A TRAVELLING ACQUAINTANCE
Her words were so unexpected that for a moment or two I was
speechless. On the whole, I scarcely felt that I deserved the cold
contempt of her voice or the angry flash in her eyes.
"I am afraid I don't understand you," I said. "If you refer to the
fact that I was watching you with some interest at that moment, I
suppose I must plead guilty. On the other hand, I object altogether to
the term 'impertinence.'"
"And why do you object?" she asked, looking at me steadily, and
beating with her little hand the arm-rest by her side. "If your
behavior is not impertinence, pray what is it? We meet at the Opera.
You look. It is not enough for you that you look once, but you look
twice, three times. You come out on to the pavement to hear the
address which my uncle gives the chauffeur. We go to a restaurant for
supper, where only the few are admitted. You are content to be
brought by a waiter, but you are there! You travel to England by the
same train,--you walk up and down past my compartment. You presume to
address me upon the boat. You give a fee to the guard that he should
put us in your carriage. Yet you object to the term 'impertinence'!"
"I do," I answered, "most strongly. I consider your use of the word
absolutely uncalled for."
She looked across at the sleeping man. He was breathing heavily, and
was evidently quite unconscious of our conversation.
"Your standard of manners is, I am afraid, a peculiar one," she said.
"In Paris one is used always to be stared at. Englishmen, I was told,
behaved better."
She took up a magazine and turned away with a shrug of the shoulders.
I leaned a little further forward in my place, and lowered my voice so
as not to disturb the sleeping man.
"You are really unjust to me," I said. "I will plead guilty to
noticing you at the Opera House, but I did so as I would have done any
well-dressed young woman who formed a part of the show there. So far
as regards my visit to the Cafe des Deux Epingles, I went at the
suggestion of Louis, whom I met by accident, and who is the _maitre
d'hotel_ at my favorite restaurant. I had no idea that you were
going to be there. On the contrary, I distinctly heard your companion
tell your chauffeur to drive to the Ritz. I came on this train by
accident, and although it is true that I spoke to you as I might have
done to any other travelling companion, I deny that there was anything
in the least impertinent either in what I said or how I said it. So
far as regards your coming into this carriage," I added, "I feed the
guard to keep it to myself, and although I will not say that your
presence is unwelcome, it is certainly unsought for."
She was silent for a moment, watching me all the time intently. My
words seemed to have given her food for thought.
"Listen," she said, leaning forward. "Do you mean to say that that was
your first visit to the Cafe des Deux Epingles?"
"Absolutely my first visit," I answered. "I met Louis by accident that
night. He knew that I was bored, and he took me there."
"You met him at the Opera and you asked him who we were," she
remarked.
"That is quite true," I admitted, "but I scarcely see that there was
anything impertinent in that. Afterwards we spoke together for a
little time. I told him that I was alone in Paris and bored. It was
because I was alone that we went out together."
Her forehead was wrinkled with perplexity. Her eyes seemed always to
be seeking mine, as though anxious to learn whether I were indeed
speaking the truth.
"I do not understand at all," she said. "You mean to tell me, then,
that you know nothing of Louis except as a _maitre d'hotel_, that
you were a chance visitor to Paris this week?"
"Absolutely," I answered.
Suddenly a thought seemed to occur to her. She drew away from me. In
her eyes I seemed to see reflected the tragedy of those few moments in
the Cafe des Deux Epingles.
"How can I believe you?" she exclaimed. "Remember that I saw you
strike that man! It was horrible! I have never seen anything like it!
You were like a wild animal! They tell me that he was very badly
hurt. Is it true?"
"I believe so," I answered. "I am afraid that I hope so."
"And you," she continued, "go free! You have not even the air of one
who flies for his life. Yet you tell me that you are not one of
those--those--"
"Those what?" I asked eagerly.
"Those who frequent the Cafe des Deux Epingles," she said
slowly,--"those who take advantage of the peculiar protection which
some of those behind the scenes there are able to extend to their
friends."
I shook my head.
"I know nothing of the place beyond that brief visit," I answered. "I
know nothing of Louis except as a _maitre d'hotel_ in my favorite
restaurant. I know nothing of the people who frequent the Cafe des
Deux Epingles except those I saw there that night. You," I added,
"were one of them. I can assure you that when I went with Louis to
that place I had not the slightest idea that I should meet the person
whom I did meet."
"What is your name?" she asked abruptly.
