"It is only your pride? You will be better soon. Come, we have always
been good losers. We have always known when the game was up. Let us see
if we cannot end it gracefully, as gentlemen should. You cannot get the
paper. Why not make the best of it? You have tried, and tried not
unskilfully, but you see now that the right man cannot always win--a
useful lesson, is it not? I do not ask you to like me for it. You have
seen enough of me, I hope, to hate me. And yet--let us be philosophical.
Be seated, my son. Brutus, it is three o'clock. Bring in the Madeira, and
the noon meal."
I did not reply, and he stood for a moment watching me narrowly. Brutus
threw another log on the fire, which gave off a brisk crackling from the
bed of coals. He then stood waiting doubtfully, until my father nodded.
"Take the door out as you go," my father directed. "Mademoiselle,
permit me."
He pointed out an armchair beside the fire. "And you, my son, opposite.
So." From the side pocket of his coat he drew a silver mounted pistol,
which he examined with studious attention.
"Come," he said, slipping it back, "let us be tranquil. Is there any
reason to bear ill will simply because we each stand on an opposite side
of a question of ethics? If you had only been to the wars, how
differently you would see it. There hundreds of men stab each other with
the best will in the world, none of the crudeness of personal animosity,
only the best of good nature. In a little time now we shall part, never,
if I can help it, to meet again. You have seen me as a dangerous,
reckless man, without any principles worth mentioning. Indeed, I have so
few that I shall have recourse to violence, my son, if you do not assume
a more reposeful manner. The evening will be active enough to make any
further excitement quite superfluous. Have patience. An hour or so means
little to anyone so young."
There fell a silence while he stood immovably watching us. A gust of wind
blew down the chimney, and scattered a cloud of dust over the hearth. The
rafters creaked. Somewhere in the stillness a door slammed. The very lack
of expression in his face was stamping it on my memory, and for the first
time its phlegmatic calm aroused in me a new emotion. I had hated it and
wondered at it before, and now in spite of myself it was giving me a
twinge of pity. For nature had intended it to be an expressive face,
sensitive and quick to mirror each perception and emotion. Was it pride
that had turned it into a mask, and drawn a curtain before the light that
burned within, or had the light burned out and left it merely cold and
unresponsive?
"The captain is thinking?" said Mademoiselle.
He smiled, and fixed her with his level glance.
"Indeed yes," he answered briskly. "It is a rudeness for which I can only
crave your pardon. Strange that I should have tasted your father's
hospitality so often and should still be a taciturn host."
Mademoiselle bit her lip.
"There is only one thing stranger," she said coldly.
"And that is--?" said my father, bending toward her attentively.
"That you should betray the last request of the man who once sheltered
you and trusted you, and showed you every kindness. Tell me, captain, is
it another display of artistic temperament, or simply a lack of
breeding?"
Her words seemed to fall lightly on my father. He took a pinch of snuff,
and waved his hand in an airy gesture of denial.
"Bah," he said. "If the Marquis were alive, he would understand. He was
always an opportunist, the Marquis. 'Drink your wine,' he would say,
'drink your wine and break your glass. We may not have heads to drink it
with tomorrow.' I am merely drinking the wine, Mademoiselle. He would
not blame me. Besides, the Marquis owes me nothing. If it were not for
me, your brother would be drinking his wine in paradise, instead of
cursing at the American climate. And you, Mademoiselle--would you have
preferred to remain with the police?"
He looked thoughtfully into his snuff box.
"Dead men press no bills--surely you recall the Marquis said that also.
No, Mademoiselle, we must be practical to live. The Marquis would
understand. The Marquis was always practical."
She caught her breath sharply, but my father seemed not to have perceived
the effect of his words.
"Ah," he said, "here is Brutus with the meal."
Brutus had carried in a small round table on which were arranged a loaf
of bread and some salt meat.
