"Ma tante," said Julia Redmond to the Marquise d'Esclignac, "can we go back to France immediately?"
"My dear Julia!" exclaimed her aunt, in surprise and delight. "Robert will be enchanted, but he would not be able to leave his friend so soon."
"He need not," said the girl, "nor need you leave unless you wish."
The Marquise d'Esclignac entertained a thousand thoughts. She had not studied young girls' minds for a long time. She had heard that the modern American girl was very extreme and she held her in rather light esteem. Julia Redmond she had considered to be out of the general rule. "Was it possible," she wondered, "that Julia, in comparing Tremont with the invalid, found Robert more attractive?"
"Julia," she said severely, as though her niece were a child, pointing to a chair, "sit down."
Slightly smiling, the young girl obeyed her aunt.
"My dear, I have followed your caprices from France to Africa. Only by pleading heart-failure and mortal illness could I dissuade you from going into the desert with the caravan. Now, without any apparent reason, you wish to return to France."
"The reason for coming here has been accomplished, ma tante. Monsieur de Sabron has been found."
"And now that you have found him," said the marquise reproachfully, "and you discover that he is not all your romantic fancy imagined, you are going to run away from him. In short, you mean to throw him over."
"Throw him over, ma tante!" murmured the girl. "I have never had the chance. Between Monsieur de Sabron and myself there is only friendship."
"Fiddlesticks!" said the Marquise d'Esclignac impatiently. "I have no understanding of the modern young girl. She makes her own marriages and her subsequent divorces. I am your aunt, my dear, your mother's sister, and a woman of at least twenty-five years' more experience than you have."
Julia was not following her aunt's train of thought, but her own. She felt the hint of authority and bondage in her aunt's tone and repeated:
"I wish to leave Algiers to-morrow."
"You shall do so," said her aunt. "I am rejoiced to get out of the Orient. It is late to order my dresses for Trouville, but I can manage. Before we go, however, my dear, I want you to make me a promise."
"A promise, ma tante?" The girl's tone implied that she did not think she would give it.
"You have played the part of fate in the life of this young man, who, I find, is a charming and brave man. Now you must stand by your guns, my dear Julia."
"Why, how do you mean, ma tante?"
"You will go to Paris and the Capitaine de Sabron will get well rapidly. He will follow you, and if it were not for Tremont, myself, your Red Cross Society and the presence here of Madame de la Maine, you would have been very much compromised. But never mind," said the Marquise d'Esclignac magnificently, "my name is sufficient protection for my niece. I am thinking solely of the poor young man."
"Of Monsieur de Sabron?"
"Of course," said the Marquise d'Esclignac tartly, "did you think I meant Robert? You have so well arranged his life for him, my dear."
"Ma tante," pleaded the girl.
The marquise was merciless.
"I want you to promise me, Julia, before you sail for home, that if Sabron follows us and makes you to understand that he loves you, as he will, that you will accept him."
Julia Redmond looked at the Marquise d'Esclignac in astonishment. She half laughed and she half cried.
"You want me to promise?"
"I do," said her aunt firmly, regarding her niece through her lorgnon. "In the first place the affair is entirely unconventional and has been since we left France. It is I who should speak to the Capitaine de Sabron. You are so extremely rich that it will be a difficult matter for a poor and honorable young man.... Indeed, my dear, I may as well tell you that I shall do so when we reach home."
"Oh," said the girl, turning perfectly pale and stepping forward toward her aunt, "if you consider such a thing I shall leave for America at once."
The Marquise d'Esclignac gave a petulant sigh.
"How impossible you are, Julia. Understand me, my dear, I do not want a woman of my family to be a coquette. I do not want it said that you are an American flirt—it is in bad taste and entirely misunderstood in the Faubourg St.-Germain."
The girl, bewildered by her aunt's attitude and extremely troubled by the threat of the marriage convention, said:
"Don't you understand? In this case it is peculiarly delicate. He might ask me from a sense of honor."
