Mrs. Dobson, though short and portly, carries her fifty-five years with buoyancy. She is a good-natured woman, with purple cheeks, a wide mouth, and a small nose; one connects something indefinable in her appearance with church on Sundays, so that one learns without surprise that she is a strict Anglican. She lives in the neighbourhood of Cadogan Square, and has five daughters, of whom two are married, to a well-known surgeon and a minor canon respectively. The beauty of the family is Joan, who plays the piano and is considered intellectual and artistic. She spent a year at the Conservatoire in Brussels, and often uses French words in conversation. Effie, the youngest, is an adept at games, and rather alarms her mother by her habit of using slang expressions and the shortness of her skirts.
Soon after the beginning of the War, Lady Whigham having discontinued her days at home, Mrs. Dobson gave up hers, and as the other ladies in her circle followed suit, her chief occupation was gone.
Of course, like her friend Lady Whigham, she joined several committees, but she was rather disappointed to find the meetings less sociable than she expected. What Mrs. Dobson likes is a friendly, chat over a cup of tea; when you sit formally round a green table, you never seem to get to know any one properly.
“It’s so much nicer,” she said to Maud, the eldest unmarried daughter, a bouncing young woman of generous proportions, “to have something at your own house. My idea is to make a pleasure of charity. The most disagreeable things can be got through pleasantly. Now, you’re such a sensible girl, can’t you think of something?”
Mrs. Dobson always speaks of Maud as “such a sensible girl”; spiteful people suggest that this praise is a form of apology for the absence of physical charm.
Maud meditated deeply. “Everybody seems to have thought of everything, mamma, that’s the worst of it. You see, Mrs. Newt has that drawing class for orphan boys; then there’s Mrs. Badger’s fund for giving musical instruction to the children of soldiers and sailors, and the Parrys have dancing classes for them.”
“That’s just it. We ought to be doing something useful of that kind. It’s a public duty for people in our position.”
“But I think we are doing our share, mamma. What with your committee and Effie teaching those Belgian refugee children to play hockey and me at the canteen for ineligible shop assistants.”
“I know, my dear. Still, it would be so nice to have something here—just to bring people together, as it were, in a cosy way.”
Before any conclusion was reached tea was brought, and just then Joan came in from a concert at the Mandolin Hall, bringing a startling piece of news.
“Who do you think I met at the concert, mamma?”
Joan was evidently excited. She spoke almost breathlessly, and went on without waiting for a reply.
“Jack Leclerc is back from the Front on sick leave, and he’s been made a captain.”
Mrs. Dobson glanced at Maud. “Really, my dear!” she said, but her voice was not cordial.
“What else did he tell you?”
“He hardly said anything. In fact, he didn’t tell me even that. Mr. Mayo, the manager, saw him as we were going out and I heard him call him ‘Captain’!”
“Perhaps it’s a mistake, anyhow,” suggested Maud.
“No, it isn’t. I stopped to find out—about the next concert, I mean—and Mr. Mayo told me he had greatly distinguished himself, and I’m not a bit surprised either.” And Joan looked at her mother and her sister with an air of saying, “What did I tell you?”
“Well, he’s sure to come and see us and tell us all about it,” Mrs. Dobson remarked complacently.
“I’m not so sure of that!” Joan spoke sharply.
“Nonsense, dear! he’ll be only too pleased to, especially if we ask him—and now it’s war-time I think we might. Bygones are bygones.”
Joan sighed deeply. It was evident she meant her mother to notice it.
“Surely you’ve got over that little affair? You didn’t seem to mind at the time. Did you now, dear?”
“What could I do with you all against me?” Joan’s face wore an expression of aggrieved reminiscence.
“We thought it for your good, Joan. He was only a music-teacher and had no means at all.”
“He was getting on splendidly, though. You forget that he had been appointed conductor of a big orchestra to tour the provinces—when the War came.”
“Yes, but the War put a complete end to that and to all his prospects. A nice time you’d have had to wait,” said Maud.
“It’s over now, so what’s the good of talking about it? I daresay he’s forgotten all about me long ago.” Joan sighed again and helped herself to tea.
Half an hour later Clara Whigham called up Joan on the telephone. The family was accustomed to these conversations, which were sometimes of long duration. The two girls were intimate. It was through Clara that Joan had taken piano lessons at the Royal School of Music from Jack Leclerc.
When Joan left the room Mrs. Dobson turned to her elder daughter.
“Now, Maud, you’re such a sensible girl—what do you think about this young man turning up? He’s sure to be after Joan again, don’t you think?”
Maud considered the question with her usual conscientious earnestness, while her mother sat anxiously watching her.
“Well, now,” she said at length, “supposing he does?”
“What do you mean, Maud? I don’t understand.”
“Well, I mean that the War has changed everything. Look at Dora Newt. She Wouldn’t accept that young Mr. Firning because he was only a clerk in the bank. Now she’s engaged to him, all because he’s in the Army. Why, you know, mamma, Clara told you herself the other day she meant to have a War wedding.”
“I must say I was shocked that so well brought up a girl should talk so lightly about marrying.”
“I know, mamma, but everybody’s the same now; the War makes all the difference. And I think if Joan still wants him—after all, he’s a captain and—”
“I think perhaps you are right, Maud. The War does make such a difference, doesn’t it? I really think I shall encourage it now that he has made a position for himself.” Mrs. Dobson was interrupted by the return of Joan with another piece of news.
“Oh, mamma,” she said, more breathlessly than ever, “Lady Whigham’s going to give a concert for poor artists, and she wants us to give one, too! Isn’t it a heavenly idea?”
Though Mrs. Dobson knew nothing about art, and supposed that the only reason why people ever were artists was because they were too poor to be anything else, she heartily agreed to the suggestion, coming as it did through Lady Whigham, and being so exactly the form of charity that she approved.
The next morning Mrs. Dobson received a typewritten postcard—
To help the artists, 2/6 teas are again being started. I am having one on Thursday the 14th. May I rely on your kind co-operation? Will you come, bring your friends, your work, have an hour’s good music, tea, a chat, and feel that you are doing a great kindness to the artists?
Hoping to see you.
Yours sincerely,
Music 3.30 to 4.30.
Tea 4.30.
