 CHAPTER XIII Lucina Merriton had much money, a kind heart, and a pretty little talent in painting. The last secured her admittance to the circle of art students round about the Rubon Apart. The second made her popular among them, and the money enabled her to obey any reasonable dictate of the kind heart of Orset. When those who were her intimates, mainly hard-working and none-too-opulent English girls, took her to task for her luxurious way of living, and pointed out that it was not in keeping with the Spartan makeshift traditions of the Latin Quarter, and that it differentiated her too much from her fellows, she replied, with the frankness of her country, first that she saw no sense in pretending to be other than she was, second that in the atmosphere of luxury to which she had been born she was herself, for whatever that self was worth, and thirdly that any masquerading as a lever of the simple life would choke all the agreeable qualities out of her. When looking round her amateur studio, they objected that she did not take her art seriously, she cordially agreed. I take what you call my art, she would say, just as it suits me. I can command too many things in the world for me to sacrifice them to the mediocre result I can get out of a paintbrush and a bit of canvas. I shall never need paint for money, and if I did I'm sure I shouldn't earn any. But I love painting for its own sake, and I have enough talent to make it worthwhile to have good instruction in technique, so that my pictures shall more or less satisfy myself and not set my friend's teeth on edge. And that's why I'm here. She was a wealthy vagabond of independent fortune, inherited from her mother long since deceased, with no living ties save her father, a railway director in America, now married to a young wife, a schoolmate of her own, whom, since her childhood, she had peculiarly abhorred. But in the world, which lay wide open to her, Videlí gets the civilised nations of the two hemispheres, she had innumerable friends. No human will pretended to control her actions. She was as free to live in Rosario as in Budapest, in Nairobi, as in Ninja Novgorod. For the last two or three years she had elected to establish her headquarters in Paris and study painting. But while the latter process should involve a hard bed in a shabby room and dreadful meals at the Petit Cornicheau, she could never understand. Occasionally, on days of stress at the atelier, she did lunch at the Petit Cornicheau. The paper was convenient, and as she was young and thirsty of real drafts of life, the chatter and hubbub of insensate ambitions afforded her both interest and amusement. But she found the food execrable, and the universal custom of cleaning knife, fork, spoon and plate before using them exceedingly disgusting. Yet being a lady, born and bred, she performed the objectionable route in the most gracious way in the world. And when it came to combat-ship, then her democratic traditions asserted themselves. Her student friends ranged the social gamut. If the wearer were a living spirit, she regarded broken boots and threadbare garments merely as an immaterial accident of fortune, like a broken nose or an amputated limb. The flat on the Boulevard Saint-Germain was the haven of many a hungry girl and boy, but they found their way thither, as far as Lucilla was concerned, not because they were hungry, but because that which lay deep in their souls had won her accurate recognition. By way of digression, an essential difference in point of view between English and Americans may here be noted. If an Englishman has reason to admire a tinker and make friends with him, he will leave his own respectable sphere and enter that of the tinker, and in some humble haunt of tinkeredom, where he can remain incognito, will commune with his crony over pots of abominable and digestion-racking ale. The instinct of the American in swarm brotherhood with the tinker is, on the other hand, to lift the tinker to his own habitation of delight. He would desire to take him into a saloon which he himself frequents, fill him up with champagne, and provide him with the best, biggest and strongest cigar that money can buy. In both cases appear the special defects of national qualities. The Englishman goes to the tinker's boozing-ken, thereby incidentally putting the tinker at his ease, because he would be ashamed of being seen by any of his own clan in a tinker's company. The American does not care a hang for being seen with the tinker. He wants to give his friend a good time, but incidentally he has no intuitive regard for the tinker's feelings, predilections and timidities. From which disquisition it may be understood how Lucilla played Lady Bountiful without the slightest consciousness of doing so. She played it so well, with regard to Phyllis, as to make that young woman in the course of a day or two her slave and worshipper. She showed of the sights of Paris, Versailles, the Galerie de la Fayette, the Tumor de Perlion, Poirées, the Cerro d'Hiverre, the Pont-Thion, and Cartiers in the Rue de la Paix. With the aid of pins and scissors and celeste, she also attared her in an evening frock, and under the nominal protection of an agreeable young compatriot from the Embassy, took a dine at the Café de Paris, and then to the Théâtre du Gymnèse. A great soft cushioned, smooth, noiseless car carried them luxuriously through the infinite streets, and when they were at home it seemed to await them night and day by the curb of the Boulevard Saint-Germain. Priscilla set the head of the little country-mouse aworl with sensations. Phyllis revered her as a goddess, and whispered in awe the Christian name which he was commanded to use. A breathless damsel with a jumble of conflicting scraps of terror and delight instead of a mind, her arms full of an adored Persian kitten and an adoring Piccadilly's spaniel, after a couple of days' flashing course through the flowers, was brought in the gathering-dusk with a triumphant sweep up the hill to the familiar front door of the Hôtel de Grotte. Paptiste, green-aproned, gaped as he saw her, and scuttling indoors shouted at the top of his voice, Monsieur, Monsieur, c'est ma mousselle! In an instant Begoudin lumbered out at full speed. He almost lifted her from the car, scattering outraged kitten and offended dog, hid her in his vast embrace, and hugged her and kissed her, and held her out at arm's length, and laughed and hugged her again. There was no doubt of the prodigal's welcome. She laughed and sobbed and hugged the great man in return. And then he recovered himself and became the Bonne-Oedilier and assisted Lucilla to a light, while Phyllis greeted a smiling Martin and suffered the embrace of Euphime, panting from the kitchen. If ma mousselle will give us up the trouble of following me, said Begoudin, and led the way up the stairs, followed by Lucilla and Celeste, guardian of the jewel-case. He threw open the door of the Chambre d'Honneur, a double-windowed room above the terrace, overlooking the town and the distant mountains of the Limoussère, and showed her with pride a tiny cellar adjoining, the only private-sitting room in the Hôtel. Crossed the corridor and flung to view the famous bathroom. This next door a room for the maid, and swept her back to the bedroom where a pine-cone fire was blazing frequently. —Voilà, ma mousselle, c'est-il, toute de votre disposition! —I think it is absolutely charming, cried Lucilla. She looked round. —Oh, what lovely things you have! Begoudin beamed and made a little bow. He took inordinate pride in his Chambre d'Honneur, in which he had stored the gems of the empire furniture acquired by his great grandfather, the doctor's general de Brigade. The instantaneous appreciation of a casual glance enchanted him. —I hope, ma mousselle, said he in his courteous way. You would do felices and myself the honour of being our guest, as long as you dame to stay, th'pourant Thaum. Lucilla met his bright eyes. —That's delightful of you, she laughed, for I'm not one solitary person. I'm a caravan. There's me and the maid and the chauffeur and the car and the dog and the cat. —The hotel is very little, ma mousselle, replied Begoudin. But our hearts are big enough to entertain them. —Nothing more, or at least nothing more, by the way of protest, must be said. Lucilla put out her hand in her free, generous gesture. —Monsieur Begoudin, I accept with pleasure your delightful hospitality. —Gervoure messe infinimo, ma mousselle, said Begoudin. He went downstairs in a flutter of excitement. But for four generations, so far as he was aware, had such an event occurred in the Hotel de Grotte. Members of the family, of course, had stayed there without charge. Once towards the end of the Second Empire, a minister of the interior had occupied the Charm de Donneur, and had gone away without paying his bill. But that remained a bad, black debt in the books of the hotel. Never had a stranger been an honoured guest. He had often the position it is true to Carina, but then he was in love with Carina, which makes all the difference. The French are not instinctively hospitable. When they are seized, however, by the impulse of hospitality, all that they have is yours, down to the last crust in the larder. But they are fully conscious of their own generosity. They feel the tremendousness of the spiritual wave. So Begoudin, kindest hearted of men, lumbered downstairs, at low with a sense of altruistic adventure. In the vestibule he met Felice, who had lingered there in order to obtain from Martin a contre-rendue of the household and the neighbourhood. Things had gone none too well. Monsieur Perian, one of their regular commercial travellers, having discovered a black beetle in his bread, had gone to the hotel du Seigneur. The baker had indignantly repudiated the black beetle. His own black beetle has been apparently of an entirely different species. Another baker had been appointed, whose only defect was its inability to bake bread. The brave Madame Tullier, who had been called into superintendent of the factory, had quarrelled after two days with everybody, and had gone off in dungeon because she did not eat at the pathron's table. Then they had lost two of their best hands, one a young married woman who was reluctantly compelled to add to the population of France, and the other a girl who was discharged for laying false information against the very respectable and much married baptiste, saying that he had pinched her. The old Mère Marquois, Marchand de Catherine-Saison, who was reputed to have known General Begoudin, was dead, and one of the hotel omnibus horses had come down on his knees. Philly's, forgetful of the Maison de Blanc and Notre-Dame, wrung her hands. She descended from fairer land into life's dear and important realities. "'It's desolating what you tell me,' she cried. "'And all because you went away and left us,' said Martin. "'She is not going to leave us again,' cried Begoudin, swooping down on her and carrying her off. In the prim little cellar he hugged her again and said, gripping her hands. "'It appears you have greatly suffered, my poor little Philly's. But why didn't you tell me from the first that you were unhappy with your aunt Clotilde? I did not know that she had turned into such a vile bombesh.' "'She hath written, and I have answered. Ha! I tell you, I have answered. You need never again have any fear if your aunt Clotilde. I hope I am a Christian, but I hope, too, that I shall always differ from her in my ideas of Christianity. Mais tout ça est fini, belle et bien fini. We have to talk of ourselves. I have been a miserable man since you have been away, my petit Philly's. I tell you that in all frankness. Everything has been at sixes and sevens. I can't do without my little menager, and you shall never marry anybody, even the President of the Republic, unless you want to. Fois