THE GOLDEN WINDMILL
THE GOLDEN WINDMILL
At the top of the hill the party halted. It had been a long trek up and the sun was hot. Monsieur Roget fanned himself with his hat, and his eye alighted on a large pile of cut fern-leaves.
“But this will suit me admirably!” he remarked, and he plumped his squat little figure down, and taking out his large English pipe he began to stuff tobacco into it.
“My little one,” said his stout wife, “I should not advise you to go to sleep. You know that to do so in the afternoon always gives you an indisposition.”
“Oh, la la! No, no, no. I do not go to sleep, but—this position suits me admirably!” he replied.
“Oh, papa, papa! ... lazybones!” exclaimed his pretty daughter Louise. “And if we leave you, you will sleep like a dormouse.”
“It is very hot!” rejoined the father.
“Leave him alone,” said Madame Roget, “and we will go down to that place that looks like an inn, and see whether they will sell us milk. Where is Lisette?”
“Lisette! Where should she be?”
And of course it was foolish to ask. Lisette, the younger daughter, had been lost in the wood on the way up, with herfiancé, Paul Fasquelle. Indeed, theparty had all become rather scattered. It is a peculiarity of picnics. Monsieur Roget’s eldest son, Anton, was playing at see-saw with his three children on the trunk of a fallen tree. His wife was talking to Madame Aubert, and occasionally glancing up to exclaim:
“Careful, my darlings!”
Monsieur Roget was left alone.
He lighted his pipe, and blinked at the sun. One has to have reached a mature age to appreciate to the full the narcotic seductiveness of good tobacco on the system, when the sun is shining and there is no wind. If there is wind all the pleasant memories and dreams are blown away, but if there is no wind the sun becomes a kind, confidential old fellow. He is very, very mature. And Monsieur Roget was mature. He was fifty-nine years old, given to corpulence, rather moist and hot, but eminently comfortable leaning against the pile of ferns. A glorious view across the woods of Fontainebleau lay stretched before him, the bees droned in the young gorse, his senses tingled with a pleasurable excitement, and, as a man will in such moments, he enjoyed a sudden crystallized epitome of his whole life. His struggles, and failures, and successes. On the whole he had been a successful man. If he died to-morrow, his beloved ones would be left in more than comfort. Many thousand francs carefully invested, some house-property in the Rue Renoir, the threecomestiblesestablishments all doing reasonably well.
Things had not always been like that. There had been long years of anxiety, worry and even poverty.He had worked hard and it had been a bitter struggle. When the childrenwerechildren, that had been the anxious time. It made Monsieur Roget shudder to look back on it. But, God be praised! he had been fortunate, very fortunate in his life-companion. During that anxious time, Madame Roget had been patient, encouraging, incredibly thrifty, competent, resourceful, a loyal wife, a very—Frenchwoman. And they had come through. He was now a proud grandfather. Both his sons were doing well, and were married. Lisette was engaged to a very desirable young advocate. Of Louise there need be no apprehension. In fact, everything....
“Name of a dog! that’s very curious,” suddenly thought Monsieur Roget, interrupting his own pleasant reflections.
And for some minutes he could not determine exactly what it was that was curious. He had been idly gazing at the clump of buildings lower down the hill, whither his wife and daughter had gone in search of milk. Perhaps the perfume of the young gorse had something to do with it, but as he looked at the buildings, he thought:
“It’s very familiar, and it’s very unfamiliar. In fact, it’s gone wrong. They’ve been monkeying with that gable on the east side, and they’ve built a new loft over the stables.”
But how should he know? What was the gable to him? or he to the gable? He drew in a large mouthful of smoke, held it for some seconds, and then blewit out in a cloud round his head. Where was this? When had he been here before? They had driven out to a village called Pavane-en-Bois, and from there they had walked, and walked, and walked. He may have been here before, and have come from another direction....
“Oo-eh!”
Monsieur Roget was glad that he was alone when he uttered this exclamation, which cannot convey what it is meant to in print. Of course, across there on the other side of the clearing was the low stone wall, and the reliquary with the figure of the Virgin, and doubtless at the bottom of the slope the other side would be—the well!
It was exactly on this spot that he had met Diane—God in heaven! how long ago? Ten, twenty, thirty.... Exactly thirty-seven years ago!
And how vividly it could all come back to one!
