BOOK II

I

When eighteen thousand of the forty thousand francs were gone, Aldo

said: "I must do something." And when eighteen thousand of the forty

thousand francs were left, he said: "Something must be done." Carlo had

washed his hands of him; all that Lady Sainsborough had sent him was her

portrait, one "taken on the lawn with Fido," and another, "starting for

my morning ride with Baron Cucciniello." "Flighty old lunatic!" said

Aldo, throwing the pictures into the fire and digging at them with the

poker. Then he called Nancy and told her how matters stood.

Nancy did not seem to realize that it made much difference. She crawled

under the table and hid behind the green table-cloth. "Peek-a-boo!" The

baby crawled after her and pulled her hair.

"Well, what are we going to do?" said Aldo.

"As soon as the baby can walk," replied Nancy, looking up at him from

under the table, "I shall start my work again. As long as it is such a

teeny, weeny, helpless lamb"--and she kissed the small, soft head on

which the hair grew in yellow tufts here and there--"its mother is not

going to be such a horrid (kiss), naughty (kiss), ugly (kiss) tigress

(kiss, kiss) as to leave a poor little forlorn (kiss)----"

Aldo left the room, and nobody under the table noticed that he had

gone.

He went to Zio Giacomo, who for Nancy's sake took him into his office to

make architectural drawings and plans at a salary of two hundred francs

a month.

At the end of the third week Aldo looked round the room where four other

men were drawing plans, and observed them meditatively. Two were sallow

and thin, one was sallow and fat, and one was red and fat. The sallow,

thin ones had little hair, the sallow, fat one had no hair; the red, fat

one wore glasses. They had all been here drawing plans for four, six,

and twelve years at salaries between two hundred and six hundred and

fifty francs a month.

Aldo made a calculation on his blotting-paper. Say he stayed five years.

He would get 200 francs a month for the first two years = 4,800 francs;

300, or say 350, for the next two years = 8,400 francs; 400, or perhaps

450, for the following year = 5,400 francs. Total: 18,600 francs.

Eighteen thousand six hundred francs! So that, supposing he spent

nothing, but went on living on what remained of Nancy's _dot_ for five

years (which was out of the question, of course, as it was not enough),

at the end of five years he would find himself exactly where he was

to-day, and just five years older. Probably thin and sallow; or fat and

sallow; or red and fat, with glasses. It was preposterous. It was out of

the question. Here he was to-day, with the eighteen thousand francs and

the five years still before him.

He took his hat and walked out of the office.

He wrote to Zio Giacomo, who said he was an addlepated and clot-headed

imbecile. Aldo explained the situation mathematically to Valeria and

Nancy, who looked vague, and said that it seemed true.

"Eighteen thousand francs," said Aldo, "cleverly used, might set us on

our feet. Now, what shall we do with it?"

Valeria folded gentle hands; and Nancy said: "Peek-a-boo." So the baby,

at Aide's request, was sent out for a walk with the sour-faced thing

chosen by Aunt Carlotta to be its nurse.

"You could go into partnership with someone," said Nancy sweetly, with

her head on one side, to show that she took an interest.

Valeria nodded, and said: "Mines are a good thing."

Aldo was silent. "Eighteen thousand francs," he said thoughtfully. "It

is not much." Then he said: "Of course, one could buy a shop."

In his deep, dreaming eyes passed the vision of his grandfather's nice

little _negozio_ in the Strada Caracciolo at Naples, with its strings of

coral hanging row on row; tortoise-shell combs and brushes with silver

initials; brooches of lava and of mosaic, that were sold for a franc

each; shells of polished mother-of-pearl; pictures of Vesuvius by night,

reproduced on convex glass; and booklets of photographs, that English

people would always come to look at. He could see his grandfather now,

stepping in front of the counter with a booklet of views in his hand,

and shaking it out suddenly, br-r-r ... in front of his English

customers. Also he could see his grandfather tying up neat little

parcels, giving change, bowing and smiling with still handsome eye and

gleaming smile, and accompanying people to the door, waving an

obsequious and yet benevolent hand. Aldo would have liked a little shop

in Naples, and easy-going, trustful English customers who would not

haggle and bargain, but pass friendly remarks about the weather, and

pay their good money. Ah, the good little money coming in that one can

count every evening, and put away, and look at, and count again; not

this vague, distant "salary," that one does not see, or count, or have,

with no surprises and no possibilities.

But Valeria was speaking. "A shop! My dear Aldo! What a dreadful idea!

How can you say such a thing?"

And Nancy, who thought he was joking, said, with all her dimples alight:

"That's right, Aldo. We shall have a toy-shop--five hundred rattles for

the baby, eight hundred rubber dolls for the baby, ten thousand woolly

sheep and cows that squeak when you squeeze them. Let us have a

toy-shop, there's a dear boy." She jumped up and kissed his straight,

narrow parting on the top of his shining black head. "And if all the

toys are broken by the baby, and have the paint licked off, and the

woolliness pulled out," she added, with her cheek against his, "I shall

give away an autograph poem with each of the damaged beasts, and charge

two francs extra."

The allusion to the autograph poem made Aldo realize that it was

impossible that his wife, the celebrated author, could keep a shop, so

he sighed, and said: "I have a good mind to try Monte Carlo. I have

never been there, but my friend Delmonte once gave me a system."

"Why doesn't he play it himself?" said Nancy. "He looks as if he needed

it."

"He has played it," said Aldo; "but he is a man lacking the strength of

character that one needs to play a system. A system is a thing one has

to stick to and go through with, no matter how one may be tempted to do

something else. This is really a rather wonderful system."

And Aldo took out a pencil and a note-book, and showed the system to

Valeria and Nancy.

"You see, N. is black and R. is red." Then he made rows of little dots

irregularly under each initial. "You see, I win on all this."

"Do you?" said Nancy and Valeria, bending over the table with heads

close together.

"Yes; I win on the intermittences."

"What are they?"

"Oh, never mind what they are," said Aldo. "And I win on all the twos,

and the threes, and the fives."

"And the fours," said Nancy, who did not understand what he was saying,

but wanted to show an interest.

"No, I don't win on the fours," said Aldo. "I lose on the fours. But I

win on the fives and sixes, and everything else. And, of course, fours

come seldom."

"Of course," echoed Nancy and Valeria, looking vacantly at the little

dots under the N. and the R.

"I could make the game cheaper," said Aldo thoughtfully, "by waiting,

and letting the intermittences pass, and only starting my play on the

twos."

"Perhaps that would be a good plan," said Nancy, with vacant eyes.

"But," said Valeria, "I thought you won on the intermittences."

"I do," said Aldo, frowning, "if they _are_ intermittences. But

supposing they are fours?"

This closed the door on all comprehension so far as Nancy was concerned.

But Valeria, who had been to Monte Carlo for four days on her

wedding-tour, said decisively: "Then I think I should wait and see. If

they _are_ fours, then play only on the fives and sixes."

"There is something in that," said Aldo, rubbing his chin. "But I must

try it. Now you just say 'black' or 'red' at random, as it comes into

your head."

Nancy and Valeria said "black" and "red" at random, and Aldo staked

imaginary five-franc pieces, and doubled them, and played the system.

After about fifteen minutes he had won nearly two thousand francs.

So it was decided that he should quietly go to Monte Carlo and try the

system, starting as soon as possible.

"Do not speak about it to anyone," he said. "Delmonte made a special

point of that. If too many people knew of a thing like this, it would

spoil everything."

So no one was told, but they set about making preparations for Aldo's

departure.

"I shall not stay more than a month at a time," said Aldo. "One must be

careful not to arouse suspicions that one is playing a winning game."

"Of course," said Valeria.

And Nancy said: "Is it not rather mean to go there when you know that

you _must_ win?"

Aldo explained that the administration was not a person, and added that

the few thousand francs that he needed every year would never be missed

by such a wealthy company.

Then Nancy said: "I know Monte Carlo is a dreadful place. Full of horrid

women. I hope--oh dear----!"

Aldo kissed her troubled brow. "Dear little girl, I am going there to

make money, and nothing else will interest me."

"I know that," said Nancy, with a little laugh and a little sigh. "But

the nasty creatures are sure to look at you."

"That cannot be helped," said Aldo, raising superior eyebrows.

Nancy kissed him and laughed. "Such a funny boy!" she said. "I believe

your Closed Garden, your _hortus conclusus_, is nothing but a potato

patch! But I like to sit in it all the same."

II

May brought the baby a tooth. June brought it another tooth and a golden

shine for its hair. August brought it a word or two; September stood it,

upright and exultant, with its back to the wall; and October sent it

tottering and trilling into its mother's arms.

Its names were Lilien Astrid Rosalynd Anne-Marie.

"Now baby can walk," said Valeria to her daughter, "you ought to take up

your work again."

"Indeed I must," said Nancy, lifting the baby to her lap. "Have you seen

her bracelets?" And she held the chubby wrist out to Valeria, showing

three little lines dinting the tender flesh. "Three little bracelets for

luck." And Nancy kissed the small, fat wrist, and bit it softly.

"Where has your manuscript been put?" said Valeria.

"Oh, somewhere upstairs," said Nancy, pretending to eat the baby's arm.

"Good, good! Veddy nice! Mother, this baby tastes of grass, and

cowslips, and violets. Taste!" And she held the baby's arm out to

Valeria.

"Tace," said the baby. So the grandmother tasted and found it very

nice. Then she had to taste the other arm, and then a small piece of

cheek. Then the baby stuck out her foot in its white leather shoe, but

grandmamma would not taste it, and called it nasty-nasty. And the other

foot was held up and called nasty-nasty. But the baby said "Tace!" and

the corners of her mouth drooped. So grandmamma tasted the shoe and

found it very nice, and then the other shoe, and it was very nice. And

then Nancy had to taste everything all over again.

Thus the days passed busily, bringing much to do.

Aldo wrote that "the system" was incomparable. His only fear was that

the administration might notice it. He now played with double stakes. A

few days later he wrote again. There was a flaw in the system. But never

mind. He had found another one, a much better one. He had bought it for

a hundred francs from a man who had been shut out of the Casino because

the administration was afraid of his system. Of course, he had promised

to give the man a handsome present before he left. He had won eight

hundred francs in ten minutes with the new system last night. Of course,

he had to be very careful, because the flaw of the other system had been

disastrous.

A third letter came. After winning steadily for four days, he had had

the most incredible _guigne_: a run of twenty-four on black when he was

doubling on red. But he would stick to the system; it was the only way.

People that pottered round and skipped about from one thing to another

were bound to lose. Love to all.

Then came a postcard. "Have discovered that all previous "s's" were

wrong. Have made friends with a 'cr,' who will put things all right

again."

Valeria and Nancy puzzled over the "cr." The "s's" of course meant

"systems," but what could a "cr" be? Valeria felt anxious, and sent a

messenger for Nino. Nino left Carlo's office at once, and hurried to Via

Senato, where, since Aldo's departure, Valeria was staying with Nancy

and the baby. All three were on the balcony, and waved hands to him as

he crossed the Ponte Sant' Andrea, and hurried across the Boschetti to

No. 12.

"How do you do, Valeria?" and he kissed her cheek. "How do you do,

Nancy?" and he kissed her hand. "How do you do, Anne-Marie?" and he

kissed the baby on the top of the head. "What is the matter? What has

Aldo done?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Nancy. "How could you guess that it was about Aldo?"

Nino smiled.

Valeria held the postcard out for him to see, and covering everything

but the last line, said: "What does 'cr' mean?"