de Begouda. Voila!' Philly's cried a little. "'Do it through bon, pour moi, mon oncle?' "'A l'autre oncle. I seem to have been an old bear. Yet in truth I am as harmless as a sheep. But have confidence in me, and in my very dear friend, your father. There are many things you cannot understand, and things will arrange themselves quite happily. You love me just a little bit, don't you?' She flung her arms round the huge man's neck. "'Je t'adore, mon petit oncle!' She cried. Ten minutes afterwards, with bunch of keys slung at her waist, she was busy restoring to order the chaos of the interregnum. Terrible things had happened during the absence of the feminine eye. Even Martin shared the universal reprimand. Philly's manageress of hotel, and Philly's storm-tossed little human soul, were two entirely different entities. "'My dear Martin, how could you and my oncle pass these napkins from that infamous old thief of a laundress? They are black!' And ruthlessly she flicked a napkin folded, mighterwise, from the centre-table, before the eyes of the folder, and revealed its dingy turpitude. "'It is well that I am back,' she did lured. "'It is indeed Mamoiselle Philly's,' said Martin. She gave him a swift little glance out of the tail of her eye before she sped away, and the corners of her lips drooped as though in disappointment. Then perhaps reflecting that she had been addressing the waiter, and not the man, her face cleared. At all events he had taken her rating in good part. Dinner had already begun, and the hungry commercials, napkins at neck, were finishing their soup lustily when Lucilla entered the dining-room. The open Medici collar to a grey velvet dress showed the graceful setting of her neck, unharmonised with the brown hair brushed up from the forehead. She advanced, smiling, unstately, giving the impression of the perfect product of a new civilisation. Martin, who had but seen her for a few seconds in the dusk, confusedly clad in furs, stood spellbound, a pile of used soup-plates in his hands. Never had so radiant an apparition swum before his gaze. Bigorda, dining as usual with Philly's, rose immediately and conducted his guest to the little table by the terrace, where once Martin and Carina had sat. He was specially adorned with tawny chrysanthemums. I fell dreaming before the fire in the midst of your wonderful old world-things, and had to hurry into my cloths, and so I'm late. She apologised. If only you found all you needed, Mamoiselle, said Bigorda anxiously. It is the provinces and not Paris. She assured him that Philly's had seen to every conceivable want, and he left her to her meal. Martin delivered his soup-plates into the arms of the chambermaid and hovered over Lucilla with the menu-card. Will Mamoiselle take the dinner? he asked, in French. She regarded him calmly and humorously and nodded. He became aware that her eyes were of a deep, deep grey, full of light. He found it difficult not to keep on looking at them. Breaking away, however, he fetched her soup and went off to attend to the others. At every pause by her table he noted some new and incomparable attribute. In bending over the pattern from which she helped herself, he saw that her hands were beautifully shaped, plump with long, thin fingers, and with delicate markings of veins beneath the white skin. An upward glance caught more blue veins on the temples. Another time he was struck by the supple grace of her movements. There were infinite leems in her splendid hair. The faintest suggestion of perfume arose from her garments. She declined the vegetable-course, and, declining, looked up at him and smiled. He thought he had never seen a brow so noble and no so exquisitely cut, lips so kind and mocking. Her face was that of a romney duchess into which the thought and spiritual freedom of the twentieth century had entered. As he spent about the service, thrusting dishes beneath bearded or blue ill-shaven chins, her face floated before his eyes. Every now and then he stole a distant glance at it, and longed for the happy, transient moment when he should come close to it again. While he was clearing her table for dessert, she said, Why do you speak French to me when you know I'm an American? It is the custom of the house when a guest speaks such excellent French as Memoiselle. That's very kind of you, she said in English, but it seems rather ridiculous for an American and an Englishman to converse in a foreign language. How do you know I'm English, Memoiselle? he asked, his heart a-flutter at the unexpected interchange of words. She laughed, I have eyes, besides I know all about you, first from our friend Carilla Hastings, and lately from my little hostess over the way. He flushed, charmed by the deep music of her voice, and delighted to have been recognized by her not only as an individual, for she radiated an attraction which had caused him to hate the conventional impersonality of waiterdom, but as a member more or less of her own social class. He paused, plate of crumbs in one hand, and napkin in the other. Do you know Carilla Hastings? Evidently, how else could she have told me of your romantic doings? She replied, lovingly, and Martin flushed deeper, conscious of an idiot question. He said the apples and little white grapes were for her. I ought to have asked you, said he, how Miss Hastings came to talk to you about me. She came on the train from Brandt-Torne, and rang my bell in Paris. She gave me up talking till four o'clock in the morning, and not of you all the time, don't imagine it. You were just, interestingly, incidental. You're all, cried a voice from the centre-table. Amie-Monsieur—Martin tucked his napkin under his arm and turned away, furrowed by Lucilla's humorous glance—Ladies-en, amie-Monsieur. He became the perfect waiter again, and brought to the build of the commercial traveller, who'd merely come in for dinner. The latter paid in even money, rose noisily—he was a stout important red-faced man—and, fumbling in several pockets, rendered difficult of access by adiposity and good cheer, had last produced four coppers, which he deposited with a base metallic chink in Martin's palm. Amie-Monsieur—Monsieur—Monsieur, said the perfect waiter. But it would give much to be able to dispose of the horrible coins otherwise than by thrusting them in his trouser pocket—to be able, for instance, to hull them at the triple sausage-neck of the departing donor—for he knew the starry, humorous eyes of the divinity were fixed on him. He felt hot and clammy, and did not dare look round. And the hideous thought flashed through his mind. Will she offer me a tip when she leaves? He visited himself furiously with his service, and in a few moments was relieved to see her ceremoniously conducted by Bigorda and Phiddis from the Salamanger. On the threshold, Bigorda paused and called him, You will serve coffee and liqueurs in the Petit Salon, and if you go to the Café de l'Univers, you will kindly make my excuses to our friends. To enter the primly and plushly furnished Salon, bearing the tray, and to set out the cups and glasses and bottles, was an ordeal which he went through with the automatic rigidity of a highly trained London footman, looking neither to left nor right. He had a vague impression of a queenly figure, declining comfortably in an armchair, haloed by a little cloud of cigarette smoke. He retired, finished his work in the pantry, swung a little food, changed his things, and went out. Instinct led him along the keys and through the narrow, old-world streets to the patch of yellow light before the Café de l'Univers. But there he halted, suddenly disinclined to enter. He knew, and amazing, had come into his life. He could not yet tell what, discordant with the commonplace of the familiar company. He looked through the space left between the edge of the blind and the jam of the window, and saw Bozo, the professor at the Achille-Nomal, playing backgammon with Monsieur Callo, the postmaster. And a couple of places away from them was visible the square-headed, old Monsieur Vidiot, smiting his left palm with his right fist. The excellent old man always did that when he invaded against the government. Tonight Martin cared little about the government of the French Republic, still lest for backgammon. He had a nostalgia for unknown things, and an absurd impulse to walk abroad to find them beneath the moon and stars. Obeying the impulse, he retraced his steps along the keys and struck the main road past the habitation of the rock-dwellers. He walked for a couple of miles between rocks casting jagged shadows and a calm misty plain, without finding anything, until following a laborious zigzag course, a disillusioned corpsman of his acquaintance, incapable charge of a girl-child of five, lurched into him, and laid the clutch of a droning manor on his shoulder. Oh, Monsieur Martin, said he, it is good-gold who has sent you. Boucabelle, said Martin, for that was the name of the miscreant, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Oh, you need not tell me, Monsieur Martin, replied Boucabelle. As the child was crying bitterly and the father was self-reproachful, he had taken the mouche to see her aunt, and, coming back, had met some friends who had enticed him into the café of the maire, did he do, where they had given him some poisoned, leg-dislocating alcohol. Martin took the child at his arms, and trudged back to the rock-twinnings where the drunk had lived. On the way Boucabelle, relieved of paternal responsibility, the tired child now snuggling sleepily and comfortably against Martin's neck, grew confidential, and confessed, with sly enjoyment, that he had already well watered his throttle before he started. The man, he declared with the luminescence of an apostle, who did not get drunk occasionally, was an imbecile, denying himself the pleasure of the other life. Martin recognized in Boucabelle a transcendentalist, no matter how muddleheaded. The Serbetclod did not know adventures, he did not know happiness. The path of the drunkard Boucabelle explained was strewn with joy. The anxious wife who met them at the door called Martin a saint from heaven, and her husband a stream of unmentionable things. He staggered out of the outburst and laid his hand again on Martin's shoulder. Monsieur Martin, I have committed a fault. I take you to witness." His wife paused in her invective to hear the penitent. If I was more drunk, I wouldn't pay attention to anything she says. I have committed a fault. I haven't got drunk enough. Salgotchon! cried the lady, and Martin left them, meditating on the philosophy of drunkenness. Quo me rapis baquet plenum tuy, to what godlike adventure! But the magic work was plenum, right full to the lips. No half-and-half measures for Bacchus. Apparently Boucabelle had failed his adventure and had missed happiness by a gill. Browning's lines about the little more and the little less came into his head, and he laughed. Both the poet and the muddle-headed quarrelman were right. Adventures not brought through to the end must be dismal fiasco. His mind bonded a little. His shoulder was ever such a trifle stiff from carrying the child. But he missed the warmth of her grateful little body and the trusting clasp of her tiny arms. It had been an insignificant adventure, an adventure, so to speak, in miniature. But it had been complete, rounded off, perfect. The proof lay in the glow of satisfaction of the thing accomplished. Materially there was nothing to complain about. But from a philosophic standpoint the satisfaction was not absolute. For the absolute is finality, and there's no finality in mundane things. From a thing so finite as human joy, eternal law decreed the evolution of the germs of fresh desires. There had been a strange sweetness in the clasp of those tiny arms. How much sweeter to a man would be the clasp if the arms were his own flesh and