A CANCELED RESERVATION
Though it was late when he retired, Monte found himself wide awake at
half past seven. Springing from bed, he took his cold tub, shaved, and
after dressing proceeded to pack his bags. The process was simple; he
called the hotel valet, gave the order to have them ready as soon as
possible, and went below. From the office he telephoned upstairs to
Marie, and learned that madame would meet him in the breakfast-room at
nine. This left him a half-hour in which to pay his bill at the hotel,
order a reservation on the express to Calais, and buy a large bunch of
fresh violets, which he had placed on the breakfast table--a little
table in a sunshiny corner.
Monte was calmer this morning than he had been the night before. He
was rested; the interval of eight hours that had passed since he last
saw her gave him, however slight, a certain perspective, while his
normal surroundings, seen in broad daylight, tended to steady him
further. The hotel clerk, busy about his uninspired duties; the
impassive waiters in black and white; the solid-looking Englishmen and
their wives who began to make their appearance, lent a sense of
unreality to the events of yesterday.
Yet, even so, his thoughts clung tenaciously to the necessity of his
departure. In a way, the very normality of this morning world
emphasized that necessity. He recalled that it was to just such a day
as this he had awakened, yesterday. The hotel clerk had been standing
exactly where he was now, sorting the morning mail, stopping every now
and then with a troubled frown to make out an indistinct address. The
corpulent porter in his blue blouse stood exactly where he was now
standing, jealously guarding the door. Vehicles had been passing this
way and that on the street outside. He had heard the same undertone of
leisurely moving life--the scuffling of feet, the closing of doors,
distant voices, the rumble of traffic. Then, after this lazy prelude,
he had been swept on and on to the final dizzy climax.
That must not happen again. At this moment he knew he had a firm grip
on himself--but at this moment yesterday he had felt even more secure.
There had been no past then. That seemed a big word to use for such
recent events covering so few hours; and yet it was none too big. It
covered nothing less than the revelation of a man to himself. If that
process sometimes takes years, it is none the less significant if it
takes place in a day.
"Good-morning, Monte."
He turned quickly--so quickly that she started in surprise.
"Is anything the matter?" she asked.
She was in blue this morning, and wore at an angle a broad-brimmed hat
trimmed with black and white. He thought her eyes looked a trifle
tired. He would have said she had not slept well.
"I--I didn't know you were down," he faltered.
The interval of six hours upon which he had been depending vanished
instantly. To-day was but the continuation of yesterday. As he moved
toward the breakfast-room at her side, the outside world disappeared as
by magic, leaving only her world--the world immediately about her,
which she dominated. This room which she entered by his side was no
longer merely the salle-à-manger of the Normandie. He was conscious of
no portion of it other than that which included their table. All the
sunshine in the world concentrated into the rays that fell about her.
He felt this, and yet at the same time he was aware of the absurdity of
such exaggeration. It was the sort of thing that annoyed him when he
saw it in others. All those newly married couples he used to meet on
the German liners were afflicted in this same way. Each one of them
acted as if the ship were their ship, the ocean their ocean, even the
blue sky and the stars at night their sky and their stars. When he was
in a good humor, he used to laugh at this; when in a bad humor, it
disgusted him.
"Monte," she said, as soon as they were seated, "I was depending upon
you this morning."
She studied him a second, and then tried to smile, adding quickly:--
"I don't like you to disappoint me like this."
"What do you mean?" he asked nervously.
She frowned, but it was at herself, not at him. It did not do much
except make dimples between her brows.
"I lay awake a good deal last night--thinking," she answered.
"Good Lord!" he exclaimed. "You ought n't to have done that!"
"It was n't wise," she admitted. "But I looked forward to the
daylight--and you--to bring me back to normal."
"Well, here we are," he hastened to assure her. "I had the sun up
ready for you several hours ago."
"You--you look so serious."
She leaned forward.
"Monte," she pleaded, "you must n't go back on me like that--now. I
suppose women can't help getting the fidgets once in a while and
thinking all sorts of things. I was tired. I 'm not used to being so
very gay. And I let myself go a little, because I thought in the
morning I 'd find you the same old Monte. I 've known you so long, and
you always _have_ been the same."
"It was a pretty exciting day for both of us," he tried to explain.
"How for you?"
"Well, to start with, one does n't get married every morning."
He saw her cheeks flush. Then she drew back.
"I think we ought to forget that as much as possible," she told him.
Here was his opportunity. The way to forget--the only way--was for him
to continue with his interrupted schedule to England, and for her to go
on alone to Étois. It was not too late for that--if he started at
once. Surely it ought to be the matter of only a few weeks to undo a
single day. Let him get the tang of the salt air, let him go to bed
every night dog-tired physically, let him get out of sight of her eyes
and lips, and that something--intangible as a perfume--that emanated
from her, and doubtless he would be laughing at himself as heartily as
he had laughed at others.