There was a chorus of approval round the Dobsons’ breakfast-table.
Lady Whigham’s concert went off with greatéclat.
It was attended by many ladies, of whom one was a dowager countess, but there were also a bishop and a midshipman. The last had a bad cold and kept on blowing his nose during the performance of the soprano, a lady of strange appearance, said to be a Serbian refugee of noble origin.
Joan did not enjoy the concert as much as the others. She said the pianoforte playing was very indifferent—she wondered what Captain Leclerc, who sat in the front row next to Clara Whigham, thought of it.
The 28th was fixed for the concert at Mrs. Dobson’s. Joan would have liked to write to Jack Leclerc and ask him to recommend the artists, but she wasn’t sure how he would take it, and besides, she did not know his address. Of course she could have asked Clara, but somehow she did not like to.
As Lady Whigham had specially asked Mrs. Dobson to engage performers she was interested in, there was no difficulty and the day of the concert arrived.
Among the first arrivals were Lady and Miss Whigham, attended by Jack Leclerc.
Mrs. Dobson, wreathed in smiles, with Maud at her right hand, received the guests. Effie gave them tea and Joan showed them to their places.
There were five “artists.” Three young men opened the performance with a trio for piano, violin, and ‘cello. The ladies who had had tea knitted and conversed. When the performance was over they went into raptures about it. A middle-aged and melancholy-looking man with a beard followed. He was the feature of the occasion, having been strongly recommended by Lady Whigham as a “finished and accomplished vocalist.” He sang a series of very modern French songs.
“It sounds to me as if something was wrong,” commented Mrs. Dobson to Maud, who replied—
“Sh! mamma, they’re not supposed to have any tune.”
Lady Whigham in the front seat was applauding vigorously, so every one else, especially Mrs. Dobson, did the same, with the result that the accomplished vocalist sang them all over again, making exactly the same faces.
After that an old lady in a yellow wig livened things up with a rendering of Tosti’s “Good-bye” in a cracked contralto. While the audience was applauding, Joan noticed that Jack Leclerc got up. He was making his way gently to the door, evidently anxious to escape observation. Her heart was in her mouth, but she sat on stonily, determined that he should not know she had seen him.
At the door he encountered Mrs. Dobson.
“So sorry, I must run, Mrs. Dobson,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Oh, I am sorry, Mr.—er—Captain Leclerc. Can’t you wait till the end? Joan will be so disappointed not to see you.”
“Oh, thank you. The fact is—” Leclerc stopped, looking a little embarrassed. But Mrs. Dobson did not notice this and ran on—
“And what did you think of the concert, Mr.—er—Captain Leclerc?”
The musician’s professional conscience forbade a complimentary reply.
“It was very bad,” he said, “except the old Frenchman. That woman had no business to sing in public, and as for those youths who call themselves artists—why aren’t they in the trenches?” And hastily touching Mrs. Dobson’s hand, he slipped away: the expression in her rubicund face was pained as she gazed after him.
After the concert had come to an end and the guests had gradually dispersed, Lady Whigham and Mrs. Dobson counted up the money and discussed how much each performer should receive. Thistête-à-têtewith Lady Whigham was what Mrs. Dobson most enjoyed the whole afternoon. Meanwhile Clara drew Joan aside.
“Congratulate me, dearest,” she whispered. “I’m going to marry Captain Leclerc.”
Stephen Ringsmith in his way is a public man, and such he likes to consider himself.
He is an art dealer in a very big way, and he is also a pillar of one of the political parties. He could have a baronetcy for the asking, but he has no children and he prefers to be a power behind the throne rather than a lackey in front of it.
Ringsmith is what is called a strong man. He knows the value of money, but he enjoys spending it. He lives in princely style, but he is not exactly a snob and he prides himself on his independence. His hobby is what he calls “picking winners”—men, not horses. He likes to “spot” some young fellow who he thinks has it in him to get on, then he backs him. He believes that nothing succeeds like success, having tested the truth of the saying himself. When something disagreeable has to be done, he does it and damns the consequences but he does not shrink from them.
One afternoon old Peter Knott went to see the famous art dealer. The latter was sitting in a deep leather chair with his feet near the fender, a silver tea-service resplendent under a high silver lamp beside him. To Peter Knott, as he entered, the impression was that of a comfort both solid and luxurious.
Ringsmith’s strong-willed face lit up. He had much regard for Peter, in spite of the latter’s being almost the only man who did not hesitate to say what he thought to him, whether palatable or not.
“Ha, old bird! I know what you’ve come for.”
Ringsmith has a large mouth, and although he is getting towards sixty his teeth are strong and sound. His voice is loud and its tone bullying, as of one accustomed to ordering people about and to having his way. Somehow this doesn’t offend, perhaps because you expect it of a man with his red, mottled skin, bushy eyebrows, and heavy jaw.
Old Peter finished his bit of buttered toast and quietly sipped his tea.
“Yes?” he said.
“What is it this time, Peter, a box for the Red Cross Matinee or a subscription to the new fund? Come on, out with it.”
Peter screwed his single glass into one of his shrewd grey eyes, and examining the muffin dish, carefully selected another piece of toast.
“Try again,” he remarked.
“It’s worse than I thought.” The big man looked at his friend out of the corner of his eye as he put a cigar in his mouth and lighted a match. The other finished his tea and lay back in his chair.
“Not at all, not at all, Stephen. A friend of mine, Mrs. Stillwell, wants to sell her pictures.”
Peter Knott has a soft, gentle voice, and he spoke slowly, looking into the fire.
“She is an old friend of mine, Mrs. Stillwell. I was best man to Tom when he married her. Lord! What a long time ago!”
Ringsmith glanced towards Peter; he said nothing, and there was a moment’s silence before the latter continued—
“Tom didn’t leave anything except the property, which goes to the boy; he’s at the Front. There are the two girls to provide for. I advised her to sell the pictures long ago, but she couldn’t bear to part with them. Now, with new taxation and so on, she feels she must. It’s a bad time for selling, isn’t it, Stephen?”
“The worst.”
“What do you advise?”
“I never advise; people must make up their minds for themselves.” Then, as though it were an after-thought: “What sort of pictures are they?”
