"Barking," said Markham with a grin. "Also doing crayon portraits at two francs fifty a head," and he pointed to the sign beside the poster of Cleofonte breaking the chains which advertised the nature of his talents in glowing terms. "My name is Philidor, Mademoiselle," bowing; "itinerant portrait painter—at your service."
"Oh, do stop that nonsense and explain—"
"There's nothing to explain. Here I am. That's all."
"How did you get here—to Alençon?"
"Walked—it's my custom."
"Rom Rouen?"
He nodded. "I'm a member of the Troupe Fabiani of Strolling Acrobats," he laughed. "I'm learning the gentle art of bear-baiting. Won't you come in?"
She searched his face keenly and accepted his invitation, first handing him her fifty centime piece, which he dropped without comment into his pocket. The enclosure was already filled, so he closed the entrance flap and mounted guard over it—and Olga stood beside him, her glance passing swiftly from one object to another. Cleofonte's bout with Tomasso was more than usually dramatic, but her eyes roved toward the dressing tent, eyeing with an uncommon interest the Signora when she appeared.
"Your troupe is not large," Olga remarked when the program had been explained to her.
"No, we are few, my dear Olga, but quite select. You have yet to see Luigi perform and the Child Wonder—and the Femme Orchestre—a remarkable person who plays five instruments at the same time."
Olga watched the show for a while with an abstracted air.
"You surely can't mean that you enjoy this sort of thing?" she questioned at last.
He laughed. "I do mean just that—otherwise I shouldn't be here, should I?"
"Oh, you're impossible!" she said impatiently.
"I know it," she laughed with a shrug, "and the worst of it is that I'm quite shameless about it."
He was really an extraordinary person. She couldn't help wondering how it was that she could have cared for him at all, and yet she was quite sure that he had never seemed more interesting to her than at this moment. But it was quite evident that she did not believe him. The performance was soon over, the people crowded toward the entrance, Olga, alone at last, remaining. Indeed, she was making herself very much at home, and to Philidor's chagrin insisted upon examining the Signora's knives and torches, the heavy weights of Cleofonte, the chains and the larger fragments of the stone which Luigi had broken on Cleofonte's chest. It was all very interesting. Then she sat upon a bench, her glance still roving restlessly, lighting at last upon the house wagon.
"And that," she indicated, "is where you sleep?"
"Not I. That's for the women. I sleep out when I can—indoors when I must."
Still she gazed at it, and while Philidor, his inquietude rapidly growing, watched her keenly, she rose and walked slowly around the roulette, peering under it where the dogs lay chained, and up at its small windows and door as though fascinated by a new and interesting study of contemporary ethnology.
The active members of the Fabiani family had all retired to the dressing tent and were occupied in the preliminaries to supper. Philidor's mind was working rapidly, but, think as he would, nothing occurred to him which might effectually serve to stem the tide of his visitor's dangerous curiosity. She paused before the door, looking upward, and Philidor watched the window fearfully.
"It seems absurdly small for so many people. A baby, too, you said?" she asked coolly.
"Oh, yes, there are beds," he said; "two of them—quite comfortable, I believe."
"I'm awfully anxious to see what it's like inside. The Signora wouldn't mind, I'm sure—" She put one foot on the steps and reached up for the knob.
It was locked he knew, for there was a key on the inside, but the knowledge of that fact did nothing to decrease his alarm.
"Oh, I wouldn't bother," he muttered helplessly. "There's nothing—"
But before he could move she had stepped up and with a quick movement had flung the door wide open.
Philidor closed his eyes a second, praying for a miracle, then followed Olga's gaze within. The beds were there, the shelves of dishes, the racks of clothing, but of Hermia there was no sign. How the miracle had happened Philidor knew not, unless she had gone through the roof, but with the discovery his courage returned to him in a gush, and when Olga's eyes keenly sought his face he was calmly smoking. Just at this moment a sound was heard, of merry, rippling laughter, light and mocking, which had a familiar ring. Olga looked around quickly toward the spot behind her from which the sounds seemed to come, her gaze meeting nothing but the canvas wall. They heard the sounds again, this time faintly, as though receding in the distance overhead. It was most extraordinary. She glanced toward the dressing tent from which the Signora was just emerging.
"Would you like to visit the green room?" asked Philidor, amusedly directing the way. "We are happy family, as you will see."
"Who was laughing, John Markham?" asked his visitor.
His eyes were blanks.
"Laughing? I don't know. Everyone laughs here. Stella perhaps—or the Circassian lady?"
She shook her head, still eyeing him narrowly, but he only smoked composedly and, after looking into the tent, threw open the flaps with a generous gesture and invited her to enter. Cleofonte and Luigi were counting their money, but when the title of their visitor was announced, rose and bowed to the ground. It was seldom that the Fabiani family had been done so great an honor.
Olga returned his compliments with others quite as graceful upon the quality of the performance she had witnessed, but her eyes, as Philidor saw, were still roving carelessly but with nice observance of minutiæ, taking in every object in sight. Upon the ground in the corner where it had been thrown lay a drum and cymbals fastened to a framework of wire and straps.
Philidor grew unquiet.
"How curious!" she exclaimed, examining the contrivance.
"It is the music," put in the Signora pleasantly, "of our Femme
Orchestre. She is ill. We were forced to leave her yesterday at La
Mesle. To-morrow she will play again. The Contessa will hear her,
perhaps?"
Philidor breathed gratefully. A firmer hand than his now controlled their destinies. Olga searched the Signora's face, which was as innocent as that of the bambino.
"Grazia, Signora," she returned politely; "perhaps I shall."
Philidor accompanied her to the gate, reassured and jocular.
"How long are you going to persist in this foolishness?" she asked at last irritably.
"Who knows?" he laughed. "I think I've struck my proper level. Did you see my posters?" he asked, pointing proudly. "Great, aren't they?"
"They're disgusting," said Olga.
He smiled good-humoredly. "That's too bad. I'm sorry. I thought you'd like 'em."
She only shrugged contemptuously.
"And this is your Valhalla?" she sniffed. "A kingdom of charlatans, and tinsel and clap-trap, of fricassees and onions, and greasy mendicants. Ugh! You're rather overdoing the simple life, Monsieur er—Philidor. You're very ragged and—ah—a trifle soiled."
"Outwardly only, chère Olga," he laughed. "Inwardly my soul is lily-white."
"I'm not so sure of that. No one's soul can be lily-white whose beard is two weeks old. Also, mon ami, you look half famished."
"My soul—" he began.
