"Landry," Chester said next day, bringing back the magazine barely half
an hour after the book-shop had reopened, "that's a true story!"
"Ah, something inside tells you?"
"No need! You remember this, near the end? '_Poor Mingo had failed
[to escape]; if I ever tell of him it must be at another time_.'
Landry, it's so absurd that I hardly have the face to say it; I've
got--ha-ha-ha!--I've got a manuscript! and it fills that gap!" The
speaker whipped out the "Memorandum"; "Here's the story, by my own
uncle, of how the three got over the border and how Mingo failed. I'd
totally forgotten I had it. I disliked its beginning far more than I
did 'Maud's' yesterday. For I hate masks and costumes as much as Mr.
Castanado loves them; and a practical joke--which is what the story
begins with, in costume, though it soon leaves it behind--nauseates me.
Comical situation it makes for me, this 'Memorandum,' doesn't
it--turning up this way?"
Ovide replied meditatively: "To lend it, even to me, would seem as
though you sought----"
"It would put me in a false light! I don't like false lights."
"It would mask and costume you."
"Why, not so badly as if I were really in society; as, you know, I'm
not! The only place where any man, but especially a society man, can
properly seek a girl's society is in society. The more he's worthy to
meet her, the more hopelessly--I needn't say hopelessly, but
completely--he's cut off from meeting her any other way. Isn't that a
gay situation? Ha-ha-ha!"
"You would probably move much in society, even Creole society, without
meeting mademoiselle; she has less time for it than you."
"Is that so?"
Cupid, the evening before, had carried a flat, square parcel like a
shop's account-books to be written up under the home lamp. Staring at
Landry, Chester rather dropped the words than spoke them: "Think of it!
The awful pity! For the like of her! Of her! Why, how on earth--?
No, don't tell! I know what I'd think of any other man following in
her wake and asking questions while hard fortune writes her history. A
girl like her, Landry, has no business with a history!"
"Mr. Chester."
"Yes?"
"Has that 'Memorandum' never been printed? I can find out for you, in
_Poole's Index_."
"Do it! It's good enough, and it's named as if to be printed. See?
'The Angel of----'"
"Then why not have Mr. Castanado, while selecting a publisher for
mademoiselle's manuscript, select for both?"
Chester shone: "Why--why, happy thought! I'll consider that, indeed
I will! Well, good mor'----"
"Mr. Chester."
"Well?"
"Why did you want that new book yesterday?"
"I've met that nice old man the book calls 'the judge,' and he's coaxed
me to break my rules and dine with him, at his home uptown, to-night."
"I'm glad. Madame, his wife, was my young mistress when I was a slave.
I wish her granddaughter and his grandson--they also are married--were
not over in the war--Red Cross. You'd like them--and they would like
you."
"Do they know mademoiselle?"
"Indeed, yes! They are the best of her very few friends. But--the
Atlantic rolls between."
Chester went out. In the rear door Ovide's wife appeared, knitting.
"Any close-ter?" she asked over her silver-bowed spectacles.
"Some," he said, taking down _Poole's Index_.
She came to his side and they placidly conversed. As she began to
leave him, "No," she said, "we kin wish, but we mustn' meddle. All any
of us want' or got any rights to want is to see 'em on speakin' terms.
F'om dat on, hands off. Leave de rest to de fitness o' things, de
everlast'n' fitness o' things!"