blood. What him was shocked by the suspicion that things were not going right with him as a human being. The present mass of the hoteligrote looming dimly white against his black background came into view. The lights in an uncurtained and unshuttered window above the terrace were visible. A figure passed rapidly across the room and sent drunkards and adventures and curly-headed five-year-olds packing from his mind. But he averted his eyes and walked on and came to the pont de drone, and then halted to light a cigarette. The frosty silence of sharp moonlight hung over the town. The silver shimmer reflected from reaches of water and from slated roofs invested it with unspeakable beauty and peace. A little cold caressing wind came from the distant mountains seen in soft outline. Near black shelves of rock and dark mysteries of forest and masses of houses beyond the bridge-end closed other horizons. He remembered his first impression of Brontorne when he sat with Coroner on the terrace, a mothering shelter from all fierce and cruel things. And yet, thought he as he puffed his cigarette smoke in the clear air, beyond this little spot lies a world of unceasing endeavour and throbbing pulses and women of disturbing beauty. Such a woman on her meteoric passage from one sphere of glory to another has flashed before my eyes to-night. Why am I here pursuing an avocation which, though honest, is nonetheless greasy and obscure? Unable to solve the enigma. He sighed and threw his cigarette, which had gone out during his meditation, into the river. A patter of quick footsteps at the approach of the bridge called him to turn his head, and he saw a merger from the bloom into the runelight, a tall, fertile-eyed figure advancing towards him. She gave him a swift look of recognition. "'Monsieur Mardin,' he raised his cap. "'Good evening, Miss Merriton.' She halted. "'My good host and hostess are gone to bed. I couldn't sit by my window and sentimentalise through the glass, so I came out.' "'It's a fine night,' said Martin. "'It is, but not one to hang about on a windy bridge. Come for a little walk, if you have time, and protect me against the dangers of Bronteau.' "'Go for a walk with her. Defend of them dangers. Fairly he could go through the universe with her.' His heart thumped. It was in his whirling brain to cry. Come and ride with me throughout the world. The more dragons I can meet and slay in your service, the more worthy shall I be to kiss the hem of your sacred grey velvet dinner-gown.' But from his fundamental sober common sense, he replied, "'The only dangers of Bronteau, but this time of night, are prudish eyes and scandalous tongues.' She drew a little breath. "'Thank you,' she said. "'That's frank and sensible. I'm always forgetting that France is in New York, or Paris for the matter of that, where one can do as one likes. I don't know provincial France a little bit. But I suppose for Red Hawk gossip it isn't far behind a pretty little New England village. Still, can't we get out of range, somehow, of the eyes?' That rode over there.' She waved a hand in the direction of the silent high-road which Martin had laid to travel. Doesn't seem to be encumbered with the scandal-mongers of Bronteau.' He laughed. "'Would you try it?' She nodded ascent. They set forth briskly, that limps into her nature delighted him. She appreciated at once the motive of his warning, but was really determined to have her own way. "'We were just beginning an interesting little talk when you were called off,' she remarked. Martin felt himself grow red, remembering the tightly pocketed bagman who took the stage while he searched for Edamon Sinery's Sioux. "'My profession has its drawbacks,' said he. "'So is every profession. I've got a friend in America, I met him two or three times, who is conductor on the twentieth century express between New York and Chicago. He's by way of being an astronomer, and the great drawback of his profession, that he has no time to sit on top of a mountain and look at stars. The drawback of yours is that you can't carry on pleasant conversations wherever you like. But the profession's all right, and unless you're ashamed of it.' "'But why should I be ashamed of it?' asked Martin. "'I don't know. Why should you? My father, who was the son of a New England person. My father was a person,' said Martin. "'Well, hey. Well, that's good. We both come of a God-faring stock, which is something in these days. Anyway, my father, in order to get through college, waited on the Menin Hall at Harvard, and was a summer waiter at a hotel in the Adirondacks. Of course there are some Americans who would like it to be thought that their ancestors bought over the family estates with them in the Mayflower. But we're not like that. Say,' she said, after a few steps through the sweet keenness of the moonlit night, have you heard lately from Karenna?' He had not. In her last letter to him she had announced her departure from the constricting family circle of Wendellbury. She was going to London. "'Where she would have a chance of self-development,' said Lucilla, with a laugh. "'How did you know that?' Martin asked in simple surprise, for those have been almost Karenna's own words. What else would she go to London for?' "'I don't know, sir, Martin. She did not tell me.' They did not discuss Karenna further. But Martin felt that his companion had formulated his own diagnosis of Karenna's abiding defect, her suspicion that the cosmic scene centered round the evolution of Karenna Hastings. In a very subtle way the divinity had established implied understandings between them. They were of much the same parentage. In her own family the napkin had played no ignoble part. They were at one in the little confidential estimate of their common friend. And when she threw back her adorable head and drew a deep breath and said, It's just lovely here, he felt deliciously near her. Deliciously and dangerously. A little later as they came upon the rock-twillings she laid a fleeting but thrilling touch on his arm. What in the world are those houses?' He told her. He described the lives of the inhabitants. He described on the way back, for the rocks marked the limit of their stroll, his adventure with Bucabelle. Ordinarily shy and if not tongue-tied at least unimaginative in speech, he now found vivid words and picturesque images, his souls set upon repaying her in some manner for her gracious comradeship. Her smiles, her interest, her quick sympathy, the occasional brush of her furs against his body as she leaned to listen intoxicated him. He spoke of France, the land of his adoption, and the spiritual France that no series of hazardous governments could impair with repsodical enthusiasm. She declared in her rich, deep voice, as though carried away by him, ''I love to hear you say such things, and it's splendid to get to the soul of the people,'' her tone implied admiration of achievement. He laughed rather foolishly in besotted happiness. They reached the steep road leading to the Hotel de Grotte. She threw a hand to the moonip bridge where they had met. ''Were you thinking of all that when I dragged you off?'' he laughed again. ''No,'' he confessed. ''I was wondering what on earth I was doing there?'' ''I think,'' said she softly. ''You have just given me the Maud de Legnigme.'' In the vestibule they came across begondas, cigarette-in-mouth, sprawling as might have been expected on the cane-bottomed couch. He was always the last to retire, a fact which the blissful Martin had forgotten. Lucilla sailed up, raided in her furs, the flush of exercise on her cheeks visible, even under the dim electric light. Begondas raised his ponderous bulk. ''I found Monsieur Martin outside,'' she said, ''and I commandeered him as an escort round the neighbourhood. He couldn't refuse. I hope I haven't done wrong.' Martin knows more about Brontôme,'' replied Begondas courteously. ''They are most of the Brontômeois themselves.' Celeste appeared from the loom of the stairs. Lucilla, after an idle word or two, retired. Begondas closed and bolted to the front door. To do that he would trust nobody, not even Martin. Having completed the operation he advanced slowly towards his employee. ''Did you go to the café to-night?'' ''No,'' replied Martin. ''I was walking with Mme Moselle, who, as you may have told you, is a friend of Mme Moselle Carina.' ''Yes, yes, she told me that,'' said Begondas. ''There is no need of explanations, mon ami. But I am glad you did not go to the café. I ought to have warned you. We must be very discreet towards the video. There is no longer any marriage, for the East doesn't want it. Her father has formally forbidden it. I have no desire to make anybody unhappy, but there it is. Foutou, la mariage!'' And I haven't said anything as yet to the video. And again, I can't say anything to Mme Moselle until he says something to me. ''Voilà, la situation, c'est d'une delicatrice extraordinaire!'' He passed his hand over his head and tried to grip the half-inch stubble. ''I tell you this, Mme Moselle, Martin, because you know the intimate affairs of the family. So,'' he shook an impressive finger. ''Act towards the video, father and son, as if you knew nothing, nothing at all. L'est-ce moi faire?'' Martin pledged to the discretion of the statues in the old Alhambra tale. What did the extraordinary delicacy of the situation between Bigoda and the videos matter to him? When he reached his room, he laughed aloud. Oblivious of Bigoda, the videos and poor little Feliz, who, though he knew it not, lay achingly awake. At last a woman, a splendid wonder of a woman, a woman with the resplendent dignity of the king's daughter of the fairy tales, with the bewilderment of beauty of face and of form and of voice, like the cooing of a dove, with the delicate warm sympathy of sheer woman, had come into his life. The usually methodical Martin threw his shirt trousers across the room and walked about like a lunatic in his underthings, until a sneeze brought him to the consciousness of wintry cold. The only satisfying sanction of romance is its charm of intimate commonplace. CHAPTER XIV There had further talk together the next afternoon. A lost remnant of golden autumn freakishly returned to warm the December air. The end of the terrace caught a flood of sunshine, wherein Lucilla, wrapped in furs and rugs and seated in one of the bentwood rocking-chairs brought out from winter quarters for the occasion, had established herself with a book. The little dog's head appeared from under the rug, his strange Mongolian eyes staring unsympathetically at a draughty world. Martin sought a doubt to breathe the beauty of the hour, which was that of his freedom. He explained the fact when she informed him that Feliz and Bigoda had both left her a few minutes before in order to return to their duties. Martin, being free, she commanded him to stay and entertain her. "'If I were a good American,' she said, "'I shall be racing about in the car, doing the sights of the neighborhood. But to sit lazily in the sun is too great a temptation.' "'Besides,' she added, "'I have explored the town this morning. I went round with Monsieur Bigoda.' "'He is very proud of Montaume,' said Martin. He dismissed Montaume. "'I have lost my heart to him. He is so big and comfortable and honest. And he talks history like a poet or professor with the manners of an embassy attaché. He is unique among landlords.' "'I love Bigoda,' said Martin, "'but the type is not uncommon in these old inns of France, especially those which belong to the same family for generations. There is the proprietor of the Hôtel du Comorce, a perigee, for instance, who makes pâté de foie gras just like Bigoda, and is a well-known authority on the prehistoric antiquities of the Dordogne. He once went to London for a day, and what do you think was his object? To inspect the collection