"Very well then," said Markham. "We must earn the right to do it."
They found a small auberge before which Hermia unpacked her orchestra and played. A crowd of women and children soon surrounded them, and the sounds of the drum brought the curious from the fields and more distant houses. The patronne came out and Philidor offered to do her portrait for ten sous.
They were lucky. When the hat was passed they found the total returns upon their venture, including the portrait, were one franc and thirty centimes. This paid for their share of the ragoût, some cheese, bread and a liter of wine. When they got up to go, such was the immediate fame of Philidor's portrait, that two other persons came with the money in their hands to sit to him. But he shook his head. He would be back this way, perhaps—but now—no—they must be upon their way. And so amid the farewells of their latest friends, the cries of children and the barking of dogs they took to the road again.
CHAPTER XVI
MANET CICATRIX
Olga Tcherny sat at a long window in the villa of the Duchesse d'Orsay and looked out over the sparkling sands upon the gleaming sea. Trouville was gay. The strand was flecked with the bright colors of fashionable pilgrims who sat or strolled along the margin of the waves, basking in the warm sun, recuperating from the rigors of the Parisian spring. White sails moved to and fro upon the horizon and a mild air stirred the lace curtains in Olga's window, which undulated lightly, their borders flapping joyously with a frivolous disregard for the somber mood of the guest of the house.
Olga's gaze was afar, quite beyond the visible. Her horizon was inward and limitless, and though she looked outward she saw nothing. Her brows were tangled, the scarlet of her lips was drawn in a thin line slightly depressed at the outer corners and the toe of her small slipper tapped noiselessly upon the rug. It was nothing, of course, to be bored, for when she was not gay she was always bored; but there was a deeper discontent in her whole attitude that that which comes from mere ennui, an aggressive discontent, sentient rather than passive, a kind of feline alertness which needed only an immediate incentive to become dangerous. Upon the dressing-table beside her was Hermia Challoner's telegram, explaining her failure to reach Trouville; in her fingers a letter from a friend in Rouen telling her of John Markham's visit to that city and of his departure. Both the telegram and the letter were much crumpled, showing that they had been taken out and read before. There seemed no doubt about it now. John Markham had received her letters announcing her arrival in Normandy and had in spite of them fled from Havre, from Rouen, to parts unknown, where neither Olga's rosily tinted notes nor Olga's rosily tinted person could reach him. She had hoped that Hermia's arrival from Paris would have made existence at Trouville at least bearable, but Hermia's change of mind explained by the belated telegram had made it evident that Fate was conspiring to her discomfort and inconvenience. To make matters the worse the Duchesse had taken upon herself an attack of the gout which made her insupportable, and Pierre de Folligny, Olga's usual refuse in hours like these, had gone off for a week of shooting at the Château of a cousin of the Duchesse's, the Comte de Cahors.
Hermia's change of plans had disappointed her; for, jealous as she was of the years between them, Hermia always added a definite note of color to her surroundings, or a leaven of madness—which made even sanity endurable. There seemed just now nothing in her prospect but a dreary waste of the usual—the beach, the inevitable sea, the Casino, tea, more beach, with intervals of fretful piquet with the Duchesse, an outlook both gloomy and disheartening. Indeed it had been some weeks now since things had gone quite to her liking, and her patience, never proof against continued disappointment, was almost at the point of exhaustion. The letters she had written John Markham, one from New York telling of her immediate departure, another from Paris hoping to see him at her hotel, a third from Trouville, assuming the miscarriage of the other two—cool, friendly notes, tinetured with a nonchalance she was far from feeling, had failed of their purpose, and save for a brief letter telling of his departure form Rouen, he had not given the slightest evidence of his appreciation of her efforts toward a platonic reconciliation. She had not despaired of him and did not despair of him now, for it was one of her maxims that a clever woman—a woman as clever as she was—could have any man in the world if she set her cap for him.
Her self-esteem was at stake. She consoled herself with the thought that all she needed was opportunity, which being offered, she would succeed in her object, by fair means if she could, by other means if she must. She smiled a little as she thought how easily she could have conquered him had she chosen to be less scrupulous in the use of her weapons. She could have won him at "Wake Robin" if some silly Quixotism hadn't steeled her breast against him—more than tat, she knew that in spite of herself she would have won him if it hadn't been for Hermia. Hermia had discovered a remarkable faculty for unconsciously interfering with her affairs. Unconsciously? It seemed so—and yet—
The slipper on the floor tapped more rapidly for a moment and then stopped. Olga rose, her lips parting in a slow smile. It was curious about Hermia—there were moments when Olga had caught herself wondering whether Hermia wasn't more than casually interested in her elusive philosopher. Hermia's decision to follow her to Europe had been made with a suddenness which left her motives open to suspicion. Olga had learned from Georgette, who had got it from Titine, that notes had passed between Hermia and Markham, for Georgette, whatever the indifference of her successes as a hairdresser, had a useful skill at surreptitious investigation. This morning Georgette had received a note from Titine who was in Paris where she had been left by her mistress to do some shopping and to await Hermia's return. Titine had expressed bewilderment at the disappearance of her mistress, who had left Paris in her new machine with the avowed intention of reaching Trouville by night. Georgette had imparted this information to Madame while she was doing her hair in the morning, and as the hours passed Olga found her mind dwelling more insistently on the possible reasons for Hermia's change of plans. Where was she? And who was with her? Olga ran rapidly through her mental list of Hermia's acquaintances and seemed to be able to account for the where-abouts or engagements of all those who might have been her companions.
What if— She started impatiently, walked across the room and looked out into the Duchesse's rose garden. Really, Markham's importance in her scheme of things was getting to be intolerable. It infuriated her that this obsession was warping her judgment to the point of imagining impossibilities. Hermia and Markham? The idea was absurd. And yet somehow it persisted. She turned on her heel and paced the floor of the room rapidly two or three times. She paused for a moment at her dressing-table and then with a quick air of resolution rang for her maid.
"Georgette," she announced, "I shall have no need of you for a day or two. I would like you to go to Paris,"
Georgette smiled demurely, concealing her delight with difficulty. To invite a French maid to go to Paris is like beckoning her within the gates of Paradise.
"Oui, Madame."
"I need two hats, a parasol and some shoes. You are to go at once."
"Bien, Madame."
"You know what I desire?"
"Oh, oui, parfaitement, Madam—a hat for the green afternoon robe and one of white—"
"And a parasol of the same color, shoes—of suede with the new heel, dancing slippers of white satin and a pair of pumps."
"I comprehend perfectly."
"You are to return her to-morrow. The train leaves in an hour. That is all."
