A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE
De Launay expressed himself as quite willing to look after most of the
details of the affair, and Solange, although capable, being more or
less ignorant, was willing to leave them to him, although with some
misgiving. The sight of that stack of saucers in the café of the Pink
Kitten remained to haunt her with distaste for the whole adventure.
She distrusted De Launay, recalling some of the more lurid tales she
had heard of his exploits. In spite of everything, he had been a
légionnaire, and légionnaires could hardly be purified even in the
fires of war. Before he arrived at her apartment to go with her to the
_mairie_ of that _arrondissement_, she was to suffer further
misgiving. Ahead of him arrived a gorgeous bouquet of lilies of the
valley and orange blossoms, and they were not artificial flowers,
either. When he arrived, looking much more respectable than she had
expected, his mustache even twisted jauntily and his clothes pressed
to neatness, she met him with accusation.
"Is it monsieur that I have to thank for--these?" she indicated the
flowers with expressive and disdainful hands. De Launay stared at
them vacantly as he stood in the door.
"I suppose it must have been," he said, meekly. "I am forgetful,
mademoiselle. You must make allowances for a broken soldier if
my--vagaries--occasionally offend you."
"It is in bad taste, to say the least, to bedeck the bride in such a
ceremony," she said cuttingly. "If I must hire a husband, he need not,
at least, forget decency and make me conspicuous. Remember that."
"The flowers," said De Launay, "are as if they had never been. I
dismiss them from the earth. With another drink or two I will cease to
recall that such things as flowers exist. Mademoiselle will command
me!"
Solange tossed the offending blossoms on the floor and walked out
ahead of him. He followed at her side but a step behind, and she
stalked with face turned forward out to the street and toward the
_mairie_. Yet, in spite of all precautions some wind of her intentions
must have got about, for more than one old woman or wounded soldier
spoke to her and uttered a blessing and good wishes as she walked
along. To all of them she returned greetings in kind, thanking them
soberly, but with a lip that trembled. De Launay, rolling behind, was
the recipient of curious and doubtful glances, as the man who was
taking their Morgan _la fée_ from them. Yet here and there a soldier
recognized him and came to a stiff salute, and when this was the case
a murmur informing others ran about, and all doubt seemed to die, the
greetings growing more cheerful and the blessings being addressed to
both of them. This annoyed Solange more than the flowers had done.
"Is it that I am honored by having this mercenary drunkard for a
husband?" she said to herself. "_Mon Dieu!_ One would think so!"
Yet she could find nothing really offensive in his attitude to the
affair, unless that he was almost too respectful. She suspected that
he had been drinking and that his air was due to the exaggeration
induced by liquor--or else, and that was worse--he was deliberately,
with drunken humor, making a burlesque of his very deference.
The signing of the contract and the ceremony before the _maire_ were
successfully completed and De Launay turned to her with a deep bow.
The _maire_, puzzled at the utterly emotionless quality of this
wedding, congratulated them formally, and Solange acknowledged it with
stiff thanks and a smile as stiff and mirthless. But it was to De
Launay that the official showed the deepest respect, and that angered
her again.
Her pride was restored somewhat after they had left the _mairie_ and
were on their way back to her rooms. A squat, swarthy individual, in
the dingy uniform of the French marines, doffed his cap and stepped
up to them, speaking to Solange in French, tinged with a broad Breton
accent.
"And is it true, Morgan _la fée_," he asked, ducking his head, "that
this man has been married to you?"
"Why, yes, it is true, Brebon," she answered, kindly. The man looked
searchingly into her face, observing the coldness of it.
"If it is by your will, mademoiselle," he answered, "it is well. But,"
and he swung his lowering head on its bull neck toward De Launay, "if
this man who has taken you should ever make you regret, you shall let
me know, Morgan _la fée_! If he causes you a single tear, I shall make
sausage meat out of him with a knife!"
Solange shook her head in protest, but just behind her she heard a low
laugh from De Launay.
"But, _mon brave_," said he, "you would find this one a tough swine to
carve!"
The Breton stared at him like a sullen and dangerous bull and moved
away, saying no more. But Solange felt cheered. There were some who
regarded her ahead of this soldier of fortune whom she had hired to
masquerade as her husband.
