whether or not you will come is something for you to decide. It is less
trouble to cook eggs for one than for two."
Bibi-la-Raie reflected briefly. Finally he had recourse to his
characteristic shrug.
"After all, what difference?" he said. "As well now as another time. I
follow thee!"
The strangely assorted companions entered Cazeby's apartment as the
clock was striking one, and pressure of an electric button, flooding the
salon with light, revealed a little tea-table furnished with cigarettes
and cigars, decanters of Scotch whiskey and liqueurs, and Venetian
goblets of oddly tinted glass. Cazeby shot a swift glance at his guest
as this array sprang into view, and was curiously content to observe
that he manifested no surprise. Bibi-la-Raie had flung himself into a
great leather chair with an air of being entirely at ease.
"Not bad, thy little box," he observed. "Is it permitted?"
He indicated the table with a nod.
"Assuredly," said Cazeby. "Do as if you were at home. I shall be but a
moment with the supper."
When he returned from the kitchen, bearing a smoking dish of bacon and
eggs, butter, rye bread, and Swiss cheese, Bibi-la-Raie was standing in
rapt contemplation before an etching of the "Last Judgment."
"What a genius, this animal of a Michel Ange!" he said.
"Rather deft at times," replied Cazeby, arranging the dishes on the
larger table.
"Je te crois!" said Bibi, enthusiastically. "Without him--what?
Evidently, it was not Léon Treize who built Saint Pierre!"
The eggs had been peculiarly obstinate, as it happened, and a growing
irritability had taken possession of Anthony. As they ate in silence,
the full force of his tragic position returned to him. Even the
unwontedness of his chance encounter with Bibi-la-Raie had not wholly
dispelled the cloud that had been gradually settling around him since he
emerged from the Automobile Club, and, as they finished the little
repast, he turned suddenly upon his guest, in a burst of irritation.
"Who are you?" he said. "And what does all this mean? Was I mistaken,
when you first spoke to me, in thinking you a mere voyou? Surely not!
You meant to rob me. You speak the argot of the fortifications. Yet here
I find you discoursing on Michel Angelo as though you were the
conservateur of the Uffizzi! What am I to think?"
Bibi-la-Raie lit another cigarette, blew forth the smoke in a thin, gray
wisp, and thrust his thumbs into the arm-holes of his velveteen
waistcoat.
"And _you_," he said, slowly, abandoning the familiar address he had
been using, "who are _you_? No, you were not mistaken in thinking I
meant to rob you. Such is my profession. But does a gentleman reply, in
ordinary, to the summons of a thief by paying that thief a drink? Does
he invite him to his apartment and cook a supper for him? What am _I_ to
think?"
There was a brief pause, and then he faced his host squarely.
"Are you absolutely resolved to put an end to it all to-night?" he
demanded.
Cazeby made a small sign of bewilderment.
"Ah, mon vieux," continued the other. "That, you know, is of no use with
me. You ask me who I am. For one thing, I am one who has lived too long
in touch with desperate men not to know the look in the eyes when the
end has come. You think you are going to blow out your brains to-night."
"Your wits are wandering; that's all," said Cazeby, compassionately.
"Oh, far from it!" said Bibi-la-Raie, with a short laugh. "But one does
not fondle one's revolver in the daytime without a good reason, nor
does one leave it _on top_ of letters postmarked this morning unless one
has been fondling it--quoi?"
Cazeby was at the marqueterie desk in two strides, tugging at the upper
right hand drawer. It was locked. He turned about slowly, and, half
seating himself on the edge of the desk, surveyed his guest coolly.
"The revolver is in your pocket," he said.
"No," answered Bibi, with an air of cheerfulness. "I have one of my own.
But the key is."
"Why?" said Cazeby.
Bibi helped himself to yellow chartreuse, and appeared to reflect.
"I am not sure that I know why, myself," he said finally. "Perhaps,
because you have done me a kindness and I would not like to have you
burn your fingers in a moment of absent-mindedness. Perhaps, because we
might disagree, and I should not care to take the chance of your
shooting first!"
