when kendall went to the apartment for dinner arlette came bustling into the hall as she heard him open the door, and, poking again and again with a pudgy finger toward the rear of the place, she exclaimed, excitedly: “monsieur bert!... monsieur bert!...”
“here?”
“oui, monsieur.” she grinned with delight.
“hey, bert!” shouted ken, delighted, for he had feared he would not see his friend again before he sailed. bert came out of the door, half shaved, with a towel about his neck, and shook hands after the manner of healthy young men.
“howdy, old-timer! gosh! it seems good to get back to you and arlette. how have things been going without me? seen madeleine?”
“haven’t seen her. things have been going all right till to-day. this morning the blow fell.”
“what blow?... you look as if somebody had stolen your pet goat.”
“i’m ordered to america. leave wednesday.”
“the devil!... oh, say, that’s rotten luck! what’s the idea?”
“don’t know. just my confounded luck, i expect.”
“wait a minute till i finish this shave and i’ll help you weep.... how’s andree?”
they were walking back to bert’s room, and ken did not answer until his friend stood before the glass, razor in hand.
“she’s all right.”
“how did she take the news?”
“she doesn’t know.”
“doesn’t know!”
“i just got my orders this morning. won’t see her until to-morrow night.”
“coming to dinner?”
“yes.”
“we’ll pull a party—farewell party with all the trimmings, eh? i’ll get madeleine and we’ll dig up a bottle of champagne and wring a poulet out of arlette if we have to call in the police to help us. i’ll bet they would, at that.”
“it won’t be a very merry party,” said ken, lugubriously.
bert turned and looked at ken. “huh!... something eating you again?”
“it’s a rotten mess. i don’t know what to do.”
“about andree? it isn’t any mess at all. you’ve had a good time and she’s had a good time. that’s all there is to it. now you’ve got to go home. she didn’t expect anything else.”
ken was silent.
“unless you’ve made her expect something else.... now madeleine and i had an understanding right at the start,” said bert.
“i wish i could get it off my mind for a couple of hours.”
“get it off, then. we’ll go to the folies or the olympia or some place to-night. to-morrow i’ll look up madeleine.”
ken was willing to go anywhere, to do anything, so long as he was helped to keep andree off his mind, and to think about something besides the inevitability of the decision. so, after, they went to the folies, arriving after the performance had begun. they did not take seats, but made their way through the big table-filled room to the theater proper, and stood up with the crowd behind the railing. the house was full, but even when the house was not filled many of the spectators remained in the promenade to walk about and smoke and, possibly, to put themselves in the way of being accosted by some of the numerous and sometimes pretty habituées of the place.
the entertainment was directed to the american soldier, and much of it was in english. but it could not hold kendall’s attention. it was, in fact, a mediocre performance, with an act or so that was deserving of attention. after seeing the perfection of the performances at the comédie fran?aise ken wondered at the halting stage management of this popular music-hall. it hitched along. choruses seemed to improvise rather than to have been drilled. nobody seemed to know just how to get on and off the stage, and when a scene or an act or a chorus number ended, it simply ended.... every now and then animated conversations broke out in the back of the theater, and ushers walked about through the crowd, saying: “hush!... husss-sh!” the whole thing depressed ken instead of lifting his spirits, and he actually experienced a feeling of disgust at the grand closing number in which the première danseuse appeared as an american cowboy, in white tights and waving an american flag.
“let’s get out of here,” he said, impatiently.
“suits me,” said bert, and they jostled their way to the street, ignoring more than one tentative “bon soir, monsieur,” from young women whose cheeks were not guiltless of what the phrase of the streets termed camouflage.
“want to walk home?” suggested bert.
