who had taken advantage of this interlude to browse by the wayside.
Cupid had fled!
Markham drove the beast before him and strode after, his eyes on the
small figure which had almost reached the turn in the road. She walked
with a quick stride, her head turning neither to the left nor right,
but he knew that her gaze, fixed upon the road before her, still blazed
with resentment. He goaded the donkey into a more rapid pace, but try
as he might he could not come up with her, and so giving up the chase
he let Clarissa choose her own gait, lighted a pipe to compose his
spirit and followed leisurely in the steps of outraged dignity.
It was not until she came to a cross-roads that she stopped and waited
for him. When he arrived with Clarissa, already chastened and even
prepared for humility, she surprised him by smiling as though nothing
had happened.
"Which way, Philidor?" she asked.
He had already seen the towers of Verneuil from the hilltops behind
them and indicated.
"I'm sorry, Hermia," he said softly. "Will you forgive me?"
She shrugged. "Oh, it's of no consequence. I've been kissed before,"
she said.
His gaze was lowered, his jaw set.
"You provoked it--"
"Did I? I know now how you consider me. I did not believe you to be
that kind of a man."
"What kind of a man?"
"The man of promiscuous gallantries."
"I'm not--"
She shrugged and turned away.
"Your record is against you."
He found no reply and she laughed at him.
"When I wish to be kissed," she said brazenly, "I usually find a way of
letting men know it."
"You are speaking heresies," he said slowly. "That is not true."
"It is the truth, John Markham. But I did not choose your
companionship for that purpose."
"No, no, don't!" he pleaded contritely. "I've never thought that of
you. We've had a code of our own, Hermia--all our own. Last night you
made me happy. I dreamed of you, child, that you cared for me and I--"
She halted suddenly, her slight figure barring the way, her eyes
flashing furiously.
"We'll have no more of that nonsense," she cried. "Do you hear? When
I ask for love--uncomplaining--unselfish, I know where to seek it."
She reached up suddenly, snatched Père Guégou's faded
blossom from his button-hole and throwing it in the road, ground it
under her heel. "The Order of the Golden Rose is not for you,
Monsieur Philidor," she finished. And before he was really awake to
the full extent of his disaster was again on her way.
They entered Verneuil in a procession, Hermia in the lead, the donkey
following, and Philidor, now thoroughly disillusioned, bringing up the
rear. He was thinking deeply, his gaze on the graceful lines of her
intolerant back, aware that she had paid him in full for his temerity,
and wondering in an aimless way how soon she would be taking the train
for Paris. He had done what he could to atone but some instinct warned
him against further contrition.
His judgment was excellent. As they entered the street of the town she
stopped and waited for him to join her.
"You'll unpack my orchestra if you please," she said acidly. "I'm
going through the town alone."
He laid his hand on the strap at which she was already fingering, his
manner coolly assertive.
"No," he said quietly. "You'll not go alone. You're in my charge.
Where you go, I go--unless of course"--and he pointed toward the
railroad which passed nearby, "I put you on the train for Paris."
She had not expected that. She was powerless and knew it. Wide-eyed
she sought his face, but he met her look squarely.
"I mean it," he said evenly. "You shall do what I say."
Her gaze flared angrily and then fell.
"Oh!" she stammered. "You would _dare_!"
"Your remedy--is yonder," he said firmly, pointing to the Gare.
Some loiterers, a few children and a stray dog had gathered about them.
The dog, a puppy, barked at Clarissa and was promptly kicked for its
precocity. The crowd laughed. This relaxed the tension of the
situation.
"Come," said Markham, his hand on the donkey's halter. "This will
never do. We will go on, please."
Hermia stood her ground a moment defiantly, her arms akimbo and then
dumbly followed.
Markham led the way toward the market-place, where the crowds were
gathered. The glance he stole at Hermia revealed a set expression, a
cheek highly flushed and a lambent eye.
"If you would prefer not to perform to-day I will get you a room at an
inn," he said gently.
But she raised her chin and looked at him with the narrow eye of
contempt.
"You will get me nothing," she replied.
"Nothing but food," he replied. "We are now going to eat."
If scorn could kill, Philidor must have died at once. But she followed
him to the Hôtel Dieu, and nibbled silently at what he had ordered.
His efforts to relieve the tension were unavailing so he gave it up and
at last led the way to the market-place where Clarissa was unpacked and
Yvonne donned her orchestra.
Business was good, though Philidor did the lion's share of it. The
sound of Yvonne's drum speedily drew a crowd and Philidor got out his
sketching block and went to work on the nearest onlooker, a peasant
girl of eighteen, in Norman headgear. She demurred at first, but she
was pretty and knew it, and Philidor's tongue was persuasive, his
nervous crayon eloquent. He was at his best here, and when the sketch
was done he gave it to her with his compliments. The girl's lover, a
gardener from an estate nearby, showed it jubilantly from group to
group, and Philidor's fame was again established.
