 Chapter 9 Behold Martin, the Professor, transformed into the perfect waiter—perfect at least in zeal, manner, and habiliment. His dress-suit of ardent cut but practically amour gave the Salamange an air of startling refinement and prosperity. At first, Begorda, embarrassed by the shifting of the relative position, had deprecated this outer symbol of servitude. A man could wait in a lounge-suit just as well as in a tailcoat, a proposition which Fortinbras vehemently controverted. He read his perplexed brother-in-law a lecture on the psychology of clothes. They had a spiritual significance, bringing subjective and objective into harmony. A judge could not devote his whole essence to the administration of justice if he were conscious of being invested in the glittering guise of a Harlequin. If Martin wore the tweeds of the tourist he would feel inharmonious with his true waiter's self, and therefore could not wait with the perfect waiter's spiritual deftness. Besides, he had not counseled his disciple to wait as an amateur. The way of the amateur was perdition. No, when Martin threw his napkin under his left arm he should flick a bit of his heart into its folds, like a true professional. "'O range it as you like,' said the weary Begorda.' Fortinbras arranged, and Martin became outwardly the perfect waiter. Of the craft itself he had much to learn chiefly under the guidance of Begorda, and sometimes under the shy instruction of Phillies. Its many calls on intelligence and bodily skills surprised him. To balance a piled-up tray on one bent-back hand required the art of a juggler. He practiced for days with a tray full of bricks before he trusted himself with plates and dishes. By means of this exercise his arm became muscular. He discovered that the long gravestep of the professor, especially when he bore a load of eatables, did not make for the perfect waiter's celerity. He acquired the gentle arts of salad-making and folding napkins into fantastic shapes. He was very handy with his fingers, and, like most temperate young men in London lodgings, unaccustomed to the corkscrew, he found the clean prestigitation of cork-drawing a difficult accomplishment. But he triumphed eventually in this as in all other branches of his new industry. And he liked it. It amused and interested him. It was work of which he could see the result. The tables set before the meal bore testimony to his draft. Never had plate been so polished, cutlery so lustrous, glass so transparent in the hundred years history of the Hotel de Grotte. And when the guests assembled it was a delight to serve them according to organized scheme and disarmed criticism by demonstration of his efficiency. He rose early and went to bed late, tired as a draft-dog, and slept the happy sleep of the contented human. Biguardin praised him, but shrugged his shoulders. "'What are you doing it for, mon ami? I can't imagine.' "'For the good of my soul,' laughed Martin, and in order to attain happiness. "'Our good friend the English ought a wonderful race,' said Biguardin, "'and I admire them enormously, but there's not one of them who isn't a little bit mad.' To the coterie of the Café de l'univers, however, he gave a different explanation altogether of Professor Martin's dissent in the social scale. The Professor said he had abandoned the professoriate for the more lucrative paths of commerce, and it decided to open a hotel in England, where everyone knew the hotels were villainous and provided nothing for their clients but overdone bacon and eggs and raw beef steaks. The Professor, more enlightened than his compatriots, was apprenticing himself to the business in the orthodox continental fashion. As the substantial Gaspard Biguardin himself, sarn of the late equally substantially, although one armed and one-legged Arnabede Biguardin, had, to the common knowledge of Plonton, served as scullion, waiter, sous-chef to cuisine, sous-metres de l'hôtel, and bookkeeper at various hotels in Nioh, in order to become the bon hôtelier that he was. His announcement caused no sensation whatever. The Professor of the École Normale bewailed his own chill academic lot, and proclaimed Monsieur Martin an exceedingly lucky fellow. "'But, mon cher patron, it isn't true what you've said of the café de l'univers,' protested Martin, when Biguardin told him of the explanation. Biguardin waved his great arm. How am I to know it isn't true? How am I to get into the English minds of you and my farceur of a brother-in-law, so as to discover why you arrive as an honoured guest at my hotel, and then in the wink of an eye become the waiter of the establishment? What am I to say to my friends? They wouldn't care a hang, you se fichera pas mal, for your soul. If you are to continue to mix with them on terms of equality, they must have an explanation, non-de-du, which they can understand." "'I never dream,' said Martin, venturing the circle of the café again. "'Mais j'y éponce, c'est moi, animal,' cried Biguardin. "'Because you have the fantasy of becoming my waiter? Are you any less the same human being I had the pleasure of introducing to my friends?' And then, perhaps for the first time, Martin appreciated his employer's fine kindness and essential loyalty. It would have been quite easy for the inkeeper to dismiss his waiter from the consideration of the hierarchy of Bronteau, as a mad Englishman, and a venturer, not a professor at all, but a broken down teacher of languages giving private lessons, an odd job instructor who finds no respect in highly centralized bureaucratic France. But the easy way was not the way of Gaspard Biguardin. So Martin, driven by force majeure, lent himself to the pious fraud, and, when the evening's work was done, divested himself with his sable panoply of waiterdom, and once more took his place in the reserved cosy corner of the café de l'univers. The agreeable