He was twenty-two then, a slim young man—considered elegant and rather distinguished-looking by some people—an orphan, without either brothers or sisters, the inheritor of a quite substantial competence from his father, who had been a ship-broker at Marseilles. He had gone to Paris to educate himself and to prepare for a commercial career. He was a serious young man, with modest ambitions, rather moody and given to abstract speculations. Paris bewildered him, and he used to escape when he could, and seek solitude in the country. At length he decided that he must settle down to some definite career, and he became articled to afirm of chartered accountants: Messrs. Manson et Cie. He took rooms at a quietpensionnear the Luxembourg, and there fell in love with his patron’s daughter, Lucile, a demure and modest brunette. The affair was almost settled, but not quite. Monsieur Roget, even in those days, was a man who never put his leg over the wall till he had seen the other side. He was circumspect, cautious, and there was indeed plenty of time.
And then one day he had found himself on this identical hillock. He could not quite clearly remember how he came to be there. Probably he had come for the day, to escape the clamor of Paris. He certainly had no luggage. He was seated on this spot, dreaming and enjoying the view, when he heard a cry coming from the other side of the low stone wall. He jumped up and ran to it, and lo! on the other side he beheld—Diane! The name was peculiarly appropriate. She was lying there on her side like a wounded huntress. When she caught sight of him she called out:
“Ah, monsieur, will you be so kind as to help me? I fear I have sprained my ankle.”
Paul Roget leapt the wall and ran to her assistance. (The thought of leaping a wall now made him gasp!) He lifted her up, trembling himself, and making sympathetic little clucks with his tongue.
“Pardon, pardon! very distressing!” he murmured, when she stood erect.
“If monsieur will be good enough to allow me to rest my hand on his shoulder, I shall be able to hop back to theauberge.”
“With the greatest pleasure. Allow me.”
On the ground was an upturned pail. He remarked:
“Would it distress mademoiselle to stand for one minute, whilst I re-fill the pail?”
“Oh, no, no,” she exclaimed. “Do not inconvenience yourself.”
“Then perhaps mademoiselle will allow me to return for the pail?”
“Oh, no, if you please! My father will do it.”
She leant on his shoulder and hopped a dozen paces.
“How did it happen, mademoiselle?”
“Imbecile that I am! I think I was dreaming. I had filled the pail and was descending the embankment when I slipped. I tried to step across the pail, but caught my foot in the rim. And then—I don’t know quite what happened. I fell. It is the other ankle which I fear I have sprained.”
“I am indeed most desolated. Is it far to the inn?”
“You see it yonder, monsieur. It is perhaps ten minutes’ walk, but twenty minutes’ hop.”
She laughed gayly, and Monsieur Roget said solemnly:
“If I might suggest it—I think it would be more comfortable for Mademoiselle if she would condescend to place her arm round my neck.”
“It is too good of you.”
They proceeded another hundred paces in silence, and then rested against a stile. Suddenly she gave him one of her quick glances, and said:
“You are very silent, monsieur.”
“I was thinking—how very beautiful the day is.”
As a matter of fact, he was not thinking anything of the sort. He was in a fever. He was thinking how very beautiful, adorable, attractive this lovely wild creature was hanging round his neck. He had never before adventured such an experience. He had never kissed Lucile. Women were an unopened book to him, and lo! suddenly the most captivating of her sex was clinging to him. He felt the pressure of her soft brown forearm on the back of his neck. Her little teeth were parted with smiles, and she panted gently with the exertion of hopping. Her dark eyes searched his, and appeared to be slightly mocking, amused, interested.
“If only I might pick her up and carry her,” he thought, but he did not dare to make the suggestion.
Once she remarked:
“Oh, but I am tired,” and he thought she looked at him slyly.
The journey must have occupied half-an-hour, and she told him a little about herself. She lived with her father. Her mother had died when she was a baby. It was quite a small inn, frequented by charcoal-burners and woodmen, and occasionally by visitors from Paris. She liked the country very much, but sometimes it was dull—oh, dull, dull, dull!
“Ah, it is sometimes dull, even in Paris!” sighed Monsieur Roget.
“You must come and speak to my father, and take a glass of wine,” she remarked.
In the forecourt of the inn the father appeared.
“Hullo!” he exclaimed. “What is all this?”
He was a rubicund, heavy-jowled gentleman, who by the wheezy exhalations coming from his chest gave the impression of being a chronic sufferer from asthma. Diane laughed.