"Not in any sense," said the Marquise d'Esclignac. "It has not occurred to the poor young officer to suppose for a moment that a young woman with millions, as you are so fortunate to be, would derange herself like this to follow him. If I thought so I would not have brought you, Julia. What I have done, I have done solely for your peace of mind, my child. This young man loves you. He believes that you love him, no doubt. You have given him sufficient reason, heaven knows! Now," said her aunt emphatically, "I do not intend that you should break his heart."
It was more than likely that the Marquise d'Esclignac was looking back twenty-five years to a time, when as a rich American, she had put aside her love for a penniless soldier with an insignificant title. She remembered how she had followed his campaign. She folded her lorgnon and looked at her niece. Julia Redmond saw a cloud pass over her aunt's tranquil face. She put her arms around her and kissed her tenderly.
"You really think then, ma tante, that he will come to Paris?"
"Without a doubt, my dear."
"You think he cares, ma tante?"
Her aunt kissed her and laughed.
"I think you will be happy to a bourgeois extent. He is a fine man."
"But do I need to promise you?" asked the girl. "Don't you know?"
"I shall be perfectly ashamed of you," said the Marquise d'Esclignac, "if you are anything but a woman of heart and decision in this matter."
Evidently she waited, and Julia Redmond, slightly bowing her lovely head in deference to the older lady who had not married her first love, said obediently:
"I promise to do as you wish, ma tante."
CHAPTER XXVI
CONGRATULATIONS
The Duc de Tremont saw what splendid stuff the captain in the —— Cavalry was made of by the young man's quick convalescence. Sabron could not understand why Robert lingered after the departure of the Marquise d'Esclignac, the Comtesse de la Maine and Miss Redmond. The presence of the young man would have been agreeable if it had not been for his jealously and his unhappiness.
They played piquet together. Sabron, in his right mind, thinner and paler, nevertheless very much of a man, now smoked his cigarettes and ate his three meals a day. He took a walk every day and was quite fit to leave the Orient. Tremont said:
"I think, Sabron, that we can sail this week."
Sabron looked at him questioningly.
"You are going, then, too—?"
"Of course," said the young nobleman heartily. "We are going together. You know I am going to take you back in my yacht."
Sabron hesitated and then said:
"No, mon vieux, if you will excuse me I think I shall remain faithful to the old line of travel. I have an idea that I am not in yachting trim."
Tremont was not too dull to have noticed his friend's change of attitude toward him. He smoked for a few moments and then said:
"When we get back to Paris I want to have the pleasure of introducing you to my fiancée."
Sabron dropped his cards.
"Introducing me!" he repeated. Then putting out his hand, said cordially: "I knew you were to be felicitated, old fellow."
Tremont shook his hand warmly.
"Yes, and the lady is very anxious to know you. It is Madame de la Maine."
A very warm color flushed the cheeks of the invalid. He remembered all he had heard and all he had known. He congratulated his friend with sincere warmth, and after a few moments said:
"If you really want me to go back with you on the yacht, old chap—"
"I really do," said Tremont serenely. "You see, when we came on the boat we scarcely hoped to be so fortunate as to bring back the distinguished captain."
Sabron smiled.
"But you have not told me yet," he said, "why you came down."
"No," said Tremont, "that is true. Well, it will make a story for the sea."
CHAPTER XXVII
VALOR IN RETROSPECT
In the month of May, when the chestnuts bloom in the green dells, where the delicate young foliage holds the light as in golden cups, a young man walked through one of the small allées of the Bois at the fashionable noon hour, a little reddish dog trotting at his heels. The young man walked with an imperceptible limp. He was thin as men are thin who have lived hard and who have overcome tremendous obstacles. He was tanned as men are browned who have come from eastern and extreme southern countries.
The little dog had also an imperceptible limp occasioned by a bicycle running over him when he was a puppy.
The two companions seemed immensely to enjoy the spring day. Sabron every now and then stood for a few moments looking into the green of the woods, looking at the gay passers-by, pedestrians and equestrians, enjoying to the full the repose of civilization, the beauty of his own land.