Nino looked, and said: "Where does he write from?"

Nancy and Valeria exchanged glances, and decided that they could trust

Nino. He would not use the system or give it to other people. Besides,

the system had a flaw.

"Monte Carlo," they said in unison.

Nino made a mouth as if to whistle, and did not whistle. The baby

sitting on the rug watched him and wished he would do it again.

"I suppose 'cr' is croupier," said Nino. Then there was silence. After a

while Nino said: "How much did he take with him?"

"Everything," said Valeria.

Then Nino made the mouth again, and the baby was pleased.

"You had better go and fetch him. Quick!" said Nino, looking at Nancy.

"Oh!" gasped Nancy, "must I? Is it bad?"

"Quite bad," said Nino. "He has probably lost half of your forty

thousand francs already."

"He only had eighteen," said Nancy, with a twinkle in her grey eye.

"That's better," said Nino. "But go and fetch him all the same."

Nancy was greatly excited and rather pleased. The baby should see the

Mediterranean. Valeria, "grandmamma," must come too, of course.

"No, dear," said Valeria, "I cannot. I have promised Aunt Carlotta to

help her with her reception to-morrow evening. But I will take you part

of the way--as far as Alessandria or Genoa."

"But I am sure Nino could come," said Nancy, looking up at him

interrogatively.

"Yes," said Nino, and then quickly said no, he was sorry, he could not

possibly leave Carlo's office. Besides, she would manage Aldo better

without him.

The next morning he went to the station to see them off. Valeria had

Anne-Marie in her arms, and Nancy walked beside them, looking like the

baby's elder sister. They had no luggage but a small valise, for Valeria

was returning to Milan in the afternoon, and Nancy was sure that she

would come back with Aldo the day after to-morrow.

Nino found comfortable places for them, and then stepped down and stood

in front of the window, looking up with that vacant half-smile that

everyone has who, having said good-bye, stands waiting for the train to

start. Nancy was looking down at him with sweet eyes. There was

something blue in her hat that made her eyes look bluer. Behind her the

baby, held up by Valeria, was waving a short arm up and down as the

spirit of Valeria's hand moved it. The bell rang, the whistle blew, and

as the train passed him slowly, Nino suddenly jumped on to the step at

the end of the carriage, turned the stiff handle, and went in. "I will

come as far as Valeria does," he said. He was greeted with delight, but

the baby continued irrelevantly to wave good-bye to him for a long time.

They passed Alessandria and Genoa, and went on to Savona. The baby

looked at the Mediterranean, and Nancy looked at the baby, and Nino

looked at Nancy, and Valeria looked at them all, and loved them all

with an aching maternal love. At Savona Valeria and Nino got out.

They had half an hour to wait for the return train that would take them

back to Milan.

They stood on the platform in front of the carriage window, and looked

up at Nancy with that vacant half-smile that people have when they have

said good-bye.... Nancy leaned out of the window and looked down

tenderly at her mother's upturned face, and then at Nino, and then at

her mother again. The baby stood on the seat beside her, waving its

short arm up and down, with yellow curls falling over its eyes.

_"In vettura!"_ called the guard.

"We shall be back the day after to-morrow," said Nancy for the fourth

time; "or perhaps to-morrow."

"Perhaps to-mollow," echoed the baby, who always repeated what other

people said. Nino went close to the window, and put up his hand to touch

the baby's.

"You don't know what 'to-morrow' means," he said. Anne-Marie let him

take her hand. He felt the small, warm fist closed in his. "When is

to-morrow, Anne-Marie?"

"To-mollow is ... to-mollow is when I am to have evlything," explained

Anne-Marie.

"That sounds like a long time away," said Nancy, laughing.

"Yes, indeed," said Valeria.

"Yeth, indeed," echoed the baby.

_"Pronti, partenza?"_ said the guard.

"Good-bye, Nancy! Good-bye, baby!" The bell sounded and the whistle

blew.

"Good-bye, mother dear." The train moved slightly and Nancy waved her

hand.

"Good-bye, Nancy! Good-bye, baby! Good-bye, my two darlings!"

The train was moving swiftly away.

"Perhaps to-morrow," cried Nancy, waving again. Then she drew back, lest

a spark should fly into the baby's eyes.

Valeria stood like a statue looking after them. "Good-bye, Nancy!

Good-bye, baby!"

They were gone.

And to-morrow was a long time away.

III

When the leisurely Riviera train drew into the station at Monte Carlo,

Nancy looked out of the window to see Aldo, to whom she had telegraphed.

He was not there. A group of laughing women in light gowns, two

Englishmen with their hands in their pockets, and a German

honeymoon-couple were on the platform. No one else. A handsome, indolent

porter helped Nancy and the baby to descend, and, taking their valise,

walked out in front of them, and handed it to the omnibus-driver of the

Hotel de Paris.

"Non, non," said Nancy. "J'attends mon mari."

"Ah!" said the porter; "elle attend son mari." Then he and the

omnibus-driver grinned, and spat, and looked at her.

"Donnez-moi ma valise," said Nancy.

"Donnez-lui sa valise," said the porter.

"J'vas la lui donner," said the omnibus-driver, climbing slowly up the

little ladder, and taking the valise down again.

"Voila la valise." And he put it on the ground. Nancy told the porter to

take it. The omnibus-driver looked astonished. "Quoi? Et moi donc? Pas

de pourboire?" And the porter spat and grinned, and said to Nancy: "Faut

lui donner son pourboire."

So Nancy gave the omnibus-driver fifty centimes, and told the porter to

take the valise to the Hotel des Colonies. He shouldered the small

portmanteau, and stepped briskly and lightly up the flight of steps that

leads to the Place du Casino. Nancy followed, with Anne-Marie holding on

to her skirts. An old woman sitting with her basket at the foot of the

stairs offered them oranges. Nancy said, "Non, merci," and hurried on.

But Anne-Marie wanted one. She was tired and hungry, and began to cry.

So Nancy stopped and bought an orange. Then she lifted Anne-Marie in her

arms, and hurried up the steps after the porter. At the top of the

winding flight Nancy looked round. It was a light June evening. Where

the sky was palest the new moon looked like a little gilt slit in the

sky, letting the light of heaven show through.

The street was deserted. The porter had vanished. Anne-Marie began to

cry because she wanted her orange peeled, and Nancy, after hurrying

forward a few steps, stopped, lifted the child on to the low wall, sat

down beside her, and peeled the orange. Nancy was convinced that her

portmanteau was gone for ever, but nothing seemed to matter much, so

long as Anne-Marie did not cry. She looked at the light sky, the

palm-trees, and the smooth pearl-grey sea. She wondered where the Hotel

des Colonies was, and whether Aldo had not received the telegram. The

legends of Monte Carlo murders and suicides traversed her mind for an

instant. Then Anne-Marie, who had never sat on a wall eating oranges,

lifted her face, smudged with tears and juice, and said: "Nice! Nice

evelything. I like." So Nancy liked too.

They found the Hotel des Colonies after many wanderings, and there was

the porter with the valise waiting for them. Did Monsieur della Rocca

live here? Yes. Had he received a telegram? No; here was the telegram

waiting for monsieur. Did they know where was monsieur?

"Eh! you will find him at the Casino," said the stout proprietress.

Nancy asked to be shown to her husband's room, but as it turned out to

be a very small _mansarde_ at the top of the house, Nancy took another

room, and there Anne-Marie went to bed under the mosquito-netting, and

was asleep at once. Nancy went downstairs. The salon was dark. Madame la

Proprietaire sat in the garden with an old lady and a little fat boy.

"If you want to go to the Casino," she said, "I will look after the

little angel upstairs!"

But Nancy said: "Oh no, thank you."

Then the old lady said: "Allez donc! Allez donc! Vous savez bien les

hommes!... Ca pourrait ne pas rentrer." Then she added: "I have been

here twelve years. This, my little grandson, was born here. You can go,

tranquillement. The petit ange will be all right."

Nancy went upstairs for her hat. Anne-Marie was asleep and never

stirred. So Nancy went through the little garden again with hesitant

feet, and turned her face to the Casino. The streets were almost empty.

She was in her dark travelling-dress, and nobody noticed her. As she

passed the Hotel de Paris she saw the people dining at the tables with

the little red lights lit. In the square round the flower-beds other

people sat in twos and threes; and over the way, in the Cafe de Paris,

the Tziganes in red coats were playing "Sous la Feuillee."

Nancy suddenly felt frightened and sad. What was she doing here, all

alone, at night in this unknown place, and little Anne-Marie sleeping in

that large bed all alone in a strange hotel? She felt as if she were in

a dream, and hurried on, dizzy and scared. A man, passing, said:

"Bonsoir, mademoiselle;" and Nancy ran on with a beating heart, up the

steps and into the brilliantly lighted atrium. Two men in scarlet and

white livery stopped her, and asked what she wanted; then they showed

her into an open room on the left, where men that looked like judges and

lawyers sat in two rows behind desks waiting for her.

She stepped uncertainly up to one of them--he was bald with a pointed

beard--and said: "Pardon ... I am looking for Monsieur della Rocca."

"Ah, indeed," said the man with the beard. "I have not the pleasure of

his acquaintance." And a fair man sitting near him smiled.

"Have you no idea where I can find him?" said Nancy, blushing until

tears came to her eyes.

"What is he? What does he do?" asked the fair man.

"He--he came here three weeks ago. He--has a system," stammered Nancy.

"I telegraphed, but he did not receive my telegram. And the lady of the

hotel said I should find him here."

A few people who had entered and stood about were listening with amused

faces.

"Ha, ha! You say monsieur has a system?" said the man with a beard in a

loud voice. And he nodded significantly to someone opposite him whom

Nancy could not see. She felt that by mentioning the system she had

ruined her husband's chances for ever. But nothing seemed to matter

except to find him, and not to be alone any more.

"At what hotel are you staying, mademoiselle?" asked the fair man.

"Hotel des Colonies," said Nancy, in a trembling voice.

"And your name, mademoiselle?"

"Giovanna Desiderata Felicita della Rocca," said Nancy. And the whole

row of men smiled, while the one before whom she stood wrote her name in

a large book.

"Your profession?"

Nancy had read "Alice in Wonderland" when she was a child, and now she

knew that she was asleep. Otherwise, why should she be telling these

people that she wrote poems?

She told them so. And they pinched their noses and pulled their

moustaches, because they were laughing--they were _pouffant de

rire_--and they did not want to show it.

"And ... she did nothing else but write poems? Nothing else at all?"

"No, nothing." And as the man with the beard seemed suddenly to be

staring her through and through, she added nervously: "Except ... I have

begun a book ... a novel. But it is not finished."

The fair man suddenly handed her a little piece of blue cardboard, and

requested her to write her name on it. She said, "Why?" and the man made

a gesture with his hand that meant, "It has nothing to do with me. Do

not do so if you do not wish."

All the others smiled and bent their heads down, and pretended to write.

Nancy looked round her with the expression of a hunted rabbit. A man was

coming in, sauntering along with his hand in his pocket. He was English,

Nancy saw at a glance. He reminded her a little of Mr. Kingsley. Tom

Avory's daughter went straight towards the new-comer, and said:

"You are English?"

"I am," said the Englishman.

"Will you please help me? My father was English," said Nancy, with a

little break in her voice. "They ... they want me to write my name.

Shall I do it?"

The Englishman smiled slightly under his straight-clipped, light

moustache. "Do you want to go into the gaming-rooms?"