“yes.” ken did want to walk. he wanted to tire himself so that he could sleep, for he was afraid of a sleepless night. so they started off briskly, cutting through dark and narrow streets to the boulevard haussmann and thence into the avenue friedland, which they followed to the rue beaujon and into the avenue hoche. they climbed the stairs of the apartment, and bert, as was his custom, searched the cupboards to see if arlette had left anything unconcealed that might be eaten. but arlette had been careful, as usual, and nothing was to be found except a box of dry cookies. it was not arlette’s intention that her young officers should waste their substance by eating up her supplies at unexpected hours.
ken dreaded to go into his room alone and turn off the lights, so it was bert who made the first movement to go to bed. ken carried in with him a sleep-provoking book on militarism which an earnest friend had forced upon him, undressed, and stretched himself on the bed with the small light on his table to read by. he forced himself to read ... and presently fell asleep.
the next day was filled with errands and shopping. he wandered about the stores, selecting inexpensive souvenirs for his friends and presents for his mother and father. it was hot, and it irritated him to push and shove in the milling crowds that jammed the printemps and the galeries lafayette, but it kept him busy and gave him an excuse for pushing his decision another hour and still another hour into the future.... his last errand was the selection of a present for andree, a farewell gift, or a gift of some other sort. there had to be a gift, so he spent more money than he could afford in a little bracelet of gold set with tiny pearls.... then he went home, for it was near the dinner hour.
bert was there before him, wearing such an expression of sheepishness and chagrin as kendall had never seen before on his friend’s face.
“where’s madeleine?” he asked.
bert grinned mirthlessly. “don’t know,” he said.
“isn’t she coming?”
“i left a note at her hotel inviting her.”
“didn’t see her?”
“no. i went around to the hotel and there was a small boy in the concierge’s room. he said madeleine was out with an american officer.... then i went up the street, and pretty soon i thought i saw her with a lieutenant. they were a block away and i hustled up to make sure, but they turned off and disappeared. looked like she caught sight of me and ducked.... anyhow, i went back and left a note. maybe i was mistaken.”
“serves you right,” said ken. “you were so darn sure—you with your understandings.... three weeks were too much for her, and she’s passed you up for somebody who isn’t always telling her she’s just a temporary arrangement.”
“go chase yourself,” said bert. “it makes no difference in my young life.”
but ken noticed that every minute or so bert strolled with elaborate nonchalance to the window and looked down the street. ken smiled. bert’s manner was not that of a man whose heart suffers, but who has taken an injury to his pride....
“here comes andree,” said bert.
ken did not go to look, as he usually did. it was not that he did not want to see andree, but her arrival brought his affairs to the acute stage. he had put off and put off the struggle to reach a decision; had occupied his mind with other matters, crowding out as much as was possible any thoughts of andree and of what he was going to do about her. true, the thing had been with him always, lurking in the background and ready to step out at the least encouragement. but he had not approached it directly. it had been a sort of dull ache that he was always conscious of, but which he had been able to stifle. now she was coming, was almost at the door. it would be a matter of minutes only before he would have to tell her that he was going away.... even now he did not admit to himself that he had reached a partial decision, indeed that he had not required to make a decision upon one point. that was taking her with him. he had told himself that it would be possible to marry her and to take her on the transport that carried him, but it was self-deception, and he knew it was self-deception. in his heart he knew now, as he had known, that to-night he would say good-by to andree and go to america without her.... he might come back for her, might even marry her before he went away, to have her follow him on another vessel. but there would be a parting, temporary or permanent....
he had never asked himself if andree would marry him. the idea that she would not do so had never entered his head, which was significant. it was that which made his decision doubly difficult, for she was wholly in his hands, had given herself to him to do with as he pleased, and her life was his to break if he wished to do so.... he persuaded himself that his hesitation was more on her account than his own, that it would be impossible for her to be happy in the conditions which would be found in america, or that perhaps it would be impossible. he believed that he was trying to decide what would be best for her—or almost believed it. it may be that he was not wholly selfish, not thinking solely of himself and of the effects of his marriage with andree upon himself. at any rate, his anxiety for her was very real and very disturbing.
she was coming up the stairs utterly unconscious of what awaited her, confident in a future with him which would not be disturbed for so long a time that it need not now be considered. an event that is a year distant is very far away to a young girl. if andree had known she would lose kendall in a year she would not have thought about it now ... nor until the year was drawing to a close. it is the ability to hope that makes this possible. something might turn up within the year.... but now she was stepping into the event! in a few minutes she would hear his voice telling her that he was going away to-morrow—not in a year, not in a month, but to-morrow!... when he told her that he must tell her more. a mere announcement of his departure would not suffice; he must supplement it by telling her if their good-bys were forever, or for a few days or months....
the bell rang and he went to the door and opened it. she stood there very demure and self-contained and grave—dressed in white as he had seen her first. she lifted her eyes to his and smiled and then became grave and wistful again, for she saw that he was not happy.... he held out his arms to her and drew her in, realizing that it was the last time he should ever draw her slender daintiness through that door, the last time she would ever enter that apartment. it was the beginning of the end of that phase in their lives, of the untrammeled romance, the quaint mystery, the adventurous sweetness.