“I have been through fire and water, my dear,” she said, “and this is my deliverer.”
She explained the whole episode to the landlord, who shook hands with Paul, and they led the girl into a sitting-room at the back of the café. Paul was somewhat diffident about entering this private apartment, but the landlord wheezed:
“Come in, come in, monsieur.”
They sat Diane down on a sofa, and the landlord pulled off her stocking. In doing so he revealed his daughter’s leg as far as the knee. She had a very pretty leg, but the ankle was considerably swollen.
“The ankle is sprained,” said the landlord.
“Will you allow me to go and fetch a doctor?” asked Paul.
“It is not necessary,” replied the landlord. “I know all about sprained ankles. When I was in the army I served in the ambulance brigade. We will just bind it up very tight with cold linen bandages. Does it hurt, little one?”
“Not very—yet. It tingles. I feel that it may. Won’t you offer Monsieur—I do not know his name—some refreshment?”
“Monsieur Paul Roget,” said that gentleman, bowing.“But please do not consider me. The sufferer must be attended first. Later on, I would like to be permitted to partake of a little lunch in the inn.”
While the landlord, whose name was Jules Couturier, was binding up his daughter’s ankle, Paul slipped out and returned to the well, filled the pail, and brought it back to the yard of the inn.
“But this is extremely agreeable of you, monsieur,” exclaimed the landlord, as he came bustling through the porch. “She will do well. I know all about sprained ankles. Oh, yes! I have had great experience. I beg you to share a little lunch with us. We are quite simple folk, but I think we may find you an omelette and a ragoût. Quite country people, you know; nothing elaborate.”
The lunch was excellent, and Diane had the sofa drawn up to the table, and in spite of the pain she must have been suffering, she laughed and joked, and they were quite a merry party. After lunch he helped to wheel her out into the crab-apple orchard at the back, and he told her all about himself, his life and work, and ambitions. He told her everything, except perhaps about Lucile. And he felt very strange, elevated, excited.
When the evening came he left it till too late to catch the train back to Paris, and the landlord lent him some things and he stayed the night.
He stayed three nights, and wrote to Messrs. Manson et Cie, and explained that he had gone to Pavane-en-Bois, and had been taken ill. He wrote the same thingto Lucile. And during the day he talked to Diane, and listened to the landlord. Sometimes he would wander into the woods, but he could not bring himself to stay away for long. He brought back armfuls of flowers which he flung across her lap. He touched her hands, and trembled, and at night in bed he choked with a kind of ecstasy and regret. It was horribly distracting. He did not know how to act. He was behaving badly to Lucile, and dishonorably to Manson et Cie. His conscience smote him, but the other little fiend was dancing at the back of his mind. Nothing else seemed to matter. He was mad—madly in love with this little dark-eyed huntress.
At the end of three days he returned to Paris, but not till he had promised to come back at the earliest opportunity.
“Perhaps I will go again in August,” he sighed in the train. It was then the seventh of June.
On the fifteenth of June he was back again in the “Moulin d’Or.” Diane was already much better. She could hobble about alone with the help of two sticks. She was more bewitching than ever. He stayed three weeks, till her ankle was quite well, and they could go for walks together in the woods. And he called her Diane, and she called him Paul. And one day, as the sun was setting, he flung his arms round her and gasped:
“Diane.... Diane! I love you!”
And he kissed her on the lips, and her roguish eyes searched his.
“Oh, you!” she murmured. “You bad boy ... you!”
“But I love you, Diane. I want you. I can’t live without you. You must come away with me. We will get married. We will build a world of our own. Oh, you beautiful! Tell me you love me, or I shall go mad!”
She laughed that low, gurgling, silvery laugh of hers.
“What are you saying?” she said. “How should I know? I think you are—a nice boy. But I cannot leave my father.”
“My dear, he managed all the time you had to lie with your foot up. Don’t torture me! Oh, you must love me, Diane. I couldn’t love you so much if you didn’t love me a little in return.”
“Perhaps I do,” she said, smiling.
“What is it, then, Diane?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I do not want to marry. I want to be free, to see the world. I am ambitious. I have been to the conservatoire at Souboise. They say I can sing and dance. My father has spent his savings on me.”