of flint instruments at the Guildhall Museum. He told me so himself.' "'That's all very interesting,' said Lucilla. "'But I'm sure he's nothing like Bigoda. He can't be. And his hotel can't be like this. It's the queerest hotel I've ever struck. It's run by such unimaginable people. I think I've lost my heart to all of you. There's Bigoda, there's Feliz, the dearest and most delicate little soul in the world, the daughter of a remarkable mystery of a man. There are Baptiste, and Euphémie, and Amparis, the chambermaid, who seem to exude desire to fold me to their bosoms whenever I meet them. And there is your Soph, an English university man, an exceedingly competent waiter, and a perfectly agreeable companion.' The divinity crowned with a little seal-skin motoring toke, which left unhidden the fascination of her up-brushed hair, cued on deliciously. The knees of Martin, leaning against the parapet, became as water. He had a crazy desire to kneel at her feet on the concrete floor of the terrace. Then he noticed that between her feet and the cold concrete floor there was no protecting footstool. He fetched one from the dining-room and had the felicity of placing it for her and readjusting the rugs. "'I suppose you're not going to be a way to hear all your life,' she said. He signified that the hypothesis was correct. "'What are you going to do?' It was in his awakened imagination to say, "'Follow you to the ends of the earth.' But common sense replied that he did not know. He made no plans. She suggested that he might travel about the wide world.' He breathed an inward sigh. "'Why not the starry firmament? Why not rainbow-winged and golden spear in hand swoop a bright archangel from planet to planet?' "'You ought to see Egypt,' she said, "'and feel what a speck of time you are when the centuries look down on you. It's wholesome. I'm going early in the new year. I go there and try to paint the desert, and then I sit down and cry, which is wholesome too, for me.' Before Martin's inner vision floated a blurred picture of camels and pyramids and sand and audiographic sunsets. He said, infatuated, "'I would give my soul to go to Egypt.' "'A Egypt is well worth a soul,' she laughed. Words and reply were driven from his head by the sight of a great splotch of grease on the leg of his trousers. A dress suit worn daily for two or three months, in pursuit of a waiter's application, does not look its best in stark sunlight. Self-conscious, he crossed his legs as he leaned against the parapet in order to hide the splotch. Then he noticed that one of the studs fit sure to escape from the frayed and blackened button-hole. Again he felt her humorous eyes upon him. For a few moments he dared not meet them. When he did look up, he found them fixed caressingly on the pecanese spaniel, which had slipped upon its back in the hope of a rubbed stomach and was waving feathery paws in anger. A moment's reflection brought heart of grace. Greasy suit and untidy stud-hole must have been obvious to her from his first appearance on the terrace. Indeed, there must have been obvious what he had waited on her at Dejeuner. Her invitation to converse was proof that she disregarded outer trappings, that she recognized the man beneath the soup-stained raiment. He uncrossed his legs and stood upright. Then he remembered her remark. The question is, said he, whether my soul would fetch enough to provide me with a ticket to Egypt. She smiled lazily. The sunlight being full on her face, he noticed that her eyelashes were brown. Wondrous discovery. Anyhow, she replied, while there's a soul, there's a way. She took a cigarette from a gold case that lay on the little iron table beside her. Martin sprang forward with a match. She thanked him graciously. It isn't money that does the real things, she said, after a few meditative puffs. To hear an American say so must sound strange to your English ears. You believe, I know, that Americans make money on Almighty God that can work any miracles of a man and natural forces that you please. But it isn't so. The miracles, such as they are, that America has performed, have been due to the naked human soul. Money has come as an accident for the creation and has helped things along. We have a saying which you may have heard, money talks. That's just it, it talks. But the soul has had to act first. Money has nothing to do with American independence. It was the soul of George Washington. It wasn't money that invented the photograph. It was the soul of the train used by Edison. It was money that brought into being the original Cornelius Vanderbilt. It was the soul of the old fairman that defined the power of steam both on sea and land a hundred years ago. And, accidentally or incidentally or logically or what you please, founded the Vanderbilt fortune. I could go on forever with instances from my own country. Instances that every school child knows. In the eyes of the world the Almighty Dollar may seem to rule America. But every thinking American knows in his heart of hearts the Almighty Dollar is but an accidental symbol of the Almighty Soul of Man. And it's the soul that we're proud of and that keeps the nation together. All this, more or less, was at the back of my mind when I said, where there's a soul, there's a way. As this little speech progressed her face lost its expression of serene and humorous contentment with the world and grew eager and her eyes shone and her voice quickened. He regarded her as some fenillon her medic warrior might have regarded the goddess who descended to cloutace from Olympus to exhort him to noble deeds. The exhortation fluttered both pride and pulses. He saw in her a woman capable of great things and she repealed to him as a man also capable. You have pointed me out the way to Egypt, he said. I'm glad, said you, Silla. Look me up when you get there, she had him with a smile. Seems a big place, but it isn't. Cairo, Luxor, Asuan and it narrates the Semiramis Hotel at Cairo. And then she began to talk of that wonderful land of the mystery of the desert, the inscrutable gods of Granik and Karnak brooding over the ghost of Thebes. She spoke from wide knowledge and sympathy. An illusion here and there indicated how true a touch she had on far divergent aspects of life. Apart from her radiant adorableness which held him captive, she possessed a mind which stimulated his own so long lane sluggish. He had not met before the highly educated woman of the world. Instinctively he contrasted her with Karena, who in the first days of their pilgrimage had dazzled him with her attainments. She had a quick intelligence, but in any matter of knowledge was soon out of her depth. Yet she exhibited singular adroitness in regaining the shallows where she found safety in abiding. Lucilla, on the other hand, swam serenely out into deep blue water. From every point of view she was a goddess of bewildering attributes. After a while she shivered slightly. The sun had disappeared behind a corner of her hotel. Grainis overspread the terrace. The glory of the short winter afternoon had departed. She rose, heligabalas, also shivering under her arm. Martin held the rugs. I wonder, said she, whether you could possibly send up some tea to my quite little salon. Perhaps you might induce Feliz to join me. That was all the talk he had with her. In the evening the arrival of an English motor-party kept him busy, both during dinner and afterwards, for not only did it is our coffee and liqueur served in the vestibule, but they gave indications to his experienced judgment of requiring relays of whiskies and sodas until bedtime. Again he did not visit the Café de l'Univers. The next morning she started for the Riviera. She was proceeding the other via Toulouse, Carcassonne, Nabon, and the coast. To Martin's astonishment, Feliz was accompanying her on a visit for ten days or a fortnight to the south. It appeared that the matter had been arranged late to the previous evening. Lucilla had made the proposal, swept away difficulty after difficulty, with her air of a smiling but irresistible providence, and left Bigoda and Feliz, not her leg, save sheer churlishness to stand on. Toulouse she had ten times in mind she needed. The perils of the lonely and tedious return-train journey never could Feliz accomplish it. Bigoda turned up an indicator de chemin d'affaires. There were changes, there were waits. Communications were arranged with diabolical cunning, not to correspond. Perhaps it was to confound the Germans in case of invasion. As far as you could make out it would take seventy-four hours, forty-three minutes, to get from Monte Carlo to Blontôme. It was far simpler to go from Paris to Moscow, which as everyone knew was the end of the world. Feliz would starve, Feliz would perish of cold, Feliz would get the wrong train and find herself a Copenhagen or Amsterdam or Naples, when she wouldn't be able to speak the language. Lucilla laughed. There was such a thing as Lars-Jorges Cook, which molded the indicator de chemin d'affaires to its will. She would engage a man from Cook's before whose brass-buttoned coat and a gold-letter cap band, which her turb would fold to pieces to transfer Feliz personally by easy stages from house to house. Feliz had pleaded her uncle's need. Lucilla, in the most charming way imaginable, had deprecated as impossible any such colossal selfishness on the part of Monsieur Begoudin. Overawed by the Olympian he had peremptorily ordered Feliz to retire and pack her trunk. Then, obeying the dictates of his sound sense, he'd asked Lucilla what object she had in her magnificent invitation. His little girl said he would acquire a taste for celestial things, which never afterwards would she be in a position to gratify. To which, Lucilla? How do you know she won't be able to gratify them? A girl of her beauty, charm and character, together with a little knowledge of the world of men, women and things, is in a position to command whatever she chooses. She had a charm and character and I want to add the little knowledge. I want to see a lovely human flower expand. She had a graceful trick of restrained gesture which impressed Begoudin. I want to give a bruised little girl whom I've taken to my heart a good time. For myself it's some sort of way of finding a sanction for my otherwise useless existence. And Begoudin, clutching at his bristles, had plucked forth no adequately inspired reply. The will of the new world had triumphed over that of the old. All the staff of the hotel witnessed the departure. Monsieur Martin, said Phyllis in French, about to step into the great car, immediately to her mind of fur rugs and dark golden dogs and grey cats and maids and chauffeurs and innumerable articles of luggage. I have scarcely had two words with you. I no longer know where I have my head. But look after my uncle and see that the laundress does not return the table in him black. Mire, Mamazot Phyllis, said Martin. Lucilla, pink and white and leopard-coated, shook hands with Begoudin, thanked him for his hospitality and reassured him as to the perfect safety of Phyllis. She stepped into the car. Martin arranged the rugs and closed the door. She held at her hand to him. We meet in Egypt. She said in a low voice. As the car drove off, she turned round and blew a gracious kiss to the little group. Voilá, c'un petit dossier d'American, said Begoudin, with puff and away goes Phyllis on her broomstick. Martin stood shocked at hearing his definitive aligned as a witch. Here am I, continued Begoudin, between pretty sheets. I have no longer a housekeeper seeing that Madame Toulié rendered herself unbearable. However, he shrugged his shoulder resignedly. We must get on by ourselves as best we can. The trip will be good for the health of Phyllis. It will also improve her mind. She will stay in many hotels and observe their organization. From the moment that Martin returned