"Yes," said Nancy.

"Well, write your name, then," he said, and walked back to the desk

beside her. "You will see me do it too," he added, smiling, as he gave

up a card and got another one in return, on the back of which he wrote

"Frederick Allen."

All the employes were quite serious again, and seemed to have forgotten

Nancy's existence. She signed her card, and entered the atrium at the

Englishman's side.

"I am looking for my husband," she explained, and told him the story of

the system, and the telegram, and the hotel. "I feel as if I had been

telling all this over and over and over again, like the history of the

wolf." She smiled, and the dimple dipped sweetly in her left cheek. She

was flushed, and her dark hair had twisted itself into little damp

ringlets on her forehead. Mr. Allen looked at her curiously.

"I am sure I have seen you before," he said. But he could not remember

where. Nancy said she thought not.

"Oh, I am sure of it," said Mr. Allen. "I remember your smile."

But the smile he remembered had belonged to Valeria, when she stood on a

little bridge in Hertfordshire, and took from his hands a garden hat

that had fallen into the water.

They went through the rooms, and the chink, chink, of the money, and the

heavy perfume, made Nancy dizzy and bewildered. Aldo was nowhere to be

seen. They went from table to table--the season was ended, and one could

see each player at a glance--then into the _trente-et-quarante_ rooms,

which were hushed and darkened; then through the "buffet," and out into

the atrium again.

Nancy looked up at her companion, and tears gathered in her eyes. "I

cannot imagine where he is! You do not think--you do not think----" And

in her wide, frightened eyes passed the vision of Aldo, lifeless under

a palm-tree in the gardens, his divine eyes broken, his soft hair

clotted with blood.

"I think he is all right enough," said the Englishman. "We can look in

the Cafe de Paris."

They left the atrium and went down the steps and out into the square

again. The "Valse Bleue" was swaying its hackneyed sweetness across the

dusk. Nancy started--surely that was Aldo! There, coming out of the Cafe

de Paris, with a fat woman in white walking beside him. That was Aldo!

Nancy hurried on, then stopped. The Englishman stood still beside her,

and stared discreetly at the trees on his right-hand side. Aldo and the

woman had sauntered off to the left, and now sat down on a bench facing

the Credit Lyonnais.

"Will you wait a minute?" said Nancy. And she ran off towards the bench,

while Mr. Allen waited and gazed into the trees.

Yes, it was Aldo. She heard him laugh. Who could that fat woman be? She

hurried on, and stopped a few paces from them.

Aldo, turning round, saw her. He was motionless with astonishment for

one moment. Then he bent forward, and said a word or two to his

companion. She nodded, and he rose and came quickly forward to Nancy.

"What is it?" he said. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, Aldo!" she said, tears of relief filling her eyes. "At last! I have

looked for you everywhere."

"What is it?" repeated Aldo, in an impatient whisper. "Not--not

Anne-Marie? She is all right?"

"Oh yes, dear," said Nancy, drying her eyes. "Poor little sweet thing!

She is fast asleep at the hotel. Come along! Come and thank an English

gentleman who----" She was about to slip her arm through his when he

drew back.

"Don't!" he said. "Go back to the hotel at once! I shall be there in

five minutes. You don't want to spoil everything, do you?"

"Spoil what?" said Nancy.

"Everything," said Aldo. "Our prospects, our future, everything."

"Why? How? What do you mean?" Nancy looked across at the broad figure in

white sitting on the bench; she had turned round, and seemed to be

looking at Nancy through a _lorgnon_. Nancy could discern a large face

and golden hair under a white straw hat. "Who is that?"

"Oh, she's all right," said Aldo. "I have no time to explain now. Go

home, and do as I tell you. If you don't," he added, as he saw indignant

protest rising to Nancy's lips, "you and the child will have to bear the

consequences. Remember what I tell you----you and the child."

Then he raised his hat, and went back to the bench where the woman was

awaiting him. Nancy, paralyzed with astonishment, saw him sit down, saw

his plausible back and explanatory gestures, while the woman still

looked at her through her long-handled _lorgnon_.

She walked slowly back in stupefaction. The Englishman stood where she

had left him, at the foot of the Casino steps, facing the trees. He had

lit a cigarette. He turned, when she was near him, and threw the

cigarette away. He said:

"Are you coming into the rooms again?"

"No," said Nancy.

"Shall I see you to your hotel?"

"No," said Nancy; and stood there, dull and ashamed.

"Well," said the Englishman, putting out his hand in a brisk,

matter-of-fact way, "good-night." He shook her chilly hand. Then he

ventured consolation. "All the same a hundred years hence," he said, and

turned quickly into the Casino.

He did not stay. He came out a moment afterwards, and followed the

dreary little figure in its grey travelling dress that went slowly up

the street, and round to the right. When he had seen her safely enter

the garden of the hotel he turned back.

"Poor little girl!" he said. "I wonder where I met her before?"

Aldo entered the hotel half an hour later, and went to Nancy's room,

armed with soothing and diplomatic explanations. But Nancy was on her

knees by Anne-Marie's bed, with her face buried in the mosquito-netting,

and did not move when he entered.

"Why, Nancy, what's the matter?"

"Don't wake her, please," said Nancy.

"But I wanted to tell you----"

"Hush!" said Nancy, with her finger on her lips and her eyes on

Anne-Marie.

"Then come to my room. I want to speak to you," said Aldo.

"No," said Nancy.

"Well," said Aldo, "I think I ought to explain----"

"Hush!" said Nancy again. Then she sat on a chair near the child's bed,

and put her face down again in the mosquito-netting.

Aldo stood about the room for a time. He called her name twice, but she

did not answer. Then he went upstairs to his little room feeling

injured.

IV

Early next morning Aldo went out to buy a doll for Anne-Marie. He got it

at the Condamine, where things are cheaper. It went to his heart to

spend seven francs fifty centimes--a _mise_ and a half--but the cheaper

ones were really too hideous to buy peace with. For one mad moment he

thought of buying a doll with real eyelashes that cost twenty-eight

francs. But considerations of economy were stronger than his fears, and

he took the one for seven francs fifty, whose painted eyelashes remained

irrelevantly at the top of the eyelids even when they were closed.

Anne-Marie was delighted.

Nancy was a pale and chilly statue. Aldo sent Anne-Marie and the

Condamine doll to play in the garden, while he in the _salon de lecture_

explained.

The systems were rank and rotten. All of them. Rank--and--rotten.

Grimaux, the croupier, had told him so. There was only one way of

winning, and that was----

"I know all that," said Nancy. "Who was that woman?"

Aldo raised reproachful, nocturnal eyes to her face. She looked smaller

than usual, but very stern.

"Nancy," he said. "Tesoro mio! My treasure!..."

But Nancy ignored the eyes and the outstretched hand. "Who is she?"

"She is nobody--absolutely nobody! An old thing with a yellow wig. Her

name is Doyle. How can you go on like that, my love?"

But Nancy could go on, and did. "She is English?"

"No, no; American. A weird old thing from the prairies." And Aldo

laughed loudly, but alone.

"Well?" said Nancy, with tight lips, when Aldo had quite finished

laughing.

"Well, Grimaux, who has been here sixteen years, said to me: 'The

mistake everyone makes is to double on their losses. When you lose----'"

Aldo's slim hands waved, his shoulders shrugged, his long eyes turned

upward. Nancy watched him, cold and detached. "He looks like the

oyster-sellers of Santa Lucia!" she said to herself. "How could I ever

think him beautiful?" Then she saw Anne-Marie in the garden kissing the

Condamine doll, and she forgave him.

"When you lose," Aldo was saying, "you run after your losses--you

double, you treble, you go on, _et voila! la debacle_--whereas when you

win you go carefully, staking little stakes, satisfied with a louis at a

time, and when you have won one hundred francs, out you go, saying:

'That is enough for to-day!' Now that is wrong, quite wrong. What you

ought to do is to follow up your wins, so that when the streak of luck

_does_ come--"

"I have heard quite enough about that," said Nancy. "Tell me the rest."

"Well," said Aldo sulkily, "I wish you would not jump at a fellow. The

rest is merely this: The good old prairie-chicken"--he went off into

another peal of laughter, and left off again when he had finished--"she

was--she was just promising to put up the money when you came along. And

you know what women are. They--they hate families," said Aldo.

Nancy raised her eyes to his face without moving.

"I do not know why you look at me like that," said Aldo sulkily.

Nancy got up. "There is a train at one o'clock," she said; "we will take

it."

She went upstairs; Aldo went out into the garden and played with

Anne-Marie and the Condamine doll.

At twelve Nancy looked out of the window. She called Anne-Marie, who

came unwillingly, dragging the doll upstairs, and followed by Aldo.

"We are ready," said Nancy, tying the white ribbons of a floppy straw

hat under Anne-Marie's chin. Anne-Marie sat on the bed kicking her feet

in their tan travelling-boots up and down. Aldo sat near the table, and

drummed on it with his fingers.

"Who is going to pay the hotel bill?" he said.

Nancy looked up. "Have you no money?"

"I have eighty-two francs and forty centimes," said Aldo.

"Where is the rest?"

"Gone."

Nancy sat down on the bed near Anne-Marie. There was a long silence.

Aldo fidgeted, and said: "I told you the systems were all wrong."

Nancy did not answer. She was thinking. She understood nothing about

money, but she knew what this meant. How were they to go back to Milan?

How were they to live? With her mother? Her mother had had to scrape and

be careful since the forty thousand francs had been given to Aldo. She

had brought smaller boxes of chocolate to Anne-Marie. She took no cabs,

and was wearing a last year's cloak of Aunt Carlotta's. Aunt Carlotta

herself was always grumbling that when she wanted to spend five francs

she turned them over three times, and then put them into her purse

again, and that Adele could not find a husband because her dot was

small, and men asked for nothing but money nowadays. There was Zio

Giacomo, dear, grumpy old man. But he had all Nino's old debts to pay,

and everybody was always borrowing from him. Distant relations and seedy

old friends visited and wrote to him periodically; and Zio Giacomo was

enraged, and always vowed that this would be the last time.... The only

wealthy person connected with the family was Aldo's brother, Carlo. But

Nancy knew that Aldo had exhausted all from that source. What would

happen? What were they going to do? She looked at Aldo, who sat in the

arm-chair, with his head thrown back and his eyes on the ceiling. He

knew she had likened him to San Sebastian, and now to move her pity as

much as possible he assumed the expression of the adolescent saint

pierced with arrows.

Nancy turned her eyes from him. The sight of him irritated her beyond

endurance. She looked at Anne-Marie, sitting good and happy beside her,

playing with the doll. She bent and kissed the child's cool pink cheek.

Aldo sat up, and said: "I had better go."

"Where to?" said Nancy.

"To the Casino, of course," said Aldo. "I promised to be there at

twelve-thirty."

"To meet that woman?"

"Yes," said Aldo sulkily.

"Oh!" gasped Nancy, and her hands clasped in deepest shame for him.

"What blood is in your veins?"

It was the blood of many generations of Neapolitan lazzaroni--beautiful,

lazy animals, content to lie stretched in the sun--crossed and altered

by the blood of the economical shopkeeping grandfather, who sold corals

and views of Vesuvius in the Via Caracciolo.

Aldo felt that it was time to hold his own. "It is easy enough for you

to talk," he said. "But what else can I do?"

Anne-Marie lifted the Condamine doll to her mother. "Kiss," she said.