She had little to cheer her in the next few days before she took the
train for Le Havre. In the neighborhood where her marriage had become
known, the fact that De Launay had left her at her door and came to
see her only occasionally and then stayed but a moment was a fruitful
subject of comment. What sort of a marriage was this! Suspicion began,
gradually, to take the place of confidence in her. The women that had
been her worshiping friends now spoke behind her back, hinting at some
scandal. Nasty tales began to circulate as feminine jealousy got the
upper hand. In the presence of soldiers these tongues were silent, but
there were other males in the quarter who were not soldiers. Big,
beefy Achille Marot, who kept the butcher shop on the corner had never
been one, except in the reserve, where he had done some police duty
behind the front. And Marot was a bully, foul of mind and foul of
mouth. The whispers of the women were meat and drink to him. Solange
had seen fit to resent in a practical manner some of his freedoms. Her
poilu friends had nearly wrecked his shop for him on that occasion.
But now she was married--this was said with a suggestive raise of the
shoulders and eyebrows--and the poilus were not so much in evidence.
"Ah! what have I always said to you about this one!" Marot remarked as
Solange passed his shop on her way to her rooms one day. He was
looking out at her and smirking at Madame Ricot, the neighborhood
gossip and scold. "Is this what one calls a marriage? Rather is it
that such a marriage indicates that a marriage was necessary--and
arranged conveniently, is it not? For observe that this broken
adventurer who, as I know, was kicked out of the army in disgrace, is
not a real husband at all, as every one may see. It is reasonable to
suppose, therefore, that the affair has been arranged to hide
something, is it not?"
A hand that was like steel closed on the beefy neck of the butcher and
a calm voice behind him spoke in his ear.
"Now here is a word for you, my friend, from De Launay, the
légionnaire, and you will do well to remember it! A tongue that is
evil will win you an evil end and words that are not true will result
in your throat being cut before you know it. Realize that, Marot, my
friend, and say again that De Launay was kicked out of the army!"
"Death of a dog!" sputtered the butcher, twisting in the iron grasp on
his neck. "I will slit thy belly----"
"Thou wilt do nothing but root in the mud as is thy nature," said De
Launay and kicked him vigorously into the gutter where he did, indeed,
plow the filth with his nose. Madame Ricot uttered a shrill shriek for
the police, and Solange, who had been unconscious of it all, turned
about to see De Launay standing on the sidewalk brushing his hands
while the butcher rolled in the mud. At this moment a gendarme came
running up.
"Take that carrion and lock him up!" said De Launay, calmly. "I accuse
him of public indecency, spreading scandal and criminal slander. He
has said that I, the General de Launay, was kicked out of the army
for unmentioned crimes. I will prefer charges against him in the
morning."
"_Monsieur le général_, it shall be done," said the gendarme, with a
smart salute. He grabbed the groveling butcher and hoisted him from
his wallow. "Come along with me, Marot! I have long had my eye on
thee! And is there a charge against the woman, my general?"
Madame Ricot was gaping wide-mouthed and silent at the unexpected
result of her appeal to the forces of the law. And now she shrank
fearfully back toward the gathering crowd.
"There is no charge--as yet," said De Launay. "But she is suspected of
being a procuress and a vile scold. If it is she who has been injuring
respected reputations, I shall soon know it, and then----"
"I shall be at your service, my general," the gendarme assured him,
and, with another salute, departed, jerking the roaring Marot with
him. De Launay sauntered on, with his rolling walk, toward Solange,
who turned and walked away from him so that he did not overtake her
until they had come to her apartment.
"There is entirely too much gossip in this quarter," said De Launay,
casually, as she wheeled about at the entrance to her rooms. "It is
just as well that you are getting out of it."
"It is just as well," agreed Solange, angrily. "For if I remain here
much longer the gossip that you arouse will ruin me."
"Again," said De Launay, rather dryly, "I apologize."
Solange was left to feel at fault. She knew that she had been unjust,
but De Launay's casual ways and his very indifferent deference angered
her. Yet it could not last much longer since they were to take a train
for Le Havre that evening and sail upon the following day. De Launay
had called regarding the final arrangements.
Her passports had been secured and her passage on the _Astarte_, of
the Blue Star line, was arranged for. How this had been done she did
not inquire, remaining in ignorance of efforts spent by De Launay in
securing the intercession of the French and American military
authorities in order that she might have suitable accommodations on
the crowded liner, which was being used as a troopship. A high
dignitary of an allied nation had had to postpone his sailing in order
that Madame de Launay might travel in a first-class stateroom.