"Your stomach!" she broke in. "Come with me. At least I'm going to see you properly fed."
"You're awfully kind, but—"
"You refuse?"
"I must—besides, you could hardly expect me to appear at your house party in these."
She turned on her heel and walked away from him.
"I hardly expect you ever to do anything that I want you to do."
"But, Olga,—"
Without turning her head she disappeared in the crowd.
CHAPTER XX
THE EMPTY HOUSE
Markham stood for a moment watching the white plume of Olga Tcherny's huge straw hat until it nodded its way out of sight. Then he turned back just in time to note a disturbance of the canvas barrier, from under which, her slouch hat pushed down over her ears, her gray coat hiding her finery, Hermia breathlessly emerged.
"I've never had such a fright since I was born," she laughed nervously.
"She won't come back?"
"I think not."
He helped her to her feet. "It's lucky you weren't in the roulotte."
"Not luck—forethought. I knew she'd never be content until she'd seen the inside of that wagon. She expected to find me there."
"You! She saw you—outside?"
"No—I'll take my oath on that—you see, I saw her first. But she expected to find me there just the same. I can't tell you why—a woman guesses these things. I watched her. She's a deep one." She laughed again. "I wouldn't have her find me here for anything in the world." She suddenly laid her hand on his arm. "Philidor! we must go on—at once."
"But you're tired—"
"I'd be in a worse plight if I were identified—by Olga."
He paused a moment, and then, pointing to the dressing tent, turned swiftly and went out, examining the street between the booths, and then, with a pretence of looking to the fastening of the uprights, carelessly made the round outside the barrier. An atmosphere of peace pervaded the encampment and an odor of cooking food. The crowd had scattered and of Olga, or Olga's party, he saw nothing.
A wail went up in the dressing tent when Hermia announced her decision. What should Cleofonte do without her? It was she who attracted the crowds—the eloquence of Monsieur Philidor which drew them within the arena. Never in their lives had the Fabiani family enjoyed such success. And now—that the Signor and Signora should go! It was unthinkable—unbelievable! Cleofonte could not permit it. But Yvonne was obdurate. There were reasons—the Signor would understand that—which made this decision inevitable. They must go—at once, as soon as the night had fallen.
The first shock over, Cleofonte clasped his hands over his knees and stared gloomily at the tent flap. If the Signora could have stopped in Alençon but two days more. He, Cleofonte, would have paid ten francs a performance—anything to keep them there. Signora Fabiani moved silently about her tasks, but her eyes were deep with wisdom. What she was thinking, Philidor knew not, nor did Yvonne set the matter straight. It was necessary to go—that was all. It was very sad and made Yvonne unhappy, but she had, unfortunately, no choice in the matter. When it was clearly to be seen that the decision was unalterable, Cleofonte jingled his bag of coppers and sighed, Luigi scowled at vacancy and Stella unreservedly wept.
"We could have made two thousand francs," muttered Cleofonte.
"More than that," said Luigi the silent, "three thousand."
"There will be no longer pleasure in the décarcasse when the music ceases to play," sobbed Stella.
Yvonne put her arms around the child and kissed her gently.
"We shall meet again—soon, cara mia."
"I know—in Heaven," cried Stella, refusing to be comforted.
"We shall find you again, child, never fear," said Yvonne.
Stella's eyes brightened. "Then you will return?"
Yvonne patted her cheek softly.
"Have I not said I will see you again, carissima?" she finished.
After supper Philidor went forth and bought supplies which were packed securely upon Clarissa, together with Philidor's knapsack and other personal belongings. Hermia changed her gay apparel for a shirtwaist and dark skirt, and when dusk fell, after a reconnaissance by Luigi, the back of the canvas barrier was raised and the trio quietly departed and were swallowed up in the shadows of a back street.
The weather so far still favored them, but the night was murky and high overhead the clouds were flying fast. Their road, and they chose the first one which led them forth of the town, wound up between a row of hedges and pollard trees to an eminence form which, when they paused for breath, they had a view of the lights of the town. The manège whirled and the barrel organ still wheezed its thin thread of sound across the still air. The Homme Sauvage was roaring again and the deep voice of Cleofonte, their late partner and companion, was heard at intervals in his familiar plaint. There was a fascination in the lights and in the medley of noises—each of which had come to possess an interest and a personality—for behind them were the pale road and the inhospitable darkness.
"It seems a pity to leave them," said Hermia, thinking of Stella, "when we were doing so well. I shall regret the roulotte."
John Markham smiled.
"It's time we were moving, then," he said. "Your true vagabond wants no roots—even in a roulotte—nor regrets anything."
"I can't forgive Olga for this. I consider her most intrusive, impertinent—"
Markham had laid warning fingers upon her arm. A moment ago on the hill below them a man's figure had been in silhouette against the lights. At the sound of their voices it had suddenly disappeared. They stood in silence for a moment, watching, but the figure did not reappear.
"That was curious. I was mistaken, perhaps," said Markham. "Come, we must go on."
They turned their backs resolutely to the light and in a moment had passed over the brow of the hill and were alone under the wan light of the darkening heavens. They had not traveled by night before and the obscurity closed in upon them shrouded in mystery. But as they emerged from beneath the trees their eyes became accustomed to the darkness and they followed the road cheerfully enough, determined to put as many kilometers as possible between themselves and the threatening white plume of Olga Tcherny which seemed in the last few hours to have achieved an appalling significance. At first Markham had been disposed to laugh at Hermia's fears. What reason in the world could Olga have had to suspect Hermia's share in his innocent pilgrimage? Of his own tastes she had of course been ready to believe anything, and he had had ample proof that she thoroughly disapproved of his present mode of living. Nor was that a matter which could affect a great deal their personal relations, which were already strained to the point of tolerance. But as to his companion—that was another affair. He had never understood the intuitions of women and thought them more often shrewd guesswork in which they were as likely to be wrong as right. But the more he considered what Hermia had said to him, the more definite became the impression that Olga Tcherny had fallen upon some clew to Hermia's whereabouts—that she had expected to find her—as Hermia had said—in Cleofonte's house-wagon. He knew something of Olga and had a wholesome respect for her intelligence. If it was to her interest to prove Hermia his companion on this mad pilgrimage, it was clearly to Hermia's interest to prove her own non-existence. As Hermia had suggested, her intrusiveness was impertinent, and Markham mentally added the adjectives "ruthless" and "indecent." He had been almost ready to add "vengeful," but could not really admit, even to himself, that she had anything to be vengeful about.