“There are a Corot, a Mauve, and a Daubigny, I believe. The Corot is said to be a particularly good one.”
“Um—what does she want for them?”
“I don’t think poor Mary has any idea about the price; she asked me, but there’s one thing I won’t do, and that’s to be mixed up in an art deal—”
Ringsmith’s eyes flashed; he flicked the ash off his cigar angrily.
“Mixed up—art deal! Then why the devil do you come to me?”
Peter Knott smiled at him benignly.
“Oh! Because you and I are old friends, Stephen. I’m sure you’ll treat her better than any one else.”
Ringsmith moved uneasily.
“Why don’t you tell her to go to some one else first? I like people to fix their price before they come to me, then I can take it or leave it. They’ve got such fantastic ideas about the value of things.”
“Oh, very well, if you prefer. I thought you’d be pleased I came to you, but of course—”
Peter made a slight waving motion with his hand, dismissing the subject, and began talking of other things.
A quarter of an hour later he rose to go. He said good-bye, and was just leaving the room when Ringsmith called him back.
“About those pictures—I should like to oblige you, Peter.”
“Yes?”
“Where can they be seen?”
Peter Knott took a half-sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Ringsmith without comment. Ringsmith glanced at it and threw it on the table.
“All right,” he said, “leave it to me; I’ll see what can be done, but these aren’t times to buy, you know.”
“So you said,” Peter replied, and went gently out of the room.
The next morning Ringsmith was early at his office. After looking over his letters he sent for MacTavish. The shrewd Scotsman was said to be the cleverest picture-buyer in the country. He came in, a tall, thin man, clean-shaven, with wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Ringsmith doesn’t stand on terms of ceremony with his employees: he comes to the point at once.
“D’you remember that Corot we sold to Peter Whelan of Philadelphia? When was it—two or three years ago?”
“Certainly I do, Mr. Ringsmith.”
“Can you say off-hand what we made on that deal?”
“No,” replied MacTavish cautiously, “but I do remember what we gave for it, and what we sold it for. There were a lot of expenses on that deal.” There was a cunning look in MacTavish’s eyes as he added the last words.
“Um, yes—what were the figures?”
“We gave £4,000, but it included those ormulu vases which Joyce sold for us at Christie’s. You remember we were wrong about those, and it took some of the gilt off.”
Ringsmith’s heavy eyebrows met in a scowl.
“Well?” he said irritably.
“Whelan gave £7,500. He’s a hard nut, you know.”
“That’ll do now, MacTavish. I want you to go and call at this place, have a look at the pictures, and report.”
Mr. MacTavish lost no time in calling at Mrs. Stillwell’s house. She was out, but had left a note for the gentleman from Mr. Ringsmith’s, asking him to look at the pictures, and expressing her regret that she could not show them to him herself. She was quite unable, she said, to decide upon a price, which she left entirely to Mr. Ringsmith.
A few days later Mrs. Stillwell was writing to her boy at the Front when Mr. MacTavish was announced. She is a slight, refined, gentle-looking little lady, and rose from her chair with some embarrassment. She had never had anything to do with gentlemen like Mr. MacTavish before, and hardly knew whether she ought to shake hands with him or not; but she did so with a gracious and slightly deprecating air. She felt she was under an obligation to him for giving him so much trouble, and she disliked very much being compelled to talk to him about selling her pictures.
“Won’t you have a cup of tea, Mr. MacTavish?” she asked, not knowing exactly what to say.
The tall Scotsman declined politely, and came straight to business.
“I’ve talked the matter over with Mr. Ringsmith, Mrs. Stillwell, and ifyou’re agreeable I am prepared to buy the three pictures for the firm.”
Mrs. Stillwell half-rose from her chair.
“Oh, thank you very much, thank you very much!” she said hastily.
“Purely a matter of business, madam. You may not be aware that in these times buying pictures is a somewhat dangerous operation.”
“Oh, indeed! I didn’t know.”
Mrs. Stillwell blanched at the word “dangerous.”
“I mean, we may be compelled to keep them for a considerable time. It’s not easy to find purchasers.”
“No, I suppose not, Mr. MacTavish.”
“You are still unable to fix a price, Mrs. Stillwell?”
“I really—I—no, I don’t think so. I have no idea what the value of the pictures is.”
“Pictures have no value, madam; they are worth just what they can be sold for, neither more nor less.”
“Oh, indeed! Yes.”
“Mr. Ringsmith has decided to give you what I think may be considered in the circumstances a very handsome price for the three pictures. He has told me that I may offer you £5,000.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s very kind indeed of Mr. Ringsmith.” Mrs. Stillwell was quite astonished; she had not expected nearly so much.
MacTavish lost no time; he handed her a cheque, and in a few moments took his departure.
Some weeks passed. Ringsmith again occupied the deep leather chair, and Peter Knott was announced.
“Good afternoon, Stephen; thought I’d look in for a moment. No, thanks.” This in answer to Ringsmith’s offer of tea.
“Mrs. Stillwell told me about the deal, Stephen.”
“Well, were you satisfied?”
Peter Knott didn’t answer the question.
“By the way,” he remarked softly, “her boy’s just come back. Got shot through one of his lungs. Extraordinary thing—miracle almost. He’s made a marvellous recovery, thanks entirely to a motor ambulance being handy. They got him to the base hospital, and now he’s almost convalescent. Aren’t you glad you subscribed, Stephen?”
“Of course I’m glad. I don’t give money unless I want to.”
“You are very good about it, Stephen—very. I was wondering whether”—Peter Knott looked up at Ringsmith—“you’d feel like giving me another little cheque. You know these ambulances break down dreadfully fast. Fresh ones are always wanted, and with the new campaign—”
“Really, Peter, you try me pretty high. It’s give, give, give. You seem to think that I’ve got a bottomless pocket.”
“Not exactly bottomless, Stephen.”
“But I say you do. I can’t go on like this. Every day there’s some new demand. Look at this.” He took a type-written letter from the table and handed it to his friend. Peter Knott stuck his eyeglass into his eye and slowly read the letter.
“I say, Stephen, this must be the wrong letter. It’s from those wheelworks of yours, telling you they’ve got so many orders they can’t execute them, and that there’s a new contract from the Government. They want to extend the works.”