Georgette withdrew to the door but as she was about to lay her hand upon the knob she paused.
"And, Georgette," her mistress was saying lazily, "you will see Titine, will you not?"
"If I have the time, Madame—"
"If you should see Titine, Georgette, will you not inquire where and with whom Miss Challoner has gone automobiling?"
The eyes of the maid showed a look of comprehension, quickly veiled.
"I shall make it a point to do so, Madame."
Olga yawned and looked out the window.
"Oh, it isn't so important as that—but, Georgette, if you could—discreetly, Georgette—"
"I comprehend, Madame."
When she was gone Olga threw herself on a couch upon the terrace and read a French Play just published. There was a heroine with a past who loved quite madly a young man with a future and she succeeded in killing his love for her by the simple expedient of telling him the truth. At this point Olga dropped the book upon the flagging and sat up abruptly, her face set in rigid lines.
Silly fool! What more right had he to her past than she had to his. The world had changed since that had been the code of life. That code was a relic of the dark ages when the Tree of Knowledge grew only in the Garden of Eden. Now the Tree of Knowledge grew in every man's garden and in every woman's.
She marveled that a dramatist of modern France could have gone back into the past for such a theme. It was the desire to seem original, of course, to be different from other writers—an affectation of naïveté, quite out of keeping with the spirit of the hour—unintelligent as well as uninteresting. (You see Olga didn't believe in the double standard.)
She got up, spurning the guilty volume with her foot and walked out into the rose garden. But their odor made her unhappy and she went indoors. She began now to regret that she had not gone down to the house party of Madeleine de Cahors at Alençon. At least Pierre de Folligny would have been there—Chandler Cushing, and the Renauds—a jolly crowd of people among whom there was never time to think of one's troubles—still less to brood over them as she had been doing to-day.
The return of her maid from Paris added something to the sum of her information. Miss Challoner had left her hotel at ten in the morning in her new machine with an intention of making a record to Trouville. Titine was to follow her there when the shopping should be finished. In the meanwhile a telegram had come dated at Passy, telling of the change in plans, with orders for Titine to remain in Paris until further notice. Several days had passed and Titine still waited in Miss Challoner's apartment at the hotel which was costing, so Titine related, three hundred francs a day. It was all quite mystifying and Titine was worried, but then Mademoiselle was no longer a child and, of course, Titine had only to obey orders.
Olga listened carelessly, examining Georgette's purchases, and when the maid had gone she sat for a long time in her chair by the window thinking.
At last she got up suddenly, went down into the library and found the paper booklet of the _Chemins de Fer de l'État. In this there was a map of Normandy and Brittany and after a long search she found the name she was looking for—Passy—south from Evreux on the road to Dreux—this was the town from which Hermia's telegram to Titine had been sent.
Olga's long polished finger nail shuttled back and forth. Here was Paris, there Rouen, here Evreux—there Alençon. Curious! Hermia with her machine doing in half a day from Paris what John Markham had taken four days from Rouen to do afoot. What more improbable? And yet entirely possible!
She took the livret to her room where she could examine it at her ease and sent to the garage for a road map which had been left in the car of the Duchesse. The livret and map she compared, and diligently studied, arriving, toward the middle of the afternoon, at a sudden resolution.
CHAPTER XVII
PERE GUEGOU'S ROSES
Had Yvonne needed encouragement in her career as a bread-winner her success of the morning had filled her with confidence. She had earned the right to live for this day at least, and looked forward to the morrow with joyous enthusiasm. Philidor, who still confessed to the possession of a few francs of their original capital, was for putting up at a small hotel or inn and paying for this accommodation out of principal. But Yvonne would not have it so. The sum they had earned for the ragoût had filled her with pride and cupidity, had developed a niggardly desire to hoard their sous against a rainy day. They had earned the right to lunch. They must also earn the right to dine and sleep!
Late in the afternoon they came to a small village where a crowd of idlers soon surrounded them. Philidor unpacked Clarissa and recited in a loud tone the now familiar inventory of their artistic achievements and Yvonne, smiling, donned her orchestra, tuned her mandolin and played. The audience jested and paid her pretty compliments, and joined with a good will in the familiar choruses. And for his part, Philidor made a lightning sketch of an ancien who stood by, leaning upon his stick, which brought him several other commissions at ten sous the portrait. "Reduced rates!" he cried. "Bien entendu!" For to-morrow at Verneuil would the people not pay him two francs fifty? This final argument was convincing to their frugal souls, and he sat upon a chair until sunset making Vallécy immortal. Philidor was too busy even to pass the hat for the musical part of the performances, so Yvonne did it herself, returning with two francs, all in coppers. When this was added to the earnings of Philidor, they found that in just two hours the princely sum of six francs had been earned.
"To-night," whispered Philidor, "you shall sleep in a chamber once occupied by the Grand Monarch at the very least. We are tasting success, Yvonne."
"Yes—and it's good—but I've learned a healthy scorn of beds. You, of course shall rest where you please, but as for me—I've an ungovernable desire to sleep in a hay-mow."
"But hay-mows are not for those who can earn six francs in two hours. We are rich," he cried, "and who knows what to-morrow may bring besides!"
They compromised. The ancien to whom Markham applied in this difficulty offered them bed and board for the small sum of two francs each, and accordingly they made way to his house. The ancien was a person of some substance in the community as they soon discovered, for his house, the last one at the end of the street, was a two storied affair and boasted of a wall at the side which inclosed a vegetable patch and a small flower garden at the back. Mère Guégou, a woman younger than her lord, looked at them askance until her good man exhibited the portrait by Monsieur Philidor, when she burst into smiles and hospitality.
Oui, bien sûr, there were rooms. This was no auberge, that was understood, but the house was very large for two old people. Yes, they rented the spare rooms by the month. Just now they were fortunately empty. Did Monsieur desire two rooms or one?
"Two," said Philidor promptly. "We will pay of course."
He hesitated and Mère Guégou examined them with new interest, but Yvonne, with great presence of mind, flew to the rescue.
"We—we are not married yet, Madam," she said flushing adorably. "One day—perhaps—"
"Soon—Madame," put in Philidor, rising to the situation with alacrity.
"We shall be married soon."
Madame Guégou beamed with delight.
"Tiens! C'est joli, ça! Guégou!" she called. "We must kill a chicken and cut some haricots and a lettuce. They shall dine well in Vallécy—these two."
Guégou grinned toothlessly from the doorway of the shed where he was stabling Clarissa, and then hobbled his way up to the garden.
When Mère Guégou went into the kitchen to prepare the dinner, Yvonne and Philidor walked through the garden to a small rustic arbor at the end which looked down over a meadow and a stream.
