he caught the boat-train from charing cross. it was a sparkling morning in the last week of june, the season of hay-making and roses. he had received his instructions in a brief note. it bore no address; the postmark showed that it had been dispatched from rouen. when the train was in motion he studied it afresh; he could have repeated it line for line from memory:
my dear,
come saturday. i’ll meet you in paris at the gare du nord 445. bring only hand-baggage—evening dress not necessary.
here are my terms. no kissing, no love-making, nothing like that till i give permission. we’re just two friends who have met by accident and have made up our minds to travel together. don’t join me, if you can’t live up to the contract.
many thoughts,
yours affectionately,
the princess.
he had stared at the letter so long that they were panting through the hop-fields of kent by the time he put it back in his pocket. a breeze silvered the backs of leaves, making them tremulous. the spires of canterbury floated up.
he knew the way she traveled, with mountainous trunks and more gowns than she could wear. why had she been so explicit that he should bring only hand-baggage? was it because their time together was to be short, or because she knew that at the last minute she might turn coward? she had left herself another loop-hole: she had sent him no address. even if she were there to meet him, he might miss her on the crowded platform. and if he did—— his fears lest he might miss her battled with his scruples.
dover and the flash of the sea! scruples dwindled in importance; the goal of his anticipations grew nearer.
on the boat there was a bridal couple. he watched them, trying to discover with how much discretion honeymoon people were supposed to act.
on french soil the gayety of his adventure caught him. one day they would repeat it; she would travel with him openly from london, and it wouldn’t be an experiment from calais he would have liked to send a telegram—but to where? she was still elusive. the train was delayed in starting. he fumed and fretted; if it arrived late he might lose her. for the last hour, as he was nearing paris, he sat with his watch in his hand.
before they were at a standstill, he had leapt to the platform, glancing this way and that. he had begun to despair, when a slight figure in a muslin dress emerged from the crowd. he stared hard at the simplicity of her appearance, trying to fathom its meaning.
disguising her emotion with mockery, she caught him by both hands. “what luck! i’ve been so lonely. fancy meeting you here!” she laughed at him slyly through her lashes. she looked at his suit-case. “that all? good. i wondered if you’d take me at my word.”
she moved round to the side on which he carried it, so that they had to walk a little apart in the courtyard, from among the gesticulating cochers, he selected a fiacre. as he helped her in he asked, “where are we staying?”
“in the rue st. honor茅 at the oxford and cambridge; close by there are heaps of other hotels. you can easily find a good one.”
again she surprised him; a fashionable hotel in the place vend么me was what he had expected.
they jingled off down sunlit boulevards. on tree-shadowed pavements tables were arranged in rows before caf茅s. great buses lumbered by, drawn by stallions. every sight and sound was noticeable and exciting. it was a world at whose meaning they could only guess; between it and themselves rose the barrier of language. already the foreignness of their surroundings was forcing them together. they both felt it—felt it gladly; yet they sat restrained and awkward. none of their former unconventions gave them the least clews as to how they should act.
she turned inquisitive eyes on him. “quite overcome, aren’t you? you didn’t expect to find such a modest little girl.—tell me, meester deek, do you like the way i’m dressed?”
“better than ever. but why——”
she clapped her hands. “for you. i’ll tell you later.”
she looked away as if she feared she had encouraged him too much. again the silence settled down.
he watched her: the slope of her throat, the wistful drooping of her face, the folded patience of her hands.
“when does a honeymoon like ours commence?” he whispered.
she shrugged her shoulders and became interested in the traffic.
“well, then if you won’t tell me that, answer me this question. how long does it last?”
she pursed her mouth and began to do a sum on her fingers. when she had counted up to ten, she peeped at him from under her broad-brimmed hat. “until it ends.” then, patting his hand quickly, “but it’s only just started. don’t let’s think about the end—— here, this hotel will do. dig the cocher in the back. i’ll sit in the fiacre till you return; then there’ll be no explanations.”
he took the first room that was offered him, and regained his place beside her. all the time he had been gone, he had been haunted by the dread that she might drive off without him.
“what next?”
she smiled. “the old new york question. anywhere—— i don’t care.” she slipped her arm into his and then withdrew it. “it is fun to be alone with you.”
he told the man to drive them through the tuileries and over the river to the luxembourg gardens.
he touched her. she frowned. “not here. it’s too full of americans. we might be recognized.” huddling herself into her corner, she tried to look as if he were not there.
as they came out on the quays, the river blazed golden, shining flash upon flash beneath its intercepting bridges. the sun was setting, gilding domes and spires. the sky was plumed and saffron with the smoke of clouds. bareheaded work-girls were boarding trams; mischievous-eyed artisans in blue blouses jostled them. eyes flung back glances. chatter and a sense of release were in the air. the heart of paris began to expand with the ecstasy of youth and passion. her hand slipped from her lap and rested on the cushion. his covered it; by unspoken consent they closed up the space between them.
“are you giving me permission?”
“not exactly. can you guess why i planned this? i—i wanted to be fair.”
“the strangest reason!” he laughed softly.
“but i did.” she spoke with pouting emphasis. “i’ve given you an awful lot of worry.”
“don’t know about that. if you have, it’s been worth it.”
“has it?” she shook her head doubtfully. “it might have been worth it, if——” a slow smile crept about her mouth. “whatever happens, you’ll have had your honeymoon. people say it’s the best part of marriage.”
he didn’t know what she meant by a honeymoon. it wasn’t much like a honeymoon at present—it wasn’t so very different from the ride to long beach. he dared not question. without warning, in the quick shifting of her moods, she might send him packing back to london.
they were crossing the pont neuf; her attention was held by a line of barges. when they had reached the farther bank, he reminded her, “you were going to tell me——”
he glanced at her dress. “was it really for me that you did it?”
she nodded. “for you. i’m so artificial; i’m not ashamed of it. but until i saw you in eden row, i didn’t realize how different i am. in new york—well, i was in the majority. it was you who felt strange there. but in eden row i saw my father. he’s like you and—and it came over me that perhaps i’m not as nice as i fancy—not as much to be envied. there may even be something in what mrs. sheerug says.”