Pitchouné looked with indifference upon the many dogs. He did not stir from his master's side. When Sabron was quiet, the little animal stood at attention; he was a soldier's dog. He could have told dog stories to those insignificant worldly dogs—could have told of really thrilling adventures. His brown eyes were pathetic with their appeal of affection as they looked up at his beloved master. He had a fund of experience such as the poodles and the terriers led by their owners, could not understand. Therefore Pitchouné was indifferent to them. Not one of those petted, ridiculous house dogs could have run for miles in the dark across an African desert, could have found the regiment and fetched relief to his master. Pitchouné was proud of it. He was very well satisfied with his career. He was still young; other deeds of valor perhaps lay before him—who can tell? At any rate, he had been shown about at the ministry of war, been very much admired, and he was a proud animal.
When Sabron spoke to him he leaped upon him and wagged his tail. After a few moments, as the two stood near the exit of an allée leading to one of the grand avenues, Pitchouné slowly went in front of his master and toward two ladies sitting on a bench in the gentle warmth of the May sunlight. Pitchouné, moved from his usual indifference, gave a short bark, walked up to the ladies, and began to snuff about their feet. The younger lady exclaimed, and then Sabron, lifting his hat, came forward, the crimson color beating in his dark tanned cheeks.
The Marquise d'Esclignac held out both hands to the officer:
"It's nearly noon," she said, "and you don't forget that you have promised to lunch with us, do you, Monsieur le Capitaine?"
Sabron, bending over her hand, assured her that he had not forgotten. Then his eyes traveled to her companion. Miss Redmond wore a very simple dress, as was her fashion, but the young officer from Africa who had not seen her near by until now and who had only caught a glimpse of her across the opera-house, thought that he had never seen such a beautiful dress in all his life. It was made of soft gray cloth and fitted her closely, and in the lapel of her mannish little buttonhole she wore a few Parma violets. He recognized them. They had come from a bunch that he had sent her the night before. He kissed her hand, and they stood talking together, the three of them, for a few moments, Pitchouné stationing himself as a sentinel by Miss Redmond's side.
The Marquis d'Esclignac rose. The young girl rose as well, and they walked on together.
"Mes enfants," said the Marquise d'Esclignac, "don't go with your usual rush, Julia. Remember that Monsieur de Sabron is not as strong as Hercules yet. I will follow you with Pitchouné."
But she spoke without knowledge of the dog. Now feeling that some unwonted happiness had suddenly burst upon the horizon that he knew, Pitchouné seemed suddenly seized with a rollicking spirit such as had been his characteristic some years ago. He tore like mad down the path in front of Sabron and Miss Redmond. He whirled around like a dervish, he dashed across the road in front of automobiles, dashed back again, springing upon his master and whining at the girl's feet.
"See," said Sabron, "how happy he is."
"I should think he would be happy. He must have a knowledge of what an important animal he is. Just think! If he were a man they would give him a decoration."
And the two walked tranquilly side by side.
Pitchouné ran to the side of the road, disappeared into a little forest all shot through with light. He came back, bringing the remains of an old rubber ball lost there by some other dog, and laid it triumphantly in front of Miss Redmond.
"See," said Sabron, "he brings you his trophies."
CHAPTER XXVIII
HAPPINESS
Le Comte de Sabron finished his dressing.
Brunet surveyed his master from the tip of his shining boots to his sleek fair head. His expressive eyes said: "Monsieur le Capitaine is looking well to-night."
Brunet had never before given his master a direct compliment. His eyes only had the habit of expressing admiration, and the manner in which he performed his duties, his devotion, were his forms of compliment. But Sabron's long illness and absence, the fact that he had been snatched from death and given back to the army again, leveled between servant and master the impassable wall of etiquette.
"There will be a grand dinner to-night, will there not, Monsieur le Capitaine? Doubtless Monsieur le Colonel and all the gentlemen will be there." Brunet made a comprehensive gesture as though he comprised the entire état major.
Sabron, indeed, looked well. He was thin, deeply bronzed by the exposure on the yacht, for he and Tremont before returning to France had made a long cruise. Sabron wore the look of a man who has come back from a far country and is content.
"And never shall I forget to the end of my days how Monsieur le Capitaine looked when I met the yacht at Marseilles!"