But he could not frame the words. His lips refused to move. Not only
that, but, facing her here, it seemed a grossly brutal thing to do.
She looked so gentle and fragile this morning as, picking up the
violets, she half hid her face in them.
"You mean we ought to go back to the day before yesterday?" he asked.
"In our thoughts," she answered.
"And forget that we are--"
She nodded quickly, not allowing him to finish.
"Because," she explained, "I think it must be that which is making you
serious. I don't know you that way. It is n't you. I 've seen you
all these years, wandering around wherever your fancy took
you--care-free and smiling. I've always envied you, and now--I thought
you were just going to keep right on, only taking me with you. Is n't
that what we planned?"
"Yes," he nodded. "We started yesterday."
"I shall never forget that part of yesterday," she said.
"It was n't so bad, except for Hamilton."
"It was n't so bad even with Hamilton," she corrected. "I don't think
I can ever be afraid of him again."
"Then it was n't he that bothered you last night?" he asked quickly.
"No," she answered.
"It--it was n't I?"
She laughed uneasily.
"No, Monte; because you were just yourself yesterday."
He wondered about that. He wondered, if he placed before her all the
facts, including the hours after he left her, if she would have said
that. Here was his second opportunity to tell her what he had planned.
If he did not intend to go on, he should speak now. To-morrow it would
be too late. By noon it would be too late. By the time they finished
their breakfast, it would be too late.
He met her eyes. They were steady as planets. They were honest and
clear and clean and confident. They trusted him, and he knew it. He
took a deep breath and leaned forward. Impulsively she leaned across
the table and placed her hand upon his.
"Dear old Monte," she breathed.
It was too late--now! He saw her in a sort of mist of dancing golden
motes. He felt the steady throb of her pulse.
She withdrew her hand as quickly as she had given it. It was as if she
did not dare allow it to remain there. It was that which made him
smile with a certain confidence of his own.
"What we'd better do," he said, "is to get out of Paris. I'm afraid
the pace here is too hot for us."
"To Étois?" she asked.
"That's as good a place as any. Could you start this afternoon?"
"If you wish."
"The idea is to move on as soon as you begin to think," he explained,
with his old-time lightness. "Of course, the best way is to walk. If
you can't walk--why, the next best thing--"
He paused a moment to consider a new idea. It was odd that it had
never occurred to him before.
"I have it!" he continued. "We'll go to Étois by motor. It's a
beautiful drive down there. I made the trip alone three years ago in a
car I owned. We'll take our time, putting up at the little villages
along the way. We'll let the sun soak into us. We'll get away from
people. It's people who make you worry. I have a notion it will be
good for us both. This Hamilton episode has left us a bit morbid.
What we need is something to bring us back to normal."
"I'd love it," she fell in eagerly. "We'll just play gypsy."
"Right. Now, what you want to do is to throw into a dress-suitcase a
few things, and we'll ship the trunks by rail to Nice. All you need is
a toothbrush, a change of socks, and--"
"There's Marie," she interrupted.
"Can't we ship her by rail too?"
"No, Monte," she answered, with a decided shake of her head.
"But, hang it all, people don't go a-gypsying with French maids!"
"Why not?" she demanded.
She asked the question quite honestly. He had forgotten Marie utterly
until this moment, and she seemed to join the party like an intruder.
Always she would be upon the back seat.
"Wouldn't you feel freer without her?" he asked.
"I should n't feel at all proper," she declared.
"Then we might just as well not have been married."
"Only," she laughed, "if we had n't taken that precaution it would n't
have been proper for me to go, even with Marie."
"I'm glad we've accomplished something, anyhow," he answered
good-naturedly.
"We've accomplished a great deal," she assured him. "Yesterday morning
I could n't--at this time--have done even the proper things and felt
proper. Oh, you don't know how people look at you, and how that look
makes you feel, even when you know better. I could n't have sat here
at breakfast with you and felt comfortable. Now we can sit here and
plan a wonderful trip like this. It's all because you're just Monte."
"And you just you!"
"Only I don't count for anything. It makes me feel even more selfish
than I am."
"Don't count?" he exclaimed. "Why--"
He stifled the words that sprang to his lips. It was only because she
thought she did not count that she was able to feel comfortable. Once
let her know that she counted as at that moment she did count to him,
and even what little happiness he was able to bring her would vanish.
He would be to her then merely one of the others--even as he was to
himself.
He rose abruptly.
"I must see about getting a machine," he said. "I want to start this
afternoon if possible."
"I'll be ready," she agreed.
As they went out to the office, the clerk stepped up to him.
"I have secured the reservation, monsieur," he announced.
"Please cancel it," replied Monte.
"Reservation?" inquired Marjory.
"On the Calais express--for a friend of mine who has decided not to
go," he answered.