“but you are nice.” his voice was hot in her defense. “i can’t make out why you’re always running yourself down.”
she thought for a moment, brushing him with her shoulder. “because i can stand it, and to hear you defend me, perhaps.—but it was for you that i bought this dress, mees-ter deek. i tried to think how you’d like me to look if—if we were always going to be together. and so i’ve given up my beauty-patch. and i won’t smoke a single cigarette unless you ask me. i’m going to live in your kind of a world and,” she bit her lip, inviting his pity, “and i’m going to travel without trunks, and i’ll try not to be an expense. i think i’m splendid.”
they drew up at the luxembourg gardens and dismissed the fiacre.
a band was playing. the splash of fountains and fluttering of pigeons mingled with the music. seen from a distance, the statues of dryads and athletes seemed to stoop from their pedestals and to move with the promenading crowd. they watched the eager types by which they were surrounded: artists’ models, work-girls, cocottes; tired-eyed, long-haired, daudetesque young men; zouaves, chasseurs, svengalis—they were people of a fiction world. some walked in pairs—others solitary. here two lovers embraced unabashed. there they met for the first time, and made the moment an eternity. romance, the brevity of life, the warning against foolish caution were in the air. for all these people there was only one quest.
they had been walking separately, divided by shyness. in passing, a grisette swept against him, and glanced into his eyes in friendly fashion.
“here, i won’t have that.” desire spoke with a hint of jealousy. she drew nearer so that their shoulders were touching. “nobody’ll know us. don’t let’s be misers. i’ll take your arm,” she whispered.
“the second time you’ve done it.”
“when was the first?”
“that night at the knickerbocker after we’d quarreled and i’d given you the bracelet.”
she smiled in amused contentment “how you do keep count!”
the band had ceased playing; only the music of the fountains was heard. shadows beneath trees deepened. constellations of street-lamps lengthened. twilight came tiptoeing softly, like a young-faced woman with silver hair.
she hung upon his arm more heavily. “oh, it’s good to be alone with you! you don’t mind if i don’t talk? one can talk with anybody.” and, a little later, “meester deek, i feel so safe alone with you.”
when they were back in thoroughfares, “where shall we dine?” he asked her.
“in your world,” she said. “no, don’t let’s drive. this isn’t new york. we’d miss all the adventure. i’d rather walk now.”
after wandering the boule michel, losing their way half-a-dozen times and making inquiries in their guide-book french, they found the caf茅 d’harcourt. its walls were decorated with student-drawings by artists long since famous. at a table in the open they seated themselves. romance was all about them. it danced in the eyes of men and girls. through the orange-tinted dusk it lisped along the pavement it winked at them through the blinds of pyramided houses.
she bent towards him. “you’ve become very respectful—not at all the meester deek that you were—more like a little boy on his best behavior.”
he rested his chin in his hand. “naturally.”
“why?”
“your contract. i’m here on approval.”
“let’s forget it,” she said. “i’m learning. i’ve learnt so much about life since we met.”
through the meal she amused him by speaking in broken english and misunderstanding whatever he said. when it was ended he offered her a cigarette. “no. you’re only trying to be polite, and tempting me.”
they drove across the river and up the champs-elys茅es to a theatre where they had seen polaire announced. the performance had hardly commenced, when she tugged at his arm. “meester deek, it’s summer outside. we’ve spent so much time in seeing things and people. i want to talk.” from under the shadow of trees he hailed a fiacre. “where?”
“anywhere.” when he had taken his place at her side, “you may put your arm about me,” she murmured drowsily.
they lay back gazing up at the star-strewn sky. their rubber-tires on the asphalt made hardly any sound. they seemed disembodied, drifting through a pageant of dreams. the summer air blew softly on their faces; sometimes it bore with it the breath of flowers. the night world of paris went flashing by, swift in its pursuit of pleasure. they scarcely noticed it; it was something unreal that they had left.
“what’s going on in your mind?”
she didn’t stir. she hung listless in his embrace. “i was thinking of growing old—growing old with nobody to care.—you care now; i know that but if i let you go, in five years’ time you’d——” he felt the shrug she gave her shoulders. “mother’s the only friend i have. you might be the second if—— but mothers are more patient; they’re always waiting for you when you come back.”
“and i shall be always waiting. haven’t i always told you that?”
“you’ve told me.” then, in an altered tone, “did you ever think you knew what happened in california?”
“i guessed.”
she freed herself and sat erect. “there was a man.” she waited, and when he remained silent, “you’d taught me to like to be loved. i didn’t notice it while you were with me, but i missed it terribly after you’d left. i used to cry. and then, out there—after he’d kissed me, i lay awake all night and shivered. i wanted to wash away the touch of his mouth. it was my fault; i’d given him chances and tried to fascinate him. i’d been so stingy with you—that made it worse; and he was a man for whom i didn’t care. i felt i couldn’t write. and it was when i was feeling’ so unhappy that your letter arrived.—can’t you understand how a girl may like to flirt and yet not be bad?—i’m not saying that i love you, meester deek—perhaps i haven’t got it in me to love; only—only that of all men in the world, i like to be loved by you the best.”
he drew her closer to his side. “you dear kiddy.”
“you forgive me?”
it was late when they parted at the door of her hotel.