Whatever Hermia's further thoughts upon the subject, for the present she kept them to herself. They walked along as rapidly as Clarissa's gait would allow, for the tiny beast, never precipitate at the best of times, found the darkness little to her liking and pattered along with evident reluctance, mindful of the truss of hay only half eaten which she had left under Cleofonte's hospitable lights.
At a turn in the road Markham determined to verify his suspicions of a while ago, and accordingly drew Clarissa among some bushes, and, stick in hand, awaited the approach of the shadow which he was sure still hung upon their trail. Distant objects were dimly discernible, and Markham had almost decided that he had been mistaken when the crackling of a twig at no great distance advised him that in the shadow of the hedge someone was approaching. He remained quiet until a man slowly emerged from the shadows, when he stepped quickly out of his hiding place and confronted him.
Markham's six feet were menacing, and his pursuer stopped in his tracks, eyeing Markham's stick, undecided as to whether it were the best policy to face the thing out or take to his heels. As Markham's legs were longer than his, he chose the former and made a brave enough show of indifference, though his tongue wagged uncertainly.
"B-bon soir, Monsieur," he stammered. "Il fait beau—"
But Markham was in no mood to pass compliments upon the weather.
"What are you following me for?" he growled.
"Follow you, Monsieur? I do not comprehend," said the man.
"I'll aid your understanding, then. You followed us up the hill out of
Alençon. I saw you. Well, here I am. What do you want?"
"The road of the Oire are free," he answered sullenly, gaining courage.
"Perhaps they are. But no man with honest business slinks along the hedges. You go your way, do you hear?"
"The road of France are free," the man muttered again.
Markham quickly struck a match, and, before the man could turn away, had looked into his face. He wore the cap and blouse of a chauffeur and his legs were encased in the black puttees of his craft. Olga's ambassador was unworthy of her.
"Well, you go back to those who sent you here and say with the compliments of Monsieur Philidor that the roads of the Perche are dangerous after dark. I've every right to break your head, and if I meet you again I'll do it. Comprenez?"
The man eyed Markham's stick dubiously again and then, with a glance toward the pair in the bushes, silently walked away. They watched him until he was lost in the shadows of the trees.
"You see," said Markham, "I was right. But I can't understand it. Why should Olga—?"
Hermia was laughing softly.
"Don't tell me you're as stupid as that."
He took Clarissa by the halter and led the way into the road again.
"What do you mean?" he asked slowly.
"I mean, mon ami, that you have aroused in Olga's breast a dangerous emotion. She decided some time ago to marry you. Didn't you know that? It's quite true. She told me so."
"Told you?"
"Not in words. Oh, no. Olga never tells anything important to anyone.
But she told me so just the same. I know."
"Nonsense. She's a coquette. I've always understood that, but to marry—!"
"Precisely that—nothing else. She's madly in love with you, my poor friend. She has never failed to bring a man to her feet when she made up her mind to. The deduction is obvious."
There was no need of daylight to see the expression on her companion's face. Hermia could read it in the dark.
"What you say is highly unimportant," he said with attempt at a smile. "And because she desires to make me—er—her husband she employs persons to follow me along the byways of France?"
"Oh, no. Not to follow you, my friend. Me. You are merely the bone of contention. I am the impudent terrier who has interfered with the peace of her repast."
"Impossible. She doesn't even know you're out of Paris. How can she know?"
"Now you're delving into the intricacies of the feminine mind—an occupation to which you're as little suited as Clarissa—and she's a woman. You must take my word for it. Olga has often amazed me by the accuracy of her intuitions. I have imagined that where her own interests were involved they would be nothing short of miraculous. She is quite as sure that I am your companion moment as though she had seen me in the Signor Cleofonte's roulotte."
"Then if she is so sure," he asked with excellent logic, "why should she make so much bother about it?"
Hermia laughed. "The mere fact that she is making a bother about it is significance in itself. She'll find me if she can and confront me with the damning fact of your presence in my society."
"And precious little good that would do her," he put in rather brutally.
"Or me," said Hermia gravely. "Hell hath no hatred—et cetera. You've spurned her, Philidor,—in spirit, if not in letter. Get her the chance and she will pillory me in the market-place."
Markham went along in silence, his earlier impressions confirmed by argument, sure that the chance of discovery must be avoided at all hazards. A watch of the road had revealed no sign of the stealthy chauffeur, but that argued nothing. He was an obstinate little animal, evidently quite capable, since his discomfiture, of following the adventure through to its end. They must outmaneuver him. Presently Markham discovered what he had been looking for—a path hardly perceptible in the darkness, which led through the bushes and promised immunity. They followed it silently, pausing for a while to listen for sounds of pursuit, and at last, with minds relieved, if not quite certain, plodded on into the obscurity. They had entered, it seemed, an aisle of a forest which stretched, darkly impenetrable, on either side. Before them, blackness, darkness within dark, like a cave, a smell of dampness like a dungeon. The sky lightened for a moment and they saw the shape of leaves and tree fronds far above them like a pattern on a carpet—a pattern which changed with elflike witchery, for a wind had blown up and sounded about them with the roar of a distant sea, rising now and then in a mighty crescendo, like the boom of a nearer wave upon the shore. The tree tops swayed and joined in the splendid diapason. Nature breathed deeply.
Markham led the way, his hand upon Clarissa's bridle, peering along their slender trail, while Hermia, all her senses keenly alive to the witchery of the night, followed closely, casting timorous glances over her shoulder into the murky gloom, in which she fancied she could discern the shapes of pursuers. Once thinking she had heard a sound behind her, she caught Markham's arm and they stopped, breathless, and listened, but they heard nothing in the rushing blackness but the complaint of an owl and the crash of a dead limb at a distance to their right. A drop of rain fell on Markham's hand. Their prospect was not pleasant. Markham struck a match under his coat and looked at his watch. It was one o'clock. They had been walking for four hours. He tried to focus his eyes upon the blackness. This path must lead somewhere—a shed even would serve them if it rained harder. The brief glimpse he had of Hermia's face showed it pale and dark-eyed with a look he had never discovered in it before, not of fear, for fear he had begun to believe was foreign to her. The light had cut them off for a moment from the rest of the world, or rather had made more definite the little world of their own, but Hermia's eyes still peered over her shoulder, distended and alert. She was on the defensive, ready for headlong flight, like a naiad startled.
"I'm sorry, Hermia. You're dead tired—aren't you?"
"Yes, I—I am—a little," she said quietly.
"We've traveled almost far enough. We must have come a mile at least into this forest. It seems limitless."
