Lady Auriol, myself and the car met punctually at the hotel door at ten
o'clock. There was also a _chasseur_ with Lady Auriol's dust-coat
and binoculars, and a _concierge_ with advice. We waited for Bakkus.
Auriol, suddenly bethinking herself of plain chocolate, to the consumption
of which she was addicted on the grounds of its hunger-satisfying
qualities, although I guaranteed her a hearty midday meal on the occasion
of the present adventure, we went down the street to the _Marquise de
Sévigné_ shop and bought some. This took time, because she lingered over
several varieties devastating to the appetite. I paid gladly. If we all
had the same ideas as to the employment of a happy day, it would be a dull
world. We went back to the car. Still no Bakkus. We waited again. I railed
at the artistic temperament. Pure, sheer bone idleness, said I.
"But what can he be doing?" asked Auriol.
I, who had received through Lackaday many lights on Bakkus's character, was
at no loss to reply.
"Doing? Why, snoring. He'll awake at midday, stroll round here and expect
to find us smiling on the pavement. We give him five more minutes."
At the end of the five minutes I sent the _concierge_ off for a
guide-book; much more accurate, I declared, than Bakkus was likely to be,
and at half-past ten by my watch we started. Although I railed at the sloth
of Bakkus, I rejoiced in his absence. My over-night impression had not been
dissipated by slumber.
"I'm not sorry," said I, as we drove along. "Our friend is rather too much
of a professed conversationalist."
"You also have a comfortable seat which possibly you would have had to give
up to your guest," said Auriol.
"How you know me, my dear," said I, and we rolled along very happily.
I think it was one of the pleasantest days I have ever passed in the course
of a carefully spent life. Auriol was at her best. She had thrown off the
harried woman of affairs. She had put a nice little tombstone over the
grave of her romance, thus apparently reducing to beautiful simplicity her
previous complicated frame of mind. For aught I could have guessed, not a
cloud had ever dimmed the Diana serenity of her soul. If I said that
she laid herself out to be the most charming of companions, I should be
accusing her of self-consciousness. Rather, let me declare her to have been
so instinctively. Vanity apart, I stood for something tangible in her
life. She could not remember the time when I had not been her firm friend.
Between my first offering of chocolates and my last over a quarter of a
century had lapsed. As far as a young woman can know a middle-aged man, she
knew me outside in. If she came to me for my sympathy, she knew that she
had the right. If she twitted me on my foibles, she knew that I granted her
the privilege, with affectionate indulgence.
Now, perhaps you may wonder why I, not yet decrepit, did not glide ever so
imperceptibly in love with Lady Auriol, who was no longer a dew-besprinkled
bud of a girl and therefore beyond the pale of my sentimental inclinations.
Well, just as she had avowed that she could not fall in love with a man of
my type, so was it impossible for me to fall in love with a woman of hers.
Perhaps some dark-eyed devil may yet lure me to destruction, or some mild,
fair-haired, comfortable widow may entice me to domesticity. But the joy
and delight of my attitude towards Auriol was its placid and benignant
avuncularity. We were the best and frankest friends in the world.
And the day was an August hazy dream of a day. We wound along the mountain
roads, first under overhanging greenery and then, almost suddenly, remote,
in blue ether. We hung on precipices overlooking the rock-filled valleys of
old volcanic desolation. Basaltic cliffs rose up from their bed of yellow
cornfields, bare and stark, yet, in the noontide shimmer, hesitating in
their eternal defiance of God and man. We ascended to vast tablelands of
infinite scrub and yellow broom, and the stern peaks of the Puy de Dôme
mountains, a while ago seen like giants, appeared like rolling hillocks;
but here and there a little white streak showed that the snow still
lingered and would linger on until the frosts of autumn bound it in chains
to await the universal winding-sheet of winter. Climate varied with the
varying altitude of the route. Here, on a last patch of mountain ground,
were a man or two and a woman or two and odd children, reaping and binding;
there, after a few minutes' ascent, on another sloping patch, a solitary
peasant ploughed with his team of oxen. Everywhere on the declivitous
waysides, tow-haired, blue-eyed children guarded herds of goats, as their
forbears had done in the days of Vercingetorix, the Gaul. Nowhere, save in
the dimly seen remotenesses of the valleys, where vestiges of red-roofed
villages emerged through the fertile summer green, was there sign of
habitation. Whence came they, these patient humans, wresting their life
from these lonely spots of volcanic wildernesses?
