I
When Ferdinand Taillandy, poet, pagan, and wanderer on the face of the
earth, had completed his great epic he felt, surging high within him,
the call of Paris. For eight years he had traversed on foot the
untrammelled wilds, keeping his ear ever close to the breast of nature,
that his soul might be in tune with her moods. For eight years he had
worshipped nature, seeking no divinity save her, and finding in her one
god made manifest in many forms. To his deep-seeing eyes there were
dryads lurking in the trees and in the glades and in the groves; there
were naiads in the springs and in the rivers and in the lakes; there
were nereids in the seas, and always there was Pan, piping in the
forests or on the hills. And so he bent the knee to all nature, and knew
no other god but her.
But, his epic finished, he craved, like all poets, a publisher--he was
not content to sing merely to himself. And, moreover, he knew that the
epic was good. The need of a publisher, then, was his pretext for
turning his face to the north and to Paris, but it was scarcely this
need that so quickened his feet and his heart. It was more than that,
certainly--it was rather the exhilaration that the exile feels when he
is about to return home.
Said Taillandy to himself: “I left Paris of my own will; I despise
Paris; Paris has caused me only great suffering; Paris is neither
Christian nor pagan; if I go to Paris I am a retrograde--but, oh, ye
gods, hasten my feet and strengthen my heart, that I may get to Paris
the more quickly!”
This is comprehensible and excusable only because Paris was his first
home. Granting that (and any one will vouch for it), the conclusion is
as inevitable as that of a geometrical proposition, and we can wonder
only that he resisted the homing instinct so long.
He went north by forced marches, following the Rhone through Avignon and
Valence to Lyon, and the Saône to Chalon; thence, by Dijon, Tonnerre,
Sens, and Melun, to Paris and the Porte de Charenton. The last
twenty-five kilometres he made during the night, for something kept him
at it, made him loath to stop and sleep with the goal so close.
It was a thick, heavy morning, then, in November when he passed through
the _octroi_ and said to himself: “I am home.” And it was a morning of
mist that was almost rain. The stallions, harnessed in single file to
the market-carts, were slipping on the treacherous cobblestones,
straining with all their magnificent shoulders at the traces--supremely
willing but not always successful. Taillandy, appreciative of the play
of their muscles, stopped to admire them; and while he stopped he became
aware of a woman standing at his elbow.
He did not trouble to look at her, for women, as individuals, were of
little account in his life. He had loved one woman once and been sorry
for it. That was enough. Perhaps she had been afraid of his intensity;
perhaps he had given her too much of himself; perhaps he had endeavored
to halo mortal clay--or perhaps she had been simply a timorous, flexible
little thing with an empty blond head and a heart that he, at least, had
been unable to quicken. At any rate, I know that she had told him that
she loved him, and then the first breeze of parental opposition had
blown her into another man’s arms. That is the story--we will not strive
to place the blame.
To Taillandy, then, women were interesting only _en masse_: they stood
for something, they _must_ stand for something. After all, one half the
population of the earth could not exist merely that children might be
born. No, there was doubtless some mystery about them that accounted for
their existence--above all, that accounted for their power. Why else
should they (as they undoubtedly did) motivate men? Why should they have
swayed nations and killed kings? He gave it up, but he continued,
nevertheless, his ardent worship of Diana the Huntress and of Venus
Genetrix.
The woman who stood at Taillandy’s elbow was, at first glance, in no way
a remarkable person, and it was by sheer accident that they came to know
each other. A slippery pavement, three stallions harnessed to an
over-loaded cart, a quick-tempered driver--there was the accident, and
there the beginning of Taillandy’s further education in women.
The cart had stopped in the middle of the road, just within the gates,
and the three stallions seemed powerless to move it an inch forward.
Obviously this delayed traffic, and of course the _agent de police_ on
duty became flushed and excited, imparting much of his mood to the
driver of the cart. The driver unsheathed his whip, short of handle and
long and cruel of lash, and sent it circling and shivering across the
back of the leader. It was poor policy, for the animal had not been
unwilling. At the stroke he started, slipped, and plunged in the traces;
his hoofs struck sparks from the pavement as they slid and floundered,
struggling in vain for a foothold, and finally, snorting and writhing,
his legs went from under him and he fell over on his side.
The woman next to Taillandy gave a little cry, half fear and half pity,
and clutched at his arm. When he turned he saw that she was very
white--and not unbeautiful.
“Come,” he said, “let us get out of this. There is nothing one can do
when beasts are whipping beasts.”
She tottered, clinging to his elbow.
“I think,” she said, “that I am going to faint.”
“I am sorry; try not to for a moment,” he recommended.
He almost carried her to the nearest sidewalk café, put her into an iron
chair behind an iron table, and ordered a cognac.
She drank it and shivered at the heat of it.