He peered about, taking a few steps forward along the path, which widened here. The trees, too, were further apart, and a larger patch of the windy sky was visible. Hermia followed, guiding the donkey. They emerged into a glade, their road not well defined, and made out against the trees beyond a rectangular bulk of gray. Markham went forward more briskly, his spirits rising. Providence was kind to them. A house! A house in France, he had discovered, meant hospitality. To-night, at least, it meant a shelter from the rain which now pattered crisply upon the dry leaves of a forgotten autumn. A small affair it was, a keeper's or a forester's lodge of one story only, with a small shed or stable at the side. There were no lights, but that was reasonable enough. French country folk made no pretence of entertaining visitors at such early hours of the morning. As they approached the building the matter of its occupancy seemed open to question, for the closed windows stared blankly at the leaden sky. An eloquent shutter hung helplessly from its hinges and weeds ranged riotously about the front door, near which a wooden bench lay overturned. While Hermia waited under a tree Markham walked slowly around the house, returning presently with the information that its rear confirmed the impression of desertion. But to make the matter certain he walked to the door and vigorously clanged the knocker. Hollow echoes, but no other sound. He knocked again; to his surprise the door yielded to the touch of his shoulder and creakily opened.
"We'll go in, I think," he laughed. And, leaving the patient donkey for the moment to her fate, he led the way indoors. A match illumined for a moment the hallway, showing a ladder-like stair to a trap door above, and then, sputtering faintly in the musty air, went out. Since matches were scarce, he deftly made a torch of a paper from his pocket with better success. A brief glance into the room at their left showed signs of recent occupancy. His quick survey marked an oil lamp in the corner, which, upon investigation, proved to be in working order, so he lit it with the end of his expiring taper.
The room was handsomely paneled in white. There was a couch in the corner, a rug upon the floor and several easy chairs were drawn sociably toward the chimney breast; along one wall was a gun-rack and in the center of the room a table with a litter of magazines, a box of cigars, a decanter of wine and some glasses.
Their appraisal concluded, they faced each other blankly. Then Markham laughed.
"I wonder what's the punishment for poaching in France," he said gaily.
Hermia dropped wearily upon the couch.
"I'm sure I don't know—or care in the least," she sighed. "I'll go to prison willingly in the morning if they'll only let me sleep now. I'm tired. I didn't know I could ever be so tired."
Markham glanced at her and then quickly poured out a glass of wine, brought it to her, and in spite of her protests made her drink.
"Stolen," she muttered between sips.
"It's no less useful because of that," he said, coolly helping himself. "It's medicine—for both of us. We've had eighteen hours to-day. Salut, Yvonne! We'll pay for it some day."
"To whom?"
"To the chap who owns this lodge—a man of taste, a good Samaritan and a gentleman, if a mere vagabond may be a judge of Amontillado." He finished the glass at a gulp and set it upon the table. From her couch she watched him as he opened the windows and closed and fastened the shutters. Then he went outside and she heard him pottering around in the rain with Clarissa, undoing the pack and bringing it into the house, and leading the donkey off in the direction of the shed.
"An excellent man, our host," he laughed from the doorway. "Clarissa is up to her ears in hay."
He dripped with moisture, and, mindful of the furniture, took off his coat and hat and shook them in the hall.
"Now, child, we're snug. It's raining hard. No one would venture here in such a night. You must sleep—at once."
"What will you do?" she asked drowsily.
"I'm perishing for a smoke. You don't mind, do you?"
"Oh, no,—but you must—must sleep—too. I'm—very tired—very—" The words trailed off into mumbling, and before he could fill his pipe she was breathing deeply.
He got up and laid her coat over her feet and then stood beside her, his soul in his eyes, watching.
"Poor little madcap," he whispered; "mad little—sad little madcap."
He bent over her tenderly, with a longing to smooth away the tired lines at her eyes with caresses, to take her in his arms and soothe her with gentleness. She seemed very small, very slender, too small, too childish to have raised such a tempest in the deeper currents of his spirit, and he groped forward, his fingers trembling for the touch of her.
He straightened with a sigh. He could not and he knew it; for she trusted him and trust in him was her defence, a valiant one even against his tenderness. It had always been one of the hardest burdens he had to bear. He watched her a while longer, then turned away and sank into a chair by the table, soberly lit his pipe and smoked, his eyes roving. There were colored prints upon the wall, well chosen ones of deer and fox hunters in full chase; upon the table an ash tray of Satsuma ware and several books. He took up the one nearest him, a volume on big game hunting, and turned the pages idly. Their unconscious and unwilling host took his sports seriously, it seemed. He dropped the book upon his knees, and as he did so it fell open at the fly leaf, upon which in a feminine scrawl a name was inscribed. He read it with surprise and concern. "Madeleine de Cahors!" Olga Tcherny's Norman friend—who lived—
Alençon! What a dolt he was! This was the forest of Écouves—or a part of it—and in the night he had come into the preserve of the wealthy marquis. Olga's friends—and Olga! A fine escape he had made of it, into the very sphere of the Countess Tcherny's activities! The Château must be near here, at the most not more than a few kilometers distant. He was a clod-pate, nothing less. For with all the Oire to choose from he had stumbled blindly into the one path that led to danger. What was to be done? He got to his feet stealthily and went through the lodge. A dining room, kitchen and pantry upon the other side of the hallway, deserted, but like the living room, giving signs of recent use. He opened the door and looked out. The shadows of the forest were barely discernible through the driving rain. It was a boisterous night, its inclemency heightened when viewed from the shelter of this friendly roof, one which must defy their sleuth, the chauffeur, had he had the temerity or the stealth to follow them through the forest. Markham watched for a while, nevertheless, and then, satisfied that for the night at least they were safe from discovery, returned to the living room and dropped into his chair, determining to sit and listen a while and then perhaps take a few hours of sleep.
There was nothing else to be done. His companion was beyond moving, unless he carried her, and this he knew in his present condition could not be far. To-morrow morning they must be abroad early and make their way at top speed out of the forest, trusting to luck that had so far favored them to bring them out of harm's way. It was curious, though, the way Olga had persisted in his thoughts. Marry? Him? Incredible! Had she not taken the pains so long ago to make him understand that marriage was the last thing in the world she would ever think of again? Their agreement on the fundamentals of independence had been one of their strongest ties. That kiss in Hermia's rose garden meant nothing to Olga—or to him. An accident—physical only—the possibility of which their former agreements had unfortunately not foreseen. Hermia was mistaken—that was all. And yet—why this pursuit? It all seemed a little too deep for his comprehension at the present moment. His mind groped for lucidity, failed, and then was blank.