“you are triste,” she said, anxiously. “is it that you have worked too hard?”
he shook his head.
“you are not joyeux to see me.”
he took her face between his hands and looked down into her deep-shaded eyes. “you must not say that.... you must never say that. it is not true.”
“then i am ver’ glad.” she smiled. “monsieur bert and mademoiselle madeleine they are here?”
“bert is here, but madeleine hasn’t come.”
“i desire her to be here.” she stepped into the salon and spoke to bert. “you shall go to fetch her. now.... now. you shall run ver’ fast.”
“i asked her to come,” said bert.
“and she would not?” andree’s voice showed profound astonishment.
“i’m afraid she got tired of waiting for me to come back to paris.”
“but no, that ees not possible. she would not be tired to wait. she would be ver’ glad when you return.”
“we’ll see. if she isn’t here in five minutes she won’t be coming.”
“why do you theenk?”
“because i guess she has another american officer. i think i saw her with one to-day.”
“oh, non, non, non! that would be ver’ bad. i do not believe. mademoiselle madeleine is fidèle. you shall see.”
“why are you so sure, mademoiselle?”
“pourquoi?...” she shrugged her shoulders. “bicause it would be so. if monsieur ken should go for three week, for three mont’, for three year, i should wait and be très-fidèle. i should find no other officier américain. non, non, it would not be well.”
“there’s arlette’s head,” said ken.
“no need to wait,” bert said, irritably. “she won’t come.”
“we should wait,” said andree.
“until a quarter past seven, then.”
but a quarter past seven arrived and madeleine did not arrive.
“let’s eat,” said bert. “she’s given me the sack.”
“pauvre monsieur bert. it ees ver’ sad. oh, she is très-méchante, ver’ naughty. i do not onderstan’.”
they went out to the table and sat down. kendall sat in gloomy silence, bert was suffering from wounded vanity, and andree looked from one to the other uncomfortably.
“it is nécessaire to smile,” she said, and touched ken’s hand with her finger-tips.
“i don’t feel much like smiling, mignonne.”
“pourquoi?”
arlette entered with the potage to save him from replying to her question, and, placing the huge bowl in the middle of the table, stood regarding andree dolefully, with two big tears standing on her fat cheeks.
“even arlette makes to weep,” said andree. “it is ver’ strange. what is happen?”
“pauvre mademoiselle! ... pauvre mademoiselle!...” said arlette, and, turning very abruptly, she scuttled out of the room.
“qu’est-ce que c’est?... why does she speak this theeng?” she turned startled eyes upon ken.
he hesitated, bit his lip, then he reached out and took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “i have been ordered to america,” he said, baldly.
she did not speak, did not stir. it seemed to him that her expression did not alter by so much as a shade. she was still. it was almost as if animation were suspended. andree did not turn her eyes from his face, nor did she move or speak. she did not gaze at him questioningly nor accusingly nor imploringly—she merely gazed with that accompaniment of stillness!... he felt that he must speak and break that quietness which he could feel as with a physical pain.
“i got my orders yesterday.... i—it didn’t seem possible. i couldn’t believe it.... i only knew yesterday.” he felt that he must clear himself of any guilt of concealment, of having known of this thing and kept it from her.
“quand?” she said.
“i go to-morrow night—to brest, and then to america.”
she turned to her plate and began to eat. she had uttered no complaint, shed no tear, done none of the things he had dreaded she might do. there had been no painful scene, but he was not relieved. she was so still!
he fumbled in his pocket and took out the little jeweler’s package and removed the bracelet. she watched him gravely, with no outward sign of emotion, and when he reached for her hand she gave it to him unprotestingly. he snapped the bracelet about her wrist. she looked down at it, and then up into his face.