"Mademoiselle will join me?" asked my father, rubbing his hands. I do not
think he expected her reply any more than I did. Indeed, it seemed to
give him a momentary uneasiness.
"One must eat," said Mademoiselle. "We will eat, captain, and then we
will talk." I am sorry you have made it necessary, but of course you
have expected it."
"Mademoiselle has been unnaturally subdued," he replied. "It is pleasant
she is coming to herself again. And you, my son, you should be hungry."
"As Mademoiselle says, one must eat," I answered.
"Good," he said. "The food is poor, but you will find the wine
excellent," and he filled the glasses. It was a strange meal.
"Now we shall talk," said Mademoiselle, when it was finished.
My father raised his wine glass to the light.
"It is always a pleasure to listen to Mademoiselle."
"I fear," replied Mademoiselle, "that this will be the exception."
"Impossible," said my father, sipping his wine.
"All this morning I have tried to have a word with you," said
Mademoiselle, "but your time has been well taken up. I hoped to speak to
you instead of your son, but he failed to take my advice and remain
quiet. As I said before, you are both stubborn. Not that it has made much
difference. You still have the paper."
She caused, and surveyed him calmly.
"Is it not painful to continue the discussion?" my father inquired. "I
assure you I have not changed my mind since last evening, nor shall I
change it. Must I repeat that the affair of the paper is finished?"
"We shall see," said Mademoiselle.
"As Mademoiselle wishes," said my father.
"It has been six years since I first saw you in Paris," said
Mademoiselle. Her voice was softly musical, and somehow she was no longer
cold and forbidding. My father placed his wine glass on the table, and
seemingly a little disturbed, gave her his full attention.
"Six years," said Mademoiselle. "I have often thought of you since then.
"You have done me too much honor," said my father. "You always
have, my lady."
She only smiled and shook her head.
"You are the sort of man whom women think about, and the sort whom women
admire. Surely you know that without my telling you. A man with a past is
always more pleasant than one with a future. Do you know what I thought
when I saw you that evening? You remember, they were in the room,
whispering as usual, plotting and planning, and you were to have a boat
off the coast of Normandy. You and the Marquis had ridden from Bordeaux.
I thought, Captain, that you were the sort of man who could succeed in
anything you tried--yes, anything. Perhaps you know the Marquis thought
so too, and even today I believe we were nearly right. We saw you in
Brussels later, and in Holland, and then at Blanzy this year. I have
known of a dozen commissions you have performed without a single blunder.
Indeed, I know of only one thing in which you have definitely failed."
"Only one? Impossible," said my father.
"Yes, only one, and it seemed simple enough."
A touch of color had mounted to her cheeks, and she looked down at the
bare table.
"You have done your best, done your best in a hundred little ways to make
me hate you. You have studied the matter carefully, as you study
everything. You have missed few opportunities. Even a minute ago, about
the Marquis--and yet you have not succeeded."
My father raised his hand hastily to his coat lapel.
"Is there never a woman who will not reduce matters to personalities," he
murmured. "I should have known better. I see it now. I should have made
love to you."
Though her voice was grave, there was laughter in her eyes.
"I have often wondered why you did not. It was the only method you seem
to have overlooked."
"There is one mistake a man always makes about women." He smiled and
glanced at us both, and then back at his wine again. "He forgets they are
all alike. Sooner or later he sees one that in some strange way seems
different. I thought you were different, Mademoiselle. Heaven forgive me,
I thought you even rational. Surely you have every reason to dislike me.
Let us be serious, Mademoiselle. You do not hate me?"
"I am afraid," said Mademoiselle, "that you have had quite an
opposite effect."
In spite of myself I started. Could it be that I was jealous? Her eyes
were lowered to the arm of her chair, and she was intent on the delicate
carving of the mahogany. It was true then. I might have suspected it
before, but was it possible that I cared?
"Good God!" exclaimed my father, and pushed back his chair.
Mademoiselle rested her chin on the palm of her hand.