“Darling, if you marry me, you shall be free. You shall do as you like. You shall dance and sing and see the world. Everything of mine shall be yours if only you will love me. You must—you must. Diane!”
“Well ... we shall see. Come; father will be anxious.”
In July he left hispensionand moved out to Montmartre. He had never definitely proposed to Lucile, but his expressions of affection had been so definite that he felt ashamed. He spent his holiday in August at the “Moulin d’Or.” And Diane promised to marry him “one day.”
“Diane,” he said, “I will work for you. You have inspired me. I shall go back to Paris and think of you all day, and dream of you all night.”
“That won’t give you much time to make your fortune, my little cabbage.”
“Do not mock me. Where would you like to live?”
“In Paris, in Nice, in Rome, in Vienna. And then, one day, I would like to creep back here and just live in the ‘Moulin d’Or.’”
“The ‘Moulin d’Or’?”
“Oh, we could improve it. We could build an extra wing, with a dancing-hall, and more nice bedrooms, and a garage. We could improve the inn, but we could not improve these beautiful hills. Isn’t that true, little friend?”
“Nothing could be improved where you are. You are perfection.”
“Yes, but—”
In September Diane came to Paris. She stayed with an aunt in Parnasse, and attended a conservatoire of dancing. And every evening Paul called on her, and took her flowers and chocolates and trinkets. And in the daytime, when the image of Diane’s face did not interpose between his eyes and his desk, he workedhard. He meant to work hard and become a rich man, and take Diane to Nice, and Rome, and Vienna, and make the structural alterations to the “Moulin d’Or.”
In a few months’ time Diane made such progress that she was offered an engagement in the ballet at Olympia. She accepted it and Paul was consumed with a fever of apprehension. Every night he went to the performance, waited for her, and escorted her home. But he disliked the atmosphere of the music-hall intensely, and the other girls, Diane’s companions—Heaven defend her!
And then she quarreled with her aunt, and Paul besought her to marry him so that he might protect her. But she prevaricated, and in the end he took some rooms for her, and she consented to allow him to pay for them. She lived there for several weeks alone, only attended by an oldconcierge, and then she took a friend, Babette Baroche, to share the rooms with her, and Paul still continued to pay. Paul disliked Babette. She was a frivolous, vain, empty-headed littlecocotte, and no fit companion for Diane. On occasions Paul discovered other men enjoying the hospitality of the rooms, and they were always of an objectionable sort. And Diane got into debt, and he lent her four hundred francs.
At Christmas-time she was dismissed from her engagement, and in a pervicacious mood she promised to marry him in the spring. Paul was delirious. Nothing was good enough for his Diane, and he engaged a complete flat for her, with the services of anelderlybonne. Diane was very grateful and loving, and in the transition Babette was dropped. However, a few weeks after he had signed the lease, she was offered an engagement for a tour, and after a lengthy dispute and many tears, she had her way and accepted it. She was away three months, and Paul was consumed with dread, and doubt, and gloomy forebodings. On occasions he dashed down to Lyons, or Grenoble, or wherever she happened to be, for the week-end. And he thought that the company she was with were a very fast lot.
“But, my angel,” he would exclaim, “only another month or two, and all this will be over. You will be mine forever and ever.”
He was still paying the rent of the flat in Paris, and it was necessary to send Diane flowers and presents wherever she was. It was an expensive time, particularly as, owing to Diane having had her purse stolen just when she was paying off a debt, he had to send her another four hundred francs. She returned at the end of March, and so great had been her success on tour that an egregious, oily manager named Bonnat offered her a part in a new revue. She received a good salary, but the management would not supply her frocks. It was necessary to dress well for this part. It was her first real chance. She ransacked shops in the Rue de Tivoli, and Paul accompanied her. Eventually she spent twelve hundred francs on them, and Paul advanced the money. She only allowed him to do so onthe understanding that she paid him back by installments out of her salary. It is needless to say that she never did so. However, the frocks were a great success, and Diane made a hit. She was undoubtedly talented. She danced beautifully, and she had a gift of imitation. She very quickly became a star, and of course a star could not scintillate in the poky little flat she had so far occupied. She moved to a more fashionable quarter, and occupied a flat the rent of which was rather more than her salary alone. She developed more expensive tastes, and nearly always kept a taxicab waiting for her at stage-doors and restaurants.