"I hope the bon Dieu will forgive me that fib," she laughed.
"It was no fib at all." And as her eyes widened, "You merely said that we hadn't been married yet. We haven't you know," he laughed.
Her look passed his face and sought the saffron heavens across which the swallows were wheeling high above the tree tops.
"Obviously," she said coolly. "Nowadays one only marries when every other possibility of existence is exhausted."
He examined her gravely.
"The bon Dieu will not forgive you that," he said slowly.
"Why not?"
"Because you don't mean what you say. Whatever Hermia was—Yvonne at least is honest. She knows as I do that she will not marry for the reasons you mention."
She accepted his reproof smilingly and thrust out her hand—a browner hand now, a ringless, earnest little hand—and put it into his.
"You are right, Philidor, I shall marry—if I may—for love. Or—I shall not marry at all."
He turned his palm upward, but before he could seize her fingers she had eluded him.
"But I'm not ready yet, Philidor," she laughed, "and when I am I shall not seek a husband on the highroads of Vagabondia."
Her speech puzzled him for a moment. In it were mingled craft and artlessness with a touch of dignity to make it unassailable. But in a moment she was laughing gaily. "Whom shall it be? Cleofonte is married. Luigi? He has a temper—"
"Marry me! You might do worse," he said suddenly.
Her face changed color and the laughter died on her lips.
"You? O Philidor!"
She turned away from him and looked up at the sky.
"I—I mean it," he repeated. "I think you had better."
He sought her hand and she trembled under his touch.
"Fate has thrown us together—twice. Its intention is obvious. Let
Fate look after the rest—"
"You, Philidor. Oh—"
She buried her head in her arms still quivering, but he only held her hand more tightly.
"Don't child. I did not mean to frighten you. I would not hurt you for anything in the world. I thought you needed me—"
At that she straightened quickly, turned a flushed face toward him and he saw that she was shaking, not with sobs, but with merriment.
"O Philidor—such a wooing! You'd marry me because I need you. Was ever a dependent female in such a position!" And she began laughing again, her whole figure shaking. "I need you—forsooth! How do you know I do? Have I told you so?" she asked scornfully.
"You need me," he repeated doggedly.
"And that is why I should marry you? You who preach the gospel of sincerity and love for love's sake?"
"I—I love you," he stammered.
But she only laughed at him the more.
"You. You wear your passion lightly. Such a tempestuous wooing! You ask me to marry you because you fear I might do worse—because you believe that I'm irresponsible, and that without you I'll end in spiritual beggary. I appreciate your motives. They're large, ingenuous and heroic. Thanks. Love is not a matter of expediency or marriage a search for a guardian. If they were, mon ami, I should have long ago married my Trust Company. You—John Markham!"
He sat silent under her mockery, his long fingers clasped over his knees, his gaze upon the field below them, his mind recalling unpleasantly a similar incident in his unromantic career. Hermia had stopped laughing, had left him suddenly and was now picking one of Père Guégou's yellow roses. Her irony had cut him to the quick, as Olga's had, her mockery dulled his wits and rendered him incapable of reply, but curiously enough he now felt neither anger nor chagrin at her contempt—only a deep dismay that he had spoken the words that had risen unbidden to his lips, that placed in jeopardy the joy of their fellowship which had owed its very existence to the free, unsentimental character of their relations. He knew that, however awkwardly he had expressed it, he had spoken the truth. He loved her, had loved her since Thimble Island, when she had spoiled his foreground by eliminating every detail of foreground and background by becoming both. Since then to him she had always been Joy, Gayety, Innocence, Enchantment and he adored her in secret.
Since they had met in France he had guarded the secret carefully—often by an air of indifference which fitted him well, a relic of his years of seclusion, and a native awkwardness which was always more or less in evidence before women. Whatever his secret misgivings, he had blessed the opportunity which chance and her own wild will had thrown in his way. And now—she would leave him, of course. There was nothing left for her to do.
Slowly, fearfully, he raised his eyes until she came within the range of their vision, first to her shoes, then to her stockings, her skirt, gaudy jacket and at last met her eyes, which were smiling at him saucily over the rosebud which she was holding to her lips. But he only sat glowering stupidly at her.
"O Philidor!" she cried. "You look just as you did on the night when I slipped down through the pergola."
"Hermia!" He rose and approached her. "I forbid you."
She retreated slowly, brandishing the blossom beneath his nose.
"Without—er—the face powder!"
"You have no right to speak of that."
"Oh, haven't I? You've just given it to me."
"How?"
"By proving to me that I wasn't mistaken in you. O Philidor, did you propose to her, too, from purely philanthropic—"
"Stop!" He seized her by both wrists and held her straight in front of him, while he looked squarely into her eyes. "You shall not speak—"
"Or was it because she 'needed' you, Philidor, as I do?"
"There's nothing between Olga and me," he said violently. "There never was—"
"Face powder," she repeated.
"Listen to me. You shall," fiercely. "You've got to know the truth now. There's no other woman in the world but you. There never has been another. There won't be. I love you, child. I always have—from the first. I wanted to keep it form you because I didn't want to make you unhappy, because I wanted you here—in Vagabondia. When the chance came to take you, I welcomed it, though I knew I was doing you a wrong. I wanted to meet you on even terms, away from the reek of your fashionable set—to see the woman in you bud and blossom under the open skies away from the hothouse plants of your vicious circle. Even there at 'Wake Robin,' I wanted to tear you away from them. They were not your kind. In the end you would have been the same as they. That was the pity of it. Perhaps it was pity that first taught me how much you were to me—how much you were worth saving from them—from yourself. I seemed impossible. I was nothing to you then—less than I am now—a queer sort of an amphibious beast that had left its more familiar element and taken to walks abroad among the elect of the earth. But I loved you then, Hermia, I love you now, and I've told you so. I hadn't meant to, but I'm not sorry. I'm glad that you know it—even though your smiles deride me; even though I know I've spoiled your idyl here and made a mockery of my own Fool's Paradise."
Her head was lowered now and he could not see her eyes, but he was sure they must be still laughing at him. When he had finished he released her and turned away.
"To-morrow we shall be in Verneuil," he said quietly. "I will give you money to buy clothes and put you on the train for Paris."
There was a long silence, broken by the sound of Père Guégou's chickens flapping to their roosting bars. The saffron heavens had changed to purple, and in the spire of the village campanile a bell tolled solemnly the strokes of Philidor's doom. He did not see her face. He had not dared to look at it. But when the bell stopped ringing, Hermia's voice was speaking softly.
"Do you want me to go, Philidor?"
Her tone still mocked and he did not turn toward her.
"No—but you had better," he murmured.