“Thank you, monsieur,” she said. Then, slowly and for the first time,
she raised her eyes to look at him.
Taillandy still clung to his thirties, and his eight years of nomadic
life had kept him young and buoyant. He was not handsome--he was
remarkable. Once you had seen him you would never forget him: those eyes
with the sparkle of the poet burning in them; that thin, brown face with
the crooked mouth and the hawk’s nose; those slim, capable hands; and
that lean, restless body, jutting out angularly from his abominable
clothes.
The woman looked at him, and her eyes widened in astonishment. Looking
at her, he reflected that astonishment became her. She was at her best
expressing astonishment.
“I am very hideous, am I not?” he remarked pleasantly--almost casually.
Recovering herself, she looked quickly away, and answered very demurely
and properly.
“I beg your pardon, monsieur; of course you are not at all hideous. And
I am very grateful to you. You were kind--and--and I am afraid that I
detain you.”
He laughed a little--quietly, as men laugh who are accustomed to being
alone.
“My dear,” said he, “from what do you detain me? Am I not in Paris where
I wish to be? What more can I desire? Should I some day scale Olympus
and be admitted through the gates, do you suppose that, once inside, I
should object to being detained by--well, let us say by Diana?”
She did not follow this flight--naturally not--but she caught at the
last word.
“Diane!” she exclaimed. “How strange that you should have guessed my
name!”
“You are called Diane?” he inquired.
“But yes,” she affirmed.
“_Et voilà_,” said he, stretching out his hands as if he had won his
case. “You see? Great is Diane!--Diane of what?--of the Ephesians?”
She shook her head, at a loss.
“No,” she said--“of Evremont-sur-Seine.”
The name must have awakened some memory for him, for he frowned and
squinted up his eyes.
“No, no--don’t tell me,” he commanded, as she was about to speak. “Let
me think. Evremont-sur-Seine ... Ah! I have it! A little village on the
river with poplars patrolling the banks. A little iridescent village,
all light and bright and clean--with a watering-trough in the
square--and sparrows. Yes, hundreds of sparrows. And a lark or two for
the morning. And a shop where, if one is a Christian, one should take
off one’s hat and kneel. Ah, yes--now I remember, now I remember! She
was called Madame Nicolas, she who kept the shop, and she was a saint. I
am no Christian--I am a pagan--but Madame Nicolas.... Ah, well, one does
not have to be a Christian to do homage to a Christian saint.”
He was carried out of himself; he was aglow with the enthusiasm of
remembering; and he was disappointed to find that Diane remained quiet,
unkindled.
“You don’t know, then,” he protested--“you don’t know Madame Nicolas?”
She shook her head, and he perceived, at length, that she was crying as
quietly and secretly as possible.
“Ah,” said he softly, and then again, “Ah!” But for the present he said
no more about Madame Nicolas. Rather he arose, called loudly for the
check, paid it, put his hand on her shoulder, and, with great
heartiness, exclaimed: “Now we shall go and breakfast. You are hungry
and so am I. We shall traverse Paris and breakfast at the Closerie des
Lilas, where, once upon a time, I was at home. Come--_allons, mon
enfant! En avant!_”
She protested--not very vehemently. She claimed she was not a cheerful
companion; he had better seek some one else; it was one of her sad days.
Besides, she was not well dressed--her shoes and her blouse.... He
laughed loudly, pointed to his own rags, and more especially to the hole
in the top of his hat which revealed his straight, long black hair.
“What do we care for clothes!” he cried. “Are we not young and
beautiful? Diana and--and Pan. Hand in hand they will now enter a
_fiacre_!”
He was not to be thwarted in his holiday mood. Moreover, for some reason
or other, the thought of quitting her displeased him. He wanted a
companion to encourage him, to laugh at and with him, above all to
listen to him. Perhaps he was beginning at last to realize in a small
way why it is good that women exist.
Taillandy, at least, enjoyed that drive to the full. He was thrusting
his head constantly from the windows to point out places that he
remembered and places that he would never forget. At first they kept to
the Seine--he couldn’t see enough of the Seine--and he prided himself on
his ability to call each bridge by its name.
“Presently,” said he, “when we have passed the Halle aux Vins, we shall
come to the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Then we shall leave the river....
There, what did I tell you? _Au revoir_, Seine! Hail, Musée de Cluny and
École de Médecine! To the left, _cocher_! One must see the Odéon. Ah,
the famous days--and the famous nights, _parbleu_!”
Always he grew more eager, more excited. By Zeus, was he not back again
in his own Paris after eight years? Why, then, pretend to be calm?
Diane, of course, had not attempted to suggest that he be calm. She
liked him the way he was--tempestuous, vibrant, a boy.