He squinted at the liqueur, swallowed it slowly and with extreme
appreciation, smacked his lips, and then, cocking his feet up on
Cazeby's brass club fender, began to smoke again, staring into the
dwindling fire. His host watched him in silence, until he should be
ready to speak, which he presently began to do, with his cigarette
drooping from the corner of his month and moving in time to his words.
He had suddenly and curiously become a man of the world--of the grand
monde--and his speech had shaken off all trace of slang, and was tinged
instead with the faint club sarcasm which one hears in the glass
card-room of the Volney or over coffee on the roof of the Automobile.
Moreover, it was beautiful French. Not Mounet himself could have done
better.
"The only man to whom one should confide personal secrets," said
Bibi-la-Raie, "is he whom one has never seen before and will, as is
probable, never see again. I could tell you many things, Monsieur
Cazeby, since that is your name,--I have seen your morning's mail, you
know!--but, for the moment, let it suffice to say that the voyou who
accosted you this evening is of birth as good as yours--pardon, but
probably better! _Wein, weib, und gesang_--you know the saying. Add
cards and the race-course, and you have, complete, the short ladder of
five rungs down which I have been successful in climbing. I shall
presume to the extent of supposing that you have just accomplished the
same descent. One learns much thereby, but more after one has reached
the ground. In many ways I am afraid experience has made me cynical, but
in one it has taught me optimism. I have found, and I think I shall
continue to find, that there is always something worth looking into
around the next corner of even the darkest street. The rue des Sablons,
for instance. It was very dark to-night, very damp, and very cold.
Assuredly, as I turned into the avenue d'Eylau I had no reason to
foresee a supper, Russian cigarettes, and chartreuse jaune. And yet, me
voilà! Now what most of us lack--what you, in particular, seem to lack,
Monsieur Cazeby--is the tenacity needful if one is to get to that next
turning."
"There are streets darker than the rue des Sablons," put in Anthony,
falling in with the other's whimsical humor, "and that have no turning."
"You speak from conjecture, not experience," said Bibi-la-Raie. "You
can never have seen one."
He glanced about the room, with the air of one making a mental
inventory.
"First," he added, "there come the pawnshop, the exterior boulevards,
the somewhat insufficient shelter of the Pont Royal. No, you have not
come to the last corner."
"All that," said Cazeby, "is simply a matter of philosophy. Each of us
has his own idea of what makes life worth the while. When that is no
longer procurable, then that is the last corner."
"For instance--?"
"For instance, my own case. You have analyzed my situation sufficiently
well--though when you said I was about to blow out my brains"--
"It was a mere guess," interrupted Bibi, "founded on circumstantial
evidence. Then I _thought_ so. Now I _know_ it."
"Let us grant you are right," continued Cazeby, with a smile. "I have my
own conception of what I require to make existence tolerable. It
includes this apartment, or its equivalent, a horse, two servants, two
clubs, and a sufficient income to dress, eat, entertain, and amuse
myself in the manner of my class,--an extravagant and unreasonable
standard, if you will, but such is my conviction. Now, granted that the
moment has come when it is no longer possible for me to have these
things, and when there is no prospect of my situation being bettered, I
cannot conceive what advantage there can be in continuing to live."
"I perceive you are a philosopher," said the other. "How about the
religious view?"
Cazeby shrugged his shoulders.
"As to that," he said, "my religious views are, so far as I know, stored
away in the little church which I was forced to attend three times on
every Sunday of my boyhood. They did not come out with me on the last
occasion, and I have never met them since."
"Excellent!" said Bibi. "It is the same with me. But I think you are
mistaken in your conviction of what makes life worth living. I had my
own delusions in the time. But I have had a deal of schooling since
then. There are many things as amusing as luxury--even on the exterior
boulevards. Of course, actual experience is essential. One never knows
what one would do under given conditions."
He turned suddenly, and looked Cazeby in the eye.
"What, for example, would you do if you were in my place?" he asked.
"As you say, one never knows," said his host. "I _think_ that, in your
place, I should improve the opportunity you find open, and carry out
your late and laudable intention of robbing Monsieur Antoine Cazeby. I
may be influenced by my knowledge that such a proceeding would not
irritate or incommode him in the least, but that is what I think I
should do.