CHAPTER XXI
NEMESIS
The storm had blown itself out in the night and the sun came blithely up, awaking the forest to its orisons. The oaks dripped jewels and the black pines lifted their gilded spires above the clearing and nodded solemnly to the rosy East. The sun climbed higher and a thin pall of vapor roamed up the hillside from the gorges of the stream and sought the open sky.
Nature had wept out the gusts of her passion and her smiles were the more beautiful through the vestiges of her tears. The sunlight was spattered lavishly among the shadows, glowing with a lambent light in the hidden places under shrub and thicket and dancing madly on leaf and bough. There was mischief in the air and it took but a little flight of the fancy to conjure Pan and his nymphs gamboling about the sleeping house of the vagabonds.
Morning had importuned their shutters long before Markham awoke and gazed with startled eyes at the diagonal bar of orange light which cut the obscurity of their hiding place. Then, rubbing his eyes, he stumbled to his feet and stared at his watch. It was nine o'clock. Hermia still slept, huddled under her overcoat, one rosy cheek pillowed on her open palm, her tumbled hair flooding riotously about her shoulders. Markham stopped a moment to gaze at her again, but she stirred under his look, so he moved quickly away to the door and peered cautiously out, searching the forest with eager eyes. Gaining courage, he went out, making the round of the house with eyes and ears intent. There was much ado among the tree tops and a scurrying of four-footed among the underbrush, but of two-footed things he saw nothing. He fetched a pail of water for Clarissa and was in the act of entering the house when a gun cracked sharply at some distance on his left. The forest stopped to listen with him for a full moment as the echoes went bounding among the rocks. And then a whirring of wings great and small, hither and yon, announced that there were other vagabonds as startled as he. Two more shots, this time in the distance behind him, followed quickly by a startling noise close at hand.
Clarissa, her whole soul in the note, was incontinently braying.
It was an unearthly sound and an unfamiliar one. For never in the smooth course of their acquaintance had she been guilty of such an indiscretion. He hurried to the shed, but before he reached the door she ceased, and when he entered, regarded him with a wistful eye of recrimination which forestalled his reproaches. After all, she was only an ass! The damage, if damage there was, had already been done. In grave doubt as to his own immediate course, he hurried to the lodge, where he found Hermia sitting wide-eyed upon her couch, fearfully awaiting him.
"What on earth has happened, Philidor?" she asked.
"Oh, nothing," he laughed. "Our host is abroad with a shotgun. Clarissa objects, and is so much of an ass that she can't hold her tongue about it."
She smiled and got to her feet.
"I must have slept—"
"Precisely seven hours. It's half-past nine. We must be off at once—by the back door if there is one—"
"Are they coming this way?"
"I didn't stop to inquire. They're near enough, at any rate."
"We could explain, couldn't we—I mean about the storm and the door being open?"
"Hardly—this shooting lodge, my child,—this forest, too, is the property of the De Cahors. See—" and he showed her the book.
"O Philidor! What shall we do?"
"Get out at once. They mustn't see you at any cost. If they come you must take to the bushes, and meet me in Hauterire. It's a case of the devil take the hindmost—the hindmost being me and the devil being—" he paused significantly.
"Olga! Do you think she can be shooting, too?"
He shrugged. "She's quite apt to be doing precisely that," he said shortly.
Hermia flew to the window and, unlatching the shutter, peered timidly forth. Markham heard her gasp and looked over her shoulder through the aperture.
"Olga!" she whispered in dismay.
There in the path to the deep wood, smartly attired in gaiters, a short skirt and Alpine hat, her shotgun in the hollow of her arm, was Nemesis. She came up the path at a leisurely gait, and stopped not a hundred feet away, her head held upon one side, smiling and carelessly surveying the premises.
Hermia shrank back and huddled down upon the couch.
"O Philidor, we're lost—"
But he caught her by the shoulder and hurried her out into the hall.
"Up the ladder quickly! It's our only chance. There's a window in the gable and a trellis. I saw it a while ago. You must go—that way when I get her inside. We'll meet at Hauterire. Leave the rest to me."
And while she went up he returned to the living room, removed the most obvious traces of Hermia's presence, and, as the trap door was slid down into its place, dropped into the nearest armchair, feigning slumber. He heard Olga's footsteps as she prowled around the house and deluded himself for a moment with the thought that she had gone on, when suddenly he saw her poking at the shutters, which she finally pressed open with the butt end of her shotgun, filling the room with sunlight and revealing the prostrate Markham, who started up in dismay which needed little simulation.
"Good morning, Philidor," said she quite pleasantly.
"Olga!"
"Did you sleep well? What a sluggard you are! Behold the ant—learn her ways and do likewise."
He rose, and through the window offered her his hand. But she waved him off with the point of her gun.
"Not so fast, my young friend!" she cried, her eyes meanwhile swiftly searching the room. "You're a poacher. Will you surrender?"
"By all means—at discretion—if you'll please not keep pointing that plaguey thing—"
She raised a tiny silver object suspended around her neck by a silver chain.
"Don't you know that it's my duty to my host to whistle for the keepers to come and take you before the magistrate?"
"Of course. Whistle away."
"But I'm not going to—at least, not yet. I want to talk to you first.
I'm coming in—with your permission."
"Charmed!" he said with a gaiety he was far from feeling, and opened the door with a fine flourish. "It's always easy to be hospitable at somebody else's expense," he said.
She entered without ceremony, gun in hand, her eyes, under lowered lids, shifting indolently, yet missing nothing—the pack on the floor, the tumbled couch, and Markham's familiar pipe.
"Quite handsome, I'd say. The Count always had an eye for the picturesque."
She made the round of the lower floor, carelessly observant of its arrangement, while Markham followed her, his ears straining for the sounds of Hermia's escape.
"Are your friends coming here?" he asked.
Olga poked the muzzle of her gun into a cupboard. "Not unless I whistle for them, Monsieur," she said slowly. "They're below me to the left. We have rendezvous at the lower lodge. Lucky, isn't it?"
Markham's eye lit hopefully.
"I am, it seems, completely at your mercy," he laughed.
He preceded her into the living room and in doing so failed to note the brief pause she made beside the stairs to the loft, upon the steps of which, and upon the floor beneath them, plainly to be seen were a number of small particles of mud, broken and dried. Nor did he see the quick smile of triumph replace the puzzled look with which she had pursued her investigations. She followed him in and with a sigh of content dropped into a chair by the fireplace, crossing her knees and leisurely lighting a cigarette.