They drew up with a flourish in front of the Closerie des Lilas on the
Boulevard du Montparnasse. It was his favorite haunt in the old days, in
the old days eight years ago when he damned women and strove to forget
them all because one had forgotten him. There it was that men had first
called him great; there it was that, when he was sober, much of his
early poetry had been written; and there it was that they had crowned
him king. He found that, as he paid the driver, his eyes were dim.
“My dear,” said he to Diane, “if you don’t make me laugh, I shall begin
to cry.”
“What is it that troubles you?” she asked, a hand on his arm.
He smiled crookedly and answered: “Eight years of absence--that is all.”
“It is a great deal,” said she soberly. “I understand.”
He changed his mood with an effort, and became deliberately gay.
“Ah, well,” he cried, “we shall see what is altered. We shall see
whether they still remember Ferdinand Taillandy.”
He was not kept long in doubt. A waiter in shirt-sleeves and apron who
was brushing the floor, stood up from his task as they entered, and,
seeing Taillandy, raised his hands heavenward in a delirium of joy and
astonishment.
“But it is Monsieur Ferdinand!” he cried. “Or else perhaps his ghost!”
Taillandy, jubilant at the immediate recognition, extended two hands and
said warmly: “My good Hippolyte--my good Hippolyte!”
A buxom lady in black came hurrying out from behind her high desk, her
fingers busy at her hair (for she was not too young to be vain).
“Monsieur Ferdinand!” she exclaimed--“is it truly you returned to us?
You will kill us with such sudden joy!” And she put a hand to her
heart--or as close to her heart as her figure permitted.
“Dear Madame Maupin,” answered Ferdinand, embracing her frenziedly. “You
grow younger and more beautiful each year. Of what marvellous waters do
you drink?”
“Always the Vichy Celestins,” she answered; and then she slapped him
coyly and said: “_Vieux blagueur!_”
For some minutes they stood off to appraise him, to take him all in, to
see what changes eight years had wrought in him. Diane, temporarily
neglected, hung in the background until Taillandy, feeling that she was
ill at ease, led her forward by the arm and presented her to Madame
Maupin as “his little friend Diane.”
“But I know Mademoiselle Diane,” said the _caissière_. “Were you not
here two nights ago with Monsieur Bruno, the artist?”
Diane nodded and blushed, looking quickly at Taillandy and as quickly
away.
“Yes, madame,” she said.
“Ah,” said Taillandy--“with old Bruno, hein? I am surprised that that
one still lives. And how do you like old Bruno?”
“He was--kind,” answered Diane; “and I had had nothing to eat for two
days. Yes, he was kind. He fed me.”
“It was the least he could do!” exclaimed Taillandy--“the old satyr!”
Then he turned on her so suddenly that she started back with a little
cry, frightened.
“And now!” he cried--“and now! How long is it since you have eaten?
Answer me that. Or does Bruno still feed you?”
“I have left Monsieur Bruno,” she replied after an interval. “I lost my
position with the modiste on the Rue du Cherche-Midi. It was my own
fault, because I did not apply myself to the work.”
“How long is it since you have eaten, I ask?” interrupted Taillandy
fiercely.
“When I met you, monsieur,” she said bravely, “I was going to
breakfast.”
He grunted his disbelief.
“Where were you going to breakfast? At the Porte de Charenton? Not
likely.”
“I was going home to breakfast.”
“Ah, you were going home? To Evremont-sur-Seine? Twenty-six kilometres,
_hein_?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“And how were you going?”
“I was planning to walk, monsieur,” she said.
“Ah--_voilà_! Now at last we have it. You were going to walk twenty-six
kilometres for your breakfast because you didn’t have a copper sou. That
pig of a Bruno! Why do the gods allow such tragedies on earth! Here,
Hippolyte--hasten thyself--covers for two, and all that is best in the
house. The poor child starves while we air our vocabularies. It is
criminal--it is unbelievable. _Allez--heup!_”
She permitted him to lead her to a seat--he did it in the grand manner,
but cheerfully and with many lavish gestures, gallantly pretending that
he did not see tears in her eyes. And while they ate he regaled her with
a spirited monologue. He dwelt much on her name--that seemed to delight
him--and he elaborated on it, calling her his Diana of the Moon, or his
Goddess of the Chase. It amused him to pretend that they were feasting
on Olympus. She, of course, was unable to follow his rhetoric, but so
long as he enjoyed himself she was pleased; and she ate with a good
appetite and no affectation.
When she had finished the _omelette aux fines herbes_ the color came
back into her cheeks and she was able to laugh with him. He bade
Hippolyte, whom for the moment he had christened Bacchus, to fetch them
some red wine from the cellar--“a good wine, Bacchus, not too heavy; a
wine in which one can taste the grapes.”
It was forthcoming, and he drank her health very gravely--her health and
her _beaux yeux_; for he now perceived for the first time that she had
large, dark eyes.