to his duties he felt unusual lack of zeal in their performance. Deprived of the celestial presence the hotel de Grotte seemed to be stricken with a blight. The rooms had grown smaller and bearer, and the terrace stretched outside a bleak concrete wilderness. Often he stood on the bridge and repeated the question of the memorable evening. What was he doing there when the wide world was illuminated by a radiant woman? Suddenly Begoudin, Phyllis, the circle of the Café de l'Univers became alien in speech and point of view. He upgraded himself for basing gratitude. He realized more from casual talk with Begoudin than from sense of something wanting. The truth of Phyllis's last remark. In the usual intimate order of things she would have related her experiences of Chathra and Paris in which he would have manifested a more than brotherly interest. During her previous absence he thought much of Phyllis and had anticipated her return with a throb of the heart. The dismissal of Lucien video much as he admired the gallant ex-couracier pleased him mightily. He'd shared Begoudin's excitement over the escape from Chathra over Fort Imbrace's prohibition of the marriage over her return in motoring state. When she'd freed herself from Begoudin's embrace and turned to greet him the clasp of her two little hands on the sight of her eager little face had thrilled him. He had told her, as though she belonged to him, of the things he knew she was dying to hear. And then the figure of the American girl had walked through the door of the Salamange into his life. The days went on dullly shortening and darkening as they neared Christmas. Phyllis read letters to her uncle heartlessly filled with the magic of the south. Two letters from Lucille Emeriton decreed extension of her guest's visit. Begoudin began to lose his genial view of existence. He talked gloomily of France's unreadiness for war. There were thieves and traitors in the cabinet. Whole army corps were notoriously deficient in equipment and transport. It was enough, he declared, to make a patriarchy of Frenchmen commit protesting suicide in the lobby of the Chamber of Deputies. And what news had Martin received from Mademoiselle Coréna? Martin knew little, save that she was engaged in some mysterious work in London. But what is she doing? Quite Begoudin at last. I haven't the remotest idea, I don't want Monami, say Begoudin, the gloom of anxiety deepening on his brow. You do not think, by any chance, he hesitated before breathing the terrible surmise. You do not think she has made herself a suffragette? How can I tell? replied Martin, with Coréna all things are possible. Except to take command of the Hotel de Grotte, say Begoudin, and he sighed vastly. One evening he said, Grand Martin, I am feeling upset. Instead of going to the Café de l'Univers, let us have a glass of the Vieille Fin de Merigadier in the Petit Salon, while I have ordered Marie to make a good fire. The old liqueur brandy of the Brigadier was literally, from the market's standpoint, worth its weight in gold. In the seventies, Begoudin's father during the course of reparations had discovered, in a blocked and forgotten cellar, three almost evaporated casts bearing the inscription just decipherable beneath the mildew, in Brigadier's General Begoudin's old war-dog handwriting, Cognac 1812. His grandson, who had lost a leg and an arm in 1870, knew what was due to the brandy of the Grande Armée. Instead of filling up the casts with newer brandy and selling the result at extravagant prices, he reverently bottled the remaining contents of the three casts, on each bottle stuck a printed label setting forth the great history of the brandy, and stored the lot in a dry bin, which he charged his son to venerate as one of the sacred depositories of France in the family of Begoudin. Now, in any first-class restaurant in Paris, Monte Carlo, Éclement, you can get Napoleon brandy. The bottle, sealed with the still mind-stirring initial N on the neck, is uncorked solemnly before you in the kitchenry. It is majestic liquid, but not a drop of the distillation of the Napoleon grape is there. The casks once containing it have been filled and refilled for a hundred years. For brandy, unlike port, does not mature in bottle. The best 1812 brandy bottle that year would be today the same as it was then. But if it has remained for over 60 years in cask, you shall have a precious fluid of things or even emperors to taste. I doubt whether there are a hundred gallons of it in the wide, wide world. The proposal to open a bottle of the old brandy of the Brigadier portended a state of affairs so momentous that Martin gaped at the back of Begoudin on his way to the cellar. On the occasion of what high solemnity the last had been uncorked, Martin did not know. Certainly not on the occasion of the dinner of ceremony to the videos, in spite of the fact that the prospective bridegroom was Marchand-de-Vin, a guru, and was expected by Begoudin to produce at the return dinner some of his famous chombatins. Come, said Begoudin, cobbled a bottle in hand, and Martin followed him into the primitel sanal. From a cupboard whose glass doors were veiled with green pleated silk he produced two mighty court goblets which he set down on a small table and to each poured about a cherry glass of the precious brandy. Like this, he explained, we do not lose the perfume. Martin sipped. It was soft like wine and the delicate flavour lingered deliciously on tongue and palate. I liked to think, said Begoudin, that it contains the soul of the grand army. They sat in stiff arm-chairs covered in stamped velvet, worn on each side of the wood-fire. My friend, said Begoudin, lighting a cigarette. I am not as contented with the world as perhaps I ought to be. I had an interview with Monsieur Vidiot today which distressed me a great deal. The two families had been friends and the videos have supplied us with wine on an honourable understanding for generations. But the understanding was purely mercantile and did not involve the sacrifice of a virgin. La paire Vidiot seems to think that it did. I exposed to him the disinclination of Phillies and the impossibility of obtaining that which is necessary according to the law the consent of our parents. He threw the parents to the four winds of heaven. He conducted himself like a man bereft of reason. Always beware of the obstinacy of a flat-headed man. What was the result of the interview? asked Martin. We quarrelled for good and all. We quitted each other as enemies. He sent round his clock this afternoon with his account and I paid it in cash down to the Larsson team. And now I shall have to go to the Maison Prunier of Perigiot who are incapable of any honourable understanding and will try to sublime him with abominable beverages which will poison and destroy a mightly on Del. Recklessly he finished his brandy and poured himself out another portion. Then he passed the bottle to Martin. Sir Trois said he using for the first time the familiar second-person singular. Martin was startled but said nothing. They didn't remember that Bigoda contrary to his usual abstemious habits had been supplied at dinner with a cradled court of Old Coton which awakes generosity of sentiment towards their fellows in the hearts of men. Mon brave he remarked after a pause my heart is full of problems which I cannot resolve and I have no one to turn to but yourself. I appreciate your saying so very much replied Martin but why not consult our wise and experienced friend Fortenbras? Voila! Waving a great hand it is he who sets me the greatest problem of all. Why do you think I have let Felice go away with that pretty whirlwind of an American? Martin stiffened not knowing whether this was a disparagement of Lucila but Bigoda heedless continued it is because she is very unhappy and it is out of human power to give her consolation you are a gentleman and a man of honour I will oppose in you a sacred confidence but that which I am going to tell you you will swear never to reveal to a living soul. Martin gave his word Bigoda without touching on long past sorrows described the visitor Felice to the room O'Grabin it was my sister said he for years sunk at the degradation of Duncaness so rare among French women that his madness covered too often he has gone away to be cured with no effect I have urged my brother and ought to put her away permanently in amazement de santé but he has not been willing it was he he maintains who in far off unhappy days when over a garçon he lifted his elbow to often himself gave her the taste for alcohol for that reason he treats her with consideration and even tenderness c'est beau and he himself, you must have remarked has not drunk anything but water for many years of course said Martin and his mind went back to his first meeting with Fort Embraer to the lonely Petit Cornuchon when the latter imbibed such prodigious quantities of raspberry syrup and water it seemed very long ago Bigordar went on talking and so said he at last you see the unhappy situation which Fort Embraer's like a true drunk Iote had arranged between himself and Felice she retains the sacred ideal of her mother but holds in horror very naturally the father whom she has always adored it is a bleeding wound in her innocent little soul what can I do Martin was deeply moved by the pitifulness of the tale poor little Felice how much she must have suffered would it not be better said he to sacrifice a phantom mother for that's what it comes to for the sake of a living father Bigordar agreed that Fort Embraer's expressly forbade such a disclosure in this he sympathized with Fort Embraer's although the mother was his own flesh and blood truly he had not been lucky in sisters one a Bigord and the other an alcolyke he expressed sombre views as to the family of which he was the soul male survivor seeing that his wife had given him no children and that he had not the heart to marry one of the damsels of the neighbourhood he bewailed the end of the good old name of Bigordar but perhaps it were best for who could tell if he begat a couple of children whether one would not be afflicted with alcoholic and the other with religious mania to begat brave children for France a man, none did you must put forth all the splendour or audacity of his soul how could he do so when the only woman who could conjure up within him the said splendour and audacity would have nothing to do with him to fall in love with a woman was a droll affair but if you loved her you loved her however little she responded it was a species of marriage which must be supported with courageous resignation he sighed and poured out a third glass of the brandy of the brigadier Martin did likewise thinking of the woman whose white fingers held the working of the splendour and audacity of the soul of Martin over-sure he felt drawn into brotherly sympathy with Bigordar but for the life of him he could not see how anybody could be dependent for soul provisions with splendour and audacity upon Carina Hastings the humbly aspiring fellow moved him to patronising pity Martin strove to comfort him with specious words of hope but Bigordar's mental condition was that of a man to whom wallowing in despair alone brings consolation he'd been suffering from a gathering avalanche of misfortunes first had come his rejection followed by the unsatisfied longing of the devout lover he cannot be denied, however, that he'd borne himself ganantly then the fading of his dream of the video-alliance had filled him with dismay Felice's adventure in the room Ogrebin and its resulting situation had caused him sleepless nights Lucilla Meritan had taken him up between her fingers and twiddled him round thereby depriving him of volition and, having put him down in a state of bewilderment had carried off Felice and to-day last accretion that set the avalanche rolling his old friend