"Suppose I refused to go to Paris. What would you do?"
He did not reply.
"Could you treat me so? Is it my fault that you—you fell in love with me? I'm not responsible for that—am I? I didn't make you do it, did I? Would you have me give up all this? Think a moment, Philidor. Wouldn't it be cruel of you—after letting me be what I am—after letting me know what I can be—after giving me an ego, an individuality, and making me a success in life—to send me back to Paris to be a mere nonentity? You couldn't, I'll not go."
Her voice, half mocking, half tender, rose at the end in a note of stubbornness.
"Of course, you will do as you please," he muttered.
He felt rather than heard her coming toward him.
"Don't be cross with me," she pleaded. "I—I don't want to go away—from this—from you, Philidor."
He turned quickly—but she thrust out her hand with a frank gesture which he could not misinterpret.
"You're the best friend I have in the world," she said.
He took her hand in both of his and held it a moment.
"That's something," he muttered. "I'll try to be—to deserve your faith in me."
He looked so woebegone that her heat went out to him, but she only laughed gaily.
"You'll not be rid of me so easily, Monsieur. I'm not going, do you hear?"
He shrugged and smiled.
"There!" she smiled. "I knew you wouldn't refuse me. You're an angel,
Philidor, and I shall reward you."
She touched Père Guégou's blossom to her lips, then put it deftly into the lapel of his coat.
"It is the Order of the Golden Rose, mon ami, and its motto is Sincere et Constanter. You will remember that motto, Philidor, and however mad, however inconsistent or incomprehensible I may be, know that I am bound to you, apprenticed to learn the trade of living and that not until you send me away will I ever leave you."
He smiled and lifted the blossom to his lips.
"Friendship?" he asked.
"Yes, that always—whatever else—"
She stopped suddenly as his eyes eagerly alight sought her face, and then turning quickly she fled to the kitchen of Mère Guégou and upstairs away from him.
The Guégou family made good its promise, and they supped upon the fat of Vallécy, Mère Guégou waiting upon them, her good man bringing from the cellar a cob-webbed bottle which dated from a vintage which was still spoken of in the valley with reverence. A brave wine it was, such as one remembers in after days, and a brave night for Philidor whose heart was singing.
"Ah! la jeunesse!" sighed Madame Guégou, setting down her glass when the healths were drunk. "I, too, Mademoiselle, was once young."
Yvonne patted her cheek gently.
"Age is only in the heart, Madame," she said.
"Non, ma belle," cackled Guégou from his corner. "It's in the joints."
"Tais-toi, Jules," scolded his wife. "What should lovers care about thy joints."
"My joints are my joints," he creaked stubbornly. "When one has ninety years—"
"Ninety!" cried Yvonne. "Monsieur carries his years lightly. I should not have said that he had over sixty."
"Say no more, Mademoiselle," put in Mère Guégou. "You will render him conceited."
Indeed it seemed that the old man had already forgotten his joints, for he poured out another glass of wine and was pledging Yvonne with toothless gayety.
"Vos beaux yeux, Mademoiselle," he creaked gallantly, "and to your good fortune, Monsieur Philidor."
"To your roses, Monsieur Guégou," replied Philidor. "In the whole of the Eure et Oise there are not such roses. To your omelette, Madame. In the country there is not such another!"
With these compliments and in others like them the minutes passed quickly. Yvonne's eyes avoided Philidor's, though he frequently sought them. Nor was he dismayed when, in response to Madame Guégou's interest query as to when they would marry, Yvonne shrugged her shoulders indifferently and sighed.
"Oh, I do not know, Madame. Often I think—never. One marries and that is the end of romance. One lover—pouf! When one may have many."
She tossed her chin in the direction of Philidor, who looked at her over his chicken bone.
"If one has but one lover," she went on, "he must have all the virtues of the many and none of the faults. He must sing when we are gay, weep when we are sad, and make love to us while doing either. Enfin, he must be what no man is. Voyez-vous?" and she pointed the finger of scorn at Philidor. "He eats just as you or I."
Madame Guégou laughed.
"What you require is no man at all. Mademoiselle Yvonne, but a saint."
"Perhaps," she finished, yawning. "But, bien entendu, I'm in no hurry."
When the dinner was finished, Yvonne helped Mère Guégou with the dishes, and when that was done went straightway to her room, with no other word for Philidor than a "Bon soir," and a nod of the head.
Philidor sat for a long while in the arbor smoking a pipe. He had much to think about. One by one the lights went out, and the village grew quiet. The moon rose over the forest on the hilltop beyond the stream, and he stretched his limbs and smiled at it in drowsy content. He was so wrapped in his reflections that he hardly heard a voice which came to him over the yellow roses.
"Bonne nuit, Philidor."
"Hermia!"
"You're to go to bed—at once."
"I couldn't. Imagine a saint going to bed."
"You're not a saint. You're a prowler."
"Let me prowl. I'm happy."
"Why should you be?"
"I love you."
The shutter above him closed abruptly. He waited in the shadow of the wall looking upward. There was no sound.
CHAPTER XVIII
A PHILOSOPHER IN A QUANDARY
Clarissa carried a double burden the next day, but she breasted the keen morning air so briskly that whatever her own thoughts upon the subject she gave no sign of her increasing responsibilities. Yet Cupid sat perched upon the pack which Philidor had been at such pains to fasten. Yvonne alone of the three was out of humor and she moved along silently, suppressing the joyous mood of her companion by answers in monosyllables and a forbidding expression which defied conciliation. As nothing seemed to please her, Philidor, too, relapsed into silence and swinging his stick, walked on ahead, whistling gaily. But that only provoked her mood the more, and when she overtook him she made him stop.
His silence seemed even more exasperating.
"Oh, if you have nothing to say to me," she said petulantly at last,
"I'd much rather you whistled."
He glanced at her before replying.
"You motto of the Golden Rose needs amending," he said.
"What would you add?"
"Patience," he laughed.
"Clarissa is patient," she sniffed. "The bon Dieu preserve me from the patient man."
It was clear that she meant to affront him and she succeeded admirably, for Philidor flushed to the brows. Then catching her in his arms without more ado, he kissed her full on the lips.
"I'm no more patient that I should be," he said.
She flung away from him, pale and red by turns, struggling between anger and incomprehension.
"Oh!" she stammered at last. "That you could!"
She brushed the back of her hand across her lips and then her eyes blazing at him, turned and walked rigidly on her way. He watched her a moment, his anger cooling quickly, then caught the bridle of Clarissa who had taken advantage of this interlude to browse by the wayside. Cupid had fled!