“i’ll try to be up early,” she promised. “we might even breakfast together. it’s the only meal we haven’t shared.”
he turned back to the streets. passing shrouded churches, he came to the fire-crowned hill of montmartre. he wandered on, not greatly caring where he went. from one of the bridges, when the vagueness of dawn was in the sky, he found himself gazing down at the black despair of the silent-flowing river. wherever he had been, love that could be purchased had smiled into his eyes. the old fear took possession of him: he was different from other men. why couldn’t he rouse her? was it his fault—or because there was nothing to arouse?
she wore a troubled look when he met her next morning.
“shall we breakfast here or at my hotel?”
“at yours,” she said sharply.
when she spoke like that she created the effect of being more distant than an utter stranger. it wasn’t until some minutes later, when they were seated at table, that he addressed her.
“there’s something that i want to say; i may as well say it now. when a man’s in love with a girl and she doesn’t care for him particularly, she has him at an ungenerous disadvantage: she can make a fool of him any minute she chooses. i don’t think it’s quite sporting of her to do it.”
her graciousness came back. “but i do care for you particularly. poor you! did i speak crossly? here’s why: we’ve got to leave paris. there’s a man at my hotel who knows me. i wouldn’t have him see us together for the world.”
“so that was all? i was afraid i’d done something to offend.”
she made eyes at him above her cup of coffee. “you’re all right, meester deek. you don’t need to get nervous.—but where’ll we go for our honeymoon?”
“i’m waiting for it to commence.” he smiled ruefully. “you’re just the same as you always were.”
“but where’ll we go?” she repeated. “we’ve got all the world to choose from.”
he told the waiter to bring a cook’s time table. turning to the index, he began to read out the names alphabetically. “aden?”
“too hot,” she said.
“algiers?”
“same reason, and fleas as well.”
“athens?”
“too informing, and we don’t want any scandals—i’d be sure to meet a boy who shone my shoes in new york.—here, give me the old book.—what about avignon? we can start this evening and get there to-morrow.”
through the gayety of the sabbath morning they made their way to cook’s. while purchasing their tickets they almost came to words. he insisted that she would need a berth for the journey; she insisted that she wouldn’t.
“but you’re not used to sitting up all night. you’ll be good for nothing next morning. do be reasonable.”
“i’m not used to a good many of the things we’re doing. i’m trying to save you expense. and i don’t think it’s at all nice of you to lose your temper.”
“i didn’t,” he protested.
“a matter of opinion,” she said.
when he had bought a guide-book on provence, they walked out into the sunlight in silence. they reached the pont de la concorde; neither of them had uttered a word. with a gap of about a foot between them, they leant against the parapet, watching steamers puff in to the landing to take aboard the holiday crowd. she kept her face turned away from him, with her chin held at a haughty angle. in an attempt to pave the way to conversation, he commenced to read about avignon in his guide-book.
suddenly she snatched it from him and tossed it into the river. he watched it fall; then stared at her quietly. like a naughty child, appalled by her own impishness, she returned his stare.
“two francs fifty banged for nothing!” she closed up the distance between them, snuggling against him like a puppy asking his forgiveness.
“meester deek, you can be provoking. i got up this morning intending to be so fascinating. everything goes wrong.—and as for that berth,” she made her voice small and repentant, “i was only trying to be sweet to you.”
“i, too, was trying to be decent.” he covered her hand. “how is it? i counted so much on this—this experiment, or whatever you call it. we’re not getting on very well.”
“we’re not.” she lifted her face sadly. in an instant the cloud vanished. the gray seas in her eyes splashed over with merriment. “it’ll be all right when we get out of paris. you see if it isn’t! quite soon now my niceness will commence.”
“then let’s get out now.”
they ran down to the landing and caught a steamer setting out for s猫vres. from s猫vres they took a tram to versailles. it was late in the afternoon when they got back to paris with scarcely sufficient time to dine and pack.
all day he had been wondering whether, in her opinion, her niceness had commenced. they had enjoyed themselves. she had taken his arm. she had treated him as though she claimed him. but they had broken no new ground. he felt increasingly that the old familiarities had lost their meaning while the new familiarities were withheld. she was still passionless. she allowed and she incited, but she never responded. when they had arrived at the farthest point that they had reached in their new york experience, she either halted or turned back. she played at a thing which to him was as earnest as life and death. he had once found a dedication which read about as follows: “to the woman with the dead soul and the beautiful white body.” there were times when the words seemed to have been written for her.
at the station he searched in vain for an empty carriage. at last he had to enter one which was already occupied. their companion was a french naval officer, who had a slight acquaintance with english, of which he was exceedingly proud. he informed them that he was going to marseilles to join his ship; since marseilles was several hours beyond avignon, all hope that they would have any privacy was at an end. they had been in crowds and public places ever since they had met; now this stranger insisted on joining in their conversation. he addressed himself almost exclusively to desire; under the flattering battery of his attentions she grew animated. finding himself excluded, teddy looked out of the window at the pollarded trees and flying country. he felt like the dull and superseded husband of a guy de maupassant story.
night fell. when it was time to hood the lamp, the stranger still kept them separate by his gallantry in inviting her to change comers with him, that she might steady herself while she slept by slipping her arms through the loops which he had hung from the baggage-rack.
in the darkness teddy drowsed occasionally; but he never entirely lost consciousness. with tantalization his love grew furious. it was tinged with hatred now. he glanced across at the quiet girl with the shadows lying deep beneath her lashes. her eyes were always shuttered; every time he hoped that he might surprise her watching him. the only person he surprised was the naval officer who feigned sleep the moment he knew he was observed. did she really feel far more than she expressed? she gave him few proofs of it.
she had removed her hat for comfort. once a fire-fly blew in at the window and settled in her hair. it wandered across her face, lighting up her brows, her lips—each memorized perfection. she raised her hand and brushed it aside. it flew back into the night, leaving behind it a trail of phosphorescence. his need of her was growing cruel.
