Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: A new tenderness swept over her]
THE TRIFLERS
BY
FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT
_With Illustrations by_
_George Ellis Wolfe_
TORONTO
THOMAS ALLEN
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
1917
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY EVERY WEEK CORPORATION
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published March 1917_
TO
ANN AND KENT
CONTENTS
I. THE TROUBLE WITH MONTE
II. THE TROUBLE WITH MARJORY
III. A SUMMONS
IV. A PROPOSAL
V. PISTOLS
VI. GENDARMES AND ETHER
VII. THE ADVANTAGES OF BEING SHOT
VIII. DRAWBACKS OF RECOVERY
IX. BLUE AND GOLD
X. THE AFFAIR AT MAXIM'S
XI. A CANCELED RESERVATION
XII. A WEDDING JOURNEY
XIII. A WEDDING JOURNEY (_continued_)
XIV. THE BRIDE RUNS AWAY
XV. IN THE DARK
XVI. A WALK ON THE QUAY
XVII. JUST MONTE
XVIII. PETER
XIX. AN EXPLANATION
XX. PAYING LIKE A MAN
XXI. BACK TO SCHEDULE
XXII. A CONFESSION
XXIII. LETTERS
XXIV. THE BLIND SEE
XXV. SO LONG
XXVI. FREEDOM
XXVII. WAR
XXVIII. THE CORNICE ROAD
XXIX. BENEATH THE STARS
ILLUSTRATIONS
LOI
A NEW TENDERNESS SWEPT OVER HER . . . _Frontispiece_
"WE'RE TO BE MARRIED TO-MORROW?"
MONSIEUR'S EYES WARMED AS HE SLIPPED THE WRAP OVER MADAME'S SHOULDERS
"BECAUSE HE LOVES YOU," BREATHED BEATRICE
"DID N'T BEATRICE TELL ME YOU REGISTERED HERE WITH YOUR WIFE?"
"PETER!" SHE CRIED, FALLING BACK A STEP
"BUT, O GOD, IF HE WOULD COME!"
_From drawings by George E. Wolfe_
THE TRIFLERS
CHAPTER I
THE TROUBLE WITH MONTE
For a man to keep himself consistently amused for ten years after his
graduation from college, even with an inheritance to furnish ample
financial assistance, suggests a certain quality of genius. This much
Monte Covington had accomplished--accomplished, furthermore, without
placing himself under obligations of any sort to the opposite sex. He
left no trail of broken hearts in his wake. If some of the younger
sisters of the big sisters took the liberty of falling in love with him
secretly and in the privacy of their chambers, that was no fault of
his, and did neither them nor him the slightest harm.
Such minor complications could not very well be avoided, because,
discreet as Monte tried to be, it was not possible for him to deny
certain patent facts, to wit: that he was a Covington of Philadelphia;
that he was six feet tall and light-haired; that he had wonderfully
decent blue eyes; that he had a straight nose; that he had the firm
mouth and jaws of an Arctic explorer; that he had more money than he
knew what to do with; and that he was just old enough to be known as a
bachelor without in the slightest looking like one.
At the point where the older sisters gave him up as hopeless, he came
as a sort of challenge to the younger.
This might have proved dangerous for him had it not been for his
schedule, which did not leave him very long in any one place and which
kept him always pretty well occupied. By spending his winters at his
New York club until after the holidays; then journeying to Switzerland
for the winter sports; then to Nice for tennis; then to Paris for a
month of gay spring and the Grand Prix; and so over to England for a
few days in London and a month of golf along the coast--he was able to
come back refreshed to his camp in the Adirondacks, there to fish until
it was time to return to Cambridge for the football season, where he
found himself still useful as a coach in the art of drop-kicking.
The fact that he could get into his old football togs without letting
out any strings or pulling any in, and could even come through an
occasional scrimmage without losing his breath, was proof that he kept
himself in good condition.
It was not until his eleventh trip that Monte became aware of certain
symptoms which seemed to hint that even as pleasant a cycle as his
could not be pursued indefinitely. At Davos he first noted a change.
Though he took the curves in the long run with a daring that proved his
eye to be as quick and his nerves as steady as ever, he was restless.
Later, when he came to Nice, it was with a listlessness foreign to him.
In the first place, he missed Edhart, the old maître d'hôtel who for a
decade had catered to his primitive American tastes in the matter of
foodstuffs with as much enthusiasm as if he had been a Parisian epicure.
The passing of Edhart did more to call Monte's attention to the fact
that in his own life a decade had also passed than anything else could
possibly have done. Between birthdays there is only the lapse each
time of a year; but between the coming and going of the maître d'hôtel
there was a period of ten years, which with his disappearance seemed to
vanish. Monte was twenty-two when he first came to Nice, and now he
was thirty-two. He became thirty-two the moment he was forced to point
out to the new management his own particular table in the corner, and
to explain that, however barbarous the custom might appear, he always
had for breakfast either a mutton chop or a beefsteak. Edhart had made
him believe, even to last year, that in this matter and a hundred
others he was merely expressing the light preferences of a young man.
Now, because he was obliged to emphasize his wishes by explicit orders,
they became the definite likes and dislikes of a man of middle age.
For relief Monte turned to the tennis courts, and played so much in the
next week that he went stale and in the club tournament put up the
worst game of his life. That evening, in disgust, he boarded the train
for Monte Carlo, and before eleven o'clock had lost five thousand
francs at roulette--which was more than even he could afford for an
evening's entertainment that did not entertain. Without waiting for
the croupier to rake in his last note, Monte hurried out and, to clear
his head, walked all the way back to Nice along the Cornice Road.
