Of Time and the River (136 page)

“And why not?” he said resentfully. “Will you please tell me what else I should spend it on? Is there anything better than that to spend it on?”

“Don’t spend it on those girls in the café,” she said. “They are bad—bad—they will bring you nothing but misfortune and trouble. Come,” she said, getting up briskly. “I shall take you with me this morning and introduce you to two nice girls. You will be better off with them than with those women in the café.”

They went out and walked along the streets of the old town, brisk with morning life, cheerful with the thin, musty yellow of a wintry sun. As they walked along those streets of morning, many people recognized the old woman and spoke respectfully to her. Sometimes shopkeepers spoke to her from doorways, smiling good-naturedly at the sight of the little old woman trotting briskly along beside the towering height of the young man. Sometimes she would hear their laughter and bantering comment among themselves about the ludicrous disproportion of the pair, and then, turning to the young man, she would laugh in an abstracted and yet pleased way, saying:

“Ah—hah—hah! They are laughing at you and me, boy. They think it is very funny, the way we look together. . . . Un grand garçon, eh?” she called out to a man standing in the doorway of a shop, who was measuring the boy up and down with a look of good-natured astonishment.

“Mon Dieu!” the man cried. “Qu’il est grand! Il mange beaucoup de soupe!”

At length they stopped before a small millinery shop, where the old woman was having a hat made, and went in. A small bell tinkled thinly as they entered, and the milliner and her assistant came out from behind some curtains to greet them. The milliner was a competent-looking woman of thirty years, dark, with a wide face and a strong, compact, and yet seductive figure. The assistant was younger, taller, and fair in colouring. Both were attractive girls, and both greeted him with smiles and the exclamation of good-natured astonishment that he had heard upon the street. Then, for several minutes, the little shop was gay with the light, rapid French of the three women. All seemed to be talking and laughing at the same time, in excited tones; he saw that the Countess was eagerly publishing his merits to the two girls, he caught the magic phrase The New York Times now and then, the two girls kept glancing at him with smiling faces, and presently the older one, who was the proprietress, walked towards him, measured her height against his shoulder, and then, with a little laugh of astonishment, said:

“Mon Dieu! Qu’il est grand!”

The younger of the two girls, laughing, made a reply in rapid French which he could not follow, and the Countess, with a little chuckle of satisfaction, turned towards him, saying in an explanatory manner:

“They say they need you here, my dear, to get boxes down from the top shelf. It’s too tall for them.”

“Mon Dieu, oui!” the younger, taller girl, who had picked up the hat she had been making for the old woman and was shaping it in her hands, now answered instantly. “He can help Hélčne now with the box while you try this on. Hélčne,” she called to the other girl, “show Monsieur where the boxes are and have him get one down for you.”

He followed Hélčne through the curtains to the rear of the shop, pursued by the laughter and chattering comment of the other two women. Upon a shelf in the rear a number of hat-boxes were stacked up, but when he looked inquiringly at Hélčne, she smiled good- naturedly, and kindly said:

“Mais non, monsieur. Nous ne sommes pas sérieuses. Attendez,” and got up briskly on a chair, reaching for a box herself. It was, in fact, almost out of reach; she touched it with her outstretched finger-tips, dislodged it, it came tumbling down, and he caught it as it fell. And Hélčne herself came close to falling. She teetered uncertainly on her unsteady balance, swayed towards him, and he lifted her down. For a moment her weight was strong and palpable in his arms. He put her down reluctantly, and for an instant or two she stood flat against him, her hands gently resting on his arms. Then, with a pleasant little laugh, she said:

“Oh, lŕ, lŕ! Qu’il est fort!”

They went out front again, the Countess finished trying on the hat, and presently, after another burst of gay and rapid talk, he and the old woman departed. As he went out, the little bell tinkled thinly and pleasantly again; he had to stoop to go through the door. He turned to say good-bye again, the two girls were looking towards him with gay and friendly smiles; he was sorry to go and wanted some excuse for staying. Hélčne looked strong and competent and desirable, she smiled at him a friendly farewell: he thought if he came back again she would be glad to see him, but he never saw her after that.