I handed her my card. She read it with a perplexed face. The man
opposite to her moved uneasily in his sleep. She crumpled the card up
in her hands and remained for a few moments apparently deep in
thought.
"You are an Englishman?" she asked, after a short pause.
"Decidedly!" I answered.
"I have not known many Englishmen," she said slowly. "I have lived in
the country, near Bordeaux, and in Paris, most of my days. It is very
certain, though, that I have never seen an Englishman like you. I was
looking into your eyes when that man came into the room. I saw you
rise to strike him."
She shuddered. I leaned across towards her.
"Listen," I said, "I do not wish you to think me worse than I am. You
sympathize with that man whom I struck down. You look upon me as a
sort of would-be assassin. You need not. I tell you, upon my honor,
that if ever a man in this world deserved death, he deserved it."
"From you?" she asked.
"From me!" I answered firmly. "It was not, perhaps, a personal matter,
but I have a brother,--listen, mademoiselle!" I continued. "He is a
cripple. He was thrown from his horse--he was master of hounds in
those days--and he has never been able to walk since. He was married
to a woman whom he loved, a poor girl whom he had made wealthy, and to
whom he had given a great position. She loved him, and she was
content, after his accident, to give her life to him. Then that man
came, the man whom you saw me punish. I tell you that this was no
chance affair," I went on. "He set himself deliberately to win her
heart. How far he succeeded I do not know. I can only tell you that
she left my brother's home with him. The man was his guest at the
time,--was his guest from the beginning of the affair."
The girl's eyes blazed. Even in that dim light I could see the dark
blue fire in them.
"You did well!" she said. "For that I have no more to say. One who
wrongs the helpless should be punished. But I do not understand
this," she added. "I do not understand why those people at the Cafe
des Deux Epingles should shield you when you are not one of
them,--when you have no knowledge of any of them save the very
slightest. They are not philanthropists, those people. Some day or
other you will have to pay the price!"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"I have never refused to pay my just debts," I said. "If any one of
them comes to me with a definite request which I can grant, you may be
very sure that I shall grant it."
"You are not already their servant, then?" she asked. "You are sure,
quite sure of that?"
"In what way?" I asked.
"You look honest," she said. "Perhaps you are. Perhaps I have doubted
you without a cause. But I will ask you this question. Has it been
suggested to you by any of them that you should watch us--my uncle and
me?"
"On my honor, no!" I answered earnestly.
She was evidently puzzled. Little by little the animosity seemed to
have died away from her face. She looked at the sleeping man
thoughtfully, and then once more at me.
"Tell me," she said,--"do not think, please, that I am inquisitive,
but I should like to believe that you are not one of those whom we
need fear,--is Louis indeed an ordinary acquaintance of yours?"
"He is scarcely that," I answered. "He is simply the _maitre
d'hotel_ at a restaurant I frequent. I had never in my life seen
him before, except in his restaurant. When he spoke to me at the Opera
I did not for some time recognize him."
She appeared to be convinced, but still a little bewildered. She was
silent.
"Don't you think," I said, after a short pause, "that it is almost my
turn now to ask a few questions?"
She seemed surprised.
"Why not?" she asked.
"Tell me, you are not English," I said, "and you are not French. Yet
you speak English so well."
She smiled.
"My father was a Frenchman and my mother a Spaniard," she answered. "I
was born in South America, but I came to Europe when very young, and
have lived in France always. My people"--she looked towards the
sleeping man as though to include him--"are all coffee planters."
"You are going to stay long in London?" I asked.
"My uncle sells his year's crops there," she answered. "When he has
finished his business we move on."
"Will you tell me, then," I asked, "why you, too, were at the Cafe des
Deux Epingles? You admit that it is the resort of people of mysterious
habits. What place had you there?"
She looked away from me for a moment. My question seemed to disconcert
her, perhaps by reason of its directness.
"Well," she said, "my uncle has lived for many years in Paris. He
knows it as well as the Parisians themselves. He has always had a
taste for adventure, and I fancy that he has friends who are
interested in the place. At any rate, I have been there with him two
or three times, and he is always welcome."
"From what I have heard," I remarked, "I should imagine that you and I
are the only people who have been allowed to go there without
qualifications."
She glanced as though by accident at the sleeping man opposite. Then,
as though conscious of what she had done, a spot of color burned in
her cheeks. Since the anger which had first inspired her to speech had
died away, her manner had been a little shy. I realized more and more
that she must be quite young.