“Well, damn it! doesn’t that mean more money, and the Government takes pretty nearly all the profit. You seem to forget that money’s wanted in business. I shall have to shut up shop if this goes on. D’you think giving employment to hundreds of workmen isn’t worth something, too? I’m thinking very seriously of closing Crossways Hall altogether; in fact, I should, only that it would cost me almost as much as keeping it open. There’s no man in the country who has done more in the public interest than I have, but there’s a limit to everything.”
Ringsmith scowled at Peter, who made no attempt at replying.
“By the way, Ringsmith, did you know Whelan is over here? I met him quite by chance yesterday. Seems he’s come over on a large Government contract for shells. He asked after you. Told me about a Corot you sold him some years ago. He seemed to think he’d paid a big price.”
“Well, he didn’t.” The tone of Ringsmith’s reply was irritable. Peter Knott stopped putting on his gloves and looked at Ringsmith inquiringly.
“Not a big price? He told me £7,500.”
“Oh, he told you that, did he? Have you any idea what kind of expenses there are in a transaction of that kind?”
“Not the slightest, Stephen.”
“You don’t seem to realize that there are not many people who have the antipathy to being mixed up in art deals that you have.”
“Ah!” Peter Knott moved to the door.
“Good-bye, Stephen,” he murmured, and closed it gently behind him.
By the first post in the morning Peter Knott received the following letter—
Thinking it over after you left, I have decided to send you the enclosed for the motor ambulance fund. I never like refusing you, but I should like you to remember that business is one thing and charity another.
Yours ever,
Within the letter was a cheque for £2,500.
“Not so bad,” muttered Peter, “but he’s got the Mauve and the Daubigny for nothing, and there were no expenses on this deal.”
When War came, Julian Froelich, known to his friends as “Bobby,” found himself in a situation which in his wildest dreams he had never contemplated. This is not surprising, considering that his mental activities had been exclusively limited to procuring himself what he called “a good time.” In that brief phrase could be summed up Bobby’s entire philosophy, and when he suddenly had to face a state of things which from one moment to another swept away the groundwork upon which his life reposed, it is no wonder that he felt himself “knocked out.” With incredible velocity his friends were caught up and whirled in every direction like cockle-shells in a hurricane. Their haunts knew them no more, and before he could realize his personal concern with catastrophic events Bobby became a disconsolate wanderer in search of the flotsam and jetsam which were all that remained of his demolished world.
For a time Bobby was unnerved. At first singly, then by twos, by threes, by dozens, those with whom his life had been spent—frequenters of the restaurant, the racecourse, the tavern, and the theatre—followed one another in a headlong race to the unknown. His brain reeled under successive shocks. He was awestruck by the appalling suddenness of death and destruction. Daring no inquiry, avoiding those whose faces he dreaded to read, he forsook his former luxurious resorts and almost slunk into the corners of obscure eating-places and cafés in Soho.
Bobby will not easily forget those first few weeks of the War.
Then gradually he pulled himself together, and unable to escape the influence by which he was surrounded, he tried to take his little part in the common effort. But his training was against him. At forty-five years of age it is no easy task for any man to put the past behind him and begin afresh; for Bobby to have done so would have needed a strength of will and character which he never at any time in his life possessed. He did succeed in getting various jobs, but one after another he threw them up. In each case he found a suitable excuse for himself and an explanation for his friends; there was always some insuperable reason why he was “obliged to chuck it,” and he finally resigned himself to a form of existence which differed from his former one, but only in degree.
In the early months of the War, before restrictions were placed upon ordinary travellers, Bobby began going to Paris again, for although he felt if possible even more there than in London the changes brought about by the War, the old habit was too strong to resist; the journey itself provided a reaction against the depression which overshadowed him.
Some time after von Kluck had been hurled back from the gates of Paris—it must have been shortly after the return of the French Government from Bordeaux—Bobby found himself arriving at the Gare du Nord. He had engaged his apartment, as usual, at the Hôtel Ritz, and was about to step into the car which even in such times as these was sent to meet him, when a lady approached and asked him if he would mind taking her to her destination, as there was neither cab nor car to be found at the station. Bobby’s experienced eye took in the stranger at a glance; she was unquestionably attractive, and with something of the old spirit he placed himself and his car at her disposal. It so happened that there was no inconvenience attached to the favour, which the lady acknowledged with becoming grace, for her destination was the same as his, and by the time Bobby had deposited her and her maid at the hotel they had struck up a quite promising acquaintance.
Several days passed, and Bobby’s chance meeting ripened into an engrossing adventure.
Many officers in those early days were continually passing through Paris on their way to the Front or arriving there on short leave. There were all sorts of other visitors—officials and bearers of dispatches, diplomatists and cosmopolitan adventurers out for gain, not to speak of their wives, sisters, and other female attachments. Some of these Bobby knew, others he met, and not a few of them were well enough pleased to accept his society, if only to profit by his ciceronage as evening advanced. But on this occasion Bobby had no eyes for chance encounters. His time was fully occupied, and he had come to the conclusion that his new acquaintance was the most tempting and fascinating creature Fate had ever cast across his path. He had, in fact, constituted himself her permanent escort.
Her chief occupation seemed to consist in visiting people who lived in various parts of Paris, where Bobby invariably accompanied her in the car he had engaged chiefly for her benefit, and he observed that she had a considerable acquaintance among people whom she came across at the hotel or in the various restaurants and theatres they frequented. But she never seemed to do more than bow to them, and though it was evident that her appearance aroused flattering notice, she discouraged attentions and was smilingly evasive when approached. Nevertheless, she was full of engagements. One day she would have an appointment at eleven in the morning near the Arc de Triomphe, in the afternoon in the Boulevard Malesherbes; the next day it would be near the Odéon in the morning and at a turning out of the Place Pigalle in the afternoon. On such occasions she would sweetly ask him to drop her at a certain place and to fetch her at a certain time; then she would disappear and Bobby would be left to spend the interval kicking his heels.