Now and then, on a lower hump of mountain, appeared the ruined tower of
a stronghold fierce and dominating long ago. There the lord had all the
rights of the _seigneur_, as far as his eye could reach. He had
men-at-arms in plenty, and could ride down to the valley and could
provision himself with what corn and meat he chose, and could return and
hold high revel. But when the winter came, how cold must he have been, for
all the wood with its stifling smoke that he burned in his crude stone
hall. And Madame the Countess, his wife, and her train of highborn young
women--imagine the cracking chilblains on the hands of the whole fair
community.
"Does the guide-book say that?" asked Auriol, on my development of this
pleasant thesis.
"Is a guide-book human?"
"It doesn't unweave rainbows. As a _cicerone_ you're impossible. I
regret Horatio Bakkus."
Still, in spite of my prosaic vision, we progressed on an enjoyable
pilgrimage. I am not giving you an itinerary. I merely mention features of
a day's whirl which memory has recaptured. We lunched in that little oasis
of expensive civilization, Mont Dore. Incidentally we visited Orcival, with
its Romanesque church and château, the objective of our expedition, and
found it much as Bakkus's glowing eloquence had described. From elderly
ladies at stalls under the lee of the church we bought picture post cards.
We wandered through the deeply shaded walks of the _charmille_, as
trimly kept as the maze of Hampton Court and three times the height. We did
all sorts of other things. We stopped at wild mountain gorges alive with
the rustle of water and aglow with wild-flowers. We went on foot through
one-streeted, tumble-down villages and passed the time of day with the
kindly inhabitants. And the August sun shone all the time.
We reached Royat at about six o'clock and went straight up to our rooms.
On my table some letters awaited me; but instead of finding among them
the apology from Bakkus which I had expected, I came across a telephone
memorandum asking me to ring up Monsieur Patou at the Hôtel Moderne, Vichy,
as soon as I returned.
After glancing through my correspondence, I descended to the bureau and
there found Auriol in talk with the _concierge_. She broke off and
waved a telegram at me.
"The end of my lotus-eating. The arrangements are put through and I'm no
longer hung up. So"--she made a little grimace--"it's the midnight train to
Paris."
"Surely to-morrow will do," I protested.
"To-morrow never does," she retorted.
"As you will," said I, knowing argument was hopeless.
Meanwhile the _concierge_ was 'allo'-ing lustily into the telephone.
"I ought to have stuck to head-quarters," she said, moving away into the
lounge. "It's the first time I've ever mixed up business and--other things.
Anyhow," she smiled, "I've had an adorable day. I'll remember it in Arras."
"Arras?"
"Roundabout." She waved vaguely. "I'll know my exact address to-morrow."
"Please let me have it."
"What's the good unless you promise to write to me?"
"I swear," said I.
"Pardon, Miladi," called the _concierge_, receiver in hand. "The
_gare de Clermont-Ferrand_ says there is no _place salon-lit_ or
_coupé-lit_ free in the train to-night. But there is _one place de
milieu_, _premiere_, not yet taken."
"Reserve it then and tell them you're sending a _chasseur_ at once
with the money." She turned to me. "My luck's in."
"Luck!" I cried. "To get a middle seat in a crowded carriage, for an
all-night journey, with the windows shut?"
She laughed. "Why is it, my dear Tony, you always seem to pretend there has
never been anything like a war?"
She went upstairs to cleanse herself and pack. I remained master of the
telephone. In the course of time I got on to the Hôtel Moderne, Vichy.
Eventually I recognized Lackaday's voice. The preliminaries of fence over,
he said:
"I wonder whether it would be trespassing too far on your friendship to ask
you to pay your promised visit to Vichy to-morrow?"
The formality of his English, which one forgot when talking to him face to
face, was oddly accentuated by the impersonal tones of the telephone.
"I'll motor over with pleasure," said I. The prospect pleased me. It was
only sixty kilometres. I was wondering what the deuce I should do with
myself all alone.