Then she stretched it out towards her father. "Kiss," she said. Aldo

jumped up, and fell on his knees before them both. He kissed the doll,

and he kissed Anne-Marie's little coat, and Nancy's knees, and then he

put his head on Anne-Marie's lap and wept. Anne-Marie screamed and

cried, and Nancy kissed them both, and comforted them.

"Never mind--never mind! It will all come right. Don't cry, Aldo! It is

dreadful! I cannot bear to see you cry."

Aldo sobbed, and said he ought to go and shoot himself. And after Nancy

had forgiven, and comforted, and encouraged him, he raised his reddened

eyes and blurred face. "Well, then, shall I go?" he said.

Nancy turned white. It was hopeless. He did not understand. He was what

he was, and did not know that one could be anything else.

"No," she said. And he sat down and sighed, and looked out of the

window.

Nancy went to the stout proprietress and asked for the bill. While it

was being made out, the kindly woman said: "Are you leaving to-day,

madame?"

Nancy blushed, and said: "I do not know until I have seen the bill."

The proprietress, who had heard the noise upstairs--for Aldo cried loud

like a child--and was slightly anxious in regard to her money, said:

"Has monsieur already had the _viatique_?" Nancy did not understand.

"The _viatique_ of the Casino. If monsieur has played and lost, the

administration will give him something back. Let him go and ask for it.

And," she added, glancing at the brooch at Nancy's neck, "if perhaps

madame should wish to know it, the Mont de Piete is not far--just past

the Credit Lyonnais."

The bill was one hundred and twenty-three francs. Nancy told Aldo about

the _viatique_, and he said, with a hang-dog air, he would go and ask

for it.

"How much do you think it will be?" asked Nancy.

"I don't know," said Aldo, who felt that he must be glum.

"Two or three thousand francs?"

"I suppose so," said Aldo.

"You will accept nothing from that woman. You promise!"

"I promise," said Aldo, laying flabby fingers in her earnest,

outstretched hand.

So he went, and when he was out of sight of the hotel he hurried.

Nancy packed his trunk for him, and felt pity and half remorse as she

folded his limp, well-known clothes, his helpless coats and defenceless

waistcoats, and put them away. He had no character. It was not his

fault. She ought not to have allowed him to come here. He was not a

wall; Clarissa had told her so long ago. He was weak, and limp, and

foolish. Well, Nancy would be the wall. Already she knew what to do. Say

the Casino gave them back three or four thousand francs. They would go

back to Milan, give up the home in Via Senato, and take a cheaper

apartment in the Quartieri Nuovi. She would write. She would work again.

Ah! at the thought of her work her blood quickened. The baby should stay

with Valeria, because it was impossible to do any serious work with

Anne-Marie tugging at one's skirts and at one's heart-strings. She

would go and see the baby every evening after she had written five or

six hours. Aldo would return to Zio Giacomo's office. Good old Zio

Giacomo would be glad to take him back for Valeria's and Nancy's sake,

and they would live quietly and modestly. Aldo should superintend the

household expenses, and squabble over the bills with the servant--he

loved to do that; and by the time the three, or four, or five thousand

francs that the Casino had given them were finished The Book would be

out. "The Cycle of Lyrics" had brought her in twenty thousand francs,

and it was only a slender volume of verse. This book would make a great

stir in Italy--she knew it--and it would be translated into all

languages. She wished she had the manuscript here. She felt that she

could start it again at once.

She closed her eyes and remembered. All the people she had created,

bound together by the scarlet thread of the conception, rushed out from

the neglected pages, and entered her heart again. She felt like

Browning's lion; you could see by her eye, wide and steady, she was

leagues in the desert already....

Suddenly Anne-Marie, who had been playing like a little lamb of gold on

the balcony, gave a scream: the doll had gone. The doll had fallen over

the balcony. It was gone! It was dead! Nancy looked over the ledge. Yes,

there lay the Condamine doll on the gravel-path in the garden. And it

was dead. Half of its face had jumped away and lay some distance off.

Aldo, entering the garden at that moment, saw it, and picked it up. Then

he looked up at the balcony, and saw Nancy's troubled face and the

distracted countenance of his little daughter.

He waved his hand, and went out again, taking the dead doll with him. He

hailed a carriage, and told the driver to drive quickly to the

Condamine. He bought the doll with the real eyelashes for twenty-two

francs--he made them knock off six francs--and returned with clatter of

horses and cracking of whip to the hotel.

When Anne-Marie saw the doll, and when Nancy saw Anne-Marie's face, Aldo

knew he was forgiven and reinstated.

"What have they given you back at the Casino?" asked Nancy.

"I don't know. I am to go again in two hours," said Aldo. "Let us have

luncheon."

They had an excellent luncheon, for, confronted with a desperate

situation in which the economizing of fifty centimes meant nothing, the

ancestral shopkeeper in Aldo's veins bowed, and left room for the

lazzarone, who ate his spaghetti to-day, and troubled not about the

morrow.

"If they give you five or six thousand francs, I suppose we must not

complain. We cannot expect to get back the entire eighteen thousand,"

said Nancy.

"No," said Aldo, with downcast eyelids. He knew something about

_viatiques_, but he would not let this knowledge spoil their lunch.

After all, the luncheon cost twelve francs. It must not be wasted.

"Did you see her?" asked Nancy, tying a table-napkin round the doll's

neck at Anne-Marie's request.

"Whom?" said Aldo, with his mouth full.

"The--the prairie-chicken," said Nancy, to make him feel that he was

quite forgiven.

"Oh yes; I saw her," said Aldo.

Nancy put down her knife and fork, and felt faint. "Well?"

Aldo cleared his throat, took a sip of wine, and said, "She is an old

beast."

There was a pause, then he continued: "I made a clean breast of it. I

told her who you were, and about Anne-Marie; and when I had finished she

called me a--a--oh, some vulgar American name, and off she walked."

Nancy reached across the table and patted his hand. "That's right,

Aldo."

"I told you," he said, nodding his head, "that that kind of woman cannot

stand the idea of a fellow having a family."

"Perhaps," suggested Nancy, dimpling, "she could not stand the idea of

the way the fellow treated his family."

"Well, never mind," said Aldo. "She's done with."

But she wasn't.

At four o'clock Aldo, Nancy, Anne-Marie, and the doll went out, and down

to the square in front of the Casino. Nancy and the child sat on a bench

facing the Casino, and Aldo went in to get the _viatique_. He came out a

few minutes later looking flushed and angry.

"The _canailles_! The thieves! The robbers!"

"What is it?" said Nancy.

"They have given me one hundred and fifty francs!" and he held out the

three fifty-franc notes contemptuously.

"A hundred--and--fifty francs!" gasped Nancy.

"Nancy, there is only one thing to do," said Aldo. "Go in and play them.

Plank them down on a number, and if they go, let them go, and be done

with."

"Do it," said Nancy, for nothing mattered.

"I can't," said Aldo. "I can't go in--not until this miserable dole is

paid back. You must go. They will let you in. Go on."

Nancy rose, flushed and trembling. "What do I do? How do I play it?"

"Oh, anyhow. It makes no difference," said Aldo, with his face in his

hands, suddenly realizing that they three possessed in the world one

hundred and ninety francs, and a debt of one hundred and twenty-three.

He turned to the child.

"Say a number, Anne-Marie! Any old number!"

Anne-Marie did not understand.

"You know your numbers, darling," said Nancy, "that grandmamma taught

you."

"Oh, yeth," said Anne-Marie. "One, two, three, four."

"Stop. All right," said Aldo. "Nancy, go in and play--at any table you

like--the _quatre premiers_ and _quatre en plein_. That gives you zero,

too. Go ahead! _Les quatre premiers_ and _quatre en plein_. Remember.

Tell the croupier to do it for you."

Nancy went straight in, and to the left, where the men sat who had

laughed at her the night before. They recognized her, and gave her a

card at once.

She went into the rooms. Chink, chink; chink, chink. She went to the

table on the left. A red-haired croupier sat at the end of the table

nearest her, and she went to him, and gave him one of the fifty-franc

notes.

"Les quatre premiers et quatre en plein," she said.

But it was too late. "Rien ne va plus," said the man in the centre.

"Trente-deux, noir, pair et passe."

The croupier handed her back the note. "You're lucky," he said. "You

would have lost." She repeated her phrase, and he put the note on the

top of his rake and passed it across the table. "Quatre premiers," he

said, and the man in the middle placed it.

"Et quoi encore?" said the croupier, looking at Nancy.

"Quatre premiers et quatre en plein," repeated Nancy, mechanically.

"Combien a l'en plein?" said the man, holding out his hand.

Nancy gave him the second fifty-franc note, and he passed it up on his

rake. "Quatre en plein."

"Quatre en plein. Tout va aux billets," said the man in the centre; and

the ball whizzed round. Nancy's heart was thumping; it shook her; it

beat like a drum. The little ball dropped, ran along awhile, stopped,

clattered and clicked, and fell into a compartment.

"Trois."

Everybody looked at Nancy as she was paid, and she collected the gold

and silver with clumsy hands. "Encore," she said, giving the croupier

the remaining bill and some louis.

"Quoi?" said the croupier.

"Encore la meme chose." The ball was running round.

"Mais ca y est," said the croupier, for the fifty-franc note that had

won still lay at the corner of the top line.

"Mais non, mais non," said Nancy, who was very much confused, "premier

quatre"--the man placed the note on the other note still lying

there--"et quatre en plein." But for this last it was too late.

"Rien ne va plus. Zero!"

"Voila! ca y est!" said the croupier, returning the gold to her, and

waiting with the rake on the table for the eight hundred francs to be

paid.

What is the secret of luck? How shall it be forced? How explained?

Whatever Nancy did, she won. Wherever her money lay there the ball

went. When she thought she had enough--her hands were full, her place at

the table was piled up with louis and silver and notes--and she was

withdrawing her remaining stake and the gold paid on it with clumsy

rake, she moved it away from the numbers, and left it on "pair" while

she put down the rake. A minute was lost while a woman said something to

her, and before she could take the money up the ball had fallen. "Vingt.

Pair et passe." It was doubled.

When she at last tremblingly collected it all in her hands, and put gold

and notes as best she could into her pocket, she rose, and could hardly

see. Her cheeks were flaming. She passed out of the rooms, into the

atrium, and down the steps. Aldo sat on the bench with his elbows on his

knees and his head in his hands and the doll in his arms. Anne-Marie was

running up and down in front of him.

"Aldo," said Nancy, and sat down weakly at his side.

"Gone?" asked Aldo, raising a miserable face.

"No!" Nancy had a little hysterical laugh. She piled the money into his

hands, then into her lap, while he counted it quickly, deftly. People

passing looked at them, and smiled.

"Seven thousand eight hundred francs," said Aldo, very pale.

"Oh, but there is more;" and Nancy dived into her pocket again. There

was over fourteen thousand francs.

"Come into the Cafe de Paris," said Aldo.

They drank coffee and _creme de menthe_, and Anne-Marie had strawberry

ice and cakes. The band played "Sous la Feuillee."

"Oh what a lovely world it is!" said Nancy, with a little sob. "Oh,

what a glorious place! I love it all! I love everybody!"

"I love evlybody," said Anne-Marie, taking a third cake with careful

choice. Aldo and Nancy laughed.

The Englishman passed, and Nancy called him. She introduced him to Aldo,

and Aldo thanked him for being kind to Nancy the evening before. Nancy

told him about the fourteen thousand francs she had won, and they all

laughed, and the band played, and the sun shone and went down.