At the coffee he stretched his long legs straight out under the table,
lighted a cigarette, and sighed comfortably and profoundly.
“Now,” said he, with a smile at his mouth, “I will talk about myself.
Shall you like that?”
“But yes,” she encouraged him naïvely; “you talk so well. You must have
studied a great deal. I, as you see, am very ignorant. I know nothing.”
He laughed quietly.
“Come,” he said, “that is not so. You know a great deal. You knew enough
to start for home when you were hungry. I, on the contrary, when I was
hungry--I went away from home and lost myself for eight years. But it
was not food-hunger that drove me away. Rather it was the hunger for
consolation. That is why I went alone. One communes better with nature
when one is alone. You see, the stars will not sing for an audience, and
the trees will not whisper to a crowd. And the nymphs--ah, yes, my
friend, the nymphs are shy.”
He paused, not to contemplate her, but, perhaps, to contemplate his
thoughts.
“You are a poet,” said she, her eyes large with wonder and admiration.
“I hope so,” he answered--“I hope so.”
“You are a great poet,” she continued, with growing awe.
“I thank you,” said he. “At least I am not a prolific one.”
This brought him up to the remembrance of his epic and the reason for
his being in Paris. I think that he had been in a fair way to forget
both--he was so completely at home there at his favorite table, that
the eight years of wandering and working seemed scarcely to have
intervened.
“Ha!” he exclaimed--“that brings me to myself. I have work to do this
morning. I must see my publisher. And you, my Diane, what do you intend
to do?”
She shrugged her shoulders. What was there for her to do? He questioned
her a little. Did she desire to return home to Evremont-sur-Seine? She
did not dare. She was afraid they would not want her. But had she not
thought to return there this morning when he had met her at the Porte de
Charenton?
“Yes, monsieur,” she said in a very low voice. “I was very tired and I
had not eaten, and--and I knew that I should not be able to walk that
far. But I thought that it would be better to try.”
He looked at her searchingly. Then said he: “What you mean to say is
that you thought it would be better to drop by the roadside than to fall
into the river.”
She nodded. “Yes, monsieur. I was not happy.”
“Compassionate gods!” he cried, banging the table with his fist. “You
were not happy! There speaks Mélisande. No, indeed, you were not happy!
You were wretched, you were miserable, you were starving, and your poor
little heart was dying within you--fluttering and trembling like a
stricken bird. There, that is the city for you--that is the city’s
work.”
Here, forgetting his recent enthusiasm for that selfsame city, he
relapsed into the mood of bitterness and distrust that had driven him
from Paris eight years ago. He condemned the city and everything
connected with it--it was artificial, it was brutal, it was sordid, it
was ugly, it was selfish, it was a tyrant. It stifled the heart and it
murdered the soul.
His philippic ending as abruptly as it had begun, he reached across the
table and took her hand.
“Listen, my little one,” he said, “listen to me. You are too young and
too sweet to remain in this pest-hole. I am going to care for you from
now on--you shall be my charge. I am going to snatch you from the maw of
this monster of a city before it gets your heart and your soul as well
as your body. It will be one good deed at least credited to the account
of Ferdinand Taillandy before he dies. They can carve it on my tombstone
if they wish: ‘He plucked a flower from the mire of a Christian city and
planted it in the garden of the gods.’ Ha! That is something to have
done, is it not? And I shall revel in it. To-morrow we shall start--you
and I. To-morrow in the clean, white dawn. And I will lead you to the
garden. I will take you by the hand and show you the wide spaces of the
world; and you shall behold the sun with new eyes; and the breeze shall
blow through your unbound hair; and you shall bathe in the streams and
rest on the sweet earth and sleep dreamlessly under the singing
stars!... Will you come with me?”
She hesitated. His eloquence had her bound hand and foot, and at his nod
she would have followed him to the world’s end. She was commencing to
worship him; but she was a woman and it was a woman’s reason that made
her hesitate.
“I have nothing to wear, monsieur--” she began timidly.
He swept the objection aside with a grand gesture of his arm.
“So much the better!” he cried. “We shall travel the lighter. Will you
come with me?”
She thrilled to his enthusiasm. She was proud to be his follower.
“I will go with you anywhere,” she said, “whenever you say you are
ready.” And she gave him her two hands across the table as a pledge. He
took them, sawed them violently up and down in the air, reached over and
kissed her fraternally on the forehead.
“Good!” he said. “Meet me here for dinner at seven this evening. We will
plan. Now I go to my publisher. _Au revoir._”
Before she realized it he was out of the room; but, as suddenly, he was
back again.
“Here,” he explained, “I had almost forgotten. One must pay to live and
we shall be separated for ten hours. Take this and buy yourself some
solid boots and some thick stockings. One should be well shod to climb
Olympus.”