Markham drove the beast before him and strode after, his eyes on the small figure which had almost reached the turn in the road. She walked with a quick stride, her head turning neither to the left nor right, but he knew that her gaze, fixed upon the road before her, still blazed with resentment. He goaded the donkey into a more rapid pace, but try as he might he could not come up with her, and so giving up the chase he let Clarissa choose her own gait, lighted a pipe to compose his spirit and followed leisurely in the steps of outraged dignity.
It was not until she came to a cross-roads that she stopped and waited for him. When he arrived with Clarissa, already chastened and even prepared for humility, she surprised him by smiling as though nothing had happened.
"Which way, Philidor?" she asked.
He had already seen the towers of Verneuil from the hilltops behind them and indicated.
"I'm sorry, Hermia," he said softly. "Will you forgive me?"
She shrugged. "Oh, it's of no consequence. I've been kissed before," she said.
His gaze was lowered, his jaw set.
"You provoked it—"
"Did I? I know now how you consider me. I did not believe you to be that kind of a man."
"What kind of a man?"
"The man of promiscuous gallantries."
"I'm not—"
She shrugged and turned away.
"Your record is against you."
He found no reply and she laughed at him.
"When I wish to be kissed," she said brazenly, "I usually find a way of letting men know it."
"You are speaking heresies," he said slowly. "That is not true."
"It is the truth, John Markham. But I did not choose your companionship for that purpose."
"No, no, don't!" he pleaded contritely. "I've never thought that of you. We've had a code of our own, Hermia—all our own. Last night you made me happy. I dreamed of you, child, that you cared for me and I—"
She halted suddenly, her slight figure barring the way, her eyes flashing furiously.
"We'll have no more of that nonsense," she cried. "Do you hear? When I ask for love—uncomplaining—unselfish, I know where to seek it." She reached up suddenly, snatched Père Guégou's faded blossom from his button-hole and throwing it in the road, ground it under her heel. "The Order of the Golden Rose is not for you, Monsieur Philidor," she finished. And before he was really awake to the full extent of his disaster was again on her way.
They entered Verneuil in a procession, Hermia in the lead, the donkey following, and Philidor, now thoroughly disillusioned, bringing up the rear. He was thinking deeply, his gaze on the graceful lines of her intolerant back, aware that she had paid him in full for his temerity, and wondering in an aimless way how soon she would be taking the train for Paris. He had done what he could to atone but some instinct warned him against further contrition.
His judgment was excellent. As they entered the street of the town she stopped and waited for him to join her.
"You'll unpack my orchestra if you please," she said acidly. "I'm going through the town alone."
He laid his hand on the strap at which she was already fingering, his manner coolly assertive.
"No," he said quietly. "You'll not go alone. You're in my charge. Where you go, I go—unless of course"—and he pointed toward the railroad which passed nearby, "I put you on the train for Paris."
She had not expected that. She was powerless and knew it. Wide-eyed she sought his face, but he met her look squarely.
"I mean it," he said evenly. "You shall do what I say."
Her gaze flared angrily and then fell.
"Oh!" she stammered. "You would dare!"
"Your remedy—is yonder," he said firmly, pointing to the Gare.
Some loiterers, a few children and a stray dog had gathered about them. The dog, a puppy, barked at Clarissa and was promptly kicked for its precocity. The crowd laughed. This relaxed the tension of the situation.
"Come," said Markham, his hand on the donkey's halter. "This will never do. We will go on, please."
Hermia stood her ground a moment defiantly, her arms akimbo and then dumbly followed.
Markham led the way toward the market-place, where the crowds were gathered. The glance he stole at Hermia revealed a set expression, a cheek highly flushed and a lambent eye.
"If you would prefer not to perform to-day I will get you a room at an inn," he said gently.
But she raised her chin and looked at him with the narrow eye of contempt.
"You will get me nothing," she replied.
"Nothing but food," he replied. "We are now going to eat."
If scorn could kill, Philidor must have died at once. But she followed him to the Hôtel Dieu, and nibbled silently at what he had ordered. His efforts to relieve the tension were unavailing so he gave it up and at last led the way to the market-place where Clarissa was unpacked and Yvonne donned her orchestra.
Business was good, though Philidor did the lion's share of it. The sound of Yvonne's drum speedily drew a crowd and Philidor got out his sketching block and went to work on the nearest onlooker, a peasant girl of eighteen, in Norman headgear. She demurred at first, but she was pretty and knew it, and Philidor's tongue was persuasive, his nervous crayon eloquent. He was at his best here, and when the sketch was done he gave it to her with his compliments. The girl's lover, a gardener from an estate nearby, showed it jubilantly from group to group, and Philidor's fame was again established.
It could not in any truth be said that Yvonne's orchestra was a symphonic success, for she jangled her mandolin horribly out of tune, and blew her mouth-organ atrociously. But whatever her performance lacked in artistry it made up in noise, her drum and cymbals awaking such a din that existence was unbearable within ten feet of them. Philidor went on with his portraits and was so absorbed that for at least twenty minutes he neither saw nor heard what was going on about him. He had been aware of his companion's execrable performance a while ago, and now realized with a suddenness which surprised him that she played no more. He rose and peered about over the shoulders of his rustic admirers. Somebody directed his glance. There she was across the square, her orchestra dangling, talking to a gentleman. It was true; and plainly to be seen that the gentleman was Pierre de Folligny. Philidor watched them uncertainly. A joke passed, they both laughed and the Frenchman indicated his quivering machine hard by. Then it was that Philidor went forth across the square, his brow a thundercloud. The girl cast a glance over her shoulder in his direction and then followed the Frenchman to his machine. Philidor's long stride made the distance quickly, and before the pair were seated, he stood beside them.
"Where are you going, Yvonne?" he asked quietly.
"Who knows?" she laughed. "To Paris, perhaps."
"Mademoiselle has consented to ride with me," said De Folligny coolly.
"I trust we do not interfere with your plans."
Philidor's eyes sought only hers.
"You insist?" he asked of her.
She laughed at him.
"Naturellement."
The car had begun to move.
"One moment, Monsieur—"
De Folligny only smiled, put on the power and in a moment was speeding down the cobbled street, leaving Philidor staring after them, his head full of wild thoughts of pursuit, the most conspicuous dolt in all Verneuil.
But he did not care. He thrust his bony fists deep in his pockets and slowly made his way though the piles of vegetables back to Clarissa. He bundled his materials into his knapsack and quickly disappeared from the interested gaze of the bystanders, who had not scrupled to offer him both questions and advice.