"The best train for Italy," said Mr. Allen suddenly, "is at six-twenty.

You have just an hour. It's a splendid train. You get to Milan at

eleven."

Aldo looked at Nancy, and Nancy looked at the sky. It was light and

tender, and the air was still. The Tsiganes were playing "Violets," and

in the distance lay the sea.

"We must take that train," said Aldo, getting up and rapping his saucer

for the waiter.

"Oh no!" said Nancy. "Please not! Let us stay here and be happy."

"Stay here and be happy," said Anne-Marie, with a bewitching smile.

They stayed.

V

Aldo repaid the _viatique_ and went into the gambling-rooms with Nancy.

The proprietress of the hotel got them a _bonne_ from Vintimille, who

walked up and down in the gardens with Anne-Marie, and carried the doll.

She cost nothing--only fifty francs a month! They arranged to take

_pension_ at the hotel. That also cost nothing--twelve francs a day

each. They took drives that cost nothing--sixteen francs to La Turbie,

twenty francs to Cap Martin. Nothing cost anything. Ten minutes at the

tables, and Nancy had won enough to pay everything for a month.

She sent a cloak to her mother, which Valeria vowed was much too

beautiful to wear. She sent presents to Aunt Carlotta and Zio Giacomo,

to Adele and to Nino, to Carlo and to Clarissa. And she remembered a man

with no legs, who sat in a little cart on the Corso in Milan, and she

sent her mother one hundred francs to give him. Anne-Marie was dressed

in a white corded silk coat, and a white-plumed hat. The _bonne_ had a

large Scotch bow with streamers.

This lasted ten days. On the eleventh day it was ended. Nancy played

gaily, and lost. She played carefully, and lost. She played tremblingly,

and lost. She played recklessly, and lost. Aldo, who did not trust his

own luck, followed her from table to table, saying: "Be careful!...

Don't!... Do!... Why did you? Why didn't you? I told you so!" And at

each table _la guigne_ was waiting for them, pushing Nancy's hand in the

wrong direction, whispering the wrong numbers in her ear. Ten times they

made up their minds to stop, and ten times they decided to try just once

more. "We have about nine thousand francs left. With that we are paupers

for the rest of our lives. With luck we might recoup."

This lasted two days. On the third day they had one thousand and eighty

francs left. "Play the eighty," said Aldo, "and we will keep the

thousand." They lost the eighty, and then four hundred francs more.

"What is the good of six hundred francs," said Aldo, and they played

on.

Their last two louis Aldo threw on a _transversale_. They won. "Let us

leave it all on," said Aldo. They won again.

"Shall we risk it again?" said Nancy, with flushed cheeks and galloping

heart.

Aldo's lips were dry and pale; he could not speak. He nodded. And a

third time they won. The croupier flattened the notes out on the table

and knocked the little pile of gold lightly over with his rake. He

counted, and paid five times the already quintupled stake.

Aldo bent forward and picked up a rake to draw in his winnings. A man

sitting near the centre of the table put out his hand, and took the

piled-up notes and gold.

"Ah, _pardon_!" cried Aldo, striking the rake down on the notes and

holding them; "that is mine."

"Pardon! pardon! pardon!" said the man, laying his hand firmly on the

notes. "C'est ma mise a moi! Voila deja trois coups que je l'y

laisse----"

Aldo was incoherent with excitement, and Nancy joined in, very pale. "It

is ours, monsieur."

"Ah, mais c'est par trop fort," cried the other, who was French, and had

a loud voice. He pushed Aldo's rake aside, and took the money.

Aldo appealed to the croupiers, and to the people near him, and to the

people opposite him. They shrugged their shoulders and raised their

eyebrows. They had not seen, they did not know.

"Faites vos jeux, messieurs," said the croupier.

The ball whizzed; the game went on. Aldo, burning with rage, and Nancy

pale and dazed, left the table.

"Oh, Aldo! Let us go away. This is a horrible place. Let us go away."

Aldo did not answer.

They went out into the sunshine. Laughing women lifting light dresses

and showing their high heels came hurrying across the square. The warm

air was heavy with the scent of flowers. They turned into the gardens,

and before them was the dancing sea; and Anne-Marie, looking like an

Altezza Serenissima, tripped up and down in her white corded silk coat,

her brief curls bobbing under her white-plumed hat.

Behind her walked the Vintimille servant with the Scotch silk bow on her

head, and carried the doll with the real eyelashes.

VI

* * * * *

NEW YORK.

MOTHER DEAR,

I shall send you this letter when nothing that I have written in it is

true any more. If we ever live through and out of it, you shall know; if

not--but, of course, we shall. We must. One cannot die of poverty, can

one? One does not really, actually suffer real hunger, does one, mother

dear? "Zu Grunde gehen!" The sombre old German words keep rumbling in my

head like far-away thunder. "Zu Grunde gehen!"

I do not suppose one really does go "_zu Grunde_." But when one has

forty-five dollars in the world, and a funny little bird with its beak

open expecting to be fed--and fed on chocolates and bonbons when it

wants them--one becomes demoralized and frightened, and pretends to

think that one might really starve.

Do not think it unkind that I did not come to Milan to kiss you and say

good-bye. I had not the heart to do so. Aldo, too, said we could not

afford it, and, indeed, our combined _viatiques_ and our jewellery only

just enabled us to come here.

We landed three days ago. Yesterday morning I sent you a postcard:

"Arrived happily." Happily! Oh, mother dear, I think there must be a

second higher and happier heaven for those who are brave enough to tell

untruths of this kind. Enough; we landed, Anne-Marie looking like a

spoilt princess; I with my Monte Carlo hat and coat, and high-heeled,

impertinent shoes; and Aldo, a pallid Antinous, with forty-five dollars

in his pocket-book.

Then came the Via Crucis of looking for rooms. Mother, did I ever stay

at the Hotel Nazionale in Rome, and descend languidly the red-carpeted

stairs to the royal automobile that was to drive me to the Quirinal? Did

I ever sit at home in Uncle Giacomo's large arm-chair and listen

benignly to moon-struck poets reading their songs? Did I ever with

languid fingers ring bells for servants, and order what I wanted?

"Cio avvenne forse ai tempi

D'Omero e di Valmichi----"

That was another Nancy. This Nancy trudged for hours through straight

and terrible streets called avenues, with a dismal husband and a tired

baby at her side. Third Avenue, Fourth Avenue, then quickly across Fifth

Avenue, which had nothing to do with us, and again across to Sixth

Avenue ... and everywhere dirty shops, screaming children, jostling

girls, rude men, trains rushing overhead, street-cars screeching and

clanging. Then, at last, Seventh Avenue, where there were streets full

of quiet, squalid boarding-houses, fewer screaming children, fewer dirty

shops, and no trains. We went into a cheap, clean-looking place that a

porter had told us of. A woman opened. She looked at my hat and coat,

and at my shoes, and said: "What do you want?" "A room----" began Aldo.

She shut the door without answering. At the next house a woman in a

dirty silk dressing-gown opened the door. "Yes, they had rooms. Eight

dollars a day. Meals a dollar." In the next house they took no children.

In the next, no foreigners. Our expensive clothes in their cheap street

made them suspicious. Aldo's handsome face made them suspicious. His

Italian accent frightened them. And Anne-Marie cried every time a new

face appeared at a new door.

At last Aldo said: "I will go to the Italian consul. You wait here in a

baker's shop." The consulate was at the other end of New York, and was

closed when Aldo got there. When he returned, harassed and haggard, I

had made friends with the baker's wife. She was German. I told her our

History of the Wolf--that I was a poetess, and had met the Queen, and

all about Monte Carlo. I don't think she believed or understood much,

but she was sorry for me; and Anne-Marie, hearing us talk German,

suddenly started piping: "Schlaf, Kindchen, schlaf!" The woman caught

her up in her arms, and said: "Ach, du suesses! How does she come to know

that?" And she took us all to 28th Street to the house of her sister,

who gave us this room. It is clean, and the woman is kind.

And now, what?

I have bought myself a frightful pepper-and-salt coloured dress, and a

black straw hat. I look like a "deserving poor." And Anne-Marie is

wearing a dark blue woolly horror belonging to the woman's daughter.

She must wear it, or Frau Schmidl would be offended. Frau Schmidl is the

only friend we have in America.

For the ranch is a myth of Aldo's. He never was on a ranch in his life.

He met a Frenchman once with weak lungs, who had been in Texas, and who

gave him all the romantic details that he used to recount to us. Do you

remember, mother? On Lake Maggiore? He talked vaguely, and not much, it

is true, of those bucking bronchoes he used to ride across the sweeping

Western prairies, feeling the wind in his hair.... When I reproach him

for his fables, he tells me that it was our fault. We insisted upon the

details. We would hear all about it! He says Clarissa started the ranch

legend, because she thought it sounded well. Then she left him to keep

it up as best he could. Poor Aldo! He hates us in these clothes. And he

hates the German things Frau Schmidl gives us to eat. He has gone to the

Italian Consul for the third time to see if he can find some

correspondence to do. I could give lessons, but it seems that there are

many more people who want to give lessons than there are who want to

take them. And then--there is Anne-Marie, who has to be taken care of.

Anne-Marie! Frau Schmidl loves her because of her name. She says it is

echt deutsch! She is a stout, fair woman, who speaks English strangely.

When she enters the room, she says, nodding and laughing, "Now, and what

makes the Anne-Marie?"

The Anne-Marie likes the sound of the language, and imitates her. I

dread to think what English the Anne-Marie will learn.

* * * * *

Aldo has found nothing to do. The Americans will have nothing to do with

an Italian, and Italians will have still less to do with an Italian. We

have eight dollars left.

* * * * *

If I write to you for money you will send it. And then? A few weeks

hence we shall be where we are now. We must fight our battles alone.

* * * * *

We have nothing left.

Mr. Schmidl says he will let us keep the room--"for another week or

two," he added gruffly; but his wife is not to feed us. "At least--not

all of you," he added still more gruffly. "Only you--and the

Anne-Marie." He is a poor man. He is quite right. But what about Aldo?

* * * * *

We have sold the Monte Carlo clothes for twelve dollars. We feel that we

are rehabilitated. And what have I been dreaming of? I can write. I

shall send an article to the _Giornale Italo-Americano_. Unsigned, of

course. I shall write it to-night.

* * * * *

It is done.

* * * * *

It is accepted.

* * * * *

It is printed.

It seems that that is all. They have told Aldo that they never pay for

articles that are sent to them from the outside--even if they are as

brilliant and original as this one. They only pay their own staff. Have

they room on their staff for a brilliant and original writer? Plenty of

room. But no money.

Aldo is living on dates and a little rice. He speaks less than ever. I

do not know what his thoughts are. I am afraid for him.

To-day as I was taking Anne-Marie for a run in front of the house I met

a man whom we knew in Italy, a Dr. Fioretti. He was an old friend of

Nino's. Do you remember? He looked at me, and past me, blankly,

unrecognizing. I thanked the fates. My knees ached with fear lest he

should stop and say: "You here! What are you doing? Where do you live?"

Where do I live? In this vile street near the negro quarter. What am I

doing? Starving. Are we dreaming, mother? Oh, mother! mother! when did I

fall asleep? I should like to wake up a little girl again in England.

Was there not another little girl called Edith, with yellow hair? Surely

I remember her. What became of her?... Or was she the girl who died?...