Brunet spoke reverently, as though he were chronicling sacred souvenirs.
"I said to myself, you are about to welcome back a hero, Brunet! Monsieur le Capitaine will be as weak as a child. But I was determined that Monsieur le Capitaine should not read my feelings, however great my emotion."
Sabron smiled. At no time in his simple life did Brunet ever conceal the most trifling emotion—his simple face revealed all his simple thoughts. Sabron said heartily: "Your control was very fine, indeed."
"Instead of seeing a sick man, Monsieur le Capitaine, a splendid-looking figure, with red cheeks and bright eyes came off the boat to the shore. I said to myself: 'Brunet, he has the air of one who comes back from a victory.' No one would have ever believed that Monsieur le Capitaine had been rescued from captivity."
Brunet's curiosity was very strong and as far as his master was concerned he had been obliged to crush it down. To himself he was saying: "Monsieur le Capitaine is on the eve of some great event. When will he announce it to me? I am sure my master is going to be married."
Pitchouné, from a chair near by, assisted at his master's toilet, one moment holding the razor-strop between his teeth, then taking the clothes brush in his little grip. He was saying to himself: "I hope in the name of rats and cats my master is not going out without me!"
Brunet was engaged to be married to the kitchen maid of the Marquise d'Esclignac. Ordonnances and scullions are not able to arrange their matrimonial affairs so easily as are the upper classes.
"Monsieur le Capitaine," said the servant, his simple face raised to his master's, "I am going to be married."
Sabron wheeled around: "Mon brave Brunet, when?"
Brunet grinned sheepishly.
"In five years, Monsieur le Capitaine," at which the superior officer laughed heartily.
"Is she an infant, are you educating her?"
"When one is the eldest son of a widow," said Brunet with a sigh, "and the eldest of ten children—"
The clock struck the quarter. Sabron knew the story of the widow and ten children by heart.
"Is the taxi at the door?"
"Yes, Monsieur le Capitaine."
Pitchouné gave a sharp bark.
"You are not invited," said his master cruelly, and went gaily out, his sword hitting against the stairs.
* * * * * * *
The Marquise d'Esclignac gave a brilliant little dinner to the colonel of Sabron's squadron. There were present a general or two, several men of distinction, and among the guests were the Duc de Tremont and Madame de la Maine. Sabron, when he found himself at table, looked at everything as though in a dream. Julia Redmond sat opposite him. He had sent her flowers and she wore them in her bodice. Madame de la Maine bent upon the young officer benignant eyes, the Duc de Tremont glanced at him affectionately, but Sabron was only conscious that Julia's eyes did not meet his at all.
They talked of Sabron's captivity, of the engagement in Africa, of what the army was doing, would not do, or might do, and the fact that the Duc de Tremont was to receive the decoration of the Legion of Honor in July. Tremont toasted Sabron and the young officer rose to respond with flushing face. He looked affectionately at his friend who had brought him from death into life. The moment was intense, and the Marquise d'Esclignac lifted her glass:
"Now, gentlemen, you must drink to the health of Pitchouné."
There was a murmur of laughter. Madame de la Maine turned to Sabron:
"I have had a collar made for Pitchouné; it is of African leather set with real turquoise."
Sabron bowed: "Pitchouné will be perfectly enchanted, Madame; he will wear it at your wedding."
* * * * * * *
Later, when the others had left them to themselves in the music-room, Sabron sat in a big chair by the open window and Julia Redmond played to him. The day was warm. There was a smell of spring flowers in the air and the vases were filled with girofles and sweet peas. But Sabron smelt only the violets in Julia's girdle. Her hands gently wandered over the keys, finding the tune that Sabron longed to hear. She played the air through, and it seemed as though she were about to sing the first verse. She could not do so, nor could she speak.
Sabron rose and came over to where she sat.
There was a low chair near the piano and he took it, leaning forward, his hands clasped about his knees. It had been the life-long dream of this simple-hearted officer that one day he would speak out his soul to the woman he loved. The time had come. She sat before him in her unpretentious dress. He was not worldly enough to know it cost a great price, nor to appreciate that she wore no jewels—nothing except the flowers he had sent. Her dark hair was clustered about her ears and her beautiful eyes lost their fire in tenderness.
