A great many people keep their friends in mind by writing to them, but
more do not; and Ward and I belong to the majority. After my departure
from Paris I had but one missive from him, a short note, written at the
request of his sister, asking me to be on the lookout for Italian
earrings, to add to her collection of old jewels. So, from time to
time, I sent her what I could find about Capri or in Naples, and she
responded with neat little letters of acknowledgment.
Two years I stayed on Capri, eating the lotus which grows on that happy
island, and painting very little--only enough, indeed, to be remembered
at the Salon and not so much as knowing how kindly or unkindly they
hung my pictures there. But even on Capri, people sometimes hear the
call of Paris and wish to be in that unending movement: to hear the
multitudinous rumble, to watch the procession from a cafe terrace and
to dine at Foyot's. So there came at last a fine day when I, knowing
that the horse-chestnuts were in bloom along the Champs Elysees, threw
my rope-soled shoes to a beggar, packed a rusty trunk, and was off for
the banks of the Seine.
My arrival--just the drive from the Gare de Lyon to my studio--was like
the shock of surf on a bather's breast.
The stir and life, the cheerful energy of the streets, put stir and
life and cheerful energy into me. I felt the itch to work again, to be
at it, at it in earnest--to lose no hour of daylight, and to paint
better than I had painted!
Paris having given me this impetus, I dared not tempt her further, nor
allow the edge of my eagerness time to blunt; therefore, at the end of
a fortnight, I went over into Normandy and deposited that rusty trunk
of mine in a corner of the summer pavilion in the courtyard of Madame
Brossard's inn, Les Trois Pigeons, in a woodland neighborhood that is
there. Here I had painted through a prolific summer of my youth, and I
was glad to find--as I had hoped--nothing changed; for the place was
dear to me. Madame Brossard (dark, thin, demure as of yore, a
fine-looking woman with a fine manner and much the flavour of old
Norman portraits) gave me a pleasant welcome, remembering me readily
but without surprise, while Amedee, the antique servitor, cackled over
me and was as proud of my advent as if I had been a new egg and he had
laid me. The simile is grotesque; but Amedee is the most henlike waiter
in France.
He is a white-haired, fat old fellow, always well-shaved; as neat as a
billiard-ball. In the daytime, when he is partly porter, he wears a
black tie, a gray waistcoat broadly striped with scarlet, and, from
waist to feet, a white apron like a skirt, and so competently
encircling that his trousers are of mere conventionality and no real
necessity; but after six o'clock (becoming altogether a maitre d'hotel)
he is clad as any other formal gentleman. At all times he wears a fresh
table-cloth over his arm, keeping an exaggerated pile of them ready at
hand on a ledge in one of the little bowers of the courtyard, so that
he may never be shamed by getting caught without one.
His conception of life is that all worthy persons were created as
receptacles for food and drink; and five minutes after my arrival he
had me seated (in spite of some meek protests) in a wicker chair with a
pitcher of the right Three Pigeons cider on the table before me, while
he subtly dictated what manner of dinner I should eat. For this
interval Amedee's exuberance was sobered and his badinage dismissed as
being mere garniture, the questions now before us concerning grave and
inward matters. His suggestions were deferential but insistent; his
manner was that of a prime minister who goes through the form of
convincing the sovereign. He greeted each of his own decisions with a
very loud "Bien!" as if startled by the brilliancy of my selections,
and, the menu being concluded, exploded a whole volley of "Biens" and
set off violently to instruct old Gaston, the cook.
That is Amedee's way; he always starts violently for anywhere he means
to go. He is a little lame and his progress more or less sidelong, but
if you call him, or new guests arrive at the inn, or he receives an
order from Madame Brossard, he gives the effect of running by a sudden
movement of the whole body like that of a man ABOUT to run, and moves
off using the gestures of a man who IS running; after which he proceeds
to his destination at an exquisite leisure. Remembering this old habit
of his, it was with joy that I noted his headlong departure. Some ten
feet of his progress accomplished, he halted (for no purpose but to
scratch his head the more luxuriously); next, strayed from the path to
contemplate a rose-bush, and, selecting a leaf with careful
deliberation, placed it in his mouth and continued meditatively upon
his way to the kitchen.
I chuckled within me; it was good to be back at Madame Brossard's.