At this time Paul began to realize that he was living considerably above his income. It would be necessary to reduce it by breaking into his capital. He sold some house property and paid Diane’s debts and bought her a pearl pendant.
“Next month she will be my wife,” he thought, “and then I shall be able more easily to curb these extravagancies.”
But when the next month came Diane was at the height of her success. She had been given more to do in therevue, and her imitations were drawing the town. The management raised her salary. Her head was completely turned.
“Oh, no, no, no! dear heart,” she exclaimed. “Not this month. At the end of the season. It would be imbecile when I have all Paris at my feet.”
Paul begged and urged her to reconsider, but shewas obdurate. She continued the same life, only that her tastes became more and more extravagant. And one day Paul took her to task.
“My angel-flower,” he said, “we must not go on like this. All the savings for our wedding are vanishing. I am eating into my capital. We shall be ruined.”
“But, my little love,” replied Diane, “I spend so little. Why, you should see the electric brougham Zénie at the Folies Bergères has. Besides, next year, or perhaps before, they will have to double my salary.”
“Yes, but in the meantime—?”
“In the meantime your little girl shall kiss away your naughty fears.”
And of course Diane soon had an electric brougham of her own. The more salary she had, the more it seemed to cost Paul. He was receiving merely a nominal salary himself from Messrs. Manson et Cie, where he was little more than a pupil. However, at that time he managed to get a small increase, and invested a good bulk of his patrimony in a rubber company that a very astute business friend advised him about. If the shares went up considerably he might sell out, and reimburse himself for all these inroads on his capital.
In the meantime a disturbing element crept into his love affair. A depraved young fop, the Marquis de Lavernal, appeared on the scene. He was one of those young men who have plenty of money and frequent stage-doors. He was introduced by Babette, whom he almost immediately forsook for Diane. He called uponher, left more expensive flowers and chocolates than Paul could afford, and one day took her to Longchamps in his car.
Paul was furious.
“This man must not come here,” he exclaimed. “I shall kill him!”
“Oo-oh! but why? He is quite a nice boy. He is nothing to me. He is Babette’s friend.”
“I don’t trust him. I won’t have him here. Do you understand, Diane? I love you so, I am distracted when that kind of person speaks to you!”
“Oo-oh!”
Diane promised not to see him again alone, but Paul was dubious. The trouble was that he did not know what went on in the daytime. In the evening he could to a certain extent protect her. But in the daytime—that raven! that ogre! that blood-sucker! He was the kind of man who had theentréeof all theaters, both the back and the front. He went about with parties of girls. Diane explained that it was impossible sometimes not to meet him. He was always with her friends.
At the end of July Paul had a stroke of fortune. The rubber shares he had bought went up with a great boom, quite suddenly. He sold out and netted a considerable sum. And then he had a brilliant inspiration. He would tell Diane nothing of this. He had plans of his own.
One day he took the train and went down to see his prospective father-in-law at the “Moulin d’Or.” Theold man was wheezier than ever, but very cordial and friendly.
“Well, my boy, how goes it?” he asked.
“Excellently,” said Paul. “Now, father-in-law, I have a proposition to make. Diane and I are to be married after the summer season. It has always been her ambition to live at the ‘Moulin d’Or.’ But she has spoken of improvements. I want to suggest to you with all respect that you allow me to make those improvements. I would like to do it without her knowing it, and then to bring her down as a great surprise.”
“Well, well, very agreeable, I’m sure. And why not? It would be very charming!”
“I suggest building a new wing, with a dancing-hall and several nice bedrooms, and a garage; and laying out the gardens more suitably.”
“Well, good! It would be very desirable, and conducive to good business. You may rely upon me to assist you in your project, Monsieur Paul.”
“I am indeed grateful to you, Monsieur Couturier.”
Paul returned to Paris in high spirits. He made plans of the suggested alterations on the back of an envelope, in the train. The next morning he went to an eminent firm of contractors. So feverish was he in his demands that he persuaded them to send a manager down that very day to take particulars and prepare the estimate. The work was commenced the same week.
In the meantime, Diane had bought some expensive little dogs, because Fleurie at the Odéon kept expensivelittle dogs, and a new silver tea-service because Lucie Castille at the Moulin Rouge had a silver tea-service. And Paul was surprised because neither of the accounts for these luxuries was sent to him. Diane said she had paid for them herself, but the little demons of jealousy were still gnawing away at his heart.