Later the two girls stayed in his memory with a vivid, pleasant warmth: he thought of Hélčne many times, her strong seductive figure and her wide, dark face, and he wondered what her life had been, if she had married, and what time had brought to her.

XCIV

The crowning extravagance of the Countess’s misrepresentation was revealed one morning when he found a letter addressed to him in a firm, feminine, and completely unfamiliar handwriting. The Countess had spoken to him several times of a great noblewoman in the neighbourhood, who lived in a magnificent château, and with whom, it was obvious, the Countess wished to improve her slight acquaintance. Now, upon opening the letter, the following message greeted his astounded eye:

Le Château de Mornaye, February 23, 1925.

My dear Mr. Gant:

My old friend, La Comtesse de Caux, informs me that you are spending some time in Orléans preparing a series of articles for the great journal you represent, The New York Times.

It will be a great pleasure to me if you, together with La Comtesse, will give me the honour of your presence at Mornaye for luncheon on Thursday, the twenty-sixth. La Comtesse de Caux informs me that you became acquainted with my son Paul when he visited America with Le Maréchal Foch in 1922, and that a warm friendship grew up between you at that time. I have often heard my son speak of his American tour, and of the dear friendships he made there, and I know how keen will be his regret when he hears that you were here and that he missed you. He is at present, I regret to say, at Paris, but I have written informing him of your presence here.

At any rate, it will give me great pleasure to welcome one of my son’s American friends to Mornaye, and I am looking forward to your visit with the most eager anticipation. La Comtesse de Caux has already informed me of your acceptance, and my motor will be waiting for you at the village station, Thursday, the twenty-sixth, at noon.

Until then, ever sincerely yours,

MATHILDE, MARQUISE DE MORNAYE.

He read the letter a second time, anger swelling in a hot flood as its full significance was revealed to him. When he at length found the Countess, he was so choked with exasperation that for a moment he could not speak, but stood glaring at her with infuriated eyes, holding the crumpled letter in one clenched fist.

“Now, you look here,” he said at length in a smothered tone, “you look here—” he held the letter out and shook it furiously under her nose. “What do you mean by a thing like this?”

She returned his furious gaze with a glance of bright inquiry, took the letter from his hand, and immediately, after looking at it, said cheerfully:

“Oh, yes! La Marquise has written to you, as she said she would. Did I not tell you I had great things in store for you?” she said triumphantly. “Ah, my boy, how fortunate you were in finding me the way you did! Do you realize how few Americans ever have the opportunity you are getting? Here you are, a boy of twenty-four, being received with open arms into one of the greatest families in France. Why, there are American millionaires who would pay a fortune for the privilege!”

“Now, you see here,” he said again in a choking tone. “What do you mean by doing a thing like this behind my back?”

She raised puzzled eyebrows inquiringly.

“Behind your back? What do you mean, my boy?”

“What right have you got to tell this woman I had accepted her invitation, when you never spoke to me about it?”

“But!” she said, with a small protesting gasp—“I was sure you would be delighted! It never occurred to me that you wouldn’t be! I felt sure you’d jump at the opportunity!”

“Opportunity!” he jeered. “Opportunity for what? Opportunity to let you tell this woman a pack of lies about me, and try to work her with some trick or dodge that you’ve got up your sleeve!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, with quiet dignity.

“Oh, yes, you have!” he snarled. “You know very well what I’m talking about. You’ve told these lying stories and misrepresented things to people ever since I met you, but you’ve gone too far this time. What the hell do you mean by telling this woman that I am a good friend of her son’s and met him in America?” He picked up the letter and shook it in her face again. “What do you mean by telling her such a lie as that?”

“Lie!” Her brows were lifted with an air of pained surprise. “Why, my boy, you told me that you did know her son.”

“
I
told you!” he fairly screamed. “I told you nothing! I never knew the woman had a son until I got this letter.”

“Listen, my friend,” the Countess spoke gently and patiently as she would speak to a child. “Think back a little, won’t you—?”

“Think back my eye!” he said rudely. “There’s nothing to think back about. It’s another lying story you made up on the spur of the moment, and you know it!”

“Don’t you remember,” she went on in the same quiet and patient voice, “—don’t you remember telling me you were a student at Harvard University?”