"Enfin," she laughed. "Here we are gain—thou and I, Monsieur le philospophe."
He shrugged.
"At your pleasure," he replied.
She examined his face a moment before she went on. And then softly:
"Why did you run away from me last night? You did, you know, Philidor, or you wouldn't be here."
He hesitated a moment.
"I was afraid you'd insist—on my joining your house party."
She cast a glance around the room and laughed.
"It seems that you've already done so."
"Er—a mistake. I was going to camp in the woods, but it came on to rain. The door of this house was unlatched. So I walked in—and here I am."
"Reasonable enough. It did rain. I remember. And weren't you lonely here?"
"Oh, no," he said easily, "I was asleep."
"And I woke you. What a pity!"
"I'm sure—I'm delighted—if you don't lead me to the Château de
Cahors or the magistrate."
"What alternatives! One would think, John Markham, that you were really an enemy of society."
"Society with the small S, I am. I'm never less alone than when by myself."
"Which means that two is a crowd? Thanks. I shall tear myself away in a moment, but not until—"
"Don't be foolish, Olga," he whispered. "You know that can't mean you."
"I don't know," she murmured wistfully in a low, even voice, her gaze on the andirons. "You've surely given me no reasons t believe that you cared for my society. I wrote you twice from New York, once form Paris and once from Trouville, and you've only deigned me one reply—such a reply—with comments upon the weather (upon which I was fully informed), and a hope that we might meet in October in New York. It was sweet of you, John, when I came to Europe expressly to see you!"
"Me?" He rose, walked the length of the room and glanced anxiously out of the window. "Impossible!" he said, then turned and stood by the mantel, his back toward the door, his voice tensely subdued. "See here, Olga, don't you think it's about time that you stopped making fun of me—that you and I understood each other? For some reason, after a few years of acquaintance you've suddenly discovered that I amuse you. Why, I don't know. I'm not your sort—not the sort of man you'd find worth your while in the long run, and you know it. And I don't propose to be caught in your silken mesh, my dear, to be left to dry in the sun when you find some other specimen more to your liking."
Olga laughed silently, her head away from him, and Markham, after a quick glance over his shoulder, went on whispering.
"I gave you my friendship-freely, unreservedly, but you weren't satisfied with that. Hardly! You wanted me to be in love with you. There's no doubt of it." He laughed. "Oh, anyone else would have done as well, but I happened along at a favorable time—on the back swing of the pendulum. It hurt your pride, I think, that one of my Arcadian simplicity should fail to droop where others, more sophisticated, had fallen swiftly. Perhaps I, too, might have fallen if you hadn't warned me that you had no heart. You did me that kindness."
He stopped, listening. Olga's ears, too, were alert for a sound—a tiny sound of no more volume than that which might have been made by a mouse that had come from overhead.
"But you grew weary of that," he went on quietly. "You wanted something to happen. Your reputation was at stake. It was time for a psychological crisis of sorts—and so you arranged it—in a rose garden."
Olga had stopped smiling now and her brows were narrowing painfully.
"You have no right to speak to me so," she murmured.
"It's true," he finished. "You didn't play fair and you know it."
She bent forward, her elbows on her knees, her gaze on the ashes.
"You hurt me—John," she whispered, scarcely audibly; "you hurt me—terribly."
His eyes searched her keenly. Her head drooped to her fingers, which pressed her temples nervously. If he had not known her so well he would have almost been ready to believe her contrition genuine. But in a moment she straightened.
"You advise me not to hope, then?" she murmured with a laugh.
Doubt fled. She was mocking him. Her very presence mocked him. The rafters saw his discomfiture, though the attic heard not. Was Hermia gone? He fidgeted his feet, listening. Olga was really intolerable.
"Oh, what's the use?" he muttered. "The humor's out of the thing." A change, subtle and undefined, came over his visitor's expression. She rose imperturbably and walked about, fingering things, reaching at last the book case next to the corridor, and slowly abstracted a volume, turning its leaves idly, and facing the door, spoke with perilous distinctness.
"It is charming here, mon ami," she said gaily. "If I had sent for you, things could not have been more agreeably arranged. It is so long since we've met. And I've missed you dreadfully. It mustn't happen again, mon cher." She lowered the book and leaned against the door jamb dreamily. "You shall remain here en vagabond," she went on, "and I will visit you, bringing you crumbs from the rich men's table, which we will enjoy à deux. It will remind us of those days at Compiègne, those long days of sunshine and delight—of the moonlit Oise, and the tiny auberge at La Croix among the beeches, which even the motorists hadn't yet discovered. But even La Croix is not more secluded than this. This lodge is seldom used. No one shall know—not even Madeleine de Cahors."
Markham listened dumbly at first in incomprehension and then in amazement. He had never been in Compiègne with Olga or anyone else. And La Croix—! What was she about? Her purpose came to him slowly, and with the revelation, anger.
He covered the distance between them in a step.
"Silence," he whispered, aware of the trap door about their very ears.
She smiled up into his face sweetly.
"I suppose you'll be denying next that you were ever in Compiègne—"
"I do."
"Or that you would have married me last summer if I—"
"Olga!"
"If I hadn't been wise enough—"
"You're mad!"
She drew back form him, her eyes wide, but she had no reply. He took one step toward her and then stopped, impotent before her frailness, his glance wavering toward the door into the loft which mutely stared at him. Hermia would have gone by now—she must have gone. The way had been clear for twenty minutes. He looked away, and then, since there seemed nothing else to do, he laughed. But Olga didn't seem to hear him. She was fingering the shotgun which lay beside her on the table.
"Mad? Perhaps I am," she said with slow distinctness. "Though you're the last one in the world who should tell me so."
She picked up the weapon and, before he had really guessed what she was about, calmly discharged one of its barrels out of the window.
The noise was deafening and the silence which followed freighted with importance. A scraping of feet overhead, a rattle of loose hinges, and a frightened face at the aperture. Olga Tcherny turned, took a step or two into the doorway, glanced upward and then let her astonished gaze fall on Markham, who was peering up, imploring mutely.
"You—and Hermia!" This from Olga, who had recovered her speech with difficulty. "What does it mean, John?"
But John Markham thrust his hands deep into his pockets and turned his back.
"What does it mean?" she repeated distinctly. "You and Hermia—here? I hardly understand—" But Markham, looking out of the end window, shrugged his shoulders, refusing to reply. He was fuddled with misery, bewildered by the turn of events which were quite beyond his management.
Another long pause, during which he was conscious that Hermia, her dignity in jeopardy, was descending the ladder and now faced their visitor, a fugitive smile upon her lips, pale but quite composed.