he gave up his attempt at sleeping. going out into the corridor, he opened a window and smoked a cigarette. dawn was breaking. as the light flared and spread, he found that they were traveling a mountainous country. white towns, more italian than french, gleamed on the crests of sun-baked hills. roads were white. rivers looked white. the sky was blue as a sapphire, and smooth as a silken curtain. the fragrance of roses hung in the air. above the roar of the engine he could hear the cicalas chirping.
at six-thirty, as the train panted into avignon, she awoke. “hulloa! are we there?”
she was so excited that in stepping from the carriage she would have left her hat behind if the naval officer hadn’t reminded her.
they drove through the town to the tinkling of water flowing down the gutters. the streets were narrow, with grated medieval houses rising gray and fortress-like on either side. great two-wheeled wagons were coming in from the country; their drivers ran beside them, cracking their whips and uttering hoarse cries. all the way she chattered, catching at his lapels and sleeves to attract his attention. she was full of high spirits as a child. she kept repeating scraps of information which she had gathered from the naval officer. “he was quite a gentleman,” she said. and then, when she received no answer, “didn’t you think that he was very kind?”
in the centre of the town they alighted in a wide square, the place de la republique, tree-shadowed, sun-swept, surrounded by public buildings and crooked houses. carrying their bags, they sat themselves down at a table beneath an awning, and ordered rolls and chocolate.
frowning over them, a little to their left, was a huge precipice of architecture, rising tower upon tower, embattled against the burning sky. desire began to retail to him the information she had picked up in the train: how it was the palace of the popes, built by them in the fourteenth century while they were in exile. the source of her knowledge made it distasteful to him. he had difficulty in concealing his irritation. he felt as if he had sand at the back of his eyes. his gaze wandered from her to the women going back and forth through the sunlight, balancing loads on their heads and fetching long loaves of bread from the bakers. hauntingly at intervals he heard a flute-like music; it was a tune commencing, which at the end of five notes fell silent. a wild-looking herdsman entered the square, followed by twelve black goats. he stood pan-like and played; advanced a few steps; raised his pipe to his lips and played again. a woman approached him; he called to one of the goats, and squatting on his heels, drew the milk into the woman’s bowl. through a tunnel leading out of the square, he vanished. like faery music, his five notes grew fainter, to the accompaniment of sabots clapping across the pavement.
all the while that desire had been talking, handing on what the stranger had told her about avignon, he had watched the soul of avignon wander by, dreamy-eyed and sculptured by the sunlight.
she fell silent. pushing back her chair, she frowned at him. “i’m doing my best.—i don’t understand you. you’re chilly this morning.”
“am i?”
“where’s the good of saying ‘am i?’ you know you are. what’s the matter? jealous?”
“jealous! hardly.” he stifled a yawn. “i scarcely got a wink of sleep last night. i was keeping an eye on your friend. he was watching you all the time.”
“then you were jealous.” she leant forward and spoke slowly. “you were rude; you acted like a spoilt child. why on earth did you go off and glue your nose against the window? you left me to do all the talking.”
suddenly his anger flamed; he knew that his face had gone set and white. “you didn’t need to talk to him. when are you going to stop playing fast and loose with me? i’ll tell you what it is, desire: you haven’t any passion.”
he was sorry the moment he had said it. a spark of his resentment caught fire in her eyes. he watched it flicker out. she smiled wearily, “so you think i haven’t any passion!—oh, well, we’re going to have fine times, now that you’ve begun to criticize.—i’m sleepy. i think i’ll go to bed.”
she rose and strolled away. leaving his own suit-case at the cafe, he picked up hers and followed. they found a quaint hotel with a courtyard full of blossoming rhododendrons. running round it, outside the second-story, was a balcony on to which the bedrooms opened. while he was arranging terms in the office, she went to inspect the room that was offered. in a few minutes she sent for her suitcase. he waited half-an-hour; she did not rejoin him.
at the far end of the square he had noticed an old-fashioned hostel. he claimed his baggage at the caf茅, and took a room at the wine-tavern. having bought a sketching-book, pencils and water-colors, he found the bridge which spans the rhone between avignon and villeneuve. all morning he amused himself making drawings. about every half-hour a ramshackle bus passed him, going and returning. it was no more than boards spread across wheels, with an orange-colored canopy stretched over it. it was drawn by two lean horses, harnessed in with ropes and driven by a girl. he didn’t notice her much at first; the blue river, the white banks, the blue sky, the jagged, vineyard covered hills, and the darting of swallows claimed his attention. it was the bus that he noticed; it creaked and groaned as though it would fall to pieces. then he saw the girl; she was young and bronzed and laughing. he traced a resemblance in her to desire—to desire when she was lenient and happy. she was bare-armed, bare-headed, full-breasted; her hair was black as ebony. she was always singing. about the fifth time in passing him, she smiled. he began to tell himself stories; in desire’s absence, he watched for her as desire’s proxy.
at mid-day he went to find desire; he was told that she was still sleeping. he had d茅jeuner by himself at the caf茅 in the square from which the bus started. when the meal was ended, as he finished his carafe of wine, he made sketches of the girl. when he presented her with one of them, she accepted it from him shyly. his anglicized french was scarcely intelligible; but after that when she passed him, she smiled more openly.
during the afternoon he called three times at the hotel. each time he received the same reply, that mademoiselle was sleeping.
the sky was like an open furnace. streets were empty. while sketching he had noticed a bathing-house, tethered against the bank below the bridge. he went there to get cool he tried the diving-boards; none of them were high enough. presently he climbed on to the scorching roof and went off from there. people crossing the bridge stopped to watch him. once as he was preparing to take the plunge, he saw the orange streak of the old bus creeping across the blue between the girders. he waited till it was just above him. it pulled up. the girl leant out and waved. after that, when he saw the orange streak approaching he waited until it had stopped above him.