The courtyard was more a garden; bright with rows of flowers in formal
little beds and blossoming up from big green tubs, from red jars, and
also from two brightly painted wheel-barrows. A long arbour offered a
shelter of vines for those who might choose to dine, breakfast, or
lounge beneath, and, here and there among the shrubberies, you might
come upon a latticed bower, thatched with straw. My own pavilion (half
bedroom, half studio) was set in the midst of all and had a small porch
of its own with a rich curtain of climbing honeysuckle for a screen
from the rest of the courtyard.
The inn itself is gray with age, the roof sagging pleasantly here and
there; and an old wooden gallery runs the length of each wing, the
guest-chambers of the upper story opening upon it like the deck-rooms
of a steamer, with boxes of tulips and hyacinths along the gallery
railings and window ledges for the gayest of border-lines.
Beyond the great open archway, which gives entrance to the courtyard,
lies the quiet country road; passing this, my eyes followed the wide
sweep of poppy-sprinkled fields to a line of low green hills; and there
was the edge of the forest sheltering those woodland interiors which I
had long ago tried to paint, and where I should be at work to-morrow.
In the course of time, and well within the bright twilight, Amedee
spread the crisp white cloth and served me at a table on my pavilion
porch. He feigned anxiety lest I should find certain dishes (those
which he knew were most delectable) not to my taste, but was obviously
so distended with fatuous pride over the whole meal that it became a
temptation to denounce at least some trifling sauce or garnishment;
nevertheless, so much mendacity proved beyond me and I spared him and
my own conscience. This puffed-uppedness of his was to be observed only
in his expression of manner, for during the consumption of food it was
his worthy custom to practise a ceremonious, nay, a reverential, hush,
and he never offered (or approved) conversation until he had prepared
the salad. That accomplished, however, and the water bubbling in the
coffee machine, he readily favoured me with a discourse on the decline
in glory of Les Trois Pigeons.
"Monsieur, it is the automobiles; they have done it. Formerly, as when
monsieur was here, the painters came from Paris. They would come in the
spring and would stay until the autumn rains. What busy times and what
drolleries! Ah, it was gay in those days! Monsieur remembers well. Ha,
Ha! But now, I think, the automobiles have frightened away the
painters; at least they do not come any more. And the automobiles
themselves; they come sometimes for lunch, a few, but they love better
the seashore, and we are just close enough to be too far away. Those
automobiles, they love the big new hotels and the casinos with
roulette. They eat hastily, gulp down a liqueur, and pouf! off they
rush for Trouville, for Houlgate--for heaven knows where! And even the
automobiles do not come so frequently as they did. Our road used to be
the best from Lisieux to Beuzeval, but now the maps recommend another.
They pass us by, and yet yonder--only a few kilometres--is the coast
with its thousands. We are near the world but out of it, monsieur."
He poured my coffee; dropped a lump of sugar from the tongs with a
benevolent gesture--"One lump: always the same. Monsieur sees that I
remember well, ha?"--and the twilight having fallen, he lit two
orange-shaded candles and my cigar with the same match. The night was
so quiet that the candle-lights burned as steadily as flames in a
globe, yet the air was spiced with a cool fragrance, and through the
honeysuckle leaves above me I saw, as I leaned back in my wicker chair,
a glimmer of kindly stars.
"Very comfortably out of the world, Amedee," I said. "It seems to me I
have it all to myself."
"Unhappily, yes!" he exclaimed; then excused himself, chuckling. "I
should have said that we should be happier if we had many like
monsieur. But it is early in the season to despair. Then, too, our best
suite is already engaged."
"By whom?"
"Two men of science who arrive next week. One is a great man. Madame
Brossard is pleased that he is coming to Les Trois Pigeons, but I tell
her it is only natural. He comes now for the first time because he
likes the quiet, but he will come again, like monsieur, because he has
been here before. That is what I always say: 'Any one who has been here
must come again.' The problem is only to get them to come the first
time. Truly!"
"Who is the great man, Amedee?"
"Ah! A distinguished professor of science. Truly."
"What science?"
"I do not know. But he is a member of the Institute. Monsieur must have
heard of that great Professor Keredec?"
"The name is known. Who is the other?"
"A friend of his. I do not know. All the upper floor of the east wing
they have taken--the Grande Suite--those two and their
valet-de-chambre. That is truly the way in modern times--the
philosophers are rich men."
"Yes," I sighed. "Only the painters are poor nowadays."