Even so, the girl, concerned chiefly with her own adventure, and
strange to the conditions existing, suspected nothing. The little
stateroom was none too luxurious, for the _Astarte_ was not one of the
best boats, and four or five years of war service had not improved
her. And she had no notion that De Launay, even for such comfort as
this, had paid an exorbitant price out of his own pocket. He had given
her the rate of the second-cabin berth, a dingy little inside
cubby-hole, which he himself occupied.
The voyage was long and slow and dull. The swarming troops and
military men crowded the ship to embarrassing fullness and Solange
kept mostly to her cabin. She saw little of De Launay, who had not the
run of the upper decks as she had, though his rank was recognized and
he was made free of the lounge where the military men congregated. She
heard somewhat of him, however, and what she heard angered her still
more. It was chiefly in the line of gossip and conjecture as to why
Madame de Launay, who seemed to be distinguished because she _was_
Madame de Launay, should be traveling alone, first class, while the
famous soldier shared a stuffy hole in the wall with a Chicago
merchant. The few women aboard, nurses, Y. M. C. A. workers, welfare
workers on war missions, picked up the talk among the officers and
passed their curiosity on to Solange through stewardesses and maids.
Every one seemed to think it strange, and Solange acknowledged that it
was strange--stranger than they thought. But the thing that rankled
was the fact that the assiduous care of the stewardess, her very
obsequiousness, seemed to emanate from De Launay. It was because she
was De Launay's wife that she was a figure of importance--although
she pictured him as a discredited mercenary who was even now,
probably, indulging his bestial appetite for liquor in the officers'
lounge and boasting of his exploits to a congenial audience.
Her one consoling thought was that it could not last much longer.
True, New York would not mean the last of him since he was to
accompany her to her destination, but that should not take long. Once
at Sulphur Falls, which she understood to be her final railroad
station, he could be relegated to his proper place.
Something like this did happen, though not in the measure she
anticipated. They landed in New York on a chill, rainy day, and De
Launay appeared at the gangway with his usual rolling gait, as though
half intoxicated, eyes half closed and indifferent. His bow was almost
mocking, she thought, with the flash of irritation that he always
aroused in her. Other passengers looked at him curiously and at
herself with some wonder, whispers running among them. Behind her veil
she flushed, realizing that her own personality was not so much the
subject of interest as his. She was uncomfortably aware that he was a
striking figure, tall and handsome in spite of his careless demeanor
and slouching walk. It was all the more reprehensible that such a man
should make so little of himself.
But De Launay led her through the customs with a word that worked
like magic and soon had her in a taxicab. He took her to a small and
good hotel, not at all conspicuous, and saw that she was properly
taken care of and supplied with American currency. Then, as she turned
to follow the bell boy to her rooms, he bowed again. But she hesitated
a moment.
"May I ask," she said, with some contrition roused by his care of her,
"where you are going?"
"To my usual haunts, mademoiselle," he answered, carelessly. "But I
shall be within reach. To-morrow afternoon the train leaves for the
West. I will see that everything goes well."
"See that it goes well with you," she answered, a little tartly, "if
not for your own sake, then for mine."
"Things go--as they go, with me," he answered, with a shrug. Solange
turned away, but she felt somewhat more kindly toward him.
In part this was due to the fact that she was no longer overshadowed
by him. The hotel clerks knew nothing of him. As soon as he passed
without the zone of military activities, he became nothing and no one.
They only knew that they had been liberally tipped to afford Madame de
Launay every service and comfort, and, as her appearance was striking
and distinguished, they rendered the service with an impressive
enthusiasm. From this point on De Launay took his rightful place as a
mere appanage.
When they left New York Solange was apparently in full control and De
Launay a mere courier. Used to short European trips, it did not occur
to her that the price for which she secured drawing-room
accommodations on the Twentieth Century Limited was ridiculously low,
and as De Launay had proved capable of handling such matters, and she
was a stranger, she gladly and unquestioningly left such things in his
hands. He, himself, had a berth in some obscure part of the train and
remained there. The maid and the porter of her car hovered around her
with solicitude, and she became very favorably impressed with the
kindliness and generosity of America, extended, apparently, without
thought of reward.