He was quite helpless with the alternatives of sitting at the Hôtel Dieu to await developments or of hiring a car at the garage nearby and going on a wild-goose chase which, whether successful or unsuccessful, must end unprofitably. Hermia had paid him in strange coin. Could she afford it? He knew something of Pierre de Folligny. What did Hermia know? She was mad, of course. He had thought her mad before when she had volunteered with him for Vagabondia, but now— What could he think of her now? There was a difference.
Even his pipe failed to advise him. He knocked it out and wandered forth, his footsteps taking him down the street through which the pair had fled. He followed it to its end, emerging presently on a country road which took the line of the railroad to the South. He did not know where he was going, and did not much care so long as he was doing something. His stride lengthened, his jaw was set, his gaze riveted on the spot where his road entered the forest. It would have fared ill with De Folligny if they had met at that moment. Persons who met him on the road turned to look at him and passed on. Lunatics were scarce along the Avre.
After a while his fury passed and he brought what reason he still possessed to bear upon his topic. It was Hermia, not De Folligny who was to blame—Hermia, the mad, the irrepressible, whom he had roused from her idyl in their happy valley and driven forth, tête baissée, upon this fool's errand—Hermia the tender, the tempestuous, the gentle, the precipitate, because of whose wild pranks he, John Markham, Dean of the College of Celibates, now stalked the highroads of France, the victim of his own philosophy.
Fool that he was! Thrice a fool for having stumbled to his fate, open-eyed. Last night she had laughed at him. To-day she mocked him still—with De Folligny.
His responsibilities oppressed him. He must find her and bring this mad pilgrimage to an end. To-morrow—to-night, perhaps he would put her on a train which would take her back to the people of her own kind. For he would go upon his way—his own way, which he was not sure could no longer be hers.
Emerging from the forest the road took a sharp turn away from the railroad tracks down hill and across a level plain. From the slight eminence upon which he stood, his road lay straight as a string before him, its length visible for almost a mile. Near its end he saw a dark object at the side of the road. A wagon? Or was it a motor? This was the way De Folligny had come, for there had been no turnings. He hurried on, his gaze on the distant object which grew nearer at every step. He was sure of one thing now, that the object had not moved—of two things—that it was not a motor. And yet there was something familiar about it. A wagon it was—a wagon with a roof, its end showing a window which caught the reflection of the sky—a house wagon, and near it, phantom-like against the dim foliage, a shaggy gray horse; to the right, the white smoke of a newly made fire rising among the trees. It was the roulotte of the Fabiani family and there in the woods was his friend of a night, Cleofonte, the incomparable.
He had almost made out the bulk of figures near the fire when from the hedge beside the road there came sounds of tinkling bells and a small wraith in red and blue rose like a Phoenix from the dust and confronted him with outstretched hands.
"You are late, Philidor. I've been waiting at least half an hour."
"You've been—what?"
"Waiting for you," coolly. "What kept you so long?"
He looked at her as though sure that one of them must have lost his sense.
"Where is De Folligny?" he growled.
"How should I know?"
He took her by the elbows and looked into her eyes.
"He has gone?"
"Yes."
"What happened?"
"N-nothing."
She met his eyes with a clear gaze—a whimsical smile twisting her lips.
"You know, Philidor," she said quietly, "I don't like to be kissed unless—unless—"
She stopped and slowly disengaged her elbows from his grasp, "Unless I want to be kissed."
He searched her face anxiously.
"He—he kissed you?" he snapped savagely.
"Almost—"
"Did he?"
"No." She smiled up at him. "You see," amusedly, "every time he put his arm around me the drum and cymbals played. It quite disconcerted him." But Philidor found no amusement in her recital.
"How do you happen to be here?"
His tone was still querulous. She looked at him calmly and after a pause she answered evenly.
We were driving slowly. I saw the routlotte and recognized it at once. So I switched off the magneto of his machine—I don't know what he thought—but he looked at me as though he believed I had gone suddenly mad, and, while he still wondered, I jumped."
"And then?"
Hermia laughed softly. "He swore at me. 'You little devil,' he cried,
'how did you happen to do that?'
"'My elbow slipped,' said I, from the roadside.
"'Your elbow! Ma foi, you have educated elbows!'
"'That's true, I should not play the cymbals else.'
"'Cymbals! Who taught you to run a machine?'
"'The bon Dieu!' said I, and fled to the Signora."
She laughed gaily. "Oh, he didn't follow. I think he understood that there had been a mistake. He watched me a moment and then got out, cranked his car thoughtfully, and went on in a cloud of dust— And that—that's' all," she finished.
Markham looked down the road, his narrowed eyes slowly relaxing and a smile growing under his small mustache.
"O Hermia,—what a frolic you've had! I feared—" He paused.
"What?"
"Anything—everything. You had no right—"
She raised a warning finger.
"We'll speak of it no more, Philidor," she said quietly.
His anger flared and died; for her eyes were soft with friendship, gentleness and compassion, and her bent head begged forgiveness. She had been unreasonable and would make him unhappy no more. All those things he read. It was quite wonderful.
She led him through the bushes to the fire where the Signora and Stella made him welcome with their kindest smiles and the bambino cried lustily. Cleofonte and Luigi presently emerged from the forest where they had gone in search of wood and deposited their loads by the fireside. They all made merry as befitted good comrades of the road, once more reunited, and when Philidor suggested going back to Verneuil for the night the jovial strong man would not have it, nor would Yvonne. So Luigi was dispatched on the gray horse to the town for Clarissa and the pack, but not until Philidor had privily given him some instructions and a piece of money which opened his sleepy eyes a trifle wider and increased the dimension of his smile.
When he returned later with both animals laden with packages deep was the joy and great the astonishment of the caravaners. With an air of mystery Luigi proudly laid his packages out in a row beside the fire and Yvonne opened them one by one, disclosing a chicken, a ham, three loaves of bread, butter, two cheeses, some marmalade, a quart of milk, a pound of coffee, a pound of tea, a tin of crackers and two bottles of wine.
"Jesu mio!" said Cleofonte, his eyes starting from his head. "It is beyond belief."
"To-night you dine with me—with us," laughed Philidor with a glance at Yvonne. They all took a hand in preparing the meal, which was to be magnificent. Luigi built another fire for the chicken which was to be roasted on a spit, and the coffee pot was soon simmering.
Yvonne made toast, Philidor cut the ham, the Signora made vegetable soup, and Stella hurried back and forth from the wagon, bringing the slender supply of dishes and utensils.
When all was ready they sat and ate as though they had never eaten before and were never to eat again. The wine was passed and drunk by turns from two broken tumblers and two tin cups, the only vessels available for both the wine and coffee, and healths were merrily pledged. Cleofonte swore an undying friendship for Philidor. Were they not both great artists—of different métiers, but each great in his own profession? The world should know it. He, Cleofonte, would proclaim it. And the Signora Fabiani—she and the Signora were already sisters. They must all travel together. There was enough food for an army to eat. It would last a week at the very least.