"You're sure it wouldn't be inconvenient? You have no other engagement?"
I informed him that, my early morning treatment over, I was free as air.
"Besides," said I, "I shall be at a loose end. Lady Auriol's taking the
midnight train to Paris."
"Oh!" said he.
There was a pause.
"'Allo!" said I.
His voice responded: "In that case, I'll come to Clermont-Ferrand by the
first train and see you."
"Nonsense," said I.
But he would have it his own way. Evidently the absence of Lady Auriol made
all the difference. I yielded.
"What's the trouble?" I asked.
"I'll tell you when I see you," said he. "I don't know the trains, but I'll
come by the first. Your _concierge_ will look it up for you. Thanks
very much. Good-bye."'
"But, my dear fellow----" I began.
But I spoke into nothingness. He had rung off.
Auriol and I spent a comfortable evening together. There was no question of
Lackaday. For her part, she raised none. For mine--why should I disturb her
superbly regained balance with idle chatter about our morrow's meeting?
We talked of the past glories of the day; of an almost forgotten day of
disastrous picnic in the mountains of North Wales, when her twelve-year-old
sense of humour detected the artificial politeness with which I sought to
cloak my sodden misery; of all sorts of pleasant far-off things; of the
war; of what may be called the war-continuation-work in the devastated
districts in which she was at present engaged. I reminded her of our
fortuitous meetings, when she trudged by my side through the welter of rain
and liquid mud, smoking the fag-end of my last pipe of tobacco.
"One lived in those days," she said with a full-bosomed sigh.
"By the dispensation of a merciful Providence," I said, "one hung on to a
strand of existence."
"It was fine!" she declared.
"It was--for the appropriate adjective," said I, "consult any humble member
of the British Army."
We had a whole, long evening's talk, which did not end until I left her in
the train at Clermont-Ferrand.
On our midnight way thither, she said:
"Now I know you love me, Tony."
"Why now?" I asked.
"How many people are there in the world whom you would see off by a
midnight train, three or four miles from your comfortable bed?"
"Not many," I admitted.
"That's why I want you to feel I'm grateful." She sought my hand and patted
it. "I've been a dreadful worry to you. I've been through a hard time."
This was her first and only reference during the day to the romance. "I had
to cut something out of my living self, and I couldn't help groaning a bit.
But the operation's over--and I'll never worry you again."
At the station I packed her into the dark and already suffocating
compartment. She announced her intention to sleep all night like a dog. She
went off, in the best of spirits, to the work in front of her, which after
all was a more reasonable cure than tossing about the Outer Hebrides in a
five-ton yacht.
I drove home to bed and slept the sleep of the perfect altruist.
I was reading the _Moniteur du Puy de Dôme_ on the hotel terrace next
morning, when Lackaday was announced. He looked grimmer and more careworn
than ever, and did not even smile as he greeted me. He only said gravely
that it was good of me to let him come over. I offered him refreshment,
which he declined.
"You may be wondering," said he, "why I have asked for this interview. But
after all I have told you about myself, it did not seem right to leave you
in ignorance of certain things. Besides, you've so often given me your
kind sympathy, that, as a lonely man, I've ventured to trespass on it once
more."
"My dear Lackaday, you know that I value your friendship," said I, not
wishing to be outdone in courteous phrase, "and that my services are
entirely at your disposal."
"I had better tell you in a few words what has happened," said he.
He told me.
Elodie had gone, disappeared, vanished into space, like the pearl necklaces
which Petit Patou used to throw at her across the stage.
"But how? When?" I asked, in bewilderment; for Lackaday and Elodie, as Les
Petit Patou, seemed as indissoluble as William and Mary or Pommery and
Greno.
He had gone to her room at ten o'clock the previous morning, her breakfast
hour, and found it wide open and empty save for the _femme de chambre_
making great clatter of sweeping. He stood open-mouthed on the threshold.
To be abroad at such an hour was not in Elodie's habits. Their train did
not start till the afternoon. His eye quickly caught the uninhabited
bareness of the apartment. Not a garment straggled about the room. The
toilet table, usually strewn with a myriad promiscuously ill-assorted
articles, stared nakedly. There were no boxes. The cage of love-birds,
Elodie's inseparable companions, had gone.