"I shall not need these things to-morrow," he added, indicating his
surroundings with a gesture. "You were quite right about the pistol. As
to your prospective booty, I regret to say that I spent my last sixty
centimes on our cognac, but there is a remarkably fine scarf-pin on the
table in my dressing-room."
"A sapphire, surrounded by black pearls," put in the other. "You were
rather long in cooking those eggs."
"A sapphire, surrounded by black pearls," agreed Cazeby. "Yes, upon
reflection, I am quite sure that that is what I should do."
Bibi-la-Raie smiled pleasantly.
"I am glad to find we are of one mind," he said. "Of course, mine was
made up, but it is more agreeable to know that I am causing you no
inconvenience. I suppose it is unnecessary to add that resistance will
be quite useless. I have the only available revolver, and, moreover, I
propose to tie you into this extremely comfortable chair. It is not," he
added, "that I do not trust you, although our acquaintance is,
unfortunately, too recent to inspire complete confidence. No, I have my
convictions as well as you, Monsieur Cazeby, and one of them, curiously
enough, is that, in spite of appearances, I am doing you a kindness in
putting it out of your power, for tonight, at least, to do yourself an
injury. Who knows? Perhaps, in the morning, you may find that there is
something around the next corner, after all. If not, there is no harm
done. Your servants come in early?"
"At seven o'clock," said Anthony, briefly.
"Exactly. And I will leave the key in the drawer."
Bibi was expeditious. When he had bound Cazeby firmly, and with an art
that showed practice, he disappeared into the dressing-room, returning
in less than a minute with the sapphire scarf-pin and several other
articles of jewelry in his hand.
"I should like to add to these," he said, going to the book-case, "this
little copy of Omar Khayyám. He is a favorite of mine. There is
something about his philosophy which seems to accord with our own.
But--'the bird of time has but a little way to flutter'"--He paused at
the door.
"Can I do anything for you before I go?" he inquired politely.
"Be good enough to turn off the light," said the other. "The button is
on the right of the door."
"Good-night," said Bibi-la-Raie.
"Good-night,--brother!" said Cazeby.
Then he heard the door of the apartment close softly.
Anthony was awakened from a restless sleep by the sound of its opening.
Through the gap between the window draperies the gray light of the
winter morning was creeping in. His wrists and ankles were aching from
the pressure of the curtain cords with which he had been bound, and he
was gratified when, after a brief interval, the salon door was opened in
its turn and the invaluable Jules came in, in shirt-sleeves and long
white apron, carrying a handful of letters.
That impassive person was probably never nearer to being visibly
surprised. For a breath he stopped, and the pupils of his round eyes
dilated like those of a cat in a dim light. But his training stood him
in good stead, and when he spoke his voice was as innocent of emotion as
if he had been announcing dinner.
"Monsieur desires to be untied?"
Left to himself, Cazeby turned his attention to his letters, and from
the top of the pile picked up a cablegram. He was still reflecting upon
the singular experience of the night, in an attempt to analyze his
present emotions. Was he in any whit changed by his enforced reprieve?
He was glad to think not. Above all minor faults he abhorred vacillation
of purpose. No, his situation and his purpose remained unaltered. But he
was conscious, nevertheless, of an unwonted thrill at the thought that,
but for the merest chance, it would have been for others to open the
envelope he was even now fingering. Jules would already have found
him--he wondered, with the shadow of a smile, whether Jules would still
have been unsurprised!--and would have brought up the concierge and the
police--
Suddenly the cable message jumped at him through his revery as if, at
that moment, the words had been instantaneously printed on what was
before blank paper, and he realized that it was from his father's
solicitor.
Mr. Cazeby died eight o'clock this evening after making will your
favor whole property. Waiting instructions.
MILLIKEN.
Anthony straightened himself with a long sigh, and, putting aside the
curtain, looked out across the mansardes, wet and gleaming under a thin
rain. His hand trembled a little on the heavy velvet, and he frowned at
it, and, going across to the table, poured himself out a swallow of
brandy.