She dressed modestly in a taste that was quiet and restrained. Without being beautiful, her features were clear-cut, almost strong, and there was a radiancy about her smile and a gaiety in her brown eyes that Bobby found perfectly entrancing. She was no longer quite young; she might have been thirty; indeed, her hair, which was dark brown, was ever so slightly touched with silver, but this seemed to add to her attractiveness, which resided perhaps more in her complete naturalness than in any other quality. Bobby noticed that, unlike nearly all the women he knew, she used no colour on her lips, and only lightly dusted her face with powder, but her cheeks seemed always to have a bloom upon them as on grapes from a hothouse.
He found her a most delightful companion, always ready to talk about the things that interested him most and to go anywhere he liked, provided that it did not clash with any of her private engagements.
But never in his experience had Bobby been so puzzled. He simply could not make out who or what she really was. This mystery, if anything, deepened her attraction for him. Her name was Madame de Corantin, and in answer to his inquiry she told him her Christian name was Francine, but he had not so far dared to call her by it. She had an extraordinary power of quietly checking any attempt on his part to make tender advances. He could not himself have explained how it was done, but she contrived to make him feel that any suggestion of familiarity would put an end to their intercourse, and for nothing in the world would he have risked it. Indeed, in his loose-endedness, he looked upon the whole adventure as a special dispensation of Providence in his favour. Madame de Corantin was to him like a beacon to a lonely wayfarer who has lost his way in the night. To act as her escort and protector was, quite apart from the deeper feeling she inspired, a new object in life for him. Ever since their first meeting his depression had left him; his existence had once more regained its savour.
She had frequently asked him to post letters for her, and sometimes to call at the hotel for them; her correspondence seemed to be large, and the envelopes bore the stamps of various countries, chiefly Russia. She spoke English and French equally well, with a slight foreign accent, which she explained by saying that she was Russian by birth, but had married a French diplomatist, who died in Brazil; she said, too, that she had travelled a great deal, and had spent much of her time in South America, where she had been in the habit of speaking Spanish. Perhaps, had Bobby’s companion been less attractive, he might have been more interested in these matters, but he was absorbed by her personality and troubled little about anything else.
Ever bright, vivacious, and in good spirits, she awakened Bobby to a new interest in life. The philosophy with which she regarded tumultuous events, the easy cynicism with which she dismissed a discussion which bordered upon the serious, seemed to deprive him of any means of enlightening himself as to her real sympathies.
Several times he had suggested that some friend should join them at dinner or at the theatre, but she opposed it with a velvety firmness. “We are so well like this,” she would say. “Why should we spoil it?” And Bobby was delighted beyond measure.
The days passed. Bobby’s original intention had been to remain in Paris only a week, but he was fully determined to stop on as long as Madame de Corantin accepted his companionship. If he stayed there until the end of the War, he did not care, provided he could be with her.
About this time Bobby, waiting one evening in the hall of the hotel for Madame de Corantin to come down to dinner, observed a familiar figure in Staff uniform. It was Alistair Ramsey. They exchanged salutations, but Ramsey’s manner was marked by a hauteur which even Bobby, good-natured as he was, could not fail to notice. At that moment Madame de Corantin stepped out of the lift, and with a “See you later,” to which the other responded by a curt nod, Bobby went to meet her. As she greeted him she stood still an instant, apparently looking at some one behind him, and Bobby turned sharply to follow her eyes. They were fixed on Alistair Ramsey, who was staring back at her with a look of astonishment.
The restaurant was fuller than usual, but their table was always reserved, and Bobby (who prides himself on his taste in such matters) looked forward to the little compliment he regularly received for the appropriateness of his menu. But on this occasion Madame de Corantin seemed to be oblivious of menu and of Bobby alike. She sat apparently lost in thought, and, eating mechanically what was placed before her, replied with monosyllables to Bobby’s attempts at conversation. Then, of a sudden, her face cleared like the sky on an April day.
“Pardon me, my friend, I fear I have been very ill-mannered. I have received an annoying letter, and was thinking about it.”
Bobby was full of concern. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
She looked at him with a half-smile. “Who knows? Perhaps!”
“Do tell me. You know I long to be of use to you, and there is so little that I can do.”
“But who could do more? No lonely woman could ask for a more devoted cavalier.” Her appreciative glance was nectar to Bobby. So susceptible was he to the expression of her eyes, he would have been powerless to resist anything they asked of him. But he had never been put to the test; on the contrary, she had accepted with demur even the comparatively trifling services he had been able to render her. She was most punctilious in regard to any expense to which he was put, and insisted, to his discomfiture, on paying her share of everything. At first they had little quarrels about it, but Bobby had been compelled to give way to her firm but gracious insistence.
“Tell me, my friend”—her eyes played full upon him as she spoke—“who was that gentleman you were talking to just before dinner?”
For a moment Bobby hesitated. If there were one man in all his acquaintance whom he would have preferred that Madame de Corantin should not know, it was Alistair Ramsey. Bobby had known him for a good many years. The acquaintance dated back to a period when Ramsey was a comparatively young man of fashionable manner and appearance on half-commission with a firm of stockbrokers. Even then he aspired to smart society, but this social recognition involved an expenditure considerably beyond his earning capacity. In those days Bobby had been of no small use to him. Many were the dinners to which Ramsey had done the inviting, he the paying, and if that gentleman of fashion was not above accepting the lavish attentions of the man about town, whom he regarded as quite outside his own world, still less was he averse to the loans forthcoming at moments of embarrassment, accompanied by a thinly veiled hint from Bobby that they were repayable only when circumstances permitted.
Bobby was not calculating, but without any deep reflection on the subject he knew that Ramsey was “on the make,” and it was not unreasonable to expect him to have at least a kindly feeling for an old friend when he “arrived.” In this, however, he was disappointed. Though with the rise in his fortunes Ramsey’s vanity extinguished his sense of obligation, his pride was not equal to paying his debts. Bobby may or may not have realized that his former friend’s gratitude was of the same quality as his honour, but in any case he showed no resentment. He was sufficiently accustomed to the ways of the successful to take them as they were, and to pass over those characteristics to which, after all, they partly owe their success. Indeed, had it been a question of introducing any one but Madame de Corantin to Ramsey, he would have ignored the latter’s insolence and ingratitude alike and conformed to his habitual rôle as purveyor of amusement to all and sundry. For Bobby’s dignity was not great, and the secret of the kind of popularity he enjoyed was in no small measure attributable to his own lack of self-respect. But for the first time in his life Bobby’s pride now asserted itself. At last he was being “tried too high.”