Therevuewas to terminate at the end of the third week in August, and Paul said:
“And then, my love, we will marry quietly in Paris, and then we will do the grand tour. We will go to Nice, and Rome, and Vienna, and commence our eternal honeymoon at the ‘Moulin d’Or.’”
Diane clapped her hands.
“Won’t that be beautiful, my beloved!” she exclaimed, and she twined her sinuous arms around his neck. “Fancy! just you and I alone at the dear ‘Moulin d’Or!’ Ah! and then we will go to Venice, and to Munich. Good gracious! It will be soon time to think about the frocks and trousseau!”
Paul’s heart swelled. The trousseau! Diane was becoming serious. There had been moments when he had doubted whether she meant to marry him at all, but—the trousseau! Why, yes, the matter must be attended to at once. They spent three weeks buying Diane’s trousseau. Nearly every day she thought of something fresh, some little trifle that was quite indispensable. When the bills came in they amounted to twenty-two thousand francs! Paul was aghast. He had no idea it was possible to spend so much on those flimsy fabrics. And furniture had yet to be purchased.He went to his astute business friend again, and begged for some enticing investment. He was recommended a Nicaraguan Company that was just starting. They had acquired the rights of a new method of refining oil. It was going to be a big thing. With the exception of a sum of money to pay for the improvements at the “Moulin d’Or” Paul put practically the whole of his capital into the Nicaraguan Company.
Nearly every day he called at the contractor’s, or sent frenzied telegrams to Monsieur Couturier to inquire how the work was progressing. At length he received a verbal promise that the whole thing would be completed by about the twentieth of September.
Excellent! That would fit in admirably. It would give him a month’s honeymoon with his beautiful Diane, and then, one glorious September evening, he would drive up the hill, and jumping out of the car in the new drive he would be able to exclaim:
“Behold! Do not all your dreams come true?”
And Diane would fling her arms round his neck, and the old father would come toddling out and find them in that position, and he would probably weep, and it would all be very beautiful.
A few days later there was a rather distressing incident. Quite on her own responsibility Diane ordered a suite of Louis XVI furniture. They were fabulously expensive copies. Paul had nothing like enough money to pay for it. He did not want to sell his Nicaraguanshares. In fact, he had only just applied for them. He protested vehemently:
“But, my dear, you ought not to have done this! It is ruinous. We cannot afford it.”
“But, my Carlo, one must sit down!”
“One need not pay fifteen thousand francs to sit down!”
“Oo-oh!”
Paul knew the evidence of approaching tears, and he endeavored to stem the tide. In the end he went to a money-lender and borrowed the money at an abnormal rate of interest, and then he went to Diane and said:
“My beloved, you must promise me not to spend any more money without my consent. The consequences may be serious. My affairs are already getting very involved. You must promise me.”
Diane promised, and the next day drove to his office in a great state of excitement. Bonnat had been to see her. They wanted to take therevuefor a two months’ tour to Brittany and Normandy, commencing at Dinard on August 22nd. He had offered her dazzling terms. She simply must go. It might be her last chance. The wedding must be postponed till the end of October. Paul protested, and they both became angry and cried before two other clerks in Messrs. Manson’s office. They parted without anything being settled. When he saw her at night after the theater, she had signed the contract. And Paul returned tohis rooms, and bit his pillow with remorse and grief.
On the twenty-first of August Diane locked up her trousseau, and the furniture, and left with the company for Dinard. And Paul wrote to her every day, and she replied once a week, and occasionally sent him a telegram announcing a prodigious success. Only occasionally did he get an opportunity of going to her over a week-end. The journeys were very long and he resented spending the money. In only one way did he derive any satisfaction from that tour. The building work—like all building work—could not possibly be completed in the time specified. If they had arrived there on the twenty-first of September, his beautiful Diane would have found the place all bricks and mortar and muddle. As it was, it would be comfortably finished by the middle of October.
When not going to Diane he would spend Sunday with Monsieur Couturier, who was keenly excited about the improvement to his inn. It was going to be very good for the business. All the countryside spoke of it. The patron of the “Colonne de Bronze,” further down the hill, was furious, and this was naturally a matter of satisfaction to Monsieur Couturier. He was proud of and devoted to his future son-in-law.