the quiet of evening was falling when he again went in search of desire. this time he was told she had gone out. he left word that he was going to the old papal garden, on the rock above the palace, to watch the sunset.
as he climbed the hundred steps of the escalier de sainte anne, which wind round the face of the precipice, the romance of the view that opened out before him took away his breath. he felt injured and angry that she was not there to share it. he went over the details of the first day in paris. it had been a fiasco; this day had been worse.
if ever he were to marry her—— for the first time he realized that winning her was not everything.
near the top of the ascent, where a gateway spanned the path, he halted. a fig-tree leant across the wall, heavy with fruit that was green and purple. behind him from a rock a spring rushed and gurgled. he stooped across the parapet, gazing down into the town. it wasn’t aloof like new york, nor sullen like london. it was a woman lifting her arms behind her head and laughing lazily through eyes half-shut.
against the sweep of encircling distance, mountains lay blue and smoking. a faint pinkness spread across the country like a blush. white walls and hillsides were tinted to salmon-color. the sunset drained the red from the tiles of house-tops. plane-trees, peeping above gray masonry, looked clear and deep as wells. the rhone wound about the city walls like a gold and silver spell.
now that coolness had come, shutters began to open. the murmur of innumerable sounds floated up. a breeze whispered through the valley like the voice of yearning. it seemed that behind those windows girls were preparing to meet their lovers. and the other women, the women who were too old or too cold to love! he thought of them.
suddenly his eyes were covered from behind by two hands. he struggled to remove them; then he felt that they were slender and young.
“who are you?”
silence.
he repeated his question in french.
the hands slipped from his eyes to his shoulders. “well, you’re a nice one! who should it be? it’s the last time i allow you to play by yourself.”
he swung round and caught her fiercely, shaking her as he pressed her to him.
“don’t, meester deek. you hurt.”
his lips were within an inch of hers; he didn’t try to kiss her. “you leave me alone all day,” he panted; “and then you make a joke of it.”
she drew her fingers down his face. “i was very tired, and—and we weren’t good-tempered. i’ve been lonely, too.” she laid her cheek against his mouth. “come, kiss me, meester deek. you look as though you weren’t ever going to.—i’m glad, so glad that——”
“that what?”
she held her hand against her mouth and laughed into his eyes. “that you haven’t enjoyed yourself without me.”
they climbed to the top of the rock. in the sun-baked warmness of the garden cicalas were still singing. in the town lights were springing up. the after-glow lingered on the mountains. beneath trees the evening lay silver as moonlight. from a fountain in the middle of a pool rose the statue of venus aux hirondelles.
his arm was still about her. every few paces he stopped to kiss her. she patted his face and drew it close to hers. “you’re foolish,” she whispered. “you spoil me. you’re always nicest when i’ve been my worst.”
then she commenced to ask him questions. “do you really think that i’ve not got any passion?—if i’d been scarred in that motor-car accident, would you still love me?—mrs. theodore gurney! it does sound funny. i wonder if i’ll ever be called that.”
it was during the descent to the town that she made him say that he was glad she had quarreled with him.
“well, i do make it up to you afterwards, don’t i? if we hadn’t quarreled, you wouldn’t be doing what you are now. no, you wouldn’t i shouldn’t allow it. and please don’t try to kiss me just here; it’s so joggly. last time you caught the brim of my hat.”
they had dinner in the courtyard of her hotel, in the sweet, earthy dusk of the rhododendrons. it was like a stage-setting: the canopy of the sky with the stars sailing over them; the golden panes of windows; the shadows of people passing and re-passing; the murmur of voices; the breathless whisper of far-off footsteps. at another table a black-bearded frenchman sat and watched them.
“i wish he wouldn’t look at us,” desire said. “i wonder why he does.”
they took a final walk before going to bed. in the courtyard where the bushes grew densest, they parted. when he kissed her, she drooped her face against his shoulder. “give me your lips.”
she shook her head.
a tone of impatience crept into his voice. “why not? you’ve done it before. why not now?”
he tried to turn her lips towards him; she took away his hand.
“i don’t know. i’m odd. i don’t feel like it.”
he let her go. again the flame of anger swept through him. “will you ever feel like it?”
“how can i tell—now?”
“you’ve never once kissed me. any other girl——”
“i’m not any other girl.” and then, “we’re alone. i’ve got to be wise for both of us.”
she ran from him. in the doorway of the hotel she turned and kissed the tips of her fingers.
he seated himself at a table, watching for the light to spring up in her window. it was just possible that she might relent and come back, or that she might lean over the balcony and wave to him while he waited, the bearded frenchman slipped out from the shadow. he approached and raised his hat formally.
“monsieur, i understand that you are not stopping at this hotel.”
“no, but i have a friend——”
“mademoiselle, who has just gone from you?’
“yes.”
“then let me tell you, monsieur, that there is a place near here that will cure you of the illness from which you suffer.” the man took a card from his pocket and commenced to scribble on it.
“but i’m not suffering from any——”
“ah, then, it will cure mademoiselle.”
the man laid his card on the table, and again raised his hat
by the time teddy had recovered from his surprise, the stranger had vanished. he hurried into the street and gazed up and down. when he returned to the courtyard. desire’s window was in darkness. picking up the card, he struck a match and read the words, “les baux.” what was les baux? where was it? he fell asleep thinking of the miracle that had been promised; when he awoke next morning he was still thinking of it. as he dressed he heard the five faint notes of the goatman. life had become fantastic. perhaps——
he set about making inquiries. it was a ruined city in the hills he discovered. oh, yes, there had been several books written about it and innumerable poems. it had been a nest of human eagles once—the home of troubadours. it was the place where the queens of beauty and the courts of love had started. it was said that if a lover could persuade a reluctant girl to go there with him, she would prove no longer reluctant it was only a superstition; of course monsieur understood that monsieur hurried to purchase a guide-book to les baux. while he waited among the rhododendrons for desire, he read it then he looked up time-tables and found that the pleasantest way to go was from arles, and that from there one had to drive a half day’s journey.
desire surprised him at his investigations. she was all in white, with a pink sash about her waist, her dress turned bade deeply at the neck for coolness and her arms bare to die elbow. she looked extremely young and pretty.