“it is ver’ pretty,” she said, “and you are mos’ good to me....” that was all, but every now and then he saw her staring at the bracelet and staring at it as if it were something strange and inexplicable. once she reached across with her other hand and touched it, felt of it, as if to assure herself that it was really there, an actual thing and not imagined.
ken tried to talk, bert tried to talk, but the effort was futile. dead, cold silences fell.... the sensations of that meal would remain with kendall as long as he should live, a recurrent nightmare. presently bert arose. he did a thing which he had never done before—lifted andree’s hand and touched it with his lips.
“i must go, mademoiselle,” he said. “good-by.”
“good-by, monsieur bert,” she said.
then they were alone!
in the salon he drew her down beside him on the sofa and held her close.
“i am very sad, mignonne,” he said. “i love you....”
she studied his face a moment and smiled at very trifle of a smile. “that is well,” she answered.
“i am not going away because i want to. it is orders. i have to obey.”
“c’est la guerre,” she said, gravely.
“yes, it is the war, but it’s cruel—it’s rotten. i want to stay here, to stay with you.”
“i wish that also,” she said.
something was demanded of him. he must say something, must not keep this child in agony, not knowing what he intended to do with respect to her. it was her right to know.... he must decide, and he must tell her.... but again he put it off. there was time enough, and before he told her there was still the chance of one last happy evening.... he wanted that, wanted the memory of it, if nothing more.
“mignonne, do you love me?” he asked.
“it is certain.”
“very much?”
“i cannot say how much.”
“america is not far,” he said, with some idiotic intention to comfort her. “the ocean can be crossed in a week.”
“that is true,” she said.
her head was against his breast, her eyes staring into her lap. ken looked straight before him, thinking, thinking. his mind was very clear, as if lighted by that painful white light which seemed to pour in upon his consciousness in moments of mental stress. it seemed to him as if his eyes could pierce the walls if he willed it, as if his memory could show him every minute incident in his whole life, as if he could see and understand everything—everything. he drew her to him fiercely, but even as he was sensing the softness of her slender body against his side he was seeing the vestibule of the presbyterian church, he was watching it function. the individuals stood before him as if alive, every well-known feature distinct. it was photographic. he could see changes of expression, hear whispers, see cautious hands placed before gossiping lips ... and he could see himself passing through that little group with andree on his arm!...
he could see his own home—his return to it. he could see his mother and feel the hostility that sprang to life the instant her eyes rested on andree. he could read his mother’s thoughts ... and his father’s. there was the one bright spot. he could see his father kissing andree diffidently and patting her hand and telling her how glad he was to see her and asking how his son had ever managed to capture such a pretty girl.... there would be no doubt of her welcome at his father’s hands.... but his mother—that cold hostility, that hard-eyed suspicion!... and then, when she had him alone, the catechism he would undergo, and the resentment and jealousy she would exhibit....
he could see his friends and the neighbors of his childhood with their crass curiosity and their hints and whispers.... he knew their every thought ... could see their eyes fixed on andree speculatively ... some of them hopefully!
it was that he would have to take her, too.... and then, if the story should come out!... but that would be little worse.... perhaps he exaggerated, perhaps he saw his old friends and acquaintances in characters which were not truly theirs. there might have been more charity among them than he perceived, more kindness and less narrowness and insularity.... but he did not see them except as he feared they might be.
what of himself? how would he feel to find himself married to a girl who had violated the standards of plymouth rock, even though he had been the one to profit by that violation?... even if none ever found it out but himself? he would know it.... it would constantly be recurring to him—or would it not? he did not know. the thing did not affect him now. it did not make andree the less desirable and lovable and good. perhaps that would persist—but his prejudices were deep-seated, had their roots in an older generation and were not lightly to be cast out....
but he loved her.... in spite of all that he saw and felt and feared, he knew that he loved her, and that to know she was removed forever from his life would be to lose a wonderful thing that he could not bear to lose.... the decision lay between love and expediency.... if only he could live in paris and never return to america! how easy it would be then!
“will you miss me?” he asked, clumsily.
she stirred in his arms and held her face up to his. “i shall be ver’ sad,” she said.