* * * * *

Aldo will not leave the house any more. He will not speak to us any

more. He sits and stares at us. I am afraid of him. I shall telegraph to

you if I can find the money to do so. Mrs. Schmidl keeps Anne-Marie

downstairs in her kitchen. But she is afraid of Aldo, too. I think they

will turn us out. But they will keep the child, and take care of her.

I shall go out. I shall ask everybody, anybody, to help me....

* * * * *

I have been to the Italian Church, to the Italian Consul, to the Italian

Embassy. They will see. They will do what they can. There are many

pitiable cases. Are we a "pitiable case"? How strange! They would not

give me any money to send a telegram. They said they would telegraph

themselves, after they had come to see us, and made inquiries....

I stopped a woman in the street, and said, "I beg your pardon. Will

you----" and then my courage failed and I asked where West 28th Street

was. She directed me, and I turned back and walked in the direction I

had come from.

I came to Fifth Avenue, and walked up it in my shabby clothes. I passed

rows of large houses. One of them had the windows open, and someone

inside was playing "Der Musikant" of Hugo Wolff. And a woman's voice was

singing:

"Wenn wir zwei zusammen waeren

Wuerd' das Singen mir vergeh'n."

I stopped. I turned back, and walked up the wide stone steps. I rang the

visitors' bell, and a manservant in ornate livery opened at once.

"I wish to speak to the lady who is singing," I said.

"Oh," said the man. I knew he thought me a beggar, and was going to send

me away.

"Tell her--tell her quickly," I said, "that--that Hugo Wolff told me I

might come."

Something in my face--oh, my despairing face, mother!--touched something

human in the pompous automaton. He went straight into the drawing-room

and gave my message. There was a basket of Easter lilies on the

hall-table.

The music stopped, and almost at once on the threshold of the

drawing-room a lady appeared. She was young--hardly older than I--and

beautiful, dressed in soft mauve cloth. She looked at me curiously, and

then said suddenly:

"Will you come in?"

I went into the large, luxurious drawing-room. Titian's "Bella" looked

down at me blandly with her reddened eyelids.

"What message was that you sent?" she asked, with her graceful head on

one side.

My voice had almost left me. "I said Hugo Wolff told me to come in. I

heard you singing 'Der Musikant'...."

She laughed, and said: "Are you a musician?"

I said: "No." And I thought of telling her the History of the Wolf. But

I feared she might know my name, and tell the Italians in New York. And

the Italo-Americano would print an article about it--and the Corriere

della Sera in Milan would reprint it....

"Is there anything I can do for you?" she said.

I nodded.

"Money?" she asked softly.

I nodded.

"How much do you need?"

"Five dollars," I said.

She smiled, and said: "Is that all? I should willingly do more for a

friend of Hugo Wolff's!"

She went out of the room, and closed the door behind her. She left me in

my shabby clothes, in my black straw hat and my need of five dollars, in

her gorgeous drawing-room, scattered with priceless ornaments in silver

and gold, jewelled frames and trinkets lying all about the tables. I

covered my face with my hands, and the tears rolled through my fingers.

She came back a few minutes afterwards with a gold twenty-dollar piece

in her hand. She gave it to me, and said, "For luck!" and added:

"Is there nothing else I can do?" I nodded, with my eyes full of tears.

"Yes!" and I looked at the piano.

She smiled and sat down. She sang for me. I know she sang her very best.

She had a lovely voice.

When I went through the hall to the door two men-servants bowed me out

as if I were a princess. And I went down the stairs weeping bitterly.

I went along the street, crying and not caring who saw me. Then I sat

down in Madison Square. Suddenly someone came and sat beside me. A

woman. I felt her eyes fixed on me for a long time, and I turned and

looked at her. There, under a turquoise toque, sat the golden hair and

the large face of the prairie chicken.

"How do you do, Mrs. Doyle?" I said.

"What?" She turned quickly. "How do you know my name?" And she added,

frowning: "What are you crying for?"

"For love of a woman who has been kind to me," I said.

"There are lots of kind women," she answered. "I'm kind. What do you

want?"

"I want you to come and talk to my husband," I said. "You know him. You

met him in Monte Carlo. His name is Aldo della Rocca."

"What? Della Rocca? That lovely Italian creature? That Apollo of

Belvedere? Of course I remember him. Where is he? What is he doing

here?"

"Come and see," I said.

And she came up to Mrs. Schmidl's house in 28th Street.

That evening we dined with the prairie chicken, or rather, she invited

herself to dine with us. She said "Poison!" when she tasted the

Knoedelsuppe, and "Poison!" when she tasted the Blutwurst and Kraut. She

is probably a very great lady, judging by her bad behaviour.

In my heart hope opens timid eyes.

* * * * *

VII

Mrs. Doyle was a very great lady. Her husband had been a political

"boss"; her sister had married an English baronet; and her daughter,

Marge, eighteen years old, "a mere infant," as she said, had married

Herbert van Osten, the Congressman.

She was full of good ideas. "Now, you two might be the rage of New York

in no time," she said, at the end of the dinner. "You are a Count,

aren't you?" And she looked confidently at Aldo. "'Della Rocca'! That

sounds like a Count."

"Oh yes," said Aldo, with his shining white smile, humorously

remembering his grandfather's name, "Esposito," which means a foundling,

and the "Della Rocca" added to it because the little Esposito had been

left on a rock near Posilippo.

"Well, let me see. You must have an atelier of some kind. Ateliers are

all the rage. And your wife----" Mrs. Doyle raised her sepia eyebrows

and pinched her large chin pensively.

"My wife is a great poetess," said Aldo.

"Is she?" said Mrs. Doyle. "Well--let me see. She must--she must dress

a little differently--red scarves and things--and look picturesque, and

read her poems in salons here. Poetry is all the rage. And if it is

Eyetalian, you know," she added encouragingly to Nancy, "no one will

understand it. I shall discover you. I shall give an At Home.

'Eyetalian poetry' in a corner of the cards. That's an elegant idea!"

But Nancy was refractory. She said she would not wear red scarves, nor

recite her poetry; and what was Aldo going to do in an atelier?

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Doyle, "faces like his are not met with every

day on Broadway. I don't know how it is in your country, but his looks

alone are enough to make him the rage here."

Aldo nodded, looking at Nancy as if to say: "You see?"

"But what is the good of being the rage if one has nothing to live on?

What are we to eat?" asked Nancy, feeling brutal and unlovely, and

_terre a terre_.

"Oh, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Doyle. "If once you are the rage in a

place like New York!" ... And she raised her round blue eyes to Frau

Schmidl's ceiling, where languid flies walked slowly.

But Nancy assured her that it was impossible. Could she not find some

work for Aldo to do?

"What work?" said Mrs. Doyle, resting an absent-minded blue gaze on the

lustrous convolutions of Aldo's hair, on his white, narrow forehead, on

his intense and violent eyes, and the scarlet arcuation of his vivid

lips. "What work can he do?"

"Oh!" Nancy said vaguely, "what work do men do? He has been to the

University and taken a degree. He has studied law, but has not

practised. I am sure he could do anything. He is very clever."

"Oh yes," assented Mrs. Doyle dreamily.

She was thinking. She was thinking of something her married daughter had

been saying to her that very morning. Suddenly, she got up and said

good-bye. She let Aldo help her into her long turquoise coat, and find

her gloves; and then she sent him off to fetch a motor-cab. Alone with

Nancy, she was about to open her large silver-net reticule when she saw

Nancy's straight gaze fixed upon her. So she refrained, and kissed her

instead.

"Ta-ta, Apollo," she said, shaking a fat, white-gloved hand out of the

carriage window to Aldo, who stood on the side-walk, bare-headed and

deferential. Then, leaning back as the carriage slid along 7th Avenue

and turned into 66th Street, she mused: "He will do--he will do

elegantly. Won't Marge be delighted! That will teach Bertie to sit up.

Elegant idea! Bertie will have to sit up."

Bertie was not sitting up. His wife, Mrs. Doyle's daughter, was. And

very straight she sat, with defiant, frizzy head and narrow lips, when

she heard the front door open and close. But it was not to her husband's

insubordinate footsteps. It was the indulgent swish of her mother's

silken skirts that rustled slowly upwards.

Bertie's wife sprang up and opened the door.

"'Mum'? At this hour? What has happened?"

"Nothing, Marge--nothing. Is Bertie at home?" said Mrs. Doyle.

"No," and the young pink lips narrowed again. "It is only eleven o'clock

at night. Why should he be at home?"

"Marge, I have an elegant idea," said Mrs. Doyle, seating herself

resolutely in an armchair opposite her daughter. "I have found the very

thing we need. The bo ideel, my lambkin."

* * * * *

When Mrs. Doyle rose to go at midnight they were both wreathed in

smiles.

"You will have to be very careful, dear," said Mrs. Doyle. "Don't be

rash, and unlikely, and over-generous. The wife is a stubborn creature

who spells things with a capital letter: you know what I mean--Work and

Art and Dignity, and all that kind of thing. She must not be rubbed up

the wrong way. Besides, it will answer just as well if he does not know

what he is doing."

"That's so," said her daughter. "Mum, you're a daisy."

The unsuspecting Bertie came home that night a little before one

o'clock, keyed up for the usual withering sarcasm and darkling reproach.

He found his wife asleep, lamb-like and dove-like, her frizzy head

foundered contentedly in the pillows, a book of Gyp on the coverlet, and

a mild smile--was it of indulgence or of treason?--playing on her soft

half-open lips.

The next day Mrs. Doyle called on Aldo and Nancy. Anne-Marie was

introduced and patted on the head, and sent down into the kitchen.

"I have a secretaryship for you," said Mrs. Doyle to Aldo. "You can

start at once. Twenty dollars a week. They won't give more."

Aldo was graciously complacent, and Nancy looked anxious.

"His English is very imperfect," she said.

"Oh, the English is chiefly copying; he can do that, can't he?"

"Of course," said Aldo, frowning at Nancy.

Nancy asked for particulars, and Mrs. Doyle folded her fat hands and

gave them. It was a confidential post. He was to be "secretary to her

daughter"--catching Nancy's steady grey eye, Mrs. Doyle added--"'s

husband, Mr. Van Osten;" and the work was chiefly of a political

character. He would have to--er--copy speeches, and ... etcetera. He

would have a study, not in the Van Osten's house, but--er--in the same

street a few doors off, opposite. He was not to talk about his work,

because it was of a very--er--private character.

"Mr. Van Osten is a peculiar man," added Mrs. Doyle. "But you will

understand all that in time, when you get to know him. When can you

start?"

"Now," said Aldo.

Mrs. Doyle laughed. "Well, I think next Monday will do. Meanwhile"--and

she coughed--"the Van Ostens are very--oh, very much for appearance, you

know. You had better go to Brooks and get him to rig you out. I shall

drive round and speak to Brooks about you at once."

Nancy flushed and protested. "You can pay it back to me," said Mrs.

Doyle. "Don't bother me so."

So Nancy flushed, and was silent; and Aldo went to Brooks, and was

rigged out.

He also had some visiting-cards with "Count Aldo della Rocca" printed on

them, but not his address, which was near the nigger quarter, and

probably would continue to be so for a long time to come.

On the following Monday, at half-past eleven, he arrived at the Van

Osten house in 66th Street. Mrs. Doyle had particularly impressed upon

him that he was not to come earlier than half-past eleven. Mrs. Doyle

was waiting for him in the drawing-room, and introduced him to her

daughter. Mr. Van Osten was not in. The Count was to do his work alone

for these first few days, as Mr. Van Osten was very busy in Washington.