“’ulloa, old dear!” she cried, bursting into cockney. she peered over his shoulder. “what are you doing?”
“looking up routes.”
“routes!” she raised her brows.
“yes. to les baux.”
“you’re not going to get me out of here, old dear. don’t you think it we’ve not seen avignon yet.”
“but les baux——”
quoting from the guide-book, he commenced to explain to her its excellences and beauties. she smiled, obstinately repeating, “we’ve not seen avignon yet.”
it was after they had breakfasted, when they were crossing the square, that the bus-girl nodded to him.
“who’s she?”
“a girl. don’t you think she’s like you?”
desire tossed her head haughtily, but slipped her arm into his to show that she owned him. “like me, indeed! you’re flattering!”
presently she asked, “what did you do all yesterday, while i was horrid?”
“sat on the bridge and sketched.”
“sketched! i never saw you sketch. if you’ll buy me a parasol to match my sash, i’ll sit beside you to-day and watch you.”
on the bridge he set to work upon a water-color of the rhone as it flowed past villeneuve. she was going over his drawings. suddenly she stopped. she had come across three of the same person. just then the orange-bus lumbered by; again the girl laughed at him.
“look here, meester deek, you’ve got to tell me everything that you did when i wasn’t with you.”
he was too absorbed in his work to notice what had provoked her curiosity. when he came to the account of his bathing, she interrupted him. “i want to see you bathe.”
“all right, presently.”
“no. now.”
he rather liked her childish way of ordering him. he spoke lazily. “i don’t mind, if you’ll take care of—— i say, this is like long beach, isn’t it? you made me bathe there. but promise you won’t slip off while i’m gone.”
“honest injun, i promise.”
he had climbed to the roof of the bathing-house and was straightening himself for the plunge, when he heard the creaking of the bus approaching. he looked up. the bus-girl had alighted and was leaning down from the bridge, waving to him. before diving, he waved back. when he had climbed to the roof again, he searched round for desire. she was nowhere to be found.
he dressed quickly. at the hotel he was informed that she was packing. he called up to her window from the courtyard. she came out on to the balcony.
“they tell me you’re packing. what——”
“going to les baux,” she said, “or any other old place. i won’t stay another hour in avignon.”
“but this morning at breakfast——”
“i know.” she frowned. as she reentered her window, she glanced back across her shoulder. “i didn’t know as much about avignon then.”
arles was little more than an hour’s journey. it was noon when they left avignon. he had been fortunate in getting an empty compartment without any coaxing, she came and sat herself beside him. when the train had started, she took off her hat and leant her head against his shoulder.
“did you do that on purpose to make me mad?”
“do what on purpose?”
she played with his hand. “you know, meester deck. don’t pretend. you did it first with the grisette in the luxembourg, and now here with that horrid bus-girl. if you do it a third time, you’ll have me making a little fool of myself.”
he burst out laughing. she was jealous; she cared for him. he had infected her with his own uncertainty.
“a nasty, masterful laugh,” she pouted.
he at once became repentant. “i only noticed her when i was lonely,” he excused himself; “i thought she was like you.”
desire screwed up her mouth thoughtfully. “then i’ll have to keep you from being lonely.”
she tilted up her face. he pressed her lips gently at first; then fiercely. they did not stir. “that’s enough.” she strained back from him. “be careful remember what you told me—that i haven’t any passion.”
“you have.”
“but you said i hadn’t.”
her strength went from her and he drew her to him. “the fourth time,” he whispered.
“when were the others?”
“that day up the hudson when i asked you to marry me.”
“and the next?”
“at the apartment, when we said good-by across the stairs.”
“how long ago it all sounds! and the third?”
“on christmas eve. princess, i’m going to kiss your lips whenever i like now.”
she slanted her eyes at him. “are you? see if you can.”
her cheeks were flushed. slipping her finger into her mouth, she pretended to thwart him. she lay in his arms, happy and unresisting—a little amused.
“when are you going to kiss me back?”
she laughed into his eyes like a witch woman. “ah, when? you’re greedy—never contented. i’ve given you so much.”
“i shall never be contented till——”
she flattened her palm against his lips to silence him.
“didn’t i tell you that my niceness would commence quite suddenly? i can be nicer than this.” she nodded. “i can. and i can be a little pig again presently—especially if we meet another naval officer. i’m always liable to—”
“not if you’re in love with any one,” he pleaded.
she sighed. “i’m afraid i am, meester—meester teddy.” she barricaded her lips with her hand. “no more. do be good. i’ve got to be wise for both of us. i suppose you think i was jealous? i wasn’t.”
as the train drew near arles, she made him release her. his heart was beating fast. producing a pocket-mirror, she inspected herself. for the moment she seemed entirely forgetful of him. then, “tell me about this old les baux place,” she commanded.
the engine halted. he helped her out. “it’s a surprise. you’ll see for yourself.”
on making inquiries, they found that the drive was so long that they would have to start at once to arrive by evening. to save time, they took their lunch with them—grapes, wine and cakes. when the town was left behind, they commenced to picnic in the carriage. they had only one bottle, from which they had to drink in turns. she played a game of feeding him, slipping grapes into his mouth. they had to keep a sharp eye on the cocher, who was very particular that they should miss none of the landmarks. when he turned to attract their attention, pointing with his whip, they straightened their faces and became very proper. after he had twice caught them, desire said, “he’ll think we’re married now, so we may as well deceive him.”
teddy was allowed to place an arm about her, while she held the parasol over them.