With the glass at his lips he paused, his eyes upon the chair where
Bibi-la-Raie had sat and wherein he himself had passed five hours. Then,
very ceremoniously, he bowed and dipped his glass toward an imaginary
occupant.
"Merci, monsieur!" he said.
[Illustration]
The Only Son of His Mother
IN the limited understanding of Pépin dwelt one great Fact, in the
shadow of which all else shrank to insignificance, and that Fact was the
existence of Comte Victor de Villersexel, the extremely tall and
extraordinarily imposing person who was, first of all, Officier de la
Légion d'Honneur, second, Membre de l'Académie Française, and, lastly,
father to Pépin himself. It must be acknowledged that to the more
observing of his limited kinsfolk and extensive acquaintance the clay
feet of Pépin's idol were distinctly in evidence. How he had contrived
to attain to the proud eminence which he occupied was, in the earlier
days of his publicity, a matter of curious conjecture and not
over-plausible explanation. Certainly no inherent merit or ability it
was which formed the first step of the stairway he had climbed. In
diplomacy the Comte de Villersexel had never bettered his first
appointment as second secretary of legation at Belgrade; in literature
his achievements were limited to one ponderous work on feudalism,
remarkable chiefly for its surpassing futility; and in society his sole
claim to consideration lay in his marriage to a Brazilian heiress, who
had died within the year, leaving her husband an income of two hundred
thousand francs--and Pépin. In all this it was difficult to find a
sufficient reason for the crimson button and the green embroidered coat,
unless it was that the family of de Villersexel went back to the
Crusades. That is not always a prudent thing for a family to do, but the
present instance was an exception.
Born to the heritage of a name which his predecessors had made notable,
Comte Victor was one of those whose greatness is thrust upon them
rather than achieved, one of the bubbles in the ferment of Paris which
their very levity brings to the top, to show rainbow tints in the
sunlight of publicity. It is probable that no one was more surprised
than de Villersexel himself at the honors which fell to his share, but
one thing even the most contemptuous had, perforce, to concede. Once
secure of his laurels, he wore them with a confidence that was akin to
conviction. His reserve was iron-clad, his dignity stupendous. It
required considerable time for new acquaintances to probe the secret of
his insufficiency. Victor de Villersexel was, as the irreverent young
military attaché at the American Embassy once said of him, "a dazzling
imitation of the real thing."
But to Pépin the idol was an idol without flaw. Through what shrewd
appreciation of occasional words and chance comments he had contrived to
grasp the significance of that speck of scarlet upon the Count's lapel
and that apparently simple phrase, "de l'Académie Française," which, in
formal introductions, was wont to follow his father's name, must be
numbered among childhood's mysteries. But before he was seven, Pépin
had solved these problems for himself, and the results of his reasoning
were awestruck admiration and blind allegiance to the will of this
wonderful creature who never smiled. His own small individuality was so
completely overshadowed by that of his father that in the latter's
presence the child was scarcely noticeable, dressed in his sober
blouses, and creeping about the stately rooms of the great apartment in
the avenue d'Iéna with an absolutely noiseless step. He was all brown,
was Pépin: brown bare legs, and brown hands, very small and slender,
brown hair, cropped short and primly parted, and deep brown eyes,
eloquent of unspoken and unspeakable things. He was earnest, his tutor
said, earnest and willing, but not bright, poor Pépin! He spoke English,
to be sure, with a curious accent caught from his Cornish nurse, but
that was due not so much to ability as to enforced association. In his
French grammar and such simple arithmetic as was required of him he was
slow and often stupid. But he was rarely scolded, and never punished.
Once, indeed, the Comte had been about to strike him for some trifling
fault, but somehow the blow, for which Pépin stood waiting, never fell.
"He is like his mother," the légionnaire had muttered, as he turned
away, "an imbecile--but"--
Pépin, catching the unfinished phrase, grew sick with a great
discouragement, mingled with profound pity for the man before him. It
must be a dreadful thing for one so famous to be the father of an
imbecile! From that day on the child was more inconspicuous than before.
