Ronsard held it out. "Daudet might have done better in phrasing, but
even he could have made the meaning no plainer."
Pierre at the window gave a sound of derision, and was still.
The count sipped daintily at his coffee, and offered some to the cat,
who, mindful of recent indignity, turned her head. Lifting the
diaphanous screed, he read it once more carefully, studying, it would
seem, each separate word.
Pierre raised one delicate hand and tapped on the window-frame the
rhythm of an air from Carmen. Still Ronsard gave no sign.
"Well, your Excellency, is this all you can remark?" he cried, whirling
about as the strain threatened to become unbearable. "Has the father
confessor nothing but the husks of literary comparison to offer?"
"Softly, my son. Another written communication will, in a moment, be
with you. This time it will be a chit, a legitimate chit, in a bright
new leather book."
"You are pleased to be enigmatic."
"Non,--you flatter. There should be no enigmas to a diplomat. This
correspondent,--" here he waved the sheet airily,--"has been at work on
his creation since the time of dawn. There are full three hours between
his first ink and his last. Miss Onda, on the contrary, writes with ease
and skill. Her letter of announcement went to Miss Todd. It will soon
come to you."
"How, in God's name, do you think such things?" cried Pierre, in
reluctant admiration.
"I seldom think them. They are obliging enough to come to me," said
Ronsard, with a deprecating gesture, and sank back to an attitude of
waiting.
Pierre stared on, half fascinated. There was something sphinx-like about
the man,--a gelatinous sphinx, not quite congealed into certainty.
Ronsard did not resent the stare. He met it once or twice, smiling, with
slight twinkles, or, to be more accurate, slight blinks, of his small
pale eyes. He looked now as if he might soon purr, like the cat.
"Ah," he murmured at length, with a slight upward gesture of one hand.
"The servant-bell again. Your chit, Monsieur. A hundred francs upon it."
"Done," said Pierre. He too listened eagerly.
As they wait, in listening silence, the reader may as well be initiated
into the mysteries of the "chit."
In all foreign communities of the Far East, but particularly in those
where English influence prevails, three hybrid words become part of the
daily vocabulary. The first is "tiffin," the second "amah," the third
and most important, "chit."
Doubtless there are persons who know the origin of the last. I do not.
Literally, it means a written message sent by a native runner. The
foreign shops in the Far East abound in chit-books, made, most of them,
in Manchester. They can be found in paper, cloth, or leather bindings.
The "élite" tend toward Russia leather with a crest or monogram stamped
in gold. Chit-books are to social life what check-books are to fiscal.
The letter, note, or present comes accompanied by the inevitable
"chit-book." The recipient is supposed to sign his name, and the hour,
as in a telegram. This duty, in point of fact, is very soon relegated to
the head butler, or the ingratiating "amah," a laxity which has produced
more than one lawsuit and countless domestic scandals.
Tsuna, in due time, appeared with a large black leather book,
aggressively and odorously new, a gold spread-eagle on the back. The
envelope it accompanied was large and blue. It bore Pierre's name in the
clear handwriting of Miss Todd.
The count signed the book and whispered Tsuna to remain just outside the
door.
Before opening the new missive, Pierre threw himself into a chair, his
face turned partly away from Ronsard. The latter picked up a rustling
Paris newspaper, and over its quivering upper edge watched the smooth
cheek of Pierre, his left ear, and the strip of pink neck showing over
an immaculate collar.
Out of the folds of the blue letter fell a smaller one of white. This
was addressed to Gwendolen. At sight of it the young man's heart gave a
sick throb. He hid this in his coat, until the other should have been
read.
"I send you this note of Yuki's in the original, because I want
you to see more in the changed handwriting than in the formal
words. I am not going to insult you by trying to say anything
now, except that I am sorry. I sympathize with your trouble more
deeply than you will, perhaps, believe. Come to me when you
will. I shall say nothing but kind things. It is a wide gulf of
race and of inherited ideals between you and Yuki. No love could
hold the arch of a bridge quite so wide. But remember her poor
little aching heart! There! I am, as usual, doing just what I
vowed I wouldn't do. Oh, Pierre, I am sorry for you,--sorry,
sorry! The world doesn't seem a very bright place, this morning,
does it? I have been scolding a yama-buki bush that insists upon
opening in our garden; but the flowers just laugh in my face. It
is an unsympathetic universe! Your friend,
"GWENDOLEN."