"Ha, ha, monsieur!" Amedee laughed cunningly.
"It was always easy to see that monsieur only amuses himself with his
painting."
"Thank you, Amedee," I responded. "I have amused other people with it
too, I fear."
"Oh, without doubt!" he agreed graciously, as he folded the cloth. I
have always tried to believe that it was not so much my pictures as the
fact that I paid my bills the day they were presented which convinced
everybody about Les Trois Pigeons that I was an amateur. But I never
became happily enough settled in this opinion to risk pressing an
investigation; and it was a relief that Amedee changed the subject.
"Monsieur remembers the Chateau de Quesnay--at the crest of the hill on
the road north of Dives?"
"I remember."
"It is occupied this season by some rich Americans."
"How do you know they are rich?"
"Dieu de Dieu!" The old fellow appealed to heaven. "But they are
Americans!"
"And therefore millionaires. Perfectly, Amedee."
"Perfectly, monsieur. Perhaps monsieur knows them."
"Yes, I know them."
"Truly!" He affected dejection. "And poor Madame Brossard thought
monsieur had returned to our old hotel because he liked it, and
remembered our wine of Beaune and the good beds and old Gaston's
cooking!"
"Do not weep, Amedee," I said. "I have come to paint; not because I
know the people who have taken Quesnay." And I added: "I may not see
them at all."
In truth I thought that very probable. Miss Elizabeth had mentioned in
one of her notes that Ward had leased Quesnay, but I had not sought
quarters at Les Trois Pigeons because it stood within walking distance
of the chateau. In my industrious frame of mind that circumstance
seemed almost a drawback. Miss Elizabeth, ever hospitable to those whom
she noticed at all, would be doubly so in the country, as people always
are; and I wanted all my time to myself--no very selfish wish since my
time was not conceivably of value to any one else. I thought it wise to
leave any encounter with the lady to chance, and as the by-paths of the
country-side were many and intricate, I intended, without ungallantry,
to render the chance remote. George himself had just sailed on a
business trip to America, as I knew from her last missive; and until
his return, I should put in all my time at painting and nothing else,
though I liked his sister, as I have said, and thought of her--often.
Amedee doubted my sincerity, however, for he laughed incredulously.
"Eh, well, monsieur enjoys saying it!"
"Certainly. It is a pleasure to say what one means."
"But monsieur could not mean it. Monsieur will call at the chateau in
the morning"--the complacent varlet prophesied--"as early as it will be
polite. I am sure of that. Monsieur is not at all an old man; no, not
yet! Even if he were, aha! no one could possess the friendship of that
wonderful Madame d'Armand and remain away from the chateau."
"Madame d'Armand?" I said. "That is not the name. You mean Mademoiselle
Ward."
"No, no!" He shook his head and his fat cheeks bulged with a smile
which I believe he intended to express a respectful roguishness.
"Mademoiselle Ward" (he pronounced it "Ware") "is magnificent; every
one must fly to obey when she opens her mouth. If she did not like the
ocean there below the chateau, the ocean would have to move! It needs
only a glance to perceive that Mademoiselle Ward is a great lady--but
MADAME D'ARMAND! AHA!" He rolled his round eyes to an effect of
unspeakable admiration, and with a gesture indicated that he would have
kissed his hand to the stars, had that been properly reverential to
Madame d'Armand. "But monsieur knows very well for himself!"
"Monsieur knows that you are very confusing--even for a maitre d'hotel.
We were speaking of the present chatelaine of Quesnay, Mademoiselle
Ward. I have never heard of Madame d'Armand."
"Monsieur is serious?"
"Truly!" I answered, making bold to quote his shibboleth.
"Then monsieur has truly much to live for. Truly!" he chuckled openly,
convinced that he had obtained a marked advantage in a conflict of
wits, shaking his big head from side to side with an exasperating air
of knowingness. "Ah, truly! When that lady drives by, some day, in the
carriage from the chateau--eh? Then monsieur will see how much he has
to live for. Truly, truly, truly!"
He had cleared the table, and now, with a final explosion of the word
which gave him such immoderate satisfaction, he lifted the tray and
made one of his precipitate departures.
"Amedee," I said, as he slackened down to his sidelong leisure.
"Monsieur?"
"Who is Madame d'Armand?"