Above him, the mountains; below, the blue Mediterranean; while the road
hung suspended between them like a silver ribbon. Yet even here he did
not find content.
Monte visited the rooms every evening for the next three days; but, as
he did not play again and found there nothing more interesting than the
faces, or their counterparts, which he had seen for the past ten years,
the programme grew stupid.
So, really, he had no alternative but Paris, although it was several
weeks ahead of his schedule. As a matter of fact, it was several weeks
too early. The city was not quite ready for him. The trees in the
Champs Élysées were in much the condition of a lady half an hour before
an expected caller. The broad vista to the triumphal arches was merely
the setting for a few nurses and their charges. The little iron tables
were so deserted that they remained merely little iron tables.
Of course the boulevards were as always; but after a night or two
before the Café de la Paix he had enough. Even with fifty thousand
people passing in review before him, he was not as amused as he should
have been. He sipped his black coffee as drowsily as an old man.
In an effort to rouse himself, he resolved to visit the cafés upon
Montmartre, which he had outgrown many years ago. That night he
climbed the narrow stairs to l'Abbaye. It was exactly as it had
been--a square room bounded by long seats before tables. Some two
dozen young ladies of various nationalities wandered about the center
of the room, trying their best, but with manifest effort, to keep pace
to the frenzied music of an orchestra paid to keep frenzied. A
half-dozen of the ladies pounced upon Monte as he sat alone, and he
gladly turned over to them the wine he purchased as the price of
admission. Yvonne, she with the languid Egyptian eyes, tried to rouse
the big American. Was it that he was bored? Possibly it was that,
Monte admitted. Then another bottle of wine was the proper thing. So
he ordered another bottle, and to the toast Yvonne proposed, raised his
glass. But the wine did him no good, and the music did him no good,
and Yvonne did him no good. The place had gone flat. Whatever he
needed, it was nothing l'Abbaye had to offer.
Covington went out into the night again, and, though the music from a
dozen other cafés called him to come in and forget, he continued down
the hill to the boulevard, deaf to the gay entreaties of the whole
city. It was clear that he was out of tune with Paris.
As he came into the Place de l'Opera he ran into the crowd pouring from
the big gray opera house, an eager, voluble crowd that jostled him
about as if he were an intruder. They had been warmed by fine music
and stirred by the great passions of this mimic world, so that the
women clung more tightly to the arms of their escorts.
Covington, who had fallen back a little to watch them pass, felt
strangely isolated. They hurried on without seeing him, as if he were
merely some spectral bystander. Yet the significant fact was not that
a thousand strangers should pass him without being aware of his
presence, but that he himself should notice their indifference. It was
not like him.
Ordinarily it was exactly what he would desire. But to-night he was in
an unusual mood--a mood that was the culmination of a restlessness
covering an entire month. But what the deuce was the name and cause of
it? He could no longer attribute it to the fact that he had gone stale
physically, because he had now had a rest of several weeks. It was not
that he was bored; those who are bored never stop to ask themselves why
they are bored or they would not be bored. It was not that he was
homesick, because, strictly speaking, he had no home. A home seems to
involve the female element and some degree of permanence. This unrest
was something new--something, apparently, that had to do vaguely with
the fact that he was thirty-two. If Edhart--
Impatiently he started again for his hotel. This confoundedly
good-natured, self-satisfied crowd moving in couples irritated him. At
that moment a tall, slender girl turned, hesitated, then started toward
him. He did not recognize her at first, but the mere fact that she
came toward him--that any one came toward him--quickened his pulse. It
brought him back instantly from the shadowy realm of specters to the
good old solid earth. It was he, Covington, who was standing there.
Then she raised her eyes--dark eyes deep as trout pools; steady,
confident, but rather sad eyes. They appeared to be puzzled by the
eagerness with which he stepped forward and grasped her hand.
"Marjory!" he exclaimed. "I did n't know you were in Paris!"
She smiled--a smile that extended no farther than the corners of her
perfect mouth.
"That's to excuse yourself for not looking me up, Monte?"
She had a full, clear voice. It was good to hear a voice that he could
recognize.
"No," he answered frankly. "That's honest. I thought you were
somewhere in Brittany. But are you bound anywhere in particular?"
"Only home."
"Still living on the Boulevard Saint-Germain?"
She nodded.
"Number forty-three?"
He was glad he was able to remember that number.
"Number sixty-four," she corrected.
They had been moving toward the Metro station, and here she paused.
"There is no need for you to come with me," she said. "But I'd like to
have you drop in for tea some afternoon--if you have time."
The strangers were still hurrying past him--to the north, the south,
the east, the west. Men and women were hurrying past, laughing, intent
upon themselves, each with some definite objective in mind. He himself
was able to smile with them now. Then she held out her gloved hand,
and he felt alone again.
"I may accompany you home, may I not?" he asked eagerly.
"If you wish."
Once again she raised her eyes with that expression of puzzled
interest. This was not like Monte. Of course he would accompany her
home, but that he should seem really to take pleasure in the
prospect--that was novel.
"Let me call a taxi," he said. "I'm never sure where these French
undergrounds are going to land me."
"They are much quicker," she suggested.
"There is no hurry," he answered.
With twenty-four hours a day on his hands, he was never in a hurry.
Instead of giving to the driver the number sixty-four Boulevard
Saint-Germain, he ordered him to forty-seven Rue Saint-Michel, which is
the Café d'Harcourt.
It had suddenly occurred to Monte what the trouble was with him. He
was lonesome.