The two ladies had their hats on, and accompanied him across the street

to No. 59. They had a latchkey which they gave to him, and went with him

to the room that was to be his study on the top-floor. It was a large,

light, almost empty, room. A wide desk stood in front of the window;

there were a few chairs and tables, and a half-empty book-case. On the

desk was a pile of papers, newspapers, and manuscripts. A typewriting

machine stood on the table.

"Oh," said Aldo blankly, "I do not know how to use a typewriter."

"Never mind," said the ladies in unison.

"We put it there in case you could," said Mrs. Doyle.

Then Mrs. Doyle showed him his work. "All this has to be copied," she

said, showing him the tidy manuscript sheets. "And then you ought to

make extracts from these papers."

She pointed to the newspapers--they were of the preceding week. He was

to mark and cut out everything referring to the Congo, and underline

with red ink Mr. Van Osten's name every time he came across it.

"And everything that Mr. Van Osten himself says has to be copied in this

large book."

"Would it not be better to cut out the speeches in print and paste them

in?" said Aldo.

"Oh no," said Mrs. Doyle. "He wants them copied. Doesn't he, Marjorie?"

Her daughter turned from the window and said:

"Oh yes!" She had flittering green eyes and a funny smile. Her frizzy,

light hair came down to the bridge of her small freckled nose, and she

had a manner of throwing back her head in order to look from under her

hair that was peculiar to her. She was dressed like an expensive French

doll.

"Oh yes," she repeated, with her head thrown back, and in her high

childish voice. "I guess he wants it all copied." Her smile flickered,

and she turned to the window again.

The ladies left him, and he sat down to work. He copied steadily in his

beautiful _commis voyageur_ handwriting until two o'clock. Then he

went out and had a hasty lunch. At four o'clock Mrs. Doyle rustled in

and asked him how he was getting on. He was getting on splendidly. At

six he went home.

This went on for three days, and on Wednesday afternoon he had nothing

left to copy, or to cut out, or to paste in. He looked out of the

window. He took a book from the book-case--they were almost all French

novels. After reading an hour, he decided to go across to No. 8, the Van

Ostens' house, and ask for instructions. He had not yet seen his

employer, and, as all men who are sure of their tailor and their

physique, he liked new acquaintances.

The butler who opened the door looked at his clothes, then took his hat,

and divested him of his overcoat. He presented a silver tray, on which

Aldo, after a moment's hesitation, deposited his visiting-card. The man

looked at it, opened the drawing-room door, and pronounced: "Count Aldo

della Rocca." A subdued sound of voices and tea-cups subsided into

silence, and Aldo entered the room.

He bowed low, his secretary bow, standing at the door, for he did not

want to offend his employers. When he raised his head, Mrs. Van Osten's

light green flitter of a smile was greeting him from the sofa. His quick

eye saw that she was nervous. She put out her hand and said:

"Oh, Count della Rocca, how do you do? Just in time for a cup of tea."

He stepped past the four or five ladies and an old gentleman who sat

near her, and kissed her hand in Southern fashion. He was not to be the

secretary? _Benissimo!_ He was not the secretary. He was the Count.

"But perhaps," continued his hostess, "you don't like tea? Vermouth or

Campari is what you take in your country at this hour, is it not?" And

she held out a cup of tea to him, with her head thrown back and slightly

on one side.

"Oh, Madame! All what is taken from so fair a lady's hand is nectar!"

said Aldo, with his best smile; and the ladies tittered approval.

"Ah, Latin flattery, Count," said his hostess, and introduced him to her

friends.

Once or twice he noticed that she glanced anxiously at him, as if

dreading what he might do or say; but Aldo, remembering the political

and private character of his work, did not mention it. The ladies left

one by one. And the old gentleman left. Then Mrs. Van Osten turned her

little dry, hard face to Aldo.

"Why did you come?" she asked.

"I have finished my work," said Aldo, feeling himself very much the

secretary again. "I knew not what I was to do."

"Oh, I see. I will tell my mother--I mean my husband--about it." And at

this moment Mrs. Doyle entered. Her daughter drew her to the window, and

spoke to her in a whisper for some time. Mrs. Doyle replied: "Oh, all

the better. I did not know how we should ever begin it." She turned to

Aldo, standing stiff and secretarial in the middle of the room.

"I am glad you took Mrs. Van Osten's cue," she said. Aldo wondered what

"cue" meant, but did not ask. "Do so, always. It is of the greatest

importance. And now about Mr. Van Osten. _Never_ speak to him about your

work. He does not like it. Unless he mentions it to you, never speak

about it at all. Let him see that you are absolutely discreet. Now you

may stay till he comes."

He stayed and made flat general conversation. Mrs. Van Osten looked

bored. Mrs. Doyle answered him nervously and absentmindedly.

The bell rang loud, and the butler opened the hall-door to admit his

master. Aldo stood up. Suddenly he felt a hand on his sleeve. It was

little Mrs. Van Osten's jewelled hand that pulled him down into his

chair. She leaned forward, with her chin on her hand, and smiled.

"I am sure you are musical," she said, smiling into his eyes, as through

the open door Mr. Van Osten entered, large, leisurely, and good-looking.

"Hulloa!" he said to his wife. "Well, mother?" to Mrs. Doyle. Then he

looked at Aldo, who very slowly, wondering what he was to do, got up

from his seat.

"Bertie," said his wife, looking up at him with a look that was at once

the look of a cat and of a mouse, "this is Count della Rocca whom I was

telling you about."

Van Osten put out his large hand. "Glad to meet you," he said. Then Mrs.

Doyle sat down and talked to him.

"You are musical?" said Mrs. Van Osten, lifting her small chin, and

twinkling her eyes at Aldo.

Aldo suddenly remembered what Dr. Fioretti, a friend of Nino's who had

travelled in England and the United States, used to say about American

women. He seemed to hear Fioretti speaking in his impressive manner, as

if each word he said were three times underlined: "I tell you this about

the American woman: as man and as doctor, my dear friend...." And Aldo

decided that Fioretti was right.

He found himself seated at the piano, while his hostess's tiny figure

was thrown forward listening to him with rapt attention. Suddenly--while

her husband was laughing loud at something Mrs. Doyle had said--she put

out her hand and said: "Good-bye. Come next Saturday. Now go. Go quick."

And he rose and took his leave.

He described his visit to Nancy, who was so much astonished that he

thought it wise to omit the reference to next Saturday. On the following

morning another pile of papers lay on the desk for him, and he worked on

conscientiously. On Saturday a mauve envelope containing twenty dollars

was placed on the top of his papers; and on a slip of paper was written:

"Come at six."

At six he went to No. 8, and found Mrs. Van Osten alone. She scarcely

spoke to him until her husband came in. Then she seemed suddenly to wake

up, and was all smiles and pretty gestures; when Aldo spoke to her she

drooped her lashes and played with her long chiffon scarf. He left her a

little later, feeling dense and bewildered.

A fortnight afterwards he was invited to dinner. "I am sure Van Osten

feels that he can trust me now," said Aldo to Nancy, adjusting a

faultless tie at the summit of an impeccable shirt-front. "And to-day he

will probably speak to me of our work."

"I am afraid Anne-Marie is going to have measles," said Nancy, sitting

drearily on the old green armchair, while Anne-Marie pulled some of the

stuffing out of it with languid feverish hand. "Seventh Avenue is full

of it."

"It is a beastly neighbourhood," said Aldo, buttoning his waistcoat, and

fixing a sham gold chain into his watch-pocket with a safety-pin. "We

must get out of it as soon as we can."

"Did those people you met at Mrs. Van Osten's ask where we lived?" asked

Nancy.

"Yes. And on the spur of the moment I said Number 59 in the same street.

That is where the office is, you know. I hope they won't make

inquiries."

Nancy sighed. Aldo kissed her, and carefully patted Anne-Marie, who had

dirty hands and a tearful face. Then he ran down and got on a car that

took him up town.

No reference was made during dinner to politics or to the work. There

were a dozen people present, and once--to try him, Aldo felt it!--his

host said, looking straight at him: "And what are you doing in New York,

Mr. Della Rocca?"

With the corner of his eye Aldo had seen Mrs. Van Osten's small head

start up like a disturbed snake at the end of the table. He answered

imperturbably, looking Van Osten in the face:

"Some literary work. I find it _very interesting_."

He said this markedly, and Van Osten only said: "Oh, indeed?" But Aldo

knew that he was pleased. Van Osten must now indeed feel that Aldo was

absolutely discreet and intelligent.

After dinner, when the men joined the ladies in the drawing-room, Mrs.

Van Osten called him to her with her eyes. He sat down at her side, and

talked about Italy. She drooped her head as if she were blushing, and

he wondered why. He glanced round, and saw that her husband was looking

at her.

A tall thin woman stood near him, and Aldo heard her say: "What a

splendid-looking man! Quite like that Somebody's Hyperion in

that--er--what-do-you-call-it gallery."

"Yes," said Van Osten. "Nice sleek animal." And he continued to look at

his wife.

To Aldo's astonishment, she suddenly smiled and put her hand into his

own, palm upwards. He felt the little chilly hand trembling lightly on

his. Her words were as astonishing as her gesture. She said:

"Well, then, Count Aldo, if you insist, tell my fortune."

He had not insisted; but he told her fortune, following the little

crinkly lines in her palm with the light touch of his forefinger. She

shivered and she laughed, and she threw her head back.

Van Osten sauntered up to them with his hands in his pockets; he looked

large and powerful. Aldo felt like a fool, with the little chilly hand

still lying in his. He went on, however: "This is the line of the

intellect--" Van Osten laid his hand casually on his wife's slim

shoulder, and kept it there. She glanced up at him, and again in her

eyes was the look of a cat, and also of a mouse.

"... That is what I read in this hand," continued Aldo.

Van Osten moved and put forward a large patent-leather shoe. "And what

is it you read in this foot?" he said. "Kicks?"

His wife burst into a ripple of laughter and withdrew her hand from

Aldo's. Aldo also was much amused. The only one who did not seem to

find the joke funny was Van Osten himself.

A few days later in the study, when Aldo had copied four columns out of

a newspaper, he leaned back in his chair. He was irritated and tired.

There was not enough ink in the inkstand, and he had to dip in his pen

at every second word. He felt exasperated and on edge. Little Mrs. Van

Osten was getting on his nerves. What did she mean? What did she want?

She was in love with him, of course. That was not surprising. But what

was surprising was her behaviour when they were alone. Either she left

the room at once, or she looked at him with green, far-away, wintry eyes

as if he were a wall or a window.

The night after the dinner-party he had been greatly agitated. This

woman loved him. This very wealthy woman seemed to be willing to

compromise herself for his sake. What should he do? For a moment the

thought of running away with her crossed his mind. She was a plain

little thing, but enormously rich. He might be able to be of more solid

use to Nancy and his child by such a step than by slaving for them

thirty years at twenty dollars a week. In a year perhaps, he might be

able to return to Nancy, comfortably well off. These erratic American

women were extravagant and generous, he knew.

He had walked home that night with his head in the clouds, dreaming of

automobile trips across Europe, of staying at the best hotels and not

paying any bills. He had found Frau Schmidl awake, and Nancy in tears,

and Anne-Marie with the measles. He had stayed at home three days,

sitting in the darkened, stuffy little room, heating malted milk and

Nestle's food on a spirit-lamp, and singing arias from grand operas to

Anne-Marie, who liked nothing else.