"When a man has been very close to death, Mademoiselle, he looks about for the reason of his resurrection. When he returns to the world, he looks to see what there is in this life to make it worth living. I am young—at the beginning of my career. I may have before me a long life in which, with health and friends, I may find much happiness. These things certainly have their worth to a normal man—but I can not make them real before my eyes just yet. As I look upon the world to which I have returned, I see nothing but a woman and her love. If I can not win her for my wife, if I can not have her love—" He made an expressive gesture which more impressively than words implied how completely he laid down everything else to her love and his.
He said, not without a certain dignity: "I am quite poor; I have only my soldier's pay. In Normandy I own a little property. It is upon a hill and looks over the sea, with apple orchards and wheat fields. There is a house. These are my landed estates. My manhood and my love are my fortune. If you can not return my love I shall not thank Tremont for bringing me back from Africa."
The American girl listened to him with profound emotion. She discovered every second how well she understood him, and he had much to say, because it was the first time he had ever spoken to her of his love. She had put out both her hands and, looking at him fully, said simply:
"Why it seems to me you must know how I feel—how can you help knowing how I feel?"
* * * * * * *
After a little he told her of Normandy, and how he had spent his childhood and boyhood in the château overlooking the wide sea, told her how he had watched the ships and used to dream of the countries beyond the horizon, and how the apple-blossoms filled the orchards in the spring. He told her how he longed to go back, and that his wandering life had made it impossible for years.
Julia whispered: "We shall go there in the spring, my friend."
He was charming as he sat there holding her hands closely, his fine eyes bent upon her. Sabron told her things that had been deep in his heart and mind, waiting for her here so many months. Finally, everything merged into his present life, and the beauty of what he said dazed her like an enchanted sea. He was a soldier, a man of action, yet a dreamer. The fact that his hopes were about to be realized made him tremble, and as he talked, everything took light from this victory. Even his house in Normandy began to seem a fitting setting for the beautiful American.
"It is only a Louis XIII château; it stands very high, surrounded by orchards, which in the spring are white as snow."
"We shall go there in the spring," she whispered.
Sabron stopped speaking, his reverie was done, and he was silent as the intensity of his love for her surged over him. He lifted her delicate hands to his lips. "It is April now," he said, and his voice shook, "it is spring now, my love."
* * * * * * *
At Julia's side was a slight touch. She cried: "Pitchouné!" He put his paws on her knees and looked up into her face.
"Brunet has brought him here," said Sabron, "and that means the good chap is attending to his own love-making."
Julia laid her hand on Pitchouné's head. "He will love the Normandy beach, Charles."
"He will love the forests," said Sabron; "there are rabbits there."
On the little dog's head the two hands met and clasped. "Pitchouné is the only one in the world who is not de trop," said Julia gently.
Sabron, lifting her hand again to his lips, kissed it long, looking into her eyes. Between that great mystery of the awakening to be fulfilled, they drew near to each other—nearer.
Pitchouné sat before them, waiting. He wagged his tail and waited. No one noticed him. He gave a short bark that apparently disturbed no one.
Pitchouné had become de trop.
He was discreet. With sympathetic eyes he gazed on his beloved master and new mistress, then turned and quietly trotted across the room to the hearth-rug, sitting there meditatively for a few minutes blinking at the empty grate, where on the warm spring day there was no fire.
Pitchouné lay down before the fireless hearth, his head forward on his paws, his beautiful eyes still discreetly turned away from the lovers. He drew a long contented breath as dogs do before settling into repose. His thrilling adventures had come to an end. Before fires on the friendly hearth of the Louis XIII château, where hunting dogs were carved in the stone above the chimney, Pitchouné might continue to dream in the days to come. He would hunt rabbits in the still forests above the wheat fields, and live again in the firelight his great adventures on the desert, the long runs across the sands on his journey back to France.
Now he closed his eyes. As a faithful friend he rested in the atmosphere of happiness about him. He had been the sole companion of a lonely man, now he had become part of a family.
THE END