“if we were really married, d’you think you’d let me smoke a cigarette?”
he lit one and, having drawn a few puffs, edged it between her lips.
“you are good to me,” she murmured; “you save me so much trouble.”
the fierce sun of provence blazed down on them. a haze hung over the country, making everything tremble. cicalas chirped more drowsily. the white straight road looked molten. plane-trees, stretching on in an endless line, seemed to crouch beneath their shadows. the air was full of the fragrance of wild lavender. farmhouses which they passed were silent and shuttered. no life moved between the osier partitions of their gardens. even birds were in hiding. only lizards were awake and darted like a flash across rocks which would have scorched the hand. beneath a wild fig-tree a mule-driver slumbered, his face buried in his arms and his bare feet thrust outward. it was a land enchanted.
desire grew silent. her head drooped nearer to his shoulder. beads of moisture began to glisten on her throat and forehead. once or twice she opened her eyes, smiling dreamily up at him; then her breath came softly and she slept.
at saint r茅my they stopped to water the horse. the first coolness of evening was spreading. as the breeze fluttered down the hills, trees shuddered, like people rising from their beds. shutters were being pushed back from windows. faces peered out loiterers gazed curiously at the carriage, with the unconscious girl drooping like a flower in the arms of the gravely defiant young man. saint r茅my had been left behind; the ascent into the mountains had commenced before she wakened.
she rubbed her eyes and sat up. “what! still holding me? i do think you’re the most patient man—— do you still love me, meester deek?”
he stooped to kiss her yawning mouth. “more every hour. but why?”
“because if a man can still love a woman after seeing her asleep—— when i’m asleep, i don’t look my prettiest.”
the scenery was becoming momentarily more wild. the horse was laboring in its steps. on either side white bowlders hung as if about to tumble. the narrow road wound up through the loneliness in sweeping curves. hawks were dipping against the sky. not a tree was in sight—only wild lavender and straggling furze.
she clutched his arm. “it’s frightening.”
“let’s walk ahead and not think about it,” he suggested. “we’ll talk and forget.”
but the scenery proved silencing.
“do say something,” she whispered. “can’t we quarrel? we’ll talk if we’re angry.”
he thought. “what kind of a beast was that man in california?”
“he wasn’t a beast. he was quite nice. you came near seeing him.”
“i did! when?”
“he was the man who was stopping in paris at my hotel.—there, now you’re really angry! that’s the worst of telling anything. a woman should keep all her faults to herself.”
“and he saw us?”
she stared at him, surprised at his intuition. “how long have you known that?”
they were entering a tunnel hewn between rocks; they rose up scarred and forbidding, nearly meeting overhead.
she shuddered. “i wish we hadn’t come. it’s——”
suddenly, like a guilty conscience left behind, the tunnel opened on to a platform. far below lay a valley, trumpet-shaped and widening as it faded into the distance. it was snow-white with lime-stone, and flecked here and there with blood-red earth. the sides of the hills were monstrous cemeteries, honeycombed with troglodyte dwellings. in the plain, like naked dancing girls with flying hair, olive-trees fluttered. rocks, strewn through the greenness, seemed hides stretched out to dry. men, white as lepers, were crawling to and fro in the lime-stone quarries. straight ahead, cleaving the valley with its shadow, rose a sheer column—a tower of babel, splintered by the sunset. as they gazed across the gulf to its summit, they made out roofs and ivy-spattered ramparts. it looked deserted. then across the distance from the ethereal height the chiming of bells sounded.
he drew her to him. it was as though with one last question, he was putting all their doubts behind. “was it true about that man?”
“quite true. fluffy gave him my address. let’s forget him now, and—and everything.”
as he stooped above her, she whispered, “meester deek, our quarrels have brought us nearer.”
they heard the rattle of the carriage in the tunnel. joining hands, they set out down the steep decline. in the valley they found themselves among laurel-roses, pink with bloom and heavy with fragrance. then they commenced the climb to les baux, through cypresses standing stiffly as sentinels. beady-eyed, half-naked children watched them and hid behind rocks when they beckoned.
beneath a battered gateway they entered the ancient home of the courts of love. near the gateway, built flush with the precipice, stood a little house which announced that it was the h么tel de la reine jeanne. an old gentleman with eyes like live coals and long white hair, stepped out to greet them. he informed them that he was the folk-lore poet of les baux and its inn-keeper. they engaged rooms; while doing so they noticed that many of the walls were covered with frescoes.
“ah, yes,” said the poet inn-keeper, “an english artist did them in payment for his board when he had spent all his money. he came here like you, you understand; intending to stay for one night; but he stayed forever. it has happened before in les baux, this becoming enchanted. he was a very famous artist, but he works in the vineyards now and has married one of our saracen girls.”
then he explained that les baux was like a pool front which the tides of time had receded. its inhabitants were descendants of roman legionaries and of the saracens who had conquered it later. that was why there were no blue eyes in les baux, though it stood so near to heaven.
they wandered out into the charmed silence. there was no wheel-traffic. the toy streets could be spanned by the arms outstretched. there were no shops—only deserted palaces, with defaced escutcheons and wall-flowers nestling in their crannies. only women and children were in sight; they looked like camp-followers of a lost army. old imperial splendors moldered in this sepulchre of the clouds, as out of mind as the queens of beauty asleep in their leaden coffins.
they came to the part that was roman. cicalas and darting swallows were its sole tenants. from the huge structure of the crag houses had been carved and hollowed. the pavement was still grooved by the wheels of chariots.
in paris it had been the foreignness of their surroundings that had forced them together; now it was the antiquity—the brooding sense of the eventlessness of life and the eternal tedium of expectant death.