When he had gone back to the room in 66th Street nobody had been to ask

after him, and his work lay as he had left it. He had gone across to the

Van Osten's house, and had heard Mrs. Van Osten say in a high treble

voice: "I am not at home." And he had felt she was looking at him behind

the curtains as he crossed the road.

He dipped his pen in the half-empty inkstand, and then impatiently

leaned it up against a pen-box. It fell over, and was emptier than

before. He looked round the room for an ink-bottle. He thought of

ringing the bell, but the old servant that appeared on the rare

occasions when he wanted her, had, after the first week, looked so

ill-tempered that he dreaded asking for anything. He looked about, and

opened drawers and closets. In a cupboard in the wall, on the top shelf,

pushed far back, he saw a packet of papers which he seemed to recognize.

He pulled them out and looked. It was his work of the week before--182

pages, neatly written. What were they doing up there?

He gazed at them for a long time; then he put them back. He resolved to

make an experiment. He rang the bell, and asked the untipped and

unamiable old servant to bring him some ink.

When he had a full inkstand before him, he dipped in his pen and wrote:

"The debate concluded with the usual majority for the Government. La

donna e mobile qual piuma al vento. I wonder whether anyone will notice

that I am writing rubbish. Sul mare luccica l'astro d'argento Santa

Lucia, Santa Lucia."

He finished the page, and put it on the others. Then he smoked

cigarettes, and read "Autour du Mariage" until it was lunch-time. While

he was at lunch a note was left for him.

"Come this evening at eight, sharp."

His finished sheets had been taken away as usual, and a new pile placed

on the desk for him to copy. He went to the cupboard in the wall, and

looked on the top shelf. Yes; the pile of papers at the back was larger.

He pulled it out; on the top lay the page with the jumble of Italian

words on it. He took a little heap of the sheets at random from the

pile, placed them on his desk, and left them there. Then he lay back in

his chair, and reflected.

For three weeks he had been copying things out of old newspapers seven

hours a day. He had been paid twenty dollars a week for it. Why? Was

Mrs. Doyle a charitable angel who wished to help him and his family

without being thanked? No. He felt that was not it. His eye fell on the

note. "Come this evening." A light went up in his mind as he recognized

the fact that he was paid for the hours he spent in No. 8, not for those

he passed in No. 59.

It probably meant that Mrs. Van Osten loved him, and must see him when

she wanted to. The work was but a pretext to keep him near her, within

call, away from others, perhaps. "Poor little woman!" he said. "How she

must suffer!" Then he reflected that twenty dollars a week was not much.

At a quarter past eight that evening he turned into 66th Street, and

crossed Mr. Van Osten, who had just come out of his house. Aldo saluted

him respectfully, but Van Osten stood still and lit his cigar without

appearing to notice the greeting.

He found Mrs. Van Osten alone, bare-shouldered, in black and diamonds.

She was agitated and angry.

"You are late!" she cried.

"Forgive!" he said, kissing her hand.

She dragged it from him. "Did you meet my husband?"

"Yes," said Aldo.

"Did he see you?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure? Are you sure?" And she breathed quickly.

"Yes."

"He saw you? He saw you coming here and did not turn back----?" She

stopped, and the narrow lips closed tightly. Aldo looked at her, and

thought her positively ugly. She looked like a small, tight, thin,

crumpled edition of Mrs. Doyle.

"Little young prairie-chicken," said Aldo to himself. But the butler

came in with the coffee on a large silver tray, and the under-butler

followed with the cream and sugar on another large silver tray. And the

riches, the atmosphere of calm, powerful wealth, overcame Aldo's soul;

his senses swam in satisfaction, and he felt that, however thin and

small and crumpled she might be, he yet could return the

prairie-chicken's love.

When the servants had left the room Aldo felt that he ought to speak.

After a while he remembered what, once or twice, he had done with

acceptable success in Italy when alone with a comparatively unknown

woman. In a low voice he said:

"What is your name?"

Mrs. Van Osten raised glassy eyes. He repeated: "I do not yet know your

name."

She took a sip of coffee, and said, very slowly and very clearly:

"Mrs.--Van--Osten."

"No--not that name," he said. "Your own name--your little name----"

There was a slight noise in the hall, and the outer door closed. Mrs.

Van Osten heard it, and answered Aldo quickly with excited eyes.

"Marjory," she said.

Aldo bent forward over his coffee-cup. "Marjory?" he repeated softly.

It succeeded. It succeeded far better than he had expected, or than it

usually did.

"Say it again!" she said quickly. "I like to hear it. Say it again.

Quick!"

"Marjory!" exclaimed Aldo, bending nearer, just as the door opened and

her husband came in.

She turned to him at once. "Oh, Bertie! You have come back?" and she

laughed. Aldo looked at her. There was something in her voice and in her

laugh that he knew. He had heard it in women's voices before. It was

love. And love was in her eyes as she raised them to her husband's

frowning face.

Then Aldo understood what he was there for. And more than ever, as he

looked at Mr. Van Osten's powerful frame, did he realize that twenty

dollars was little.

He stayed only a short time, during which he was sad, and silent, and

bitter. And Mrs. Van Osten was pleased with his attitude. As he took his

leave, he suddenly decided to show her that he had understood.

"Would you honour me by seeing 'Tannhaeuser' from my box at the opera

to-morrow night?"

A gleam shot at him from Mrs. Van Osten's sly eye. Her husband laid his

large hand on his wife's bare shoulder.

"We are engaged," he said.

Mrs. Van Osten put her head against his arm.

"Indeed, we are more than that, Bertie," she said, looking up at him

with an enamoured and rapturous smile.

Aldo bowed and withdrew.

The next day was Saturday. On his desk lay the mauve envelope, and in it

was a hundred-dollar bill.

"I shall not need you now for a month or two, I believe," said Mrs. Van

Osten wistfully. She had come over to his "office" early on the Monday

morning. "But"--and she sighed deeply--"I do not suppose the effect you

have had upon my husband will last for ever."

"Nothing does last for ever," said Aldo sententiously, seated before his

desk.

"Then I shall send for you to come to the house again. Meanwhile, you

might hang round a little in a general way," said Mrs. Van Osten. "You

can send me flowers if you like. See that they are expensive ones. But

don't come over often. If he once kicks you out, it will make everything

impossible."

"Yes," said Aldo.

"Ah!" sighed Mrs. Van Osten; "why are such things necessary. Why are men

such beasts?"

After a short pause Aldo spoke respectfully in a subdued voice: "May I

ask who _she_ is?"

"You are impertinent," said Mrs. Van Osten, "but I may as well tell you.

Everyone knows. It is Madeline Archer, that dancing minx. She has made

half the wives in New York miserable!"

Aldo made a little sympathizing, clucking sound with his tongue.

Meanwhile his thoughts were quick and definite.

"If," he said, as she rose to go, "any friend of yours, one of the wives

you have just mentioned, wanted--er--would like--er--thought that I

could assist...."

"Oh!" cried Mrs. Van Osten, clasping her hands with peals of laughter,

"you _are_ a daisy! Oh, you take the pumpkin-pie! Upon my word! You are

the greatest ever!" And she laughed and laughed, rocking to and fro.

Aldo laughed too, glad to think he was so funny.

"Before you know where you are, you'll be opening a bureau--'First Aid

for Neglected Wives.' 'Perfect jealousy-arouser of the careless or the

cooling husband. Diploma. References. Moderate tariff. Success

guaranteed.'"

"Good idea!" said Aldo, laughing. And in a way he meant it.

She stopped laughing suddenly. "You won't turn out to be a blackmailer,

will you?"

"No," said Aldo, looking at her straight from out of his beautiful eyes.

"I believe you," she said, putting out her hand. "Besides, Mum, who

knows a thing or two about human nature, said that you were a good, soft

old thing. And now," she added, with solemnity, "for what you have done

for me, and the way you've scared Bertie into good behaviour, you may

give me a kiss."

She put up her narrow mouth, and Aldo, laughing a little, kissed it.

"... I'm glad I have kissed a Count," said Mrs. Van Osten, as she went

down the stairs.

VIII

It was a bright autumn day when Valeria in Milan received Nancy's letter

from New York, telling her about those first weeks of misery.

Valeria had an income of two hundred francs a month, which Uncle

Giacomo, who kept her securities for her, paid to her punctually; and

which she as punctually paid over to Aunt Carlotta for her board and

lodging, reserving apologetically thirty or forty francs for her own

small needs. On the day the letter arrived, Valeria locked herself in

her room, and went on her knees before Guido Reni's gipsy-faced Madonna.

The Madonna must help Nancy. She, Valeria, must help Nancy.

Uncle Giacomo would give nothing that might fall into Aldo's hands;

Carlo less than nothing; he would only reproach and recriminate. As for

Nino, he had nothing to give. Aunt Carlotta would possibly lend five

hundred francs with great difficulty and many warnings. So Valeria

decided that she would raise some money from her own investments, and

arrange to have a smaller income for a few years. Nancy must have money.

So Valeria put on her hat and her black silk bolero coat with the lace

jabot down the front, and brown kid gloves, and went out to face a

stormy interview with Zio Giacomo.

The interview was stormy. Giacomo's temper shortened with his breath,

and Valeria was wrung with anguish lest his anger should harm him, and

was rent with remorse when she had succeeded in obtaining what she

wanted. She would not say what the money was for, because she knew that

Zio Giacomo would oppose it, so she was mysterious and wilful, hinted at

tragic possibilities, wept and warned, and finally left Zio Giacomo

convinced that she had got herself into some serious financial scrape.

"Ah, these silly women," said Zio Giacomo, watching Valeria tripping

across the road, holding her violet leather handbag, her umbrella and

her long skirts in confused hands. At one moment she was right under a

horse's nose, but the driver pulled up suddenly, and the swerving

carriage went on, carrying on its box a red-faced, head-shaking,

remark-making, driver. "Silly women!" said Uncle Giacomo again, and

returned wrathfully to his desk.

Valeria went to a bank, where, after much confusionary explanation, and

a quarter of an hour's waiting, she emerged with five thousand francs,

and some silver and pence. Her violet bag was fat with it all. "Now,"

said Valeria to herself, "I will go to Cook's in the Via Manzoni, and

change it into American money. Or perhaps they can send it over in some

other way." Then she went along Piazza del Duomo, thinking of Nancy.

Poor, penniless Nancy! Poor little helpless mother of the still more

helpless Anne-Marie! "I wish Tom were here to look after us all!" she

said, stepping off the pavement to cross into Via Manzoni.

If Tom had been there he would have stopped her. He would have caught

hold of her elbow, in the masterful way he always did when they crossed

a street together, saying: "Wait a minute." Tom would have seen the

tram-car coming rapidly from the right, and a carriage driving up from

the left, and behind the carriage--oh, quite a distance off--a motor

coming along smoothly and quickly. But Tom, or what was left of Tom, lay

in Nervi with folded hands, and nobody told Valeria to wait a minute. So

she stepped lightly off the pavement, holding her violet bag tightly in

one hand, and her umbrella and her skirts in the other. She saw the

tram-car coming from the right on the far side of the street, and

thought she would run across and pass in front of it. She ran two steps,

and then saw the carriage close to her, coming from the left. It was

impossible to cross before it, so she stepped back quickly, very

quickly, and the carriage passed. The driver's face was turned to her:

was that anger in his face? What a mad, terrible face! He was screaming

and gesticulating. What tempers people had in Italy, thought Valeria,

for thought is rapid.... Then something struck her in the back, and she

thought no more. A moment's maddening roar and clamour and confusion,

then utter stillness.