“Yes, I did tell you that. And that was true. What has that got to do with knowing this woman’s son?”

“Wait!” she said quietly. “Don’t you remember telling me that you were there at Harvard when Marshal Foch made his visit to America?”

“Yes, I did tell you that.”

“And that you saw him when he visited the university? You told me that, you know.”

“Of course I did! I did see him. Everyone else saw him, too. He stood on the steps of the library with his aides, and saluted while they fired the cannon off!”

“Ah!—With his aides, you say?” she said eagerly.

“Yes, of course, what’s wrong with that?”

“But nothing is wrong! It’s all just as I said!—Among his aides, now,” she said persuasively, “did you not notice a young man, with a little moustache, about twenty-five years old, dressed in the uniform of a captain in the French army?—Think now, my boy,” she went on coaxingly—“a young man—much younger than the other officers on the Marshal’s staff?”

“Perhaps I did,” he said impatiently. “How should I remember now? What difference does it make?”

“Because that young man, my dear,” the Countess patiently explained, “that you saw standing there with the Marshal is the young Marquis—this woman’s son.”

He stared at her with fascinated disbelief.

“And do you mean to tell me,” he said presently, “that because I may have seen someone like that standing in a great crowd of people three years ago, you had the gall to tell that woman that I knew her son—that we were friends?”

“No, no,” the Countess said evasively, a little nervously. “I didn’t tell her that, my dear. I’m sure I didn’t tell her that. She must have misunderstood me. All I said was that you SAW her son when he was in America. I’m sure that was all I said. And that was true, wasn’t it? You DID see him, didn’t you?” she said triumphantly.

He stared at her, with mouth ajar, unable for a moment to comprehend the full enormity of such deception. Then he closed his jaws with a stubborn snap, and said:

“All right. You got yourself into this, now you get out of it. I’m not going with you.”

The old woman’s eyes were suddenly sharp with apprehension. She leaned forward, clutched him by the arm, and said pleadingly:

“Oh, my boy, you wouldn’t do a thing like that to me, would you? Think what it means to me—the humiliation you would cause me now if you refused to go.”

“I can’t help that. You had no right to make arrangements with the woman, in the first place, before you spoke to me. Even that wouldn’t matter so much if you hadn’t told her that other story about her son and me. That’s the reason she’s inviting me—because she thinks her son and I were friends. How can I accept such an invitation—take advantage of the woman’s hospitality because you told her a story that had no truth in it?”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” the Countess spoke quickly, eagerly. “If you want me to, I shall explain to her that there was a mistake—that you really do not know her son. But it makes no difference, anyway. She would want you to come just the same.—You see,” she spoke carefully, and for a moment there was a gleam of furtive, cunning understanding in her eye—the wisdom of fox for fox—“I don’t think it’s exactly for that reason she is inviting you.”

“What other reason could there be? The woman does not know me. What other interest could she have in me?”

“Well, my boy—” the Countess hesitated, and spoke carefully—“you see, it’s this way. I think she wants to speak to you,” she paused carefully again before she spoke—“about a certain matter—about something she’s interested in—When she heard that you were connected with The New York Times—”

“WHAT!” He stared at her again, and suddenly exploded in a short angry laugh of resignation and defeat—“Are the whole crowd of you alike? Is there a single one of you who doesn’t have some scheme, some axe to grind—who doesn’t hope to get something out of Americans—”

“Then you’ll go?” she said eagerly.

“Yes, I’ll go!” he shouted. “Tell her anything you like. It’ll serve both of you right! I’ll go just to see what new trick or scheme you and this other woman are framing up. All right, I’ll go!”

“Good!” she nodded briskly, satisfied. “I knew you would, my boy. La Marquise will tell you all about it when she sees you.”

This final grotesque episode had suddenly determined his decision to leave Orléans. For a short time his chance meeting with this strange old woman, his instant inclusion in the curious schemes, designs and stratagems of her life, with all that it evoked of the strange and the familiar, its haunting glimpse of the million-noted web and weaving of dark chance and destiny, had struck bright sparks of interest from his mind, had fused his spirit to a brief forgetfulness and wonder.