"Perhaps," she answered. "I do not understand the place or its
habitues. I only know that while one is there, one must be careful."
"Tell me," I asked, "what are you going to do in London while your
uncle looks after his business?"
"Amuse myself as best I can, I suppose," she answered
carelessly. "There are always the shops, and the theatres in the
evening."
"Where are you going to stay?" I inquired.
"At the Milan, I think," she answered.
Somehow her answer to my question struck me as ominous. To the Milan,
of course, where Louis was all the time predominant! The girl might be
innocent enough of all wrong-doing or knowledge of wrong-doing, but
could one think the same of her uncle? I glanced at him instinctively.
In sleep, his features were by no means prepossessing.
"I may come across you, then," I ventured.
She smiled at me. It was wonderful what a difference the smile made
in her face. To me she seemed at that moment radiantly beautiful.
"It would be very pleasant," she said. "I know no one in London. I
expect to be alone a great deal. You live in London?" she asked.
"As much there as anywhere," I answered. "I have never settled down
since I sent in my papers."
"Why did you do that?" she asked.
"I was badly knocked about at Ladysmith," I answered, "and I could not
get round in time. I haven't altogether finished soldiering, though,"
I added. "At least, I hope not."
"But where do you call your home, then?" she asked timidly.
"I am not one of those fortunate persons who possess one," I
answered. "I spend a great deal of time in Norfolk with my brother,
and I have just a couple of rooms in town."
The train had slackened speed. All around us was a wide-spreading arc
of yellow lights. The clearness had gone from the atmosphere. The
little current of air which came in through the half-open window was
already murky and depressing.
"It is London?" she asked.
"We shall be there in ten minutes," I answered, looking out.
She leaned over and waked her uncle. He sat up drowsily.
"We shall be there in ten minutes," she said.
"So soon!" he answered. "Do you know on which side we arrive, sir?" he
asked me.
"On your side," I answered.
He rose to his feet, and commenced to wrap a scarf around his neck.
"You will be smothered," the girl remarked.
"I am cold," he answered, in a low tone. "I am always cold after I
have crossed the Channel. Besides, it is the damp air. You, too, will
find it so in London, Felicia. You must be careful."
Already he was peering out of the window into the darkness. I could
not help wondering whether it was sea-sickness alone which was
responsible for his haggard features, for that grim look of covert
fear which seemed to have settled around his mouth and eyes. To me he
seemed like a man who is about to face the unknown, and who fears!
The train began to slacken pace. We drew into the station. I noticed
that a man was standing by himself at this remote end of the platform,
and that as we passed he seemed to look intently into our carriage.
"Can I be of any service to you?" I asked the girl, as I collected my
small belongings. "I suppose, though, that your uncle is used to the
journey."
She glanced towards the man opposite. He turned to me, and I found his
appearance almost terrifying. He seemed to be suffering from more than
physical sickness.
"I thank you, sir," he said rapidly. "You could, if you would, be of
immense service."
"I should be delighted," I answered. "Tell me in what way?"
"I am exceedingly ill," the man said, with a groan. "I suffer from
heart attacks, and the crossing has altogether upset me. If you could
remain with my niece while our luggage is examined, and send her
afterwards to the Milan Hotel, you would do a real favor to a sick
man. I could myself take a hansom there without waiting for a moment,
and get to bed. Nothing else will do me any good."
I glanced across at the girl. She was watching her uncle with
distressed face.
"If you will allow me," I said, "it will give me very great pleasure
to look after you. I am going to the Milan myself, and I, too, have
luggage to be examined."
"It is very kind of you," she said hesitatingly. "Don't you think,
though," she added, turning to her uncle, "that I had better go with
you? We could send a servant for the luggage afterwards."
"No, no!" he objected impatiently. "I shall call at the chemist's. I
shall get something that will put me right quickly."
"It is settled, then," I declared.
Apparently Delora thought so. The train had scarcely come to a
standstill, but already he had descended. Avoiding the platform, he
crossed straight on to the roadway, and was lost amidst the tangle of
cabs. I turned to the girl, affecting not to notice his extraordinary
haste.
"We will have our small things put into an omnibus," I said. "There
will be plenty of time afterwards to come back and look for our
registered luggage."
"You are very kind," she murmured absently.
Her eyes were still watching the spot where her companion had
disappeared.