It could not in any truth be said that Yvonne's orchestra was a
symphonic success, for she jangled her mandolin horribly out of tune,
and blew her mouth-organ atrociously. But whatever her performance
lacked in artistry it made up in noise, her drum and cymbals awaking
such a din that existence was unbearable within ten feet of them.
Philidor went on with his portraits and was so absorbed that for at
least twenty minutes he neither saw nor heard what was going on about
him. He had been aware of his companion's execrable performance a
while ago, and now realized with a suddenness which surprised him that
she played no more. He rose and peered about over the shoulders of his
rustic admirers. Somebody directed his glance. There she was across
the square, her orchestra dangling, talking to a gentleman. It was
true; and plainly to be seen that the gentleman was Pierre de Folligny.
Philidor watched them uncertainly. A joke passed, they both laughed
and the Frenchman indicated his quivering machine hard by. Then it was
that Philidor went forth across the square, his brow a thundercloud.
The girl cast a glance over her shoulder in his direction and then
followed the Frenchman to his machine. Philidor's long stride made the
distance quickly, and before the pair were seated, he stood beside them.
"Where are you going, Yvonne?" he asked quietly.
"Who knows?" she laughed. "To Paris, perhaps."
"Mademoiselle has consented to ride with me," said De Folligny coolly.
"I trust we do not interfere with your plans."
Philidor's eyes sought only hers.
"You insist?" he asked of her.
She laughed at him.
"_Naturellement_."
The car had begun to move.
"One moment, Monsieur--"
De Folligny only smiled, put on the power and in a moment was speeding
down the cobbled street, leaving Philidor staring after them, his head
full of wild thoughts of pursuit, the most conspicuous dolt in all
Verneuil.
But he did not care. He thrust his bony fists deep in his pockets and
slowly made his way though the piles of vegetables back to Clarissa.
He bundled his materials into his knapsack and quickly disappeared from
the interested gaze of the bystanders, who had not scrupled to offer
him both questions and advice.
He was quite helpless with the alternatives of sitting at the Hôtel
Dieu to await developments or of hiring a car at the garage nearby and
going on a wild-goose chase which, whether successful or unsuccessful,
must end unprofitably. Hermia had paid him in strange coin. Could she
afford it? He knew something of Pierre de Folligny. What did Hermia
know? She was mad, of course. He had thought her mad before when she
had volunteered with him for Vagabondia, but now-- What could he think
of her now? There was a difference.
Even his pipe failed to advise him. He knocked it out and wandered
forth, his footsteps taking him down the street through which the pair
had fled. He followed it to its end, emerging presently on a country
road which took the line of the railroad to the South. He did not know
where he was going, and did not much care so long as he was doing
something. His stride lengthened, his jaw was set, his gaze riveted on
the spot where his road entered the forest. It would have fared ill
with De Folligny if they had met at that moment. Persons who met him
on the road turned to look at him and passed on. Lunatics were scarce
along the Avre.
After a while his fury passed and he brought what reason he still
possessed to bear upon his topic. It was Hermia, not De Folligny who
was to blame--Hermia, the mad, the irrepressible, whom he had roused
from her idyl in their happy valley and driven forth, _tête
baissée_, upon this fool's errand--Hermia the tender, the
tempestuous, the gentle, the precipitate, because of whose wild pranks
he, John Markham, Dean of the College of Celibates, now stalked the
highroads of France, the victim of his own philosophy.
Fool that he was! Thrice a fool for having stumbled to his fate,
open-eyed. Last night she had laughed at him. To-day she mocked him
still--with De Folligny.
His responsibilities oppressed him. He must find her and bring this
mad pilgrimage to an end. To-morrow--to-night, perhaps he would put
her on a train which would take her back to the people of her own kind.
For he would go upon his way--his own way, which he was not sure could
no longer be hers.
Emerging from the forest the road took a sharp turn away from the
railroad tracks down hill and across a level plain. From the slight
eminence upon which he stood, his road lay straight as a string before
him, its length visible for almost a mile. Near its end he saw a dark
object at the side of the road. A wagon? Or was it a motor? This was
the way De Folligny had come, for there had been no turnings. He
hurried on, his gaze on the distant object which grew nearer at every
step. He was sure of one thing now, that the object had not moved--of
two things--that it was not a motor. And yet there was something
familiar about it. A wagon it was--a wagon with a roof, its end
showing a window which caught the reflection of the sky--a house wagon,
and near it, phantom-like against the dim foliage, a shaggy gray horse;
to the right, the white smoke of a newly made fire rising among the
trees. It was the _roulotte_ of the Fabiani family and there in the
woods was his friend of a night, Cleofonte, the incomparable.