“Excuse me, madame, if before answering you I ask you why you are interested?”
Madame de Corantin considered an instant. “I shall tell you, my friend, but not now.” She glanced round her significantly as she spoke. “The little story is rather private, and I should not care to be overheard. You understand?”
“Oh, please don’t—please,” he stammered, feeling he had been indiscreet, but flattered all the same by the promise of her confidence. “His name is Alistair Ramsey. I have known him a long time.”
“Is he an intimate friend of yours, monsieur?”
“Well, no, I can’t say intimate, but I used to know him very well.”
“What is his position in London?”
Bobby thought a moment. “Do you mean his position now during the War or generally?”
“Both.”
“Well, shortly before the War he had been made a partner in an important firm in the Stock Exchange. He is supposed to come of a good family, and he went about a great deal. One of those sort of men ladies like—asked out a lot, that sort of thing—good-looking, too, don’t you think?”
The question was inspired by jealousy. The more Bobby thought about Ramsey the less he liked the prospect of introducing him to Madame de Corantin.
“I quite believe he is considered so,” she replied evasively. “But you were saying—”
“Well, it’s generally believed, I dare say it isn’t true, that he was made a member of that firm through being—ahem—a great friend of the wife of the chief partner. I don’t like suggesting that sort of thing, you know, but as you asked me—”
“Oh please go on,” Madame de Corantin said, holding her chin with both hands and leaning her elbows on the table. Her eyes were looking closely into Bobby’s, and he moved uneasily under their sustained gaze.
“Just after the War began—Oh, I forgot to mention something: he is a very great friend of Mrs. Norman Lockyard, the wife of the Cabinet Minister. I seem to keep on bringing in ladies, but somehow when one talks about Alistair Ramsey one can’t help it. Through Mrs. Lockyard, he got introduced to Sir Archibald Fellowes. It wasn’t very difficult, you know; Ramsey gives little parties in his flat in Mount Street—all sorts of people go. It’s extraordinary when one thinks of it—I mean to me who know what his life has been—but he’s considered amusing. I know one evening, a week or two ago, Lord Coleton was there, and—”
Madame de Corantin was listening attentively. “Did you say Lord Coleton?” she asked. “Those English names are so puzzling.”
“Yes,” said Bobby. “Why, do you know him?”
“Oh, slightly,” she answered, “but continue your story, it is so interesting.”
“Where was I? Oh, yes, let me see. Have you ever heard of Léonie Blas?”
Madame de Corantin smiled at the sudden question. “Oh yes, the chanteuse. What has she to do with it?”
“Well, you see, Ramsey and Léonie were more or lesscollés, and Ramsey introduced old Fellowes to her. Soon afterwards Ramsey became Fellowes’ private secretary.”
“Ah!” The exclamation came through Madame de Corantin’s closed lips almost like a sigh. “And Sir Archibald is a very important personage, I believe?”
“Important! They say he runs the whole War Office.”
Madame de Corantin laughed. The sound of it rippled away joyously. It was infectious, and Bobby laughed too.
“Anything more I can tell you?”
“Oh no, thanks. Now let us talk about other things, but I must know this wonderful Mr. Ramsey. You will introduce him to me, won’t you? Ah!” The reason for the exclamation was evident.
Their table faced the entrance, and Madame de Corantin’s seat enabled her to see every one who entered or left the restaurant. Alistair Ramsey was standing in the doorway, waiting for the head waiter to show him to his table. His eyes were fixed upon Madame de Corantin’s face. The look of astonishment Bobby had noticed before had given place to one of mingled surprise and curiosity. He had exchanged his uniform for evening dress, and wore a flower in his buttonhole. A waiter went towards him, and he began threading his way through the diners. Another instant, and he stood beside Madame de Corantin’s chair.
Under the compulsion of a will felt but not expressed in words, Bobby rose as he approached, and introduced him.
“I hope you will allow me to join you after dinner?” Alistair Ramsey asked as he bowed.
Madame de Corantin smiled affirmatively, and Bobby ground his teeth as Ramsey proceeded to his table.
Madame de Corantin did not care for the chatter and casual encounters of the public rooms of an hotel. It was her practice to retire to her own salon after dinner, unless she were going to a theatre. After the first two or three days of their acquaintance she had invited Bobby to join her there, and he had been immensely flattered. He looked forward to that moment every evening, for it seemed to him to admit a certain intimacy which he greatly valued. But now his heart was beating with apprehension. Would she ask Ramsey to her private apartment?
“May I tell the waiter to bring coffee upstairs?” he asked in a low tone.
“By all means,” she said, “but you might order for three and leave word for Mr. Ramsey to join us when he has finished his dinner.” Her tone was careless, and Bobby’s heart turned to stone.
“Perhaps I had better tell him myself?” He tried to conceal his chagrin, but his voice betrayed him.
Madame de Corantin turned to him gaily. “Oh, I expect he’ll find his way without that,” she answered, “and I want to tell you something before he comes.”
“Come and sit here by me,” she said, as they entered her apartment. “You have been very discreet; I have noticed it from the beginning. Had it not been for that I could not have allowed you to be with me so much. Discretion is a great gift, Mr. Froelich.”
“Oh, please don’t call me ‘Mr. Froelich’; couldn’t you manage to say ‘Bobby’ at least once before Ramsey appears?”
Madame de Corantin broke into that catching laugh of hers. “Very well then, ‘Bobby,’ my friend, I am going to trust to your discretion by telling you my little story. I was once travelling on a ship going to America—at that time I was very unhappy. I was quite alone. My husband had recently died. I have been very lucky in my life—you are an example.”
“I?” exclaimed Bobby.
“Yes, you. Did you not arrive on the scene just when I wanted you, at the Gare du Nord?”
“Oh yes, I see what you mean. Of course, of course; thanks awfully for saying that.”
“Well, just as you arrived then, so some one else arrived once long ago, and I was grateful to him, as indeed I am grateful to you.”
Bobby was trying to find something to say, but Madame de Corantin continued—
“I was glad of protection going to America. It is not pleasant for a woman to have to travel alone. I daresay some people would have misunderstood the position. My companion on that voyage was well known. He was a Prince of a distinguished German family. He was nothing to me. I need hardly tell you that.”