At the end of September came the great blow. Paul heard of it first through the newspapers. The Nicaraguan Company had failed. The refining process had proved efficient, but far more expensive to work than any other refining process. The company was wound up, and the shareholders received about 2½ per cent.on their investments. Paul was practically ruined. He would have to pay for the building of the “Moulin d’Or.” Beyond that he had only a few thousand francs, and he had to meet the promissory note of the money-lenders. He wrote to Diane and confessed the whole story. She sent him a telegram which simply said: “Courage! courage!”
He wore the telegram inside his shirt for three days, till it got rather too dilapidated. Then he concentrated on his work. Yes! he would have courage. He would build up again. Diane trusted him. In any case, they could sell the furniture and go and live at the “Moulin d’Or.” He wrote her long letters full of his schemes. On October the twelfth the work was completed, and he went down and spent two days and nights with Monsieur Couturier. Diane was to return to Paris on the fifteenth. Monsieur Couturier was full of sympathy and courage. They talked far into the night of how they would manage. With the increase of business assured, the inn would no doubt support the three of them. There were great possibilities, and Paul was young and energetic. Nothing mattered so long as his Diane believed in him.
The night before he returned to Paris he went for a walk in the woods by himself. He visualized the days to come, the walks with Diane, the tender moments when they held each other’s hands; he could see their children toddling hand in hand through the woods, picking flowers. In an ecstasy he rushed to a thick bush, and picked a bunch of red berries. He wouldtake them to Diane. They would be the symbols of their new life. Wild flowers from their home, not exotic town-bred things. It was all going to be joy ... joy ... joy!
He ran back to the inn, and spent a sleepless night, dreaming of Diane and the days and nights to come.
In the morning came a letter from Messrs. Manson et Cie. His dealings with the money-lenders had been disclosed. His services were no longer desirable.
Well, there it was! It would take more than that to crush him in his ecstatic mood. He would start again. He would begin by helping Monsieur Couturier to run the inn.
He returned to Paris late in the evening. He would go to Diane’s flat after she had returned from the theater. She would be a little sleepy, and comfortable, and comforting. She would wear one of those loose, clinging, silky things, and she would take him in her arms, and he would let down her beautiful dark blue-black hair, and then he would make her a coronet of the red berries. He would make her his queen....
He was too agitated to dine that evening. He walked the streets of Paris, clasping the red berries wrapped in tissue paper. He kept thinking:
“Now she is resting between the acts. Now she is dancing apas seulin the second act. Now she is giving her imitation of Yvette Guilbert. Now she is taking a call. Now the manager speaks to her, congratulating her—curse him! Now she awaits her cue to go on again.”
He was infinitely patient. He restrained his wild impetus to rush to the theater. He hung about the streets. He meant to stage-manage his effect with discretion. He waited some time after the theater was closed. Then, very slowly, he walked in the direction of her flat. As he mounted the stairs, he began to realize that he was very exhausted. He wished that he had not foregone his dinner. However, after the first rapturous meeting with Diane, he would take a glass of wine. Very quietly he slipped the key in the lock, and let himself in. (He had always had a key to Diane’s flat, which was in effecthisflat.) Directly he had passed the door he heard loud sounds of laughter. He swore inwardly. How aggravating! Diane had brought home some of her friends! There were evidently a good many of them, from the noise and ribaldry. In the passage were several bottles and glasses.
He crept along silently to theportièreconcealing thesalon. He could hear Diane’s voice. She was speaking, and after each sentence the company screamed with laughter. Ah! she was entertaining them with one of her famous imitations. He stood there and listened. He made a tiny crack in the curtain and peeped through. Diane was doing a funny little strut, and speaking in a peculiar way. He listened and watched for three or four minutes before he realized the truth of what he saw and heard. And when he did realize it, he had to exert his utmost will-power to prevent himself from fainting.
The person that Diane was imitating was—himself!
The realization seemed to be bludgeoned into him, assisted by a round of ironic cheers. People were calling out:
“Brava! brava!Diane!”
He heard Babette say:
“Where is the little end-of-a-man?”
And Diane’s voice reply:
“Oh, he is coming back soon, I believe. I forget when.”
A man’s voice—he believed it was the Marquis de Lavernal’s—exclaimed:
“And when is our Diane going to marry it?”
Diane, very emphatically:
“Do not distress yourself, my dear; he’s lost all his money.”