Video had called him a breaker of honourable understandings and had sent a clerk with his bill the avalanche swept him into the sly of disbond wherein he lay solacing himself with hopeless imaginings and the old brandy of the Bigordar but human instinct made him beckon to Martin called him to and bid him to keep an eye on the quagmire and stretch out a helping hand he also had in view a subtle and daring scheme More brav am I said he when I die his poor face assumed an expression of infinite woe and he spoke as though he were seventy what will become of the Hotel Ligurot Felice will benefit principally bien entendu by my will but she will marry one of these days and will follow her husband who probably will not want to concern himself with hotel keeping he'd lance shrewdly at Martin who regarded him with unmoved placidity to think that the hotel would be sold and all its honourable traditions changed would break my heart I would not like to die without any solution of continuity but my dear Bigordar said Martin what are you thinking of you're a young man you're not stricken with a fatal malady you're not going to die thirty perhaps forty years before you and the course of which all kind of things may happen Bigordar then forward and stretched out his great arm across the far place until his fingers touched Martin's knee do you know what is going to happen war is going to happen next year the year after five years hence but it has to come all these pacifists and anti-militarists are either arm-bacille or traitors that are not dreaming madhouse dreams of the millennium of filling their pockets of the latter there are some in high places there is going to be war I tell you and many people are going to die and with the bugle sounds I put on my old uniform and marched to the cannon's mouth like my father's before me and why shouldn't I die like my brother in Morocco tell me that in spite of his intimacy with the sturdy thought of provincial France I could not realise how the vague imminence of war could affect so closely the personal life of an individual Frenchman no matter said Bigordar after a short discussion I have to die some day it was not to argue about the probable date of my decease that I have asked you to honour me with this special conversation I have expressed to you quite frankly the motives which actuate me at the present moment I have done so in order that you may understand why I desire to make you a business proposition a business proposition echo Martin we mon ami he replenished Martin's enormous beaker and his own and gave the toast alon tante courriel between our nations and between our two selves lest the uninitiated may regard this sitting as a dram drinking orgy it must be borne in mind that in such brandy as that of the Brigadier strength has melted into the gracious melanis of old age the fiery spirit that the Continier or the Vivandier of 1812 served out of her little waist-slung battle to the warriors of the Grand Armée was now but a fragrant memory of battles long ago a business proposition repeated Bigordar and forthwith began to develop it it was the very simplest business proposition in the world why should not Martin invest all or part of his little heritage in the sentry-old and indubitably flourishing business of the Hotel de Grotte and become a partner with Bigordar lawyers would arrange the business details in this way whether Bigordar met with a gory death within the next two or three years or a peaceful one a quarter of a century hence he would be reassured that there were no solution of continuity in the honourable tradition of the Hotel de Grotte it was then that Martin fully understood the solemnity of the occasion the pétis salon with the far especially lit the brigadier brandy the preparatory revelation of the sole state of Bigordar the unexpectedness of the suggestion however dazed him he said politely my dear friend your proposal that I should associate myself with you in this business is a personal compliment which I shall never cease to appreciate but but what? I must think over it not really, said Bigordar one would be a linitor, a butterfly instead of a man if one took a step like that without thinking but at least the idea is not disagreeable to you of course not, replied Martin the only question is how should I get the money your little heritage, Pablo but that is a console wront anglais I'd only get my dividends twice a year you could sell out tomorrow or the next day and get the whole in banknotes or golden sovereigns I suppose I could, said Martin not till then had he realised the simple fact that if he chose he could walk about with a sack of a thousand sovereigns over his shoulder he had taken it in an unspeculative way for granted that the capital remained locked up behind impassable doors in the Bank of England instinct however restrained him for confessing to Bigordar such innocence in business affairs if I did not think it would be a safe year as in the hands of the British Government I would not make the suggestion Martin started upright in his chair my dear friend I know that he cried it genuously horrified lest you should be thought to suspect Bigordar's good faith and you would no longer wear that costume Bigordar smiled and waved a hand towards the dress suit which is beginning to show signs of wear said Martin he glanced down and caught sight of the offending splotch of grease the quick association of ideas caused a vision of Lucila to pass before his eyes he heard her rich deep voice we meet in Egypt but how the deuce could they meet in Egypt or in any other Lucila-lit spot on the earth if he started in keeping with Bigordar and tied himself down for life to Brontôme a chill ran down his spine Emile said Bigordar, recording him to the Petit Salon Martin had an inspiration of despair I should like, said he to talk the matter over with Fortembrass it is what I should advise said Bigordar heartily you can go to Paris whenever you like and now non pas non plus I feel much happier than at the beginning of the evening it is the brandy of the bravo Brigadier let us empty the bottle and drink to the repose of his soul he would ask nothing better End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of The Wonderful Year by William John Locke this LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Simon Evers Chapter 15 the days went on and nothing more was said of the proposal it being understood that, as soon as Felice had wrought order out of chaos for a second time Martin should consult with Fortembrass his bankers his solicitors and other eminent advisors they resumed their evening visits to the Café de l'Univers where Bigordar and Mr. Video sat as far apart as was consonant with membership of the circle on meeting they saluted each other with elaborate politeness with the other as Monsieur when occasion required interchange of speech everyone knew what had happened and, as everyone was determined that the strained relations between them should not interfere with his own personal comfort nobody cared the same games were played the same arguments developed a favourite theme was the probable action of the socialists on the outbreak of war some held, Mr. Video among them, that they would refuse to take up arms and would spread councils of ignominy among the people the professor of the École Normale allowed to express latitudinarian views on a kind of his philosophic position was of opinion that the only safeguard against the European war lay in the solidarity of the international socialist brotherhood the Brassian drill sergeant said the Mayor will soon see that there is no solidarity as far as Germany is concerned ah, we have no drill sergeants the sous-officier is under the officer who is under the general who is bought by the men we are so besotted as to put into power to play into the hands of the enemy our socialists would leave to their infamous principles thus declared, Mr. Video who was a reactionary republican and regarded socialism and radicalism and anti-clericism as punishments inflicted by an outraged heaven on a stiff-necked generation the socialists will betray us he cried Mr. Video replied big order loftily you are wrong to accuse the loyalty of your compatriots I am not a socialist I as everyone knows hold their mischievous ideas in detestation but I have faith in the human soul there's not a socialist not an anarchist, not even an Apache who when the German cannon sounds in his ears will not rush to shed his blood in the defence of the sacred soil of France Bravo! cried one c'est bien d'y cried another after all, the soil is in the blood Mr. Kazensak, the landlord who stood listening said with a certain gas-core mordancy scratch even a minister and you will find a Frenchman and so the discussion and who shall say it was a profitless one went on evening after evening as it had gone on in some sort of fashion conditioned by circumstances for over forty years on Christmas Eve came Felice convoyed as far as Peugeot where Bigorda met her train by the promised man from Cooks it was a change, little Felice flushed with health and armoured in sophistication that greeted Martin her first preoccupation was no longer the disasters that might have occurred under helpless male rule during her absence I've had the time of my life she's hurted with a curious and lazy accent it would take weeks to tell you Monte Carlo is too heavenly for words Lucilla committed perjury and swore I was over twenty-one and got me into the rooms and into the sports club and what do you think? I won a thousand francs she tapped her bosom I have it here in good French money Martin stared the face was the face of Felice but the voice was the voice of Lucilla the English too of Felice was no longer her pretty halting speech but fluent as though by her frequentation of English-speaking folk all the old vocabulary of childhood had returned together with sundry accretions she rattled off a succinct account of the loveliness of the azure coast with its flowers and seas and sunshine the motor-drives she'd taken for lunches, dinners and suppers she'd eaten the people she had met Lucilla seemed to have friends everywhere mainly English and American they had seldom been alone Felice had lived all the time in a social world you will find Brant Aum very downer Felice, said Martin she laughed if you think my head's turned you're mistaken it's a little head more solid than that then, growing serious what I have seen and heard yonder in a different sort of world will enable me to form a througher judgment of things in Brant Aum because I came near the truth when he remarked later with a smile and a sigh here is our little girl transformed in a twinkling into a woman she has acquired the art of hiding her troubles and of mocking at her tears she would tell me henceforward only what it pleases her that I should know Felice took up her duties cheerfully performing them with the same thoroughness as before but with a certain new and sedate authority a pretty assumption of dignified command had given place to calm assertion if he me and Baptiste accustomed to girlish repukes and rejoinders grumbled at the new phase when Felice cut short the hitherto wanted argument by a my bon new Femi, the way it is to be done is the way I wanted to done I marched off like a duchess unperturbed Femi shook her head I wondered whether she was still in the same situation in her attitude towards Martin she became more formal as a mistress and more superficial as a friend she caught the trick of easy talk which might have disconcerted him had the world been the same as it was before the advent of Lucilla but the world had changed he lived in Brontaum an automatic existence his body there, his spirit far away his mind dwelt little on any possible deepening or hardening in the character of Felice so her altered attitude that he could not help noticing