The suggestion in her last remark was not very flattering to Bobby, but he was too much interested to notice it.
“On that same ship was travelling your friend, Mr. Ramsey. He knew the Prince slightly, I do not know how.”
“Oh, he always manages to get to know people somehow or other. That’s one of Ramsey’s special gifts,” Bobby remarked with as near an approach to bitterness as he was capable of expressing.
“He used to come up and speak to the Prince when we were reclining on our deck chairs, but my companion did not encourage him. I think, Bobby, he was like you—a little jealous. Anyhow, towards the end of the voyage I received a note. It was handed to me by a stewardess. It was from Mr. Ramsey, and I handed it to the Prince. I do not exactly know what happened, for I did not see Mr. Ramsey again, but from what the Prince told me, he must have said something very disagreeable to Mr. Ramsey. That is all the story.”
She had hardly said the words when there was a knock on the door, and Alistair Ramsey entered the room and stood before her, bowing. With a few easy words the new-comer settled himself in a chair, and at the invitation of Madame de Corantin lit a cigarette. Nothing in his attitude or in hers suggested that they had ever seen each other before, still less that an embarrassing episode figured in the background of their earlier acquaintance.
Madame de Corantin led the conversation by a few casual remarks, which were immediately taken up by Ramsey, and in a few minutes they were talking together as people do who, though they have not met before, have known of each other for years. Ramsey brought in the names of common acquaintances, of places they both knew, with an easy assumption of mutual understanding that what he had to say about them would interest her.
As a rule his attitude in the presence of ladies was that of a man accustomed to the recognition of his ascendency.
Perhaps this was one of the reasons of the quite peculiar hostility with which most men regarded him, but with Madame de Corantin his manner was deferential, and it was clear that he was doing everything in his power to ingratiate himself.
Bobby took little part in the conversation, and Ramsey’s demeanour towards him was not such as to encourage him to do so. Ramsey had the assurance which comes from social success, and he took no trouble to conceal the indifference, if not contempt, with which he regarded the other man. His manner was alternately insolent and condescending; he kept his eyes fixed upon Madame de Corantin, ignoring Bobby’s presence completely.
Glib of speech, Ramsey had a certain gift of humour, which displayed itself in flippant witticisms generally at the expense of others. He undoubtedly possessed the art of provoking laughter, but there was always malice behind his frivolity. In appearance he was elegant without being engaging, and one felt the spitefulness of the dark eyes beneath the abundant hair, and the hardness of his mouth showed itself even when he laughed. An onlooker could not have failed to contrast Madame de Corantin’s two visitors, and an Englishman certainly would have done so to the disadvantage of Ramsey.
In spite of his German name Bobby was typically English in appearance, and no one would have supposed that of the two he was the more cosmopolitan. As he sat now listening to the conversation his good-natured face wore an expression of perplexity and discomfort. Bobby was suffering the pangs of jealousy, and at every fresh sally of the other he was watching Madame de Corantin’s face to see its effect. No wonder, he thought, that Ramsey had few friends, and yet he could not help envying the caustic readiness of his tongue and the skill with which he had so quickly turned the situation to his advantage.
For an hour they talked until, in some subtle and indefinable manner, Bobby felt that Madame de Corantin desired to be left alone. He had frequently had this experience with her; she seemed to be able to indicate a desire without expressing it, and he rose now from his seat and wished her good-night. Ramsey did not move, and Bobby’s heart sank within him at the prospect of leaving his rival in possession, but, as he took Madame de Corantin’s hand, she held it an instant in hers, turning at the same time towards Ramsey.
“I am so sorry,” she said to him, “that our agreeable little party must break up, but I have many letters to write this evening, and shall look forward to seeing you both to-morrow.”
Bobby was elated as he went out of the room, closely followed by Ramsey; indeed, reaction prompted geniality.
“I think I’ll go round to Maxim’s for an hour; it’s quite early. Will you join me? There are sure to be people you know there.”
They were standing in the hall of the hotel.
“Thanks, it’s very good of you, but I too have letters to write,” Ramsey replied, and turning coldly on his heel he left Bobby to go out alone.
Bobby strolled down the Place de la Concorde, but before he reached Maxim’s his heart misgave him; he was reviewing the events of the evening and, though he could not justify it, his mind was full of suspicion. It was queer her wanting to see Ramsey again after the way he had behaved. What could have been her object? Was he really so irresistible? She had certainly shown quite plainly that she wanted to see him, and yet she had shown equally plainly that she didn’t want him to remain with her alone. He wondered how long Ramsey would be staying in Paris, and what effect his presence would have on his intercourse with Madame de Corantin. Would he be able to see as much of her or would she drop him in favour of Ramsey. The thought tortured him, but it wormed its way more and more into his brain. Bobby had very little confidence in his powers of pleasing; it was a common experience of his to be thrown over in favour of men much less attractive to women than Ramsey. It was true that hitherto he had not much cared, and when he had been given the “go-by” he had always reflected that there were as good fish in the sea, and so on; but that wasn’t the case now.
Thinking deeply, he had reached the entrance of Maxim’s without knowing it, but looking in, he turned away in disgust; he had no desire to face the crowd inside, he wanted to think things over. He walked on up the Boulevard de la Madeleine, and with every step his jealousy increased. The suspicion rankled; he felt certain that Ramsey would somehow or other manage to see her again before he could—why, he might even contrive to do so that very evening. He knew that Ramsey would dare anything where women were concerned. Very likely while he was walking up the Boulevard, Ramsey was sitting in her room.
Finally, he could bear it no longer. Turning, he walked swiftly back to the hotel; it was a little past eleven, too early to go to bed, too late in a darkened and subdued Paris to do anything else. He wondered where Ramsey was, and, going to the porter, asked him casually if he had seen him.
No, he had not seen Monsieur Ramsey since he had gone upstairs half an hour ago; he supposed he had gone to bed.