"A guest of Mademoiselle Ward at Quesnay. In fact, she is in charge of
the chateau, since Mademoiselle Ward is, for the time, away."
"Is she a Frenchwoman?"
"It seems not. In fact, she is an American, though she dresses with so
much of taste. Ah, Madame Brossard admits it, and Madame Brossard knows
the art of dressing, for she spends a week of every winter in
Rouen--and besides there is Trouville itself only some kilometres
distant. Madame Brossard says that Mademoiselle Ward dresses with
richness and splendour and Madame d'Armand with economy, but beauty.
Those were the words used by Madame Brossard. Truly."
"Madame d'Armand's name is French," I observed.
"Yes, that is true," said Amedee thoughtfully. "No one can deny it; it
is a French name." He rested the tray upon a stump near by and
scratched his head. "I do not understand how that can be," he continued
slowly. "Jean Ferret, who is chief gardener at the chateau, is an
acquaintance of mine. We sometimes have a cup of cider at Pere
Baudry's, a kilometre down the road from here; and Jean Ferret has told
me that she is an American. And yet, as you say, monsieur, the name is
French. Perhaps she is French after all."
"I believe," said I, "that if I struggled a few days over this puzzle,
I might come to the conclusion that Madame d'Armand is an American lady
who has married a Frenchman."
The old man uttered an exclamation of triumph.
"Ha! without doubt! Truly she must be an American lady who has married
a Frenchman. Monsieur has already solved the puzzle. Truly, truly!" And
he trulied himself across the darkness, to emerge in the light of the
open door of the kitchen with the word still rumbling in his throat.
Now for a time there came the clinking of dishes, sounds as of pans and
kettles being scoured, the rolling gutturals of old Gaston, the cook,
and the treble pipings of young "Glouglou," his grandchild and
scullion. After a while the oblong of light from the kitchen door
disappeared; the voices departed; the stillness of the dark descended,
and with it that unreasonable sense of pathos which night in the
country brings to the heart of a wanderer. Then, out of the lonely
silence, there issued a strange, incongruous sound as an execrable
voice essayed to produce the semblance of an air odiously familiar
about the streets of Paris some three years past, and I became aware of
a smell of some dreadful thing burning. Beneath the arbour I perceived
a glowing spark which seemed to bear a certain relation to an oval
whitish patch suggesting the front of a shirt. It was Amedee, at ease,
smoking his cigarette after the day's work and convinced that he was
singing.
"Pour qu'j'finisse
Mon service
Au Tonkin je suis parti--
Ah! quel beau pays, mesdames!
C'est l'paradis des p'tites femmes!"
I rose from the chair on my little porch, to go to bed; but I was
reminded of something, and called to him.
"Monsieur?" his voice came briskly.
"How often do you see your friend, Jean Ferret, the gardener of
Quesnay?"
"Frequently, monsieur. To-morrow morning I could easily carry a message
if--"
"That is precisely what I do not wish. And you may as well not mention
me at all when you meet him."
"It is understood. Perfectly."
"If it is well understood, there will be a beautiful present for a good
maitre d'hotel some day."
"Thank you, monsieur."
"Good night, Amedee."
"Good night, monsieur."
Falling to sleep has always been an intricate matter with me: I liken
it to a nightly adventure in an enchanted palace. Weary-limbed and with
burning eyelids, after long waiting in the outer court of wakefulness,
I enter a dim, cool antechamber where the heavy garment of the body is
left behind and where, perhaps, some acquaintance or friend greets me
with a familiar speech or a bit of nonsense--or an unseen orchestra may
play music that I know. From here I go into a spacious apartment where
the air and light are of a fine clarity, for it is the hall of
revelations, and in it the secrets of secrets are told, mysteries are
resolved, perplexities cleared up, and sometimes I learn what to do
about a picture that has bothered me. This is where I would linger, for
beyond it I walk among crowding fantasies, delusions, terrors and
shame, to a curtain of darkness where they take my memory from me, and
I know nothing of my own adventures until I am pushed out of a secret
door into the morning sunlight. Amedee was the acquaintance who met me
in the antechamber to-night. He remarked that Madame d'Armand was the
most beautiful woman in the world, and vanished. And in the hall of
revelations I thought that I found a statue of her--but it was veiled.
I wished to remove the veil, but a passing stranger stopped and told me
laughingly that the veil was all that would ever be revealed of her to
me--of her, or any other woman!