He had almost made out the bulk of figures near the fire when from the
hedge beside the road there came sounds of tinkling bells and a small
wraith in red and blue rose like a Phoenix from the dust and confronted
him with outstretched hands.
"You are late, Philidor. I've been waiting at least half an hour."
"You've been--_what?_"
"Waiting for you," coolly. "What kept you so long?"
He looked at her as though sure that one of them must have lost his
sense.
"Where is De Folligny?" he growled.
"How should _I_ know?"
He took her by the elbows and looked into her eyes.
"He has gone?"
"Yes."
"What happened?"
"N-nothing."
She met his eyes with a clear gaze--a whimsical smile twisting her lips.
"You know, Philidor," she said quietly, "I don't like to be kissed
unless--unless--"
She stopped and slowly disengaged her elbows from his grasp, "Unless I
_want_ to be kissed."
He searched her face anxiously.
"He--he kissed you?" he snapped savagely.
"Almost--"
"Did he?"
"No." She smiled up at him. "You see," amusedly, "every time he put
his arm around me the drum and cymbals played. It quite disconcerted
him." But Philidor found no amusement in her recital.
"How do you happen to be here?"
His tone was still querulous. She looked at him calmly and after a
pause she answered evenly.
We were driving slowly. I saw the _routlotte_ and recognized it at
once. So I switched off the magneto of his machine--I don't know what
he thought--but he looked at me as though he believed I had gone
suddenly mad, and, while he still wondered, I jumped."
"And then?"
Hermia laughed softly. "He swore at me. 'You little devil,' he cried,
'how did you happen to do that?'
"'My elbow slipped,' said I, from the roadside.
"'Your elbow! _Ma foi_, you have educated elbows!'
"'That's true, I should not play the cymbals else.'
"'Cymbals! Who taught you to run a machine?'
"'The _bon Dieu!_' said I, and fled to the Signora."
She laughed gaily. "Oh, he didn't follow. I think he understood that
there had been a mistake. He watched me a moment and then got out,
cranked his car thoughtfully, and went on in a cloud of dust-- And
that--that's' all," she finished.
Markham looked down the road, his narrowed eyes slowly relaxing and a
smile growing under his small mustache.
"O Hermia,--what a frolic you've had! I feared--" He paused.
"What?"
"Anything--everything. You had no right--"
She raised a warning finger.
"We'll speak of it no more, Philidor," she said quietly.
His anger flared and died; for her eyes were soft with friendship,
gentleness and compassion, and her bent head begged forgiveness. She
had been unreasonable and would make him unhappy no more. All those
things he read. It was quite wonderful.
She led him through the bushes to the fire where the Signora and Stella
made him welcome with their kindest smiles and the _bambino_ cried
lustily. Cleofonte and Luigi presently emerged from the forest where
they had gone in search of wood and deposited their loads by the
fireside. They all made merry as befitted good comrades of the road,
once more reunited, and when Philidor suggested going back to Verneuil
for the night the jovial strong man would not have it, nor would
Yvonne. So Luigi was dispatched on the gray horse to the town for
Clarissa and the pack, but not until Philidor had privily given him
some instructions and a piece of money which opened his sleepy eyes a
trifle wider and increased the dimension of his smile.
When he returned later with both animals laden with packages deep was
the joy and great the astonishment of the caravaners. With an air of
mystery Luigi proudly laid his packages out in a row beside the fire
and Yvonne opened them one by one, disclosing a chicken, a ham, three
loaves of bread, butter, two cheeses, some marmalade, a quart of milk,
a pound of coffee, a pound of tea, a tin of crackers and two bottles of
wine.
"_Jesu mio!_" said Cleofonte, his eyes starting from his head. "It is
beyond belief."
"To-night you dine with me--with us," laughed Philidor with a glance at
Yvonne. They all took a hand in preparing the meal, which was to be
magnificent. Luigi built another fire for the chicken which was to be
roasted on a spit, and the coffee pot was soon simmering.
Yvonne made toast, Philidor cut the ham, the Signora made vegetable
soup, and Stella hurried back and forth from the wagon, bringing the
slender supply of dishes and utensils.
When all was ready they sat and ate as though they had never eaten
before and were never to eat again. The wine was passed and drunk by
turns from two broken tumblers and two tin cups, the only vessels
available for both the wine and coffee, and healths were merrily
pledged. Cleofonte swore an undying friendship for Philidor. Were
they not both great artists--of different _métiers_, but each great in
his own profession? The world should know it. He, Cleofonte, would
proclaim it. And the Signora Fabiani--she and the Signora were already
sisters. They must all travel together. There was enough food for an
army to eat. It would last a week at the very least.
Philidor was content. And when the others had cleared away what
remained of their feast and brought out the blankets, Yvonne sat for a
long while by the fire with Philidor, who smoked and talked of many
things. But the train to Paris no longer interested him.