Had Ramsey gone to bed? The more Bobby turned it over in his mind the stronger his suspicions grew, and then came a moment of desperation—he must know, he could not bear the suspense. His own room was two floors above that on which was Madame de Corantin’s apartment. Declining the lift, he walked slowly upstairs, and as though he were doing so by mistake, directed his steps softly past the door of her salon. No one was in the corridor, and noiselessly he approached the door. Was that a man’s voice? Yes, there was not a doubt of it. He listened again, he looked up and down the passage, no one was in sight. He placed his head close to the woodwork of the door; with a sense of ignominy he realized that if there had been a keyhole he would have placed his ear to that—anything to know—anything. Yes, he recognized Ramsey’s voice distinctly; he was there. On tiptoe he retraced his steps. Arrived at the entrance hall he flung himself into a chair, a prey to utter wretchedness.
Somehow the night passed.
Towards morning, perhaps at six or seven, he fell into a heavy sleep, completely worn out by his mental sufferings. He awoke late, and, glancing at his watch, saw to his horror that it was already eleven o’clock. Cursing himself as he realized that this was the hour at which Madame de Corantin generally went out, he rang the bell. How he longed for his trusted valet, enlisted two months back. Now he had only a hotel servant to send on messages. When the man arrived he dispatched him instantly to find out whether Madame de Corantin had sent him any message, and began to dress hurriedly. The servant did not return, and in his impatience Bobby cursed him and rang again. Another servant appeared and was hurried off on the same errand. In this way twenty minutes passed; Bobby was dressed and flew downstairs. Unable to disguise his anxiety, he asked the porter if he had seen Madame de Corantin.
“Madame de Corantin left an hour ago, Monsieur.”
“Left? What do you mean?”
“Yes, Monsieur, she left—left with her luggage and her maid—everything.”
Controlling himself as best he could Bobby turned away in a state of complete dejection. He sought an out-of-the-way corner and sat down, trying to calm himself so that he could think.
“Gone away! Gone away!” He repeated the words mechanically. What did it all mean?
Somebody was approaching him; he looked up, a servant handed him a note. He tore it open breathlessly.
News reached me early this morning which necessitated my immediate departure. I know, alas, that you will feel sad at not seeing me again. Believe me, so am I, but it is unavoidable. I asked for you before I left, but they told me at the hotel that you had not yet left your room. I scribble this line at the station. Forgive me, my dear friend, for all the trouble I have given you, and believe that I am very grateful. We shall meet again some day, and meanwhile keep a kindly remembrance of your friend
She gave no address.
Bobby read the letter again and again; he could hardly believe his eyes. The worst thing that could possibly happen had befallen him. Where could she have gone, and why couldn’t she tell him, and oh, how could he have been such a fool as to have gone on sleeping like a stupid log at the moment that she was going away? He would never be able to forgive himself for that. Was there any connection between her departure and her meeting with Alistair Ramsey? Bobby tried to concentrate his mind on the problem, but it baffled him.
Completely bewildered, he cross-questioned the hall porter, but he could add nothing to what he had already said. Madame de Corantin had gone and she had left no address and he had not the slightest idea where, nor did he know to what station she had gone. A car had come for her, apparently a private one, she had not ordered it at the hotel. What trains were there leaving? Oh, there were numbers; there was one to Rouen and Havre and also to Dieppe about that time, to Bordeaux and San Sebastian, to all kinds of places. Bobby realized the utter hopelessness of attempting to trace her. Wretchedly the hours passed; in the middle of the afternoon he decided that whatever happened he would not stay another night in Paris. The thought of it sickened him. Paris, the hotel, and everything else had become hateful. No, he would spend that night at Dieppe, and go to London the next day, that was all he could think of.
Back in London, Bobby’s condition of misery, so far from improving, became worse. His life, aimless enough ever since the War, seemed now more aimless than ever. Every man he knew had something to do; he alone was objectless and workless. More profoundly than ever he realized all that Madame de Corantin had meant to him. Her disappearance had made his life a blank. Had there been some glimmer of hope, however slight, of penetrating the mystery, had there been the faintest clue to her present whereabouts, he would have thrown himself heart and soul into the endeavour to trace her, but he had absolutely nothing to go upon.
Weary and desolate, he haunted restaurants and hotels, in the vague hope that chance might some day yield him a glimpse of her, as a gambler clings to a faint prospect of redeeming his fortunes through some wonderful and unexpected revulsion of luck. But the days passed without the slightest encouragement, and his misery turned almost to despair.
At last, at his wits’ end to know what to do with himself, he besought a boon companion of his night life to come to his rescue. To this one war had brought opportunity. His name was Bertram Trent. He had lived all sorts of lives, had been married and divorced, and had made his appearance more than once in the Bankruptcy Court, but he had knocked about the world and seen service.
Offering himself at the beginning of the War, he had taken part in the Great Retreat and had been wounded. On his recovery he had been given the command of a battalion, and at Bobby’s earnest entreaty he promised him a commission, provided he could get it confirmed at the War Office. This saved Bobby. He lost no time in putting in his application, and, awaiting the Gazette, he occupied himself in ordering his kit and in getting himself into some sort of physical condition to undertake duties for which his previous life had ill-prepared him. Though considerably past the age for military service, he had not contemplated the possibility of being refused a commission.
Dropping in one day at the Carlton for lunch, he met Harold Clancey, who, to his surprise, was wearing the Staff cap. Clancey told him that he had been working for some time at the War Office, and had been given the rank of captain.
“Let’s have lunch together,” suggested Bobby.
Bobby had met Clancey at all sorts of places, but they had never been on intimate terms; in fact, the two men had little more than a nodding acquaintance. Bobby had run into him the last time at Homburg, and Clancey had given him to understand that he had some sort of vague diplomatic appointment. He had drifted across Bobby’s life afterwards in a shadowy way, seeming to have nothing special to do, but to know a great many people and to take life as a sort of a joke. He talked lightly and cynically about serious things, and used foreign expressions with great ease and fluency. It was characteristic of him that since the War he made frequent use of German idioms, and when conversation turned upon passing events he professed a complete contempt for English ideas, habits, and methods, and a great admiration for those of the Germans.
“What’s your job at the War Office?” asked Bobby.
“As I really don’t know myself it is rather difficult to explain it to you,” answered the other, “but it seems chiefly to consist in sitting tight and preventing other people from annexing it.”
“I’m up for a commission,” remarked Bobby. “Can you do anything to help me about it?”