"Oh yes, I'm much better. This isn't a bad life, is it?"
"Oh no!" I said, sarcastically.
"No, it's all right, and we've got to pull the poor old governor
through and give a jolly good show here and start the whole country
toward the tent door! Eh?"
"Certainly. Don't let me detain you."
"I'll tell you what," he said, "if we only had that poor little
girl, Miss Claridge, we'd catch these Bretons. That's what took the
coast-folk all over Europe, so Grigg says."
Miss Claridge had performed in a large glass tank as the "Leaping
Mermaid." It took like wildfire according to our fellow-performers. We
had never seen her; she was killed by diving into her tank when the
circus was at Antwerp in April.
"Can't we get up something like that?" I suggested, hopelessly.
"Who would do it? Miss Claridge's fish-tights are in the prop-box;
who's to wear them?"
He began to say something else, but stopped suddenly, eyes fixed. We
were seated nearly opposite each other, and I turned around, following
the direction of his eyes.
Jacqueline stood behind me in the smoky light of the torch--Jacqueline,
bare of arm and knee, with her sea-blue eyes very wide and the witch-locks
clustering around the dim oval of her face. After a moment's absolute
silence she said: "I came from Paradise. Don't you remember?"
"From Paradise?" said Speed, smiling; "I thought it might be from
elf-land."
And I said: "Of course I remember you, Jacqueline. And I have an idea
you ought to be in bed."
There was another silence.
"Won't you sit down?" asked Speed.
"Thank you," said Jacqueline, gravely.
She seated herself on a sack of sawdust, clasping her slender hands
between her knees, and looked earnestly at the elephant.
"He won't harm you," I assured her.
"If you think I am afraid of _that_," she said, "you are mistaken,
Monsieur Scarlett."
"I don't think you are afraid of anything," observed Speed, smiling;
"but I know you are capable of astonishment."
"How do you know that?" demanded the girl.
"Because I saw you with your drum on the high-road when we came past
Paradise. Your eyes were similar to saucers, and your mouth was not
closed, Mademoiselle Jacqueline."
"Oh--pour ça--yes, I was astonished," she said. Then, with a quick,
upward glance: "Were you riding, in armor, on a horse?"
"No," said Speed; "I was on that elephant's head."
This appeared to make a certain impression on Jacqueline. She became
shyer of speech for a while, until he asked her, jestingly, why she
did not join the circus.
"It is what I wish," she said, under her breath.
"And ride white horses?"
"Will you take me?" she cried, passionately, springing to her feet.
Amazed at her earnestness, I tried to explain that such an idea was
out of the question. She listened anxiously at first, then her eyes
fell and she stood there in the torch-light, head hanging.
"Don't you know," said Speed, kindly, "that it takes years of
practice to do what circus people do? And the life is not gay,
Jacqueline; it is hard for all of us. We know what hunger means; we
know sickness and want and cold. Believe me, you are happier in
Paradise than we are in the circus."
"It may be," she said, quietly.
"Of course it is," he insisted.
"But," she flashed out, "I would rather be unhappy in the circus
than happy in Paradise!"
He protested, smiling, but she would have her way.
"I once saw a man, in spangles, turning, turning, and ever turning
upon a rod. He was very far away, and that was very long ago--at the
fair in Bannalec. But I have not forgotten! No, monsieur! In our
net-shed I also have fixed a bar of wood, and on it I turn, turn
continually. I am not ignorant of twisting. I can place my legs over
my neck and cross my feet under my chin. Also I can stand on both
hands, and I can throw scores of handsprings--which I do every morning
upon the beach--I, Jacqueline!"
She was excited; she stretched out both bare arms as though preparing
to demonstrate her ability then and there.
"I should like to see a circus," she said. "Then I should know what
to do. That I can swing higher than any girl in Paradise has been
demonstrated often," she went on, earnestly. "I can swim farther, I
can dive deeper, I can run faster, with bare feet or with sabots, than
anybody, man or woman, from the Beacon to Our Lady's Chapel! At bowls
the men will not allow me because I have beaten them all, monsieur,
even the mayor, which he never forgave. As for the farandole, I tire
last of all--and it is the biniou who cries out for mercy!"
She laughed and pushed back her hair, standing straight up in the
yellow radiance like a moor-sprite. There was something almost
unearthly in her lithe young body and fearless sea-blue eyes,
sparkling from the shock of curls.
"So you can dive and swim?" asked Speed, with a glance at me.
"Like the salmon in the Läita, monsieur."
"Under water?"
"Parbleu!"
After a pause I asked her age.
"Fifteen, M'sieu Scarlett."
"You don't look thirteen, Jacqueline."
"I think I should grow faster if we were not so poor," she said,
innocently.
"You mean that you don't get enough to eat?"
"Not always, m'sieu. But that is so with everybody except the
wealthy."
"Suppose we try her," said Speed, after a silence. "You and I can
scrape up a little money for her if worst comes to worst."
"How about her father?"
"You can see him. What is he?"
"A poacher, I understand."
"Oh, then it's easy enough. Give him a few francs. He'll take the
child's salary, anyway, if this thing turns out well."
"Jacqueline," I said, "we can't afford to pay you much money, you
know."
"Money?" repeated the child, vacantly. "_Money!_ If I had my arms
full--so!--I would throw it into the world--so!"--she glanced at
Speed--"reserving enough for a new skirt, monsieur, of which I stand
in some necessity."
The quaint seriousness, the resolute fearlessness of this little maid
of Paradise touched us both, I think, as she stood there restlessly,
balancing on her slim bare feet, finger-tips poised on her hips.
"Won't you take me?" she asked, sweetly.
"I'll tell you what I'll do, Jacqueline," said I. "Very early in the
morning I'll go down to your house and see your father. Then, if he
makes no objection, I'll get you to put on a pretty swimming-suit, all
made out of silver scales, and you can show me, there in the sea, how
you can dive and swim and play at mermaid. Does that please you?"
She looked earnestly at me, then at Speed.
"Is it a promise?" she asked, in a quivering voice.
"Yes, Jacqueline."
"Then I thank you, M'sieu Scarlett,... and you, m'sieur, who ride the
elephant so splendidly.... And I will be waiting for you when you
come.... We live in the house below the Saint-Julien Light.... My
father is pilot of the port.... Anybody will tell you." ...
"I will not forget," said I.
She bade us good-night very prettily, stepped back out of the circle
of torch-light, and vanished--there is no other word for it.
"Gracious," said Speed, "wasn't that rather sudden? Or is that the
child yonder? No, it's a bush. Well, Scarlett, there's an uncanny
young one for you--no, not uncanny, but a spirit in its most delicate
sense. I've an idea she's going to find poor Byram's lost luck for
him."
"Or break her neck," I observed.
Speed was quiet for a long while.
"By-the-way," he said, at last, "are you going to tell the Countess
about that fellow Buckhurst?"
"I sent a note to her before I fed my lions," I replied.
"Are you going to see her?"
"If she desires it."
"Who took the note, Scarlett?"
"Jacqueline's father,... that Lizard fellow."
"Well, don't let's stir up Buckhurst now," said Speed. "Let's do
what we can for the governor first."
"Of course," said I. "And I'm going to bed. Good-night."
"Good-night," said Speed, thoughtfully. "I'll join you in a
moment."
When I was ready for bed and stood at the tent door, peering out into
the darkness, I saw Speed curled up on a blanket between the
elephant's forefeet, sound asleep.