A roar of laughter drowned conversation, and Paul groped his way along the passage, still clutching the red berries. He reached the door. Then he reconsidered the matter. He crept back to her bedroom. He placed the berries under the coverlet, and taking a sheet of paper, he wrote one word on it: “Good-by.”
He placed this on the berries, and then stole out into the night.
Paul was then twenty-two, and his life was finished. He was a crushed and broken man. He wandered the streets of Paris all night. He spent hours grimly watching the encircling waters of the Seine, the friend and comforter of so many broken hearts. At dawn he returned to his own apartment. He slept for severalhours, and then woke up in a fever. He was very ill for some weeks.
But one must not despair forever. At the end of that time, he pulled himself together, and went out and sought employment. He eventually got a situation as a junior clerk in a wholesale store, and he went back to live at the oldpensionnear the Luxembourg, and he resumed his friendship with Lucile. And in two years’ time he married Lucile. And then his life began. His life began. His life began. And lo! here was Lucile walking slowly up the hill, arm-in-arm with her daughter Louise. Yes, his life began....
“Ah! there you are! What did I say?” exclaimed Louise. “He’s been asleep!”
“And we’ve had such an interesting time,” added Madame Roget, panting with exertion. “We’ve been to the inn.”
“And there’s such a pretty girl there,” continued the daughter. “You’d fall in love with her, papa.”
“Is she very dark?” asked Monsieur Roget.
“Yes, she has blue-black hair and beautiful dark eyes.”
“Good God!”
“I knew he would be interested. She gave us some milk, and she has been telling us her story. She’s quite young, and she owns the inn, although it’s very hard work to run it, she says. She only has one woman and a potman. Her mother was a famous actress, who made a lot of money and bought the innand improved it. She died when Mademoiselle was fifteen.”
“Who was her father?”
“I don’t know. I rather gather that her father was a bad lot. He died, too.”
“How old is she?”
“Not much more than twenty.”
“Then her mother must have been thirty-nine when she died.”
“What makes you say so?”
“Of course she must have been. What happened to the old man?”
“What old man?”
“Her grandfather.”
“What are you talking about, papa? I don’t believe you’re quite awake yet.”
“She must have had a grandfather. Everybody has a grandfather.”
“Well, of course. But—”
“Then he must be either dead or alive.”
“How tiresome you are! We must be going. The others are waiting for us lower down the hill.”
Monsieur Roget struggled to his feet, and shook the little dead fronds of fern from his clothes, and his wife dusted him down behind.
“We shall be going back past the inn,” she said.
“The inn! Why can’t we go the other way? The way we came?”
“Don’t be so absurd. What does it matter? The others are awaiting us.”
They went slowly down the hill, and came in sight of the “Moulin d’Or.”
“Isn’t it disgusting,” remarked Louise, “how these speculative builders are always spoiling the old inns?”
“I don’t see it’s spoilt,” answered her father petulantly.
“You are ridiculous, papa! Any one can see the inn isn’t half as nice as it was.”
As they approached the forecourt of the inn, a girl came out carrying a pail. She had dark eyes, blue-black hair, and a swinging carriage. Yes, yes, there was no doubt about it. She was the spit and image of her mother.
As she approached she smiled pleasantly, and said:
“Good evening,mesdames; a pleasant journey. Good evening, monsieur.”
The ladies returned a friendly greeting, and Monsieur Roget suddenly turned to the girl and said:
“Is your grandfather alive or dead?”
She continued smiling, and replied:
“I do not remember my grandfather, monsieur.”
No, perhaps not; it was thirty-seven years ago, and old Couturier was an old man then. Perhaps not.
“Papa, can’t you see she’s going to the well to fetch water? Why don’t you offer to help her?”
“Eh? No, I’m not going. Let her fetch it herself!”
“Papa!”
They walked on in silence till well out of hearing, when Louise exclaimed:
“Really, papa, I can’t understand you. So ungallant! It’s not like you. You ought to have offered to fetch the water for her, even if she refused.”
“Eh? Oh, no! I wasn’t going. Very dangerous. You might fall down and sprain your ankle. Oh, no! Or she might fall down, or something. It’s very slippery up there by the well. You’re not going to get me to do it. Let her fetch her own water. Oh, no! no, no, no, no!”
“Louise dear,” remarked Madame Roget. “Let us hurry. Your father is most queer. I always warn him, but it is no good. If he sleeps in the afternoon he always gets an indisposition.”