it caused him no disturbance he thought casually compared with the men she has met in the great world I am but a person of mediocre interest the new year came in heralded by snow and ice all over Europe beneath the steel blue sky Brontaum looked pinched with cold the hotel was almost empty and Martin found it hard to occupy long hours of chilly idleness otherwise than by dreaming of Lucilla and palms and sunshine Lucilla of course was always under the palm of her Lucilla of course was always under the palms and the palms were in the sunshine and he was talking to Lucilla alone with her in the immensities of the desert when he had dreamed long enough he shivered for the Hotel de Grotte still depended for warmth on wood fires there was no central heating and the bath in the famous bathroom received hot water through a gas geezer and then he wondered whether the time had not come for him to make his momentous journey to Paris I've had a letter from Miss Meriton," said Felice one day she asked for news of you and sends you her kind regards Martin, who in shirt sleeves in April was laying tables on the Salamange flushed at his goddess's message it's very good of her to remember me oh she remembers you right enough said Felice that meant that his goddess must have spoken of him not only once but on various occasions she carried him so far in her thoughts she was interested in his doings did her words imply a veiled query as to his journey into Egypt her lover reads an infinitive significance in his mistress's most casual utterance but blandly fails to interpret the obvious tone in which the woman with whom he is not in love makes an acid remark where is Miss Meriton now? he asked she informed him coldly not at all with the air of the wild flowers from which alpine honey is made the Lucilla was sailing next week for Alexandria and said she as I am a sort of messenger what reply shall I make Martin who had developed a lover's cunning answered give her my respectful greetings and say that I am very well no form of words could be less compromising that same evening on their cold way back from the Café de l'univers Bigorda said using as he had done since the night of the intimate conversation the two of familiarity now that Felice has returned and all goes on wheels and business is slack don't you think it is a good opportunity for you to go to Paris for your holiday and your consultations I will go the day after tomorrow replied Martin have you told Felice of your proposed journey? not yet said Martin when you tell her say it is for the sake of a change of little affairs what you will it is better that she should not know of our scheme until it is all arranged I think that would be wiser said Martin in the event of your accepting my proposition said Bigorda after a pause have you ever thought of the possibility of becoming a naturalized Frenchman? like that perhaps business might roll more smoothly we already spoken you and I of your becoming a good Betty Gordon Martin hands in pockets and shoulders hunched so as to obtain ear-shelter beneath the upturned collar of his great coat was silent for a few moments then nationality is a strange thing said he the more I live in France the more proud I am of being an Englishman Bigorda sprang a pace apart wounded to the quick may not part his own blur you of all men and it was the vow of formality ought not to say that may cut to a bet you must understand me you don't let me proceed grud Martin halting before him the semi-darkness of the key in France I have learned the meaning of the word patriotism I have been surrounded here with the love of country and I have reflected this impulse is so strong in all French hearts ought it not to be as strong in the heart of an Englishman France has taught me the finest of lessons I am as loyal a Frenchman as any of our friends of the Café de l'Univers but adapting a vague reminiscence of the lyric to Lucasta I should not love France so much if I did not love England more mon brava me cried Bigorda holding out both hands in a Frenchman's instinctive response to a noble sentiment adequately expressed pardon me let us say no more about it the two Englishmen who loves France is a better friend to us than the Englishman who has lost his love for England Martin went to bed in a somewhat tortured frame of mind he was very simple very honest very conscientious it was true that the flame of French patriotism had kindled the fire of English patriotism within him it was true that he had learned to love this sober, intense, kindly land of France it was true that he was a generous bosom of France willing to enfold him an alien one of her own sons but it was equally true that in his ears rang a clarion call sounded not by mother England not by foster mother France but by un petit soucier américain a fair witch neither of England nor of France but probably on the estranging seas and the day after tomorrow he was joining to Paris to take the advice of Forte Brass Marchand de Bonheur what would the dealer in happiness decide to wait until some turn of fortune's wheel should change his career and set him free to wander forth across the world or to invest his all in an inglorious, though comfortable future either way there would be heart-racking but Pigaudin, as he was cured that Hotel de Grotte with locks and bolts whistled Marbreux en va t'en guerre a sign of his being pleased with existence he had no doubt of Forte Brass' decision Forte Brass had practically given it in a letter he had received that afternoon for he had told Forte Brass his proposal which was based on the certainty of a marriage between Felice and Martin as soon as the latter should find himself in a position that would warrant a declaration up to now impossible to a man of delicate honour they think I am an old mole he had written but for certain things I have the eyes of a hawk he suddenly refused Lucien Vidiot why has Martin, during her last absence been in a state of depression lamentable to behold and now that Felice has returned changed from a young girl into that thing of mystery, a woman why are their relations once so fraternal marked by an exquisite politeness and why must Martin travel painful hours in a train in order to consult the father of Felice tell me all that when it comes to real diplomacy mon vieux Daniel rusts the solid head of Gaspar Bigoda which I exert affords of glimpse into the workings of a subtle yet ingenuous mind he hummed Marbreux en varte en guerre as he went upstairs the little American witch never crossed his thoughts nor did a possible application of the line the séquence revientrare the high gods hold this world in an uncertain balance and whenever they agree to turn things topsy-turvy they have only to flick it the myriadieth part of a millimetre the very next day they gave it such a flick and it was Bigoda and not Martin who went to Paris my betty Felice, said Bigoda the next day I have received this morning from Paris a telegram dispatched last night summoning me dither on urgent business I may be away three or four days during which I have arranged for the excellent Madame Chauvet who devoted such maternal curty on the journey to Châtres to stay here pour les convenances the subtle diplomatiste smiled so that when she questioned him as to the nature of this urgent business and he replied that it was a worrying matter of lawyers and stock-brokers she accepted at the explanation but to Martin mon pauvre ami said he with werbigon face it is the mother of Felice lying a syncope we must not let Felice know or she would insist on accompanying me which would be impossible Martin took a detached view of the situation why he asked she is a woman now and able to accept her share in the tragedy of life with courage and with reason why not let her go and learn the truth Bigoda waved a gesture of despair I detest like you this deception lying is as foreign to my character as to yours but Chauvet too in the tragedy of my brother-in-law there is something at once infinitely piteous and sublime in a matter like this the commands of her father are sacred ha! my poor Cecille said he passing a great hand swiftly across his eyes twenty years ago what a pretty girl she was of a character somewhat difficult and bizarre but I loved her more than my sister Clotilde who had all the virtues of the petty rosea he fetched a deep sigh when he is bound to believe in the eternal wisdom of the old powerful there is nothing between that and the lunatic of a priest of an almighty mad goat that is why I hold to Christianity and embark on this terrible journey with fortitude and resignation he held out his packet of bastos to Martin they lit cigarettes to give this confidential information he draw Martin into the market little bureau whose window looked upon the sad grey vestibule I am sorry he said that your holiday has to be postponed but it will only be for a few days in the meantime I live feliz in the loyal care of yourself and the good Madame Chauvet Bigorda went to Paris and deposited his valise at a little hotel in a little street of the Boulevard Sebastopol generations of Bigorda's had stayed perhaps even the famous Brigadier General himself where the proposed entertainment of an Englishman would have caused the host as much consternation as that of a giraffe where the beds were spotless the cuisine irreproachable and other arrangements of a beloved and venerable antiquity here the good Berigorda found a home from his home in Berigord the last thing a solid and virtuous citizen of Central France desires to do in Paris is to Parisianise himself the solid and virtuous inhabitants of Berigord went to the hotel de l'Arc d'Ordoigne which flourishes now and feeds its customers as succulently as it did a hundred years ago having deposited his valise at this historic hostelary Bigorda proceeded to the Rue Mograbine he had never been there before and his heart sank as the heart of Felice had sunk when he mounted the grimy icy stairs and sought the home of Fortenbras his sister Clotilde severe and awful morning admitted him engaged him in a ghostly embrace and conducted him into the poverty-stricken living-room where Fortenbras in rusty black and dingy white tie stood waiting to receive him unfortunately my dear Gaspar said Fortenbras you are not in time he opened the flimsy door but matched poor partition Bigorda entered the bedroom and there with blinds drawn and candles burning at head and feet lay all that remained of Cecile de Fortenbras he returned soon afterwards drying his eyes for memories of childhood have brought tears he rung Fortenbras by the hand here Montvieu Daniel is a very sad end of a life that was somewhat tragic but you can console yourself with the thought of your long devotion and tenderness Clotilde Robinot tossed her head and sniffed I don't see around me much evidence of those two qualities your approach is called healed said Fortenbras I was just as Gaspar's consolation is generous I'm glad you know it at last that it was you who dragged my unfortunate sister down to this misery Fortenbras made no reply lives like this one must understand and pardon as Bigorda had done nothing that he could say could mitigate the animosity of Clotilde which he had originally incurred by marrying her sister she would be moved by no pleading that it was his wife's extravagance and intemperance that had urged him to the mad tampering with other people's money money honestly repaid with other people's money wrongly for a time which had caused him to be struck off the role of solicitors a disgraced man she would have retorted that had he not been addicted to moisson acolique a term which in France always means fiery spirits and had he not led the life of the theater and the restaurant Cecile would have been sober and thrifty like herself and Gaspar and Fortenbras would have beat his breast saying may our culpa