Pierre held Yuki's letter long before reading it. A breath of her subtle
personality must have clung to the scrap, for he inhaled from it a new
bitterness, a new anguish. With a groan as of physical suffering he
threw himself forward, put elbows on his knees, and deliberately forced
himself to read, in rigid silence, the following note:
"MY DEAR GWENDOLEN, who has been my only sister,--Your telegram
having arrived, and Prince Hagané having come to me in person to
speak of my duties and the opportunity he could give me at once
in this time of trouble and war, I have myself willingly
consented to be his wife. I am forced by nobody. You do not
think badly of me for this, but some other will think very
badly. Oh, please to speak kind and soothing things to that
other. His grief is my aching always sorrow. I care not at all
for my own, but I care very much for his. He will think me
wicked and unfaithful to have broke so solemn pledge, but at the
time of breaking I did not seem to myself wicked. We do not know
how things sometimes have happened. But this has now happened to
me. Ask him to forgive me. The marriage is to be held very soon;
in fact, on Wednesday of the coming week. According to Japanese
custom I must now be very secluded until that ceremony, not even
seeing my sister, which is you. I believe Prince Hagané is to
take me after to Kamakura. I do not care where he take me. Oh,
Gwendolen, love your Yuki and pray for her to be strong. Always
before I have been weak at a crisis. I must not now ever be
weak. If pity can be held toward me in Pierre's heart, beseech
him to leave Nippon. Your strangely feeling but loving,
"YUKI."
He let the sheet flutter sidewise to the floor, his eyes absently
following. When it was quite still, the address being uppermost, he
leaned nearer. "Miss Gwendolen Todd, American Legation, Azabu, Tokio,"
he read, his lips moving as he formed the words. "Miss Gwendolen Todd,"
he began, directly, reading again and again. A hand fell gently on his
shoulder. "Is there to be an answer, Pierre?"
Pierre shook his head.
"You will retain the enclosed letter?"
Pierre nodded.
The count went tip-toeing to the door, and returned to Tsuna the
pretentious chit-book. Pierre was apparently fixed in an attitude of
melancholy.
"Can these letters have told you anything worse?" questioned the gentle
voice.
"Yes," said Pierre, dully. "It is worse. She is to be married next
Wednesday,--and with her own consent. She wishes it. Next Wednesday."
Ronsard did not answer. He was trying to look sad.
"Wednesday, I tell you," repeated Pierre, now lifting bloodshot eyes.
"Next Wednesday! Five days! This is Friday, is it not? Yes." He stopped
now to count the days on shaking fingers. "Five more days and she will
be his wife. That woman I love,--that pure flower to whom even my
honorable devotion seemed desecration! She will lie in that old man's
arms,--she will be his wife! God! _God!_ Man!" he screamed, striking the
table with one frantic fist, and then rising to hurl himself in torment
about the room, "don't stand there screwing into my brain with your
fishy eyes! Have you ever known love--do you understand jealousy--have
you heard of--hell?"
"At your age I knew all three," said Ronsard, calmly. "I went through
all, and I live, I eat, I intrigue, I am happy. So shall it be with you,
madman!"
Pierre threw back his head in a rude clamor, meant for laughter. He was
passing near Ronsard at the instant. The elder man reached out and
caught his wrist. "Now, Pierre Le Beau, stand still and hear what I have
to say!"
At the tone of command, rather than the physical detention, Pierre stood
still, wondering.
"This is the best thing that could possibly happen to you. Yes, be
quiet. You shall listen. I've endured sufficient childish railing for
one day! It is infinitely the best thing for you--for your mother--for
me--for France! I have a diplomatic secret to whisper. That old man
Hagané--for once in his life a fool--may be sent at any moment to review
the campaign in Manchuria. He and his generals may be great, but
Kuropatkin is greater. Do you know what that may mean to you? Ah, I
thought so; at the hope of some personal reward you flicker back to
sanity. What are the honor and glory of France to such effete
sensualists as you? Bah,--it sickens me! And yet, since some day you may
become men, you must be dealt with. Hagané, in his supreme
self-confidence, urged on, doubtless, by Onda, dares marry this young
girl, though he knows her to be in love with you! Will you destroy her
love, fool, by smothering it in her contempt? Hagané goes to Manchuria.
His young wife mourns,--hélas! I see her weeping in his absence. There
are secrets spoken in the nuptial chamber,--documents left in charge of
the pretty chatelaine. Pierre, Pierre, celestial revenge hangs like ripe
fruit to your hand, let her marry Hagané,--let her love you! Do not
revile or scorn her. Wait--wait!"
His eyes, twinkling like those of a snake, crawled up Pierre's face to
his shrinking gaze. His fat hand still clutched with a grasp that
burned. Pierre tried to draw away. Again the repulsion, the fascination
in this man battled for his reason. "Wait!" whispered Ronsard once
again, and turned.
Pierre felt himself released. He stood motionless. His wrist stung as if
a sea nettle had lashed it. He looked helplessly around as though
searching for something he could not recall. His eyes fell on Yuki's
letter. He staggered toward it, snatched it from the floor, pressed it
against parched lips, and then, falling on his knees beside the chair,
burst into a passion of grief.
"Come," whispered Ronsard to the cat. "Come, chérie. We will leave poor
Pierre awhile. It is more delicate, n'est-ce pas?"