“suppose—suppose something should happen to me and i could never come back?”
she held his hand very tightly. “i do not know,” she said. “i cannot to theenk of that.”
he must decide.... he must decide.... but he was afraid; he could not decide—not now, not yet.... there were hours ahead of them.
she asked nothing of him, made no demands, but waited, waited. he could feel her waiting, hoping for some word, some assurance that he was not going to desert her forever, that he would come back to her—and he could not give that assurance ... not yet.
“it might be six months; it might be a year before i could come back.”
she smiled. “i would be here,” she said.
“and fidèle?”
“you know,” she answered. “there would be no thought only jus’ for you....”
“but america is strange. it would not be paris. you might be unhappy there.”
“that ees ver’ silly.... where you are i shall always be happy.”
he leaped to his feet and paced up and down the room, then stopped suddenly before her. “what shall i do?... what shall i do?” he said, hoarsely.
“i cannot say. i do not know.”
“you know i love you.”
“i believe.”
“i can’t decide. i can’t tell what to do.... i don’t know what i can do, what will be possible.”
she made no answer.
“can’t we pretend just for a while, just for a few hours, that i am not going and that everything is going along just as it is? can’t we have just one more little moment of happiness?”
“it ees not facile—not easy—to pretend so.”
“but we will try ... i want to see you smile. i want to see you happy once more. i’ve got to see you happy.”
she sat erect and smiled, then the smile faded and she clenched her little fists in her lap. “oh, i shall be so solitaire, so lonely—so lonely....” it was her only departure from that still calmness, her only approach to emotion, to giving away to grief, and it passed swiftly.
“see, i make to laugh now. for thees night i shall laugh, bicause you wish it, and i do not wish you to be sad and to make thees grimace.... you mus’ sit here beside me now thees minute. you mus’ to sit here and love me so ver’ much, and we shall be mos’ happy.... oh, i shall theenk of thees monsieur bert and how ver’ fonny his face made itself to look. he is ver’ droll—thees high yo’ng man.... it ees ver’ bad that you do not have a piano, for then i can dance for you.... you must to get a piano ver’ quickly—now, now.... you shall send out to fetch one or i shall go away....”
“mignonne ... mignonne....” he said, and buried his face in her lap....
she sat looking down at him very gravely, stroking his hair with her soft, slender fingers....
the taxicab hurried them down the champs élysées through the cool morning air—on their last ride together in paris.... he was conscious of the city about them, of the essence of the marvelous city from which he was so soon to depart.... there is something in the air of paris, something that one cannot escape, something intangible, enticing, exciting.... he would miss it, miss it very much.... andree, too, was looking out of the window. she sat very still and did not speak. her face was grave and expressionless with that look of abstraction which she wore as some wild bird of the forest wears its protective coloring.... he reached out and took her hand, holding it silently....
his decision had not been made. he had given her neither assurance of his return nor had he told her that they were about to part forever.... he did not know, and he could not decide ... there were now only minutes—seconds. he could see the élysées palace h?tel ahead, his destination, where he would say good-by to her.... and again, with a weakness which made him despise himself, he evaded the issue.
“you will write to me—often?” he asked.
“yes.... and you?” it was her first question since he had told her he was to go; the first time she had demanded anything of him.
“i shall write. i shall tell you everything.... everything will come right somehow. it must come right.”
“i have not your address.” she spoke very calmly.
he wrote it on a slip of paper and handed it to her.
“but you have not my address—nor my name.” she smiled with that quaint lightening of the face which always stirred him to tenderness.
he had not wanted to know her name nor her address. he had loved the mystery of it and of her. but the mystery must end. he gave her his memorandum—book and she wrote, but he did not look at the page, closing the book and placing it in his pocket.... she was still a mystery—he would look when it became necessary to look, and not before.
the taxicab was stopping. they looked at each other, but even now she gave no sign of distress, shed no tear.
“mignonne....” he whispered, and drew her into his arms. “good-by.... good-by.... i love you....”
“good-by,” she said, gravely. “i also love you ... and i shall be always fidèle.”
he opened the door and alighted; then he turned and lifted her hand to his lips. she did not smile; her face was immobile, her eyes were fixed on his face with a strange expression of detachment, of abstraction. he kissed her hand again and turned abruptly away. but he could not leave her so.... he turned; the taxi was starting. he called and ran toward the curb, but the chauffeur did not hear.... he was too late; the machine gained headway and swept around the corner—and she was gone....