"Madame----?"
He questioned the _femme de chambre_.
"But Madame has departed. Did not Monsieur know?"
Monsieur obviously did not know. The girl gave him the information of which
she was possessed. Madame had gone in an automobile at six o'clock. She had
rung the bell. The _femme de chambre_ had answered it. The staff were
up early on account of the seven o'clock train for Paris.
"Then Madame has gone to Paris," cried Lackaday.
But the girl demurred at the proposition. One does not hire an automobile
from a garage, _a voiture de luxe, quoi?_ to go to the railway
station, when the hotel omnibus would take one there for a franc or two. As
she was saying, Madame rang her bell and gave orders for her luggage to be
taken down. It was not much, said Lackaday; they travelled light, their
professional paraphernalia having to be considered. Well, the luggage was
taken down to the automobile that was waiting at the door, and Madame had
driven off. That is all she knew.
Lackaday strode over to the bureau and assailed the manager. Why had he not
been informed of the departure of Madame? It apparently never entered the
manager's polite head that Monsieur Patou was ignorant of Madame Patou's
movements. Monsieur had given notice that they were leaving. Artists like
Monsieur and Madame Patou were bound to make special arrangements for their
tours, particularly nowadays when railway travelling was difficult. So
Madame's departure had occasioned no surprise.
"Who took her luggage down?" he demanded.
The dingy waistcoated, alpaca-sleeved porter, wearing the ribbon of the
Médaille Militaire on his breast, came forward. At six o'clock, while he
was sweeping the hall, an automobile drew up outside. He said: "Whom are
you come to fetch? The Queen of Spain?" And the chauffeur told him to
mind his own business. At that moment the bell rang. He went up to the
_étage_ indicated. The _femme de chambre_ beckoned him to the
room and he took the luggage and Madame took the bird-cage, and he put
Madame and the luggage and the birdcage into the auto, and Madame gave him
two francs, and the car drove off, whither the porter knew not.
Although he put it to me very delicately, as he had always conveyed his
criticism of Elodie, the fact that struck a clear and astounding note
through his general bewilderment, was the unprecedented reckless
extravagance of the economical Elodie. There was the omnibus. There was the
train. Why the car at the fantastic rate of one franc fifty per kilometre,
to say nothing of the one franc fifty per kilometre for the empty car's
return journey?
"And Madame was all alone in the automobile," said the porter, by way of
reassurance. "Pardon, Monsieur," he added, fading away under Lackaday's
glare.
"I cut the indignity of it all as short as I could," said Lackaday, "and
went up to my room to size things up. It was a knock-down blow to me in
many ways, as you no doubt can understand. And then came the _femme
de chambre_ with a letter addressed to me. It had fallen between the
looking-glass and the wall."
He drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to me.
"You had better read it."
I fitted my glasses on my nose and read. In the sprawling, strong,
illiterate hand I saw and felt Elodie.
_Mon petit André_----
But I must translate inadequately, for the grammar and phrasing were
Elodesque.
As you no longer love me, if ever you have loved me, which I doubt, for
we have made _un drôle de ménage_ ever since we joined ourselves
together, and as our life in common is giving you unhappiness, which it
does me also, for since you have returned from England as a General you
have not been the same, and indeed I have never understood how a General
[and then followed a couple of lines vehemently erased]. And as I do not
wish to be a burden to you, but desire that you should feel yourself free
to lead whatever life you like, I have taken the decision to leave you for
ever--_pour tout jamais_. It is the best means to regain happiness.
For the things that are still at the Cirque Vendramin, do with them what
you will. I shall write to Ernestine to send me my clothes and all the
little birds I love so much. Your noble heart will not grudge them to me,
_mon petit André_.
Praying God for your happiness, I am always
Your devoted
ELODIE
I handed him back the letter without a word. What could one say?
"The first thing I did," he said, putting the letter back in his pocket,
"was to ring up Bakkus, to see whether he could throw any light on the
matter."
"Bakkus--why, he cut his engagement with us yesterday."
"The damned scoundrel," said Lackaday, "was running away with Elodie."