XXXIIIPARIS, 1918—HADDON AND AMES
SO far as Dicky was concerned, the things of great moment in his experience in France all happened in the fall of 1918. He was in Paris at the end of that shocking summer, and found a letter from Nagar which reiterated that the curtain could not rise on the Drama of India until Great Britain was through fighting in France and the land of the Euphrates.... He was stopping at theGaronne. There was a knock at his room door one afternoon and voices outside. It was Haddon and Ames, correspondents out of New York, and they wanted money. Haddon talked first:
“... He’s off his head and in a mess. He mentioned your name. He says he sniffed some gas out in the vineyards somewhere in April, and can’t get over it. Either that, or the family he’s fouled up with is feeding him ground glass.”
“Who’s this you’re talking about?” Cobden asked, though he had heard the name.
“Melton—done some magazine stories,” said Haddon.
“You say he mentioned my name?”
“His French father-in-law picked on me first,” Ames put in. “Just happened. I’m at theCharente, where a lot of Americans are putting up. Told me a long storyof wrongs to his only child—a female child now married to Author Melton. Mentioned your name——”
“He was gassed?” Dicky repeated.
“He says he was,” said Haddon. “It’s an operation case, all right. Melton will have to be cut out of that French house.”
“I don’t know whether it’s gas in my case or not,” Dicky said, “but the fact is I am not rightly aboard this conversation.”
“The idea is to get aboard with some American currency,” said Ames. “American in trouble—fellows all willing to help a little. Up to somebody to get the fool out. Father picked on me——”
“Let me get this straight,” Dicky heard himself saying, though all he wanted under heaven at this moment was to be alone.
Ames was one of the best Washington correspondents in the American press, a fact-getter extraordinary, who had a semi-inspired way now and then of putting down his stuff. He was fifty, a friend of John Higgins and weathered to a fuzzy gray like a fence board. Just now he bluffed out his embarrassment by speaking of one of Melton’s stories which Dicky was professionally familiar with:
“A short story in one of the weeklies—calledDr. Filter—hell of a good story.... It’s nothing to me,” Ames finished. “Only the kid’s an American, and he’s tight up against one of Paris’ prettiest ways.”
Haddon took up the tale:
“The Frenchman’s name is Ducier. Melton’s beenliving at his house—mixed with the daughter—forced to marry. Now Parent Ducier says the least he can do is to get a living for himself out of it—hard times.”
“Actually married?” Dicky asked.
“Showed me the passport,” said Ames. “I couldn’t get a word alone with Melton. He can’t leave his bed. One of the family always in the room.”
Dicky was straining so hard that he resisted easy comprehension. It was an intense moment. There was more talk.
“Of course, whatever you want from me——” Dicky broke in.
“What you can spare,” Haddon said. “The parents ask twenty thousand francs, but they’ll take half that easy. Just now the boy’s too sick to escape.”
“Count on me for at least half of whatever it costs,” Dicky said.
Haddon’s eyes widened. Ames looked astonished.
“I’ve heard Cobden is rich, Ames,” Haddon explained.
The gray one came closer and examined Dicky’s face. “I heard it, too,” he said. “You really mean this?”
“I would give you the amount now, but I understand that you aren’t sure what it will be. I know Melton. I’m glad to help, of course.”
“I’ve heard you were rich, too,” Ames repeated slowly. “But I didn’t believe it.”
“Why not?”
“You’re too good a newspaper man,” said Ames.“I didn’t think a man could have real money and be as good a newspaper man as you.”
Dicky hardly heard the tribute. The two men were leaving. That was the important thing.... He was alone. An intermittent geyser was at work within him. Every few minutes a surge of hot hope boiled up in his breast. It threatened to deluge him. Out of all the year’s work was netted at this time one bit of working knowledge, as Nagar might have called it, that he mustnotbe deluded by this hope! He tried to cork it up; failing in that he stood as still as he could in the midst of the surges. Gradually, he got the thing in hand, but it was bitter work, this refusing to take the first real breath of life he had known for years.
He found himself in twilight. The day had slipped off, while he struggled alone. His forehead was clammy with the effort going on. To go back into that dreary hopelessness, and not be able to think out the reason why! The force that he had to work with now came from the painful mistake he had made in working for reward before; from the shock of that realization in the red room, that underneath everything, he had counted on his virtue being crowned with Pidge somehow coming across.
Now the fight changed. Persistently in the depths of him grew an awareness that he had not done the full task called of him merely in offering Ames money. This point became so ugly and evident—that he had to laugh. More and more, as moments sped on, it facedhim squarely. He had no sentimentalism to tide him over; his emotions stayed ice cold.
“But it’s like a fool Sunday-school story!” he muttered.
Then again the words broke from him: “But living God, suppose she doesn’t want the bundle back! Suppose she’s been trying to lose it, and here I am running after her, saying, ‘You’ve dropped something, Madame——’”
But he couldn’t budge.
Full dark was in the room when he rung Ames at theCharente:
“I’ve been thinking over this thing, Mr. Ames, and I’m asking a favor——”
“Yes,” came coldly across the town. Ames believed he was trying to wriggle out of his promise to pay half.
“I’ve come to the conclusion that this thing is up to me—the whole business, and I’ll thank you very much for Mr. Melton’s present address.”
“No. 16, Rue de Belville, Villancourt.” The tones had warmed.
“Thanks. I’ll report to you presently,” Cobden said.
“Sure you don’t want me—or one of us to go along with you?” Ames persisted.
“I’ll see what I can do alone first, if you don’t mind.”