Philidor was content. And when the others had cleared away what remained of their feast and brought out the blankets, Yvonne sat for a long while by the fire with Philidor, who smoked and talked of many things. But the train to Paris no longer interested him.
CHAPTER XIX
MOUNTEBANKS
They reached Alençon at the end of the third day. Soon after leaving Verneuil their road mounted a rocky country of robust wooded hills, cleft by gorges and defiles, the uplands of the Perche and Normandie, from the crests of which the pilgrims had a generous view of the whole of the Orne. On the first day the company had dined at St. Maurice and supped and slept near Tourouvre, in the heart of a primeval forest of oaks and pines. Philidor and Yvonne had followed close upon the steps of Tomasso the bear, keeping, so to speak, under the shadow of Cleofonte's protecting wing. There was a difference in their relations, indefinable yet quite obvious to them both, a reserve on Philidor's part, marked by consideration and deference; on Yvonne's a gentleness and amiability which showed him how companionable she could be. Indeed, her docility was nothing short of alarming, and Philidor was ever on his guard against a new outbreak which, he was sure, was to be expected at any moment. But she cajoled him no more. Perhaps she understood him better now. Who knows? He spoke no more of love, nor were the roses of Père Guégou again mentioned.
At Mortagne, which they had reached upon the second day, Philidor and Yvonne had a first view of a public performance of the Fabiani family, for, the conditions being agreeable, Cleofonte had pitched their camp within the limits of the town, and a crowd, augmented by Yvonne and her orchestra, had made their visit profitable. Yvonne had slept that night at a small auberge, her bed and board paid for with money she had made, and Philidor, who complained of a lack of sitters, slept quite comfortably near Clarissa in a stable.
In the morning Yvonne had made some purchases in the town—and later they had caught up with their friends near La Mesle, along the Sarthe, down which their road descended by easy stages to their destination.
Alençon was in holiday garb and the tricolor flaunted bravely from many poles, though the beginning of the fête was not until to-morrow. The streets were gay with people, the market-place showed a number of booths, tents and canvas enclosures within which performances were already in progress. The Fabiani family was late in arriving, but a spot was found, between the sword-swallower and the Circassian lady, which suited Cleofonte's purpose. So the routlotte was backed into place and Cleofonte, his coat off, his brows beading, directed the erection of the canvas barrier within which the performances were to be given. For let it be understood the Fabianis were no common mountebanks for whom one passed a hat. There was to be a gate through which one only passed upon the payment of ten sous, and within were to be benches upon which one could sit in luxury while he beheld these marvels of the age. Philidor and Yvonne helped, too, getting out the canvas which had been rolled and fastened beneath the wagon, and the uprights which supported it. Not satisfied with the sign which was to be fastened over the entrance, Philidor sought out a paint shop and before dark painted two great posters three mètres in height;—one of them depicting Cleofonte with bulging muscles (real pink muscles that one felt like pinching) in the act of breaking into bits with his bare hands a great iron chain; the other showing the child Stella being tossed in the air from Cleofonte to Luigi, her heels and head almost touching. By sunset the paintings were finished and fastened in place, and when Cleofonte lit the torches upon either side of the entrance gate, the folk who were passing stopped in wonder to gaze. There were to be no performances to-night, Cleofonte explained, the company was weary; but to-morrow—! He pause and the magnificence with which his huge fist tapped his deep chest were eloquence itself.
Their work done for the night, Philidor set off post haste in search of quarters for Yvonne; but the inns were full and it was too late to search elsewhere. So he bought a truss of straw and one of hay (for Clarissa and the shaggy phantom) and brought them to the roulotte upon his back. The night was mild, and so he made Yvonne's bed and his own within the enclosure, and amid a babel of sounds, above which the barrel organ of the carousel near by wheezed tremulously, they dropped upon the blankets, dead tired, and fell asleep at once.
The sun was not long in the heavens before the barrel organ, silenced at midnight, renewed its plaint and the business of the day began. After an early breakfast Cleofonte and Luigi retired to the dressing tent, emerging after a while in gorgeous costumes of pink fleshings and spangles, their hair well greased with pomatum, their mustachios elaborately curled. The Signora and Stella soon followed, their hair wreathed in tight braids around their heads. The bambino, neglected, was howling lustily, so Yvonne took him in her lap upon the straw and soothed him to slumber while the carpet was laid and the impediments of the athletes brought out and placed near by for the day's work.
More than anything else in the world, Yvonne longed for a bath, but she suppressed this desire as unworthy of a true vagabond and washed in a bucket of water which Philidor had brought from the pump, sharing at the last in the suppressed excitement which pervaded the arena. There was no doubt in the minds of any that the Troupe Fabiani was to be the great success of the occasion. The duties and destinies of all its members had already been explained and decided. A girl was hired to care for the bambino. Yvonne was to beat her drum and play her orchestra on the platform outside, and this would attract the people, already anxious to behold the wonders within, a foretaste of which would be given, when the crowd gathered, by Cleofonte, who would life a few heavy weights and introduce the Signora, the Child Wonder, and Tomasso, the bear. Philidor was to keep the gate and between the performances was to make portraits of those who desired them. Their organization was perfection. Cleofonte was at his best when in the executive capacity.
At nine o'clock Hermia mounted the platform (a piano box turned on its side) and began to thump the drum and cymbals. Her position was conspicuous and she began a little uncertainly, for it was one thing to choose one's audience among the simple folk of the countryside, another to face the kind of crowd which now gathered to gaze up at her—peasants, horse-fanciers, shop people, clerks on a holiday, with here and there a person of less humble station, but she bent to her work with a will, encouraged by the example of the Circassian lady next to her who was selling in brown bottles an elixir which was a cure for all things except love and the goiter. The sword-swallower next them was already busy, and the Homme Sauvage, a hirsute person, whose unprofessional mien was both kind and peaceable (as Yvonne had discovered unofficially last night), was roaring horribly, at two sous the head, in his enclosure near by.
The wooden horses of the manège, upon which some children and a few soldiers from the garrison were riding, were already whirling on their mad career.
While Yvonne played, Cleofonte and Philidor "barked." That is, they proclaimed in loud tones the prodigies that were to be disclosed and that the performance was about to begin; to the end that, in a little while, coppers and centime pieces jingled merrily in Philidor's coat pocket, the benches were filled and a crowd two deep stood behind. This augured well. Cleofonte beamed as he counted noses, and the performance began.
