The unexpected is the salt of life--enough or too much as the case
may be. The Chef who arranges this mortal mess of ours is not always
to be trusted in the matter of seasoning--or, indeed, of
seasonableness: perhaps he has too many conflicting tastes to
consider. Still, one would rather chance encountering the unexpected
in excess than be without it altogether. Let me start and shudder in
an occasional briny spasm, if saltless insipidity is to be the sole
alternative. I would sooner be a man and fear shadows than be a god
and command them. Think of the boredom of an existence beyond the
reach of thrills!
_Toutes choses peut on suffrir qu’aise._ Well, the Fates were kind to
me as a rule in the respect of too much ease; and here was a rare new
instance of their favouritism. I hoped to prove myself worthy of it.
I was up early, getting ready the rolls and coffee. The baker left the
former at my door; the latter was my particular province. I had no
plans for the day beyond the present plan of breakfast; but I was
prepared for anything, in reason or out of it.
I was laying the table leisurely in the salle-à-manger, when, to my
surprise, my visitor walked in on me. I had not for a moment supposed
her risen, or indeed even aware that such an hour as seven o’clock in
the morning existed outside dreams; but it was evident that my
estimate of the haute monde needed some readjustment. Perhaps there
_was_ a faintest suggestion of shamefacedness on the smooth cheeks, of
apology in the eyes.
“I was so hungry,” she said, “and I couldn’t wait any longer.”
So she had waited, implying a yet earlier toilette! I could only
assume that the martinet of the Hôtel Beaurepaire, including a
deprivation of sleep in his scheme of tortures, had habituated this
poor victim of his to a premature wakefulness. Yet the languor that
remained to her eyes appeared rather their indelible characteristic
than the dust of slumber.
“No need to in the world,” I said. “Your will is my law. If I forgot
to mention it, I entreat you to understand now that in placing all
that is mine at your disposal I meant to include the least of my
possessions, myself.”
“I do not think you mean that,” she said.
“Mean what?”
“To estimate so low such a sum of perfections. What has become of the
universal genius who masters all he touches?”
It was uttered quite impassively. I opened my eyes. So the badinage
was not to be all mine. There was something here unsuspected, a hint
of activities hardly suggested by that soft indolence of look and
gesture. Was this to prove a smouldering fire, only damped down, as
they say, by circumstance? I was warned, at least, to look out for my
fingers.
“He is here all the same,” I said. “Only he counts as his great
possessions the work of his own hands. He did not make himself, you
see, or he might think better of the result.”
“Well,” she said, “the great work of his hands that concerns me just
now is breakfast.”
She sat down at the table, and I served her with an elaborated
respect, the pleasant irony of which seemed quite thrown away upon
her. She dipped her roll and ate her brioche entirely unembarrassed,
and at the end turned to me with calm enquiring eyes.
“We had better talk together now, had we not?”
“I daresay I shall not be the worse for postponing my own breakfast,”
I said, with futile sarcasm. “Will you go and make yourself
comfortable in the other room. The _Matin_ and the _Petit Journal_
should be on the mat outside. I will get them for you.”
She was ensconced in the only comfortable chair by the window when I
returned.
“You have a very sweet view, Monsieur,” she said. “It is like being a
sparrow up here among the tree-tops.”
“Or a swallow under the eaves,” I said. “I am of the migratory order,
Cousin.”
She lifted her eyebrows a little, at that.
“Pardon me,” I said, leaning back against the piano--for I possessed
an indifferent instrument: “but I think we must be consistent. It
should be either the whole fiction or none at all. You know I told you
I didn’t favour half measures; and if we are to feign familiarity we
should use its terms.”
“You said,” she answered, “that there was no danger.”
“I did,” I said frankly; “but that was before I had had an opportunity
of studying you.”
“Yes--and now?”--the eyebrows went up again.
“Now--the instincts of class are so strong in you--I think to avoid
the risk of self-betrayal, you had better let me appear your cousin in
fact.”
“You mean, you are not to defer to me, not to show any knowledge
of--of my rank? But, when we are alone----”
“It is the question of the habit. Once acquired, accident might
surprise one into a blunder before witnesses.”
“Why should there be any?”
“There shall not be, if I can help it. But it is best to guard against
contingencies.”
She yielded the point reluctantly, and with evident disappointment.
“Very well,” she said. “Call me Cousin, if you must.”
“The truth remains to our hearts,” I said. “Subconsciously, you shall
still be Countess, and I your faithful commoner. It is really a
compromise, if you would know. My step-sister’s directions to me were
to call you Fifine.”
She bit at her little round lower lip, as if in a sudden flush of
resentment.
“I will not be Fifine to you,” she said. “That is positive.”
“You will be to me what I find in you,” I answered--“just that and no
more. It may be anything or nothing; but you will not know, whatever
name I call you by. Still, ‘cousin’ is a good workaday title, and we
will agree to compromise on that.”
She rounded her eyes at me.