"Hello, Olga," he heard her say.
The Countess Tcherny's gaze traveled over her from head to heel, the gaze of one who looks at a person one has never seen before. She looked long but replied not; then her chin was lowered quickly the fraction of an inch, after which she raised the gun, broke it and threw out the shell from the still smoking barrel.
"Stupid of me, wasn't it?" she said coolly. "I forgot it was loaded."
"It's lucky you didn't hurt yourself," said Hermia.
"Isn't it? How dreadful, Hermia, if I had peppered the trap door!"
"I rather think you did," said Hermia. She walked across to the fireplace with a queer laugh. "Well! You've brought down the game. Now whistle for your dogs!"
Olga's face was quite serious.
"I'm sure that I don't in the least know what you're talking about.
Your presence is surprising enough—"
Hermia looked defiance.
"Is it? Why? You've outwitted me. I'm simply acknowledging the fact.
John Markham and I have been traveling together for a week—as you
perceive—en vagabond. We like it. It's most amusing. Indiscreet?
Perhaps. If so, I'll take the consequences. Can I say more?"
Olga's smile came slowly—with difficulty. The bravado of fear? Or of indifference? She had never really measured weapons with Hermia.
"I'm the last person in the world whose censure you need fear, my dear," she said suavely.
"I don't fear it," said Hermia promptly. "I'm quite sure I'd rather have had you fin me out than any one I know."
Bravado again.
"I'm glad, darling," Olga purred. "It's sweet of you to say so."
"I don't mean that I wanted to be discovered. If I had I shouldn't have fled from the roulotte of the Fabiani family yesterday when you were looking for me. You traced us from Alençon, of course—"
"I? Why should I follow you?"
"I haven't the slightest idea—unless your conversation a moment ago with John Markham explains it."
"You heard—that!"
"Oh, yes,—didn't you want me to? I'm not deaf. But you needn't be at all worried about it." She paused and brushed the dust of the loft from her coat sleeve. "You know, Olga, I don't believe it—any of it."
Olga smiled sagely, but Markham, who all this while had been standing like a figure of wax, now showed signs of animation.
"It was all a joke, of course, Hermia," he began, moving forward.
"Olga knows as well as I do that—"
But Hermia had waved him into silence.
"Let me finish," she insisted, and he paused.
"I fancy the atmosphere needs clearing," she went on coolly, "and we may as well do it at once. As I remarked a few moments ago, I deny nothing, crave no indulgences, from you, Olga, or from anyone. I cry peccavi. But I want you to understand that I feel no regret. Even at the cost of this dénouement I should not hesitate to seek my freedom—if I could find it with John Markham. I love him. And he—do let me finish, Philidor,—he loves me. So there you are. There's nothing more to be said. What could one say?"
Olga had reached the door, shrugging her shoulders very prettily.
"Nothing, perhaps, except 'good day,'" she laughed. "It seems that I'm de trop. I'll go at once."
AT the door she paused. "You will be quite secure from interruption here to-day, I think. When you go, take to the forest to the northward and you should get out in safety. This secret is delicious. When you are well out of harm's way, mess amiss, I shall tell it, in my best manner, at the dinner table."
She waved her hand and was gone.
CHAPTER XXII
ONE GREAT PAN IS DEAD
As she went out Markham came forward, but Hermia waved him aside, and, going to the open window, stood silent, her head bent forward, her gaze fixed on Olga's diminishing back. It seemed more than usually shapely, that back, more than usually careless and disdainful. Her feet spurned the ground and tripped lightly among the grasses, her shoulders swinging easily, the feather in her hat nodding, mischievously defiant. After she had melted into the thicket, Hermia still stood watching the spot where she had disappeared. But Markham, no longer to be denied, came from behind and caught her around the waist.
"It's true, Hermia," he whispered, "you love—?"
Her brow had been deep in thought, and at first it had not seemed that she heard him or felt his arms about her, but as his lips touched her cheek she sprang away, her eyes blazing at him.
"You!" As she brushed the cheek his lips touched: "Hardly," scornfully, and then, with a laugh, "I lied, that's all."
"I'll not believe it. You love me—"
"No. I detest you."
He saw a light.
"You heard. You believe that Olga and I—"
"I'm not a fool. One lives and one learns."
He caught her by the shoulders as one does a child, the impulse in him strong to shake her, his heart denying it.
"She knew you were listening all the while. Can't you understand?
That was her game. She played it—for you. I've never been in
Compiègne—"
"Let me go—"
"No. Not until you look in my eyes. You love me. You've told her so and me—"
"I lied. It was necessary—"
"Why?"
She struggled, but would not look at him. "Let me go."
"No. Why did you say that unless—"
"The situation—demanded it," she panted. "She had to understand—"
"The truth—"
"No—not the truth. She could not have understood the truth—so I lied to her—lied to her."
With a supreme effort she wrenched away, putting the table between them.
"Oh," she gasped furiously. "That I could ever have believed in you!"
But her anger failed to dismay him. There was a pause during which their glances clashed, hers flashing, contemptuous—his keen, intent and a trifle amused.
"Why did you stay—up there—when the way was clear to the forest."
Her eyes opened a little wider.
"I—I was afraid to go."
"Afraid! Perhaps. but that wasn't the only thing that kept you—"
"What then?" indifferently.
"Curiosity."
"About what?"
"Me."
"Oh!" scornfully.
"It's true. You wanted to hear what passed between us. I thought you had gone. Olga knew you hadn't. She was the cleverest of us all, you see."
"It hasn't made the slightest difference."
He reached her in a stride.
"You love me," he laughed. "I know it now." And as she still turned from him: "And you'll marry me, too, Hermia."
"Never!"
"Yes," he repeated, "you'll marry me. There isn't anything else for you to do."
She was dumb with surprise and could only gasp with rage, but before she could speak he had released her, and, catching up his hat form the table, was out of the door and on his way to the stable.
He laughed up at the sky. Subterfuge could not avail her now. He had learned the truth. Neither mockery, scorn nor any other pretence could divert the genial current of his soul. She loved him. And, whatever he had shown of mastery in her presence, his precious knowledge made him suddenly strangely gentle in his thoughts of her. The sky smiled back at him from over the leafy glades of the Comte de Cahors, and, as his gaze sought the spot in the woods where a moment ago Olga had disappeared, a sober look came into his eyes. Tell? Would she? Would Olga tell? He didn't believe it. He had learned many things. Olga kindled her altar fires not for the warmth of them, but for their incense, the odor of which was breath to her nostrils. The symbols of love—not love itself—what could Olga know of love? He knew—and Hermia? Hermia knew, for he had taught her.