"I told you the interview would not be pleasant," she said. "But you are
pessimistic, captain. I have not said I loved you. Do not be alarmed. I
was going to say I pitied you. That was all."
"Mon Dieu," my father murmured. "It is worse." And yet I thought I
detected a note of relief in his voice. "Surely I am not as old as that."
Mademoiselle, whose eyes had never left his face, smiled and shook her
head.
"I know what you are thinking," she said. "No, no, captain. It is not the
beginning of a melodramatic speech. I am not offering pity to the villain
in the story. Even the first night I met you, I was sorry for you,
captain. I was sorry as soon as I saw your eyes. I knew then that
something had happened, and when I heard you speak, I told myself you
were not to blame for it. I still believe you were not to blame. You see,
I know your story now."
"Indeed?" said my father. "And you still are sorry. Mademoiselle, you
disappoint me."
"Yes," said Mademoiselle, "I heard the story, and I believe she was to
blame, not you. After all, she took you for better or worse."
And then a strange thing happened. In spite of himself he started. His
race flushed, and his lips pressed tight together. It seemed almost as
though a spasm of pain had seized him, which he could not conceal in
spite of his best efforts. With an unconscious motion, he grasped his
wine glass and the color ebbed from his cheeks.
"Mademoiselle is mistaken," said my father. "Another wine glass, Brutus."
The stem of the one he was holding had snapped in his hand.
"Nonsense," said Mademoiselle shortly.
My father cleared his throat, and glanced restlessly away, his face still
set and still lined with the trace of suffering.
"Mademoiselle," he said finally, "you deal with a subject which is still
painful. Pray excuse me if I do not discuss it. Anything which you may
have heard of my affairs is entirely a fault of mine. You understand?"
"Yes," said Mademoiselle, "I understand, and we shall continue to
discuss it, no matter how painful it is to you. Who knows, captain;
perhaps I can bring you to your senses, or are you going to continue to
ruin your life on account of a woman?"
"Be silent, Mademoiselle," said my father sharply.
But she disregarded his interruption.
"So she believed that you had filled your ship with fifty bales of
shavings. She believed it, and called you a thief. She believed you were
as gauche as that. I can guess the rest of the story."
But my father had regained his equanimity.
"Five hundred bales of shavings," he corrected. "You are misinformed even
about the merest details."
"And for fifteen years, you have been roving about the world, trying to
convince her she was right. Ah, you are touched? I have guessed your
secret. Can anything be more ridiculous!"
He half started from his chair, and again his face grew drawn and
haggard.
"She _was_ right," he said, a little hoarsely. "Believe me, she was
always right, Mademoiselle."
"Nonsense," said Mademoiselle. "I do not believe it."
My father turned to me with a shrug of his shoulders.
"It is pleasant to remember, is it not, my son, that your mother had a
keener discernment, and did not give way to the dictates of a romantic
imagination?"
"Sir," I said, "there is only one reason why I ever came here, and that
was because my mother requested it. She wanted you to know, sir, that she
regretted what she said almost the moment you left the house. If you had
ever written her, if you had ever sent a single word, you could have
changed it all. In spite of all the evidence, she never came fully to
believe it."
"Ah, but you believe it," said my father quickly.
I do not think he ever heard my answer. He had turned unsteadily in his
chair, and was facing the dying embers of the fire, his left hand limp on
the table before him. Again the spasm of pain crossed his face.
Mademoiselle still watched him, but without a trace of triumph. Indeed,
she seemed more kindly and more gentle than I had ever known her.
"Five hundred bales of shavings," she softly. "Ah, captain, there
are not many men who would do it. Not any that I know, save you and
the Marquis."
"Brutus," said my father, "a glass of rum."
With his eyes still on the fire, he drank the spirits, and sighed. "And
now, Brutus," he continued, "my volume of Rabelais."
But when it was placed beside him, he left it unopened, and still
continued to study the shifting scenes in the coals.