Yvonne played a lively air while Tomasso was put through his paces, walking with a stick and turning somersaults, and at the end Cleofonte put on a heavy coat to keep himself from being torn by the savage claws of the beast and wrestled for some minutes with Tomasso, making the act more realistic by straining from side to side and puffing violently while Tomasso clung on, his muzzle sniffing the air, to be finally dragged down upon his master and proclaimed the victor. The applause from this part of the program was allowed to die and a dignified pause ensued, after which the signora appeared in her famous juggling act, unmindful of the cries of the bambino from the roulotte in active rebellion against the substitute. During Stella's performance, which followed, the orchestra played jerkily and then stopped, for Yvonne had never yet succeeded in looking on at the child's contortions without a pang of the heart. But the act went smoothly enough, and the entertainment, which lasted nearly an hour, concluded with Cleofonte's exhibition of prowess and the stone-breaking episode of which he was so justly proud.
The receipts were four hundred sous—twenty francs—and there were to be six performances a day! Well might Cleofonte wring Philidor by the hand and pay him over the five francs which he and Hermia had earned! There were no portraits to do, so Philidor sat at the entrance with Yvonne until the time for the next performance. It was tiresome work and the breathing space was welcome enough. To Philidor his companion seemed already weary. But when he suggested that perhaps they had better take to the road again she shook her head.
"No, no. I've reached the soul of things—felt the pulse-beats of humanity. I delight with Cleofonte, suffer with Stella. I'm learning to live, that's all."
"I thought you looked a little tired," he said gently.
"I am tired—but not mind-tired, heart-tired, spirit-tired as I once was. My elbows ache and there's a raw place on my shoulder, but it's an honorable scar and I'll wear it. And I sleep, O Philidor, I never knew the luxury of sleep such as mine."
"I don't want you to be ill."
"I can do my share," she finished steadily, "if Stella can."
Toward three o'clock of the afternoon Yvonne mounted her piano box. The Fabiani family had been so well received that once it had been necessary for Philidor to draw the flap at the gate because there was no room in the enclosure for more people. As the time for the beginning of the fourth performance drew near, a crowd had again gathered, listening to the Femme Orchestre and moving in groups of two and three toward the entrance where Philidor in the intervals between announcements pocketed their coins and watched Yvonne. This last occupation was one in which of late he had taken great delight. Her costume, as Monsieur de Folligny had also discovered, became her admirably, the sun and wind had tanned her face and arms to a rich warmth, and this color made the blue of her eyes the more tender. The lines he had discovered in her face were absent now, for it was the business of a Femme Orchestre to smile.
Cleofonte had come out and was looking over the crowd with an appraising eye, adding his own voice to the din as Philidor paused for breath, when in the midst of a lively air the music stopped—stopped so suddenly that Philidor turned to see what the matter was. Yvonne gave one startled glance over the crowd, then jumped down behind the box and, unslinging her orchestra as she dropped, literally dove under the canvas flap and disappeared. Philidor, who was in the act of making change, called Cleofonte to take his place and went inside, to find that Yvonne had fled behind the wagon.
"What is it?" he asked, alarmed. "Are you ill?"
"No, no," breathlessly. "Olga! I saw her. She's out there."
It was Philidor's turn to be perturbed. "Olga Tcherny! You must be mistaken."
"I'm not. I wish I was. I saw her plainly—and the Renauds, Madeleine de Cahors and Chandler Cushing. O Philidor, they mustn't see me here!" She seized his arm and looked up into his eyes appealingly.
His brows drew downward and he glanced toward the entrance.
"They wouldn't come in here."
"They might—"
He glanced irresolutely about him and then opened the door of the roulotte and helped her up the steps.
"Stay there-and lock the door."
He paused a moment, his hand on the doorknob, looking over the head of the audience toward the entrance flap, where Cleofonte, oblivious of the tragedy which threatened the newer members of his family, still shouted hoarsely. Philidor stopped in the dressing tent and spoke a few words to the Signora, made his way across the arena, peering over Cleofonte's shoulder, and then, his course of action chosen, slipped quickly into his accustomed place outside.
"_Dix sous, Messieurs et Dames!" he shouted. "The greatest act of this or any age—the Famille Fabiani, the world renowned acrobats, jugglers and strong man! Six great acts of skill and strength, any one of which is worth the price of admission! Entrez, Mesdames, and see the fight between Signor Cleofonte, the strongest man in the world, and the savage bear captured from the forests of Siberia! A contest which thrills the blood—for in spite of the great strength of the Signor—which has been compared to that of Samson, who once fought and conquered, single handed, a lion (smiles of approval from Cleofonte at the eloquence of this comparison), in spite of the great strength of the Signor—I say—the danger of his destruction is ever present, as any one who has seen the contest can testify. Come one, come all, Messieurs, only once in a lifetime does one have a chance to see the Signorina Stella Fabiani, the child wonder, Queen of the Mat and Queen of the Air, in her extraordinary acts of flight and contortion—"
During this harangue Philidor had felt rather than seen the figure which had slowly wedged through the crowd at one side and now stood beside him. He knew that it was Olga Tcherny, but he had not dared to look at her, though he was quite sure that her head was perched on one side in the birdlike pose she found effective, and that her eyes, mocking and mischievous, were searching him intently. But he went on extravagantly, searching his wits for Barnum-like adjectives.
"Entrez, Messieurs, and see the beautiful female Juggler of Naples, who tosses ten sharp knives and burning brands into the air at one and the same time, not lets one of them touch the ground—who tosses a cannon ball, an apple and a piece of paper—who spins two dishes on the end of a stick, with one hand, while she rolls a hoop with the other—a lady who has acted before all of the crowned heads of Europe. There will never again be such great artists, a performance unsurpassed and even unequaled in the history of the Oire."
Philidor's adjectives had given out—as had his breath—and so he paused. As he did so he heard Olga's voice beside him in a single but curiously expressive syllable.
"Well?" it asked.
His eyes met hers without other token of recognition than a slight twinkle of amusement.
"Mademoiselle wishes to enter? Ten sous, if you please." And then with a loud voice directed over her head, "Entrez, Messieurs et Dames, and see the hand to hand struggle between a man and a savage beast! A contest at once magnificent and appalling—one which you will remember to the end of your days, a spectacle to describe to your children and to your children's children—"
[Illustration: "Philidor had felt rather than seen the figure which had slowly wedged through the crowd."]
"John Markham!" Olga's voice sounded shrilly in English. "Stop howling at once and listen to me."
"Oui, Mademoiselle, ten sous, if you please. The performance is about to begin and—"
"This performance has been going on quite long enough. What on earth are you doing here in Alençon?"