he might have pleaded the after years of ceaseless struggle but to what end his wife was laid beneath the ground Clotilde would gather together her skirts and pass forever out of his life Bigorda knew of his remorse his home of unending horror his efforts ever frustrated the weight of his feet that not only prevented him from rising but dragged him gradually down down down but even Bigorda who had not been to Paris for ten years had not appreciated till now the depth of Fortenbras and his sister had sunk his last visit to them had been painful a drunken, dishevelled hostess especially when she is your own sister does not make for charm but they lived in a reputable apartment at Ooty and there was a good carpet on the floor the cellar and chairs and tables such as a found in Christian dwellings and on the mantelpiece stood the omelute clock and on the walls hung the pictures how had they come down to this? he shivered cold and ill at ease as you must be hungry after your long journey Gaspar said Madame Robinot I should advise you to go out to a restaurant the cuisine at the Femme de Journée I do not recommend for me I must keep watch and it being Friday I fast as usual Fortenbras made no pretence at hospitality had he been able to set forth a banquet he felt that every morsel would have been turned into stone by the basilisk eyes of Clotilde both men rose simultaneously glad to be free they went out, took an omelibus haphazard and eventually entered a restaurant in the neighborhood of the Tour Sorgeac mon vieux Daniel said big order as soon as they were seated tell me frankly for I do not understand how comes it that you are in these the redful straights Fortenbras smiled sadly well earned little by translating from French into English and still less by dispensing happiness to youth but big order hesitated but you have had other resources not much certainly but still something what do you mean said Fortenbras you can have that in five years since you scattered her own diary to the winds and left me at the edge of a whirlpool of debt all of my own I could scrape together and borrow I threw in to save myself from prison she had no heritage from her father on what else can we have lived save on my precarious earnings big order both elbows on the table plucked at its upstanding bristles and gazed intently at Fortenbras ever since the great misfortune when you returned to France Cessille has had her own income you are dreaming Gaspar from what source could she obtain an income from me Pablo I always thought my father's will was unjust Cessille should have had her share when I thought she needed assistance I arranged with my lawyer through Dupuis, 33 Rue des Augustins Paris to allow her 5,000 francs a year in monthly instalments and I know sacre bleu that it has been paid Fortenbras also put his elbows on the table and the two men looked close into each other's faces I know absolutely nothing about it Cessille does not have one penny that I have not given to her it is horrible to speak like this said Bigorda but one cannot drink to excess without spending much money where did she get it there are alcohols unknown to the Hotel de Grotte and it takes little money to buy to get that little she's pawned the sheets off the bed non de cheu said Bigorda it was a miserable meal ending almost in silence when it was over they called it the cabinet of Metro Dupuis they found everything in order every month for years past Madame Fortenbras had received the son of 416 francs 65 Sontime she had come personally for the money Metro Dupuis remembered his first interview with Madame she had expressly forbidden him to send the money to the house let's just have fallen to the hands of her husband he infinitely regretted to make such a statement in presence of monsieur but those were the facts all this is evidence in favour of what I told you said Fortenbras I never doubted you and this is proof but what can she have done with all that money it was a mystery they went back to the room of Rabine on the way Fortenbras asked why have you never told me what you were doing I took it for granted that you knew and that par delicatess the subject was not to be mentioned between us and Clotilde? the bigorda was one of those who kept the left-handed ignorance of the generous actions of the right he threw out his great arms to the disturbance of pedestrian traffic he told Clotilde what did you take me for a day or two of continuous strain and hopelessness and then under the auspices of the Pompfounebre and the clergy of the Paris the poor body of Cécile Fortenbras was laid to rest not till then did anyone send word to Felice even Madame Robbineau agreed that it was best she should not know as she had left Chathre self-willed and ungovernable so on the receipt of the news of her mother's death might she leave Brontorm? her appearance amid these squalid happenings would be inconvinable I have no reason to love Felice she added but she's a young girl of our family and she should see such things when the train carrying Madame Robbineau back to Chathre steamed out of the garb Montparnasse both men drew a breath of relief Amonemi, said Bigoda the Bible taught the church the beautiful history of Jesus Christ the church told a bishop the bishop told a priest the priest told the wife of the sub-prefect the wife of the sub-prefect told the wife of the mayor the wife of the mayor told the elderly the young girl and the unmarried sister of the corn chandler told Latille and that's all she, Latille knows about Christianity still, he added in his judicious way she is a woman of a remarkable virtue she has a strong sense of duty without a particle of love animating her heart she has just spent three days and nights without sleep, food or fresh air it's fine all the same I am not ungrateful said Fortebras they entered a cafe for the sake of shelter from the bitter January wind and they talked, as they had done lately of many intimate things of the past of Martin, of the immediate future Fortebras would not accompany Bigoda to Bronteau his presence would only add poignancy to the grief of Felice it was more impossible now than ever to undeceive her as one could not speak ill of the dead now he would remain in Paris where he had much to do first he must move from the room of Grubin the place will be haunted besides, what did one old vagabond want with two rooms and a kitchen he would sell his few belongings and take a furnished room somewhere among the chimney-pots Bigoda lifted his petit verre of armeniac and forgetting all about it, put it down again what I am going to tell you said he may seem cynical but it is only common sense do not leave a room of Grubin without having searched every corner every box, every garment every piece of furniture search? what for? the little economies of Cécile said Bigoda Fortebras put up a protesting hand instinct revolted impossible, he declared Bigoda persisted although you have lived long in the country and have been married to a French woman you do not know, like myself who has it in my veins of what the peasant blood of France is capable where money is concerned it is impossible on her own showing that Cécile should have spent 5,000 francs a year you have seen for yourself that she received the money what has she done with it? he leaned across the table and with great forefinger tapped the shoulder of Fortebras she has hoarded it there in the room of Grubin Fortebras shook his Leonine head it was absurd in the olden days when she had money had she not scattered it recklessly Bigoda agreed but then said he used drug misfortune poverty did you not observe a change in her habits and in her character? of course we have often spoken of it it was the outer trappings of the bourgeois that had disappeared and the peasant had hoarded it herself for many years my father supported my mother's mother a peasant from Lobos who gave out that she was penniless when she died they accidentally found the mattress of her bed stuffed with a little fortune the blood of Grandmaire Didier ran into the veins of Cécile and Cécile, like all the family knew of the fortune of Grandmaire Didier all that in Fortebras was half forgotten buried beneath the rubbish heap of years again protested his gently nurtured childhood his smooth English home his impeccable Anglo-Indian father Major General Fortebras who had all the servants in morning and evening for family prayers and read the lessons in the little village church on Sundays his school days, Winchester with his noble traditions all, as we English understand it that goes to the making of an honourable gentleman if Pactolus damned by his wife pored through the kitchen taps he would not turn them it is I then that will do it, c'est pigardin I am not anti-Semarite in any way but to present a due dealer who is already very well off with many thousands of francs is the act of an imbecile he tossed off his glass of almanac beckoned the waiter threw down the coins for payment and rose anon, said he Pactolus exhausted in mind and soul followed him an auto-taxi took them to the room over a carbine the desolate and haggard thumbed the journey was restoring the house of death to some sort of aimless order pigardin put a ten franc piece into her hand that is for you come back in two hours time the woman went the two men were left alone in the wretched little room a black and faded wallpaper from its bare floor from the greasy plush couch with one maimed leg stuck in an old salmon tin Fortebras threw himself for the familiar recklessness on the latter article of furniture and covered his eyes with his hand a quarter of a century is a long time my dear Gaspard said he a quarter of a century's daily and nightly intimate associations with another human being leaves a deep imprint in one's soul I have been very unhappy it is true but I have never been so unhappy and so hopeless as I am now let me be for a little my head is stupefied Montpauvre review Sibigorda very gently he lanced around and seeing a blanket which Lothield had used during her vigil neatly folded by the thumb the journey and laid upon a wooden chair he threw it over the recumbent Fortebras Montpauvre review Montpauvre review you are exhausted stay there and go to sleep the very wary man closed his eyes two hours later the thumb the journey appeared Bigorda with his finger to his lips pointed to the sleeper and told her to come in the morning it was then six o'clock in the afternoon Bigorda wrapped him whatever coverings he could find dozed in a rickety arm chair for many hours until Fortebras awoke with the start I must have fallen asleep he said I am very sorry what is the time Bigorda pulled out his watch a midnight said he Fortebras rose past both hands over his white flowing hair I too like Lothield having slept for two or three nights sleep came upon me all of a sudden let me see he touched his broad forehead you brought me back here for some purpose I did said Bigorda, come and see he took the lamp from the table and let his brother anoint to the bedroom I told you so said he pointing to the bed the upper ticking had been ripped clean away and there in the horsehair on the side where Cécile had slept were five or six odd little nests and each nest was stuffed tight with banknotes and gold it's all yours said Fortebras Bigorda swinging arms like a windmill swept imbeciles like Fortebras to the thirty-two points of the compass it is the property of Cécile I have nothing to do with it I am a man of honour, not a scoundrel it belonged to Cécile it now belongs to you they argued for a long time until sheer hunger said them forth and over supper in a little restaurant of the quarter they argued Fortebras Bigorda very wearied retired to the hotel de la Dordogne and Fortebras returned to the Rue Maudrobine to find himself the unwilling possessor of about two thousand pounds end of Chapter 15