“a doll’s house of the gods,” he said.
“no, a faery land waiting for its princess to waken.”
he folded her hands together and held them against his breast. “she will never waken till her lips have kissed a man.”
she peered up at him shyly. her face quivered. she had a hunted indecision in her eyes. the clamor, as of feet pounding through her body, communicated itself through her hands. she tore them from him. “don’t touch me.” she ran from him wildly, and did not stop till streets where people lived commenced.
when he had come up with her, she tried to cover her confusion with laughter. “you remember what he said about becoming enchanted? it nearly happened to us.”
“and why not?”
“because——” she shrugged her shoulders.
in their absence a table had been spread on the terrace and a lamp placed on it as a beacon. by reaching out from where they sat, they could gaze sheer down through the twilight. night, like a blue vapor, was steaming up from the valley. in the shadows behind, they were vaguely aware that the town had assembled to watch them. bare feet pattered. a girl laughed. now and then a mandolin tinkled, and a love-song of provence drifted up like a perfume flung into the poignant dusk. at intervals the sentinel in the church-tower gave warning how time was forever passing.
“you were afraid of me; that was why you ran.”
she lowered her eyes. “i was more afraid of myself.—meester deek, you’ve never tried to understand what sort of a girl i am. everything that i’ve seen of life, right from the very start, has taught me to be a coward—to believe that the world is bad. don’t you see how i’d drag you down? it’s because of that—— when i feel anything big and terrible i run from it. it—it seems safer.”
“but you can’t run away forever.” he leant across the table and took her hand. “one day you’ll want those big and terrible things and—and a man to protect you. they won’t come to you then, perhaps.”
she lifted her face and gazed at him. “you mean you wouldn’t wait always? of course you wouldn’t. you don’t know it, but if i were to go away to-morrow, your waiting would end.”
“it wouldn’t.”
“it would. a girl’s instinct tells her. and i ought to go.”
“what makes you say that?”
“i’m not the wife for you. i’ve given you far more misery than happiness.”
he laughed quietly. “little sweetheart, if you were to go, i should follow you and follow you.”
she shook her head. “not far.—meester deek, some day you may learn to hate me, so i want to tell you: until i met you, i believed the worst of every man. i was a little stream in a wilderness; i wanted so to find the sea, and it seemed that i never should. but now——”
his clasp on her hand tightened. “but now?”
she looked at him sadly. “i should spoil your whole life. would you spoil your whole life for the kind of girl i am?”
“gladly.”
she smiled wistfully. “i wonder how many women have been loved like that.”
they rose. “shall we go in?”
“not yet,” he pleaded.
“it would be better.”
as they were crossing the terrace, the cocher approached them. he wanted to know at what hour they proposed to leave next morning. he was anxious to start early, before the heat of the day had commenced.
“i don’t think we’re leaving.” teddy glanced at desire. then, with a rush of decision: “we’re planning to stay a day or two longer. it’ll be all the same to you; i’ll pay for the return journey.”
saying that he would be gone before they were out of bed, the man bade them farewell.
when they had entered the darkness of the narrow streets, he put his arm about her. she came to him reluctantly; then surrendered and leant against him heavily. they sauntered silently as in a dream. all the steps which had led up to this moment passed before him: her evasions and retractions. she was no longer a slave of freedom. for the first time he felt certain of her; with the certainty came an overwhelming sense of gratitude and tranquillity. he feared lest by word or action he should disturb it, and it should go from him.
they passed by the old palaces perfumed with wallflowers; in a window an occasional light winked at them. they reached the roman part of the town and hurried their steps. by contrast it seemed evil and ghost-haunted; through the caves that had been houses, bats flew in and out a soft wind met them. they felt the turf beneath their tread and stepped out on to the ruined battlements. wild thyme mingled with the smell of lavender. the memory of forsaken gardens and forgotten ecstasies was in the air. three towers, roman, saracen and french, pointed mutilated fingers at eternity. they halted, drinking in the silence, and lifted their eyes to the stars wheeling overhead. far away, through mists across the plain, marseilles struck sparks on the horizon and the moon rose red.
she turned in his embrace. “i’m not half as sweet as you would make me out, i’m not. oh, won’t you believe me?”
his tranquillity gave way; he caught her to him, raining kisses on her throat, her eyes, her mouth.
“you’re crushing me!” her breath came stifled and sobbing.
tenderness stamped out his passion. as his grip relaxed, she slipped from him. she was running; he followed. on the edge of the precipice, the red moon swinging behind her like a lantern, she halted. her hands were held ready to thrust him back.
“it would be better for you that i should throw myself down than—than——”
he seized her angrily and drew her roughly to him. “you little fool,” he panted.
with a sudden abandon she urged herself against him. as he bent over her, her arms reached up and her lips fell warm against his mouth.
“i do love you. i do. i do,” she whispered. “take care of me. be good to me. i daren’t trust myself.”
the hotel was asleep when they got back. they fumbled their way up the crooked stairs. outside her room, as in the darkness they clung together, she took his face between her hands. “and you said i hadn’t any passion!—you’re good, meester deck. god bless you.”
her door closed. he waited. he heard the lock turn.
“when i kiss you without your asking me, you’ll know then,” she had said. his heart sang. all night, in his dreaming and waking, he was making plans.
when he came down next morning, he found the table spread on the terrace. he walked over to it, intending while he waited for her, to sit down and smoke a cigarette. one place had been already used. he hadn’t known that another guest had been staying at the hotel. calling the inn-keeper, he asked him to have the place reset.
“but for whom?”
“for mademoiselle.”
“mademoiselle! but mademoiselle——” the man looked blank. “but mademoiselle, a six hours she left this morning with the carriage.”