Deliberately affected in the first instance, what was known in society
as de Villersexel's "academic manner" came in course of time to be
second nature. Practice made perfect the chill reserve which was
originally assumed as a precaution against possible discovery of his
vapidity; and as the image of what the academician had been, before his
election, grew dimmer in society's recollection, his impressive
solemnity, barely disguised by a veneer of superficial courtesy, did not
fail of its effect. He was spoken of as a man in whom much lay below the
surface, and his more recent acquaintances coupled their estimate of his
character with the proverbial profundity of still waters, and the
familiar gloved fist of steel. Others, more observant, smiled at the
similes, but did not go to the pains of proving them ill applied. One of
the most characteristic things about the Comte de Villersexel was that
he inspired neither championship nor antagonism.
With all this, he was consistent, with that curious obstinacy which is
sometimes made manifest in the shallowest natures. His rôle, once
assumed, was, as we have said, played to perfection and never laid
aside. The domestic threshold, which is, for the majority of men, a kind
of uncloaking room, saw never an alteration, even of voice or
expression, in his pose. The household affairs were regulated with
almost military precision, and once a day, at noon, Pépin and his father
met in the large salon,--the Comte in his tall satin stock and frock
coat, and Pépin fresh from the careful hands of his nurse. They shook
hands gravely, and then waited in silence, until the maître d'hôtel
announced breakfast,--
"Ces messieurs sont servis!"
What meals they were, to be sure, those déjeuners, solemnly served, and
more solemnly eaten, under the rigid observation of three menservants;
de Villersexel, with his thin lips, his cold eyes, and his finely
pointed gray mustache, barely moving save to raise his fork or break a
morsel from his roll, and Pépin, all brown, perched like a mouse on the
edge of a great chair, and nibbling at tiny scraps of food with downcast
eyes!
At the very end, as the Comte was about to push back his chair, he would
invariably raise his glass of champagne and Pépin his, wherein a few
drops of red wine turned the Evian to a pale heliotrope, and together
they would glance toward the full-length portrait which hung above the
mantel.
"Ta mère!" said the Comte.
"Maman!" replied Pépin.
And so they drank the toast of tribute to the dead.
After breakfast, the father would read for an hour to the child, and
Pépin, seated on another large chair, would listen, perfectly
motionless, striving desperately to understand the long sentences which
fell in flawlessly pronounced succession from the Academician's lips. De
Villersexel had a fairly clear recollection of what books had been the
companions of his childhood, and these he purchased in the rarest
editions, and clothed in the richest bindings, and read to Pépin: only
his remembrance did not extend to a very distinct differentiation
between seven and fifteen, for it was at the latter age that he read
"Télémaque" to himself, and at the former that he read "Télémaque" to
his son.
Then would come a second formal handshake, and Pépin, pausing an instant
at the door to make a slow, stiff bow, would creep off down the long
corridor to the nursery, and the Comte turn again to his papers with a
consciousness of paternal duty done.
How Pépin contrived to spend the long hours which his daily walk and his
short lessons left at his disposal, only Pépin knew. He talked rarely
with the servants,--"a thing," his father told him, "that no gentleman
would wish to do;" and other children never entered at the de
Villersexel door, "for," said the Comte, "children sow unfortunate ideas
and spread disease."
But there were compensations. One was the full-length portrait over the
chimney-piece in the dining-room. Pépin had no conception of how great
was the signature it bore, or of the fabulous sum which it had cost, but
he knew it was very beautiful, and, besides, it was his mother,--the
sad-eyed, pale dream-mother he had never seen.
The portrait of the Comtesse de Villersexel had been one of the
sensations at the Salon of seven years before. The young Brazilian was
represented at the moment when the bow left the strings of her violin,
and on her lips and in her eyes yet dwelt the spirit of the music she
had been playing. A clinging gown of ivory-white silk emphasized rather
than hid the lines of her figure, of strangely girlish slenderness, but
straight and proud as that of a young empress. In its frailty lay the
keynote of the portrait's charm. It was like a reflection in clear water
that a touch might disturb, or a young anemone that a breath might
destroy,--not a picture before which people disputed and proffered noisy
opinions, but one which imposed silence, like the barely audible note of
a distant Angelus. It stood before the memory of its original, as it had
been a spirit, finger on lip, at the doorway of a tomb.