“You are very rude and very peremptory all of a sudden.”
“No. Only wise in my trust, Cousin. When I accepted it, I accepted it
on its professed merits. Perhaps you might, if you would, put a
different complexion on those. You must remember that until yesterday
I had hardly known of your existence, save in an abstract way; and
then suddenly this business was exploded on me. I should like, now we
have settled down to it, some confirmation of its details from your
lips--as, for instance, the fact of your personal peril. Do you
_really_ go in fear for your life?”
She had dropped her eyes, and sat silently, sullenly perhaps,
wreathing her fingers together.
“I should like an answer,” I said.
She looked up quickly--defiantly, I thought.
“Yes,” she said--“your tone, I know perfectly well, is full of mockery
and derision; but he would have me killed if he knew where I was.”
I drew in my breath a little, still, I am afraid, incredulous.
“Very well,” I said. “Whatever my tone may be, your belief shall be my
law. But then comes in another question. Any port, we know, in a
storm; hence this descent on the Rue de Fleurus. But, now we have had
time to breathe and look around----”
She broke out passionately:--
“You are afraid; you want to get rid of me. Very well, I will go.”
Actually she rose; but I stopped her.
“Where to?”
“Anywhere--I do not know--only away from a coward.”
“Now, is that consistent?” I said. “You first accuse me of
incredulity, and then of fearing a bogey I don’t believe in. I gave my
promise to Marion, to hold you in pledge until redeemed, and I have no
intention of breaking my promise. You might know of safer
quarters--some friend’s, say--where I could still continue my
trust--that was my sole meaning. You do not? Very well. Now sit down
again. It is only of your reputation I am thinking. If you are ready
to confide it to me----”
Her bosom heaved heavily once or twice. She looked me in the face.
“Why not?” she said.
“That is for you to say,” I answered. “I know no reason, on my honour.
Is that enough?”
She seemed to think awhile, frowning and pouting her lips.
“It is enough for me,” she said suddenly, with a resolved challenge in
her eyes.
“Bon!” I nodded, and signed to her to be seated, a direction which,
after a moment, she obeyed. “Then we have only to think of your
temporary needs here.”
“I have plenty of money,” she said. “I do not ask to be your debtor
for anything.”
“Then you shall not be,” I responded, “unless, perhaps, for the one
thing you cannot help.”
“What is that?”
“Can you not guess? Then it shall remain my secret. And now about the
material commodities. Am I to buy them for you--or what?”
She thought awhile, then looked up.
“Can I trust you?”
“With the money?”
“No; with the choice.”
“What is it you require?”
She gave a little deprecating laugh, with a tiny protest of the
shoulders.
“Not, at least, what I found on my pillow last night.”
“What--Ah, very true! I was afraid they were too large.”
“They smelt of tobacco--pouf!”--she made a wry face.
“I swear they were clean from the wash.”
“I daresay. But there was a coat where they had lain--an old
coat--_for I looked_.”
“Well, you had carte-blanche. And--now I remember: I had lost that
coat, an old, old friend that I valued.”
“He must have died, I think, of senile decay. I would let his memory
rest.”
“That is not my way of honouring old friends.”
“What would you, then? Set him up in a field for the crows to
reverence? At least remove him from my room.”
_My_ room! But this young woman was beginning to interest me.
“It shall be done,” I said. “In fact I will empty out my whole
wardrobe for yours to take its place. If you will only tell me what to
get.”
She stood up.
“You know very well for one thing, Monsieur. For its quality, and that
of all the rest, you will be guided, if you please, by your knowledge
of my position.”
I bowed, with profound gravity.
“It is necessary, I suppose,” I said, “first to take your
measurements. I should guess your height at five foot six, and your
waist at twenty-two inches.”
She looked surprised. “That is very accurate. How do you know?”
“I am a sculptor, Cousin, and, I pray God, an artist. My eyes have had
to train themselves to a nice perception of proportions.”
“C’est la?” She exclaimed it, with the pretty understanding of French
lips, and stuck out her foot. “What size for that, then?”
“If I fail to fit it,” I said, “call me an impostor.”
But dismay was in my heart. What did all this suggested elaborate
outfit, from shoes to nightgear, portend? Surely something more than a
flying visit. “Perhaps you had better write me out a list,” I said
weakly.
She frowned a little; then proceeded to comply. It was a shorter list,
when finished, than I had dared to hope.
“Now,” I said, with the thing in my hand, “I will pay for these
articles, and bring you the bills, and you can settle with me. I shall
lock you in, you understand, and leave word with the Concierge that
nobody is to be sent up; and if, in spite of that, accident should
bring a knock to my door, you are not to answer it--not to respond to
any voice, unless by chance it should be my step-sister’s.”
She nodded. “The important thing is, I hope your choice will justify
your claim to be thought an artist. But we shall see.”
To be _thought_ an artist! I ran down the stairs like an infuriated
lamplighter.