He filled his bucket at the well and sought Clarissa, who was sleeping the sleep of satiety. She had eaten until she could eat no more. Watered, he led her back to the lodge, fastened his hitching strap at the door and went inside, his own appetite advising him that neither he nor Hermia had eaten since yesterday afternoon. His companion had huddled into a chair and was gazing into the fireplace. She did not offer to continue their conversation, nor did he. And so he got out his spirit lamp and made coffee, unpacked some chicken sandwiches, and, helping himself freely to the crockery of the Marquis, presently served the breakfast.
She would not eat at first and he did not insist upon her doing so, but sat comfortably, and in a moment was smacking his lips. The coffee was excellent—the best that could be had in Alençon, and its odor was delicious. He saw from where he sat her eyes shifting uncertainly. He drained his cup with a great sigh of content, set it down upon the saucer and was in the act of pouring out another helping for himself when she rose and reached forward quickly, appetite triumphant.
"I'd better eat, I suppose," she said jerkily.
He smiled politely and handed her the sandwiches, noting from the tail of his eye that several times during the meal her look sought his face for an explanation of his change of manner, which, not being forthcoming, she sat rather demurely at her meat, emptying the pot of coffee and finishing the last of the bread and chicken. Markham would have smiled if he had dared! What chance had any of the lighter passions against the craving hunger of the healthy young animal? It was another triumph of his philosophy, almost its greatest—Nature at a bound eliminating art and the feminine calculus. When he had finished eating, without a word he rose, and went out to pack Clarissa, and while he was thus engaged Hermia passed him silently with a bucket on the way to the pump for water, and in another moment he was aware that she was washing the dishes. He made no effort to help her, but sat on the door-sill, thoughtfully smoking his pipe.
She came out in a moment and announced that she was ready to go, and he saw that breakfast had done her no harm. So they followed Olga Tcherny's instructions as far as he remembered them and found a path through the woods which led northward. Clarissa had so gorged herself with the stolen fodder (which may have been sweeter on that account) that Markham had to cut a new goad to speed her upon her way. They kept a watch ahead and behind them, and emerged as Olga had prophesied without adventure or accident through a hole in a hedge upon a highroad, along which, still bending their steps northward, they took their way.
Markham's silence had a double meaning. They were at odds just now. A while back Hermia had starved for food. He meant now that she should starve for company. He wanted to think, too, to analyze and weigh his own culpability in the situation where they now found themselves. The imprudence of their venture had not seemed to matter so much back at Evreux, where accident had thrown them together and Hermia had linked her fate to his. She had been little more to him then than an extraordinarily interesting specimen of a genus he little understood, a rebellious slave of convention who had shown him the shackles which galled her wrists and had pleaded with him very prettily to help her strike them off. Could any man have refused her? And yet he had known from that hour that a retribution of some sort awaited them both—Hermia, for ignoring her code; himself, for having permitted her to ignore it. There was a difference now—a difference which their discovery by an outsider had made unpleasantly manifest. De Folligny's appearance at Verneuil had made Markham thoughtful, but Olga's intrusion now had paraphrased their pastoral lyric into unworthy prose. Parnassus wept with them, but no amount of weeping could destroy the ugly doggerel as Olga had written it. Their idyl was smirched, the fair robe of Euterpe was trialing in the dust.
But it was too late for reproaches now. The mischief was done and one thing only left—to emerge with as good a grace as possible from a doubtful position. As the moments passed it became more clear to Markham in which way his duty lay—and the more he thought of it, the more he was convinced that it lay out of Vagabondia. Hermia must go—this very day—and he—to beard their pretty tigress.
The shadow of his thoughts fell upon his brows, and to Hermia, who watched him, when she could do so unobserved, he presented a countenance upon which gloom sat heavily enthroned.
Had he spoken his thoughts as they came to him she could not have read him more easily; and, as Markham gloomed, her own mood lightened. Though she spoke not, a dull fire slumbered in her eye which boded him mischief. Disaster had befallen—and some one was to pay for it; but his bent head was unaware of the smile that suddenly grew, a pale wintry smile which matched the devil in her eyes.
They camped in the mellow afternoon under the trees upon a rugged mountain that guarded the defile, through which a rushing torrent, one of the tributaries of the Oire, dashed over the rocks on its swift course to Argentan. Below them in the valley were a village and a railroad along which a tiny passenger train was slowly proceeding. Markham eyed the train with a grave and melancholy interest. They both observed that it stopped in the village to let off and take on passengers. He built his fire with great deliberateness, gloomy and silent as though performing a last rite for one departed, and ate solemnly, his face long.
At last she could stand the stress of him no longer and burst suddenly into a fit of laughter which echoed madly among the rocks.
"Oh, John Markham!" she cried. "Why so triste? The melancholy sweetness of seeing Olga again?"
"No," he replied calmly. "I was thinking—of other things."
"What?"
A smile broke over his lips. He had been right. There was nothing in the world that a woman has greater pains to endure than silence. He had starved her out.
He didn't reply at once, and that angered her.
"Must I plead with you even for speech?" she asked satirically. "Has it come to this? Will you not smile and throw a crumb of comfort to your bond-woman?"
"I have had nothing to say—until now," he replied, very quietly, over his coffee cup.
She only laughed at him and swept the ground with a low curtsey.
"Thy slave listens. Speak! To what decision has my lord and master arrived?" she asked.
He swallowed his coffee deliberately, unsmiling, his gaze over the valley where the railroad track wormed its way into the North.
"That you're to go to your friends in Paris—at once," he said decisively.
And while she watched him scornfully, the slow fire in her eyes burning suddenly into brightness, he took from his pocket a wallet he had never seen before, and counted out upon the ground some money.
"This," he continued calmly, "is yours. You have earned it. I have kept count. I will owe you, too—what is realized from the sale of—of Clarissa. Or, if you prefer it, I will pay you that now. I hope you will find the arrangement satisfactory."
He had arrested her mockery and she stood silent while he spoke, her gaze upon the ground. But her mood broke forth again with even greater virulence.
"So you want to be ride of me, _Monsieur mon Maître—cancel my indentures—end my apprenticeship to the school of life—turn me adrift in a wicked world, which already treats me none too kindly. Is it wise, I say? Is it kind, is it human—just because a woman crosses our path and threatens my reputation? Look at me. Am I not the same that I was before? Now have I fallen in your graces? You, who professed a while ago to love me—oh, so madly?"