At Chicago De Launay again showed himself in what she supposed was his
true light. He had seen her to a hotel for the two or three hours they
had to wait there and had escorted her back to her train again. While
she was settling herself in her compartment she chanced to look out of
the window before the train left the station and perceived her escort
conversing with an individual who was not prepossessing. It was a
short, broad man, dressed roughly, wearing boots covered by his
trousers and with a handkerchief knotted about his neck. He wore a
wide-brimmed, high-crowned felt hat, old and battered, its brim
curled disreputably at all angles. She perceived that, after a few
words together, this fellow and De Launay appeared to be on the best
of terms, shaking hands cordially, conversing with much laughter and
an occasional slap on the back. Finally the man, in the shelter of a
truck loaded with baggage, produced a bottle from his hip pocket and
offered it to De Launay who, with a preliminary salute, lifted it to
his mouth. After which he wiped the neck of it with his hand and
passed it back, the man duplicating his action.
The train was about to start and, with a few hilarious farewells, they
parted and De Launay rolled in her direction while the other tramp
strolled away at a gait very much like the general's. Two of a kind,
she thought, bitterly; two ruffians who were hail-fellow-well-met--and
she was married to one of them! A soldier of France, a distinguished
general, to descend to this level! It was almost inconceivable.
But the train started and the long journey began.
Hour after hour the landscape flashed past the windows. Day faded to
night, and Solange slept as best she could on the reeling train. In
the morning she awoke to pass another weary time of gazing from the
windows at the endless checkerboard of prairie farms rolling past,
divided into monotonous squares by straight, dusty roads, each with
its house and big red barn forming an exact replica of every other.
She ate and dozed, tried to read a magazine but found the English more
than usually difficult to understand, though ordinarily she read it
with facility. Now her thoughts were in French and they persisted in
coming back to her mission and to the man who accompanied her.
Another long, almost endless day of blatant sun and baked, brown
prairie, passing by almost imperceptible degrees into wide plains,
flat and dry, cut by wire fences here and there, but no longer
checkerboarded in a maddening monotony of pattern. No longer did the
houses and red barns succeed one another at exact intervals. In fact
they seemed to have almost disappeared and had changed their
character, such of them as she saw. They were rough, unpainted board
affairs, for the most part, with here and there a more pretentious
edifice. But in any case they were scarce and far apart. Low,
grass-roofed dugouts also were to be seen at times, but, generally
speaking, the view presented almost nothing but an endless vista of
rolling, baked plain, covered with scattering grass and dusty gray
sage.
And then, far ahead, a dim blue line against the horizon, the
mountains appeared. When she awoke in the morning they were rolling
majestically through wild gorges under towering peaks clad in snow.
Pines and firs shaded the slopes, and the biting, rare air of the
peaks burned her lungs. She forgot De Launay, forgot the depression
that had grown upon her with the realization of the immensity into
which she was plunging, and felt her spirit soaring in exhilaration
and hopes of success. Mountain born and bred, she reacted buoyantly to
the inspiration of the environment. The preposterous nature of her
quest, a realization of which had been growing upon her, as the
endless miles unrolled before her, was forgotten. She felt at home and
at ease in the rugged hills, capable of doing anything she set out to
do, no longer fettered with the binding restrictions of civilization
and no longer bound by the cold laws of probability.
She wanted to summon De Launay, to point out to him the glories of the
landscape and to let its purity and strength sink into him for the
salvation of his manhood. But he remained aloof, lost, she surmised,
in the buffet, drinking illicit liquor with disreputable boon
companions.
Then, in time, they passed the mountain rampart, though they never
again got entirely out of sight of it, and descended into other
desolate plains, broken here and there by patches of green and fertile
land where villages and farms stood. Beside a leaden, surging inland
sea, across a vast plain of alkali, plunging through enormous gorges
cut out of the solid, towering rock, they entered mountains again, and
again shot out onto barren plains, now, however, rusty brown and rough
with broken and jagged lava. Another night was descending when, with
defiant shrieks of the whistle, the train shot out upon a vast bench
and, with flickering electric lights flashing past the windows, and
glass reflecting back its blazing stack, it rolled with tolling bell
into a station. The porter appeared.
"Sulphuh Falls, ma'am! Hoyeah's whah you gits off!"
Then De Launay lurched into view behind the porter and she felt a
sudden revulsion against the thrill of interest and anticipation that
had seized her.