acidity in his life which he missed when Corinna, graciously dignified, had steamed off by the night train, he soon discovered in the pursuit of his new avocation. Euphémie, the cook whose surreptitious habits of uncleanniness carefully hidden from her lease, but unavoidably patent to an agonized Martin, supplied as much sarnice as his system required. She would not take him seriously, and declared her antipathy to un monsieur in her kitchen. To bring about an entente cordiale was for Martin an education in diplomacy. The irritability of a billiard's commercial traveller poisoned by infected nourishment at his last house of entertainment, the reason invariably given by digestive misadventure, so that his stomach was dislocated, often vented itself on the waiter, serving an irreportable repast of the hotel de grotte. The professional swallowing of outraged feelings also gave a sub-acid flavour to existence. Motrice, on the other hand, struck by his pruseness and polite demeanour, administered a pleasant tonic in the form of praise. They also bestowed Hampson tips. These caused him some misgiving. A gentleman could be a waiter or anything you pleased, so long as it was honest, and remain a gentleman. But could he take tips? Or rather, having taken tips, was it constant with his gentility to retain them? Would it not be nobler to hand them over to a baptist or eupheme? Bigauda appealed to, decided that it would be magnificent, but would inevitably disorganise these excellent domestics. Martin suggested the Assistan's public or the church poor box. I thought, said Bigauda, you became a waiter in order to earn your living. That is so, replied Martin. Then, said Bigauda, earn it like a waiter. Suppose I were the manager of a grand hotel and gave you nothing at all. As it is, your salary is not that of a prince. How would you live? You are a servant of the public. The public plays you for your services? Why should you be too proud to accept payment? But a tip's a tip, Martin objected. It is good money, said Bigauda. Keep your fine five frank pieces in your pocket, and el faronde petit, and a course of time you'll build with them an hotel on the Côte d'Azur. In a letter to Corinna, Martin mentioned the disquieting problem. Chafing in her crowded vicarage home, she offered little comfort. She made the sweeping statement that whether he kept his tips or not, the whole business was revolting. He wrote to Fortenbrass. The dealer in happiness replied on a postcard. Would you never learn that a sense of humour is the beginning and end of philosophy? After which, Martin having schooled himself to the acceptance of pour-bois, learned to pocket them with a professional air, and ended by regarding them as part of the scheme of the universe. As the heavens rained water on the thirsty fields, said it glance char silver coins on hungry waiters. How far as yet it was good for his soul he could not determine. At any rate, in his mild, unambitious way, he attained the lower rungs of happiness. I do not wish it to be understood that if he had entered as a stranger, say, the employment of the excellent proprietor of the excellent hotel de commerce, a peugeot, he would have found the same contentment of body and spirit. The alleviations of the hotel de grotte would have been missing. His employer, while acknowledging his efficiency, still regarded him as an eccentric professor, and apart from business relations, treated him as friend and comrade. The notables of the town accepted him as an equal. To the cave-dwellers and others of the preletariat with whom he had formed casual acquaintance, he was still Monsieur Martin, greeted with the same shade of courteous deference as before, although the whole population of Brontome knew of his social metamorphosis. Wherever he went, in his walks abroad, he met the genial smile and raised hat. He contrasted it all with the dire unwelcome of the North London streets. There he had always felt lost, a drab human item of no account. Here he had an identity pleasantly proclaimed. So would a sensitive long-sentence convict, B-2278, coming into the world of remembering men, rejoice that he was no longer a number, but that intensely individual entity, Bill Smith, recognized as a lover of staking kidney pudding. As a matter of fact, he seldom heard his surname. The refusal of B-goda's organs of speech to grapple with the Saxon over-sure had already been remarked upon. From the very first, B-goda decreed that he should be Monsieur Martin, Martin pronounced French fashion, and as Monsieur Martin he introduced him to the Café de l'Univers, and Monsieur Martin he was to all Brontome. But of what importance is a surname, when you're intimately known by your Christian name to all of your acquaintance? Who in the world, save his mother and the Hastings family, had for dreary ages past called him Martin? Now he was Martin, or Monsieur Martin, a designation which agreeably combined familiarity with respect, to all who mattered in Périgor. It must be remembered that it was an article of faith among the good Brontomeois, that, in Périgor, only Brontome mattered. You people are far too good to me, he remarked one day to B-goda. It is a large-hearted country. Did I not say, my friend, replied B-goda, that Périgor would take you to her bosom? And then there was Feliz, who in her capacity of task mistress, called him peremptorily Martin, but out of official hours nearly always prefixed the Monsieur. She created an atmosphere of grace around the plates and dishes. Her encouraging words sang for long afterwards in his ears. With a tact only to be found in democratic France, she combined the authority of the superior with the intellectual inferior's respect. Apparently she concerned herself little about his change of profession. Her father, the all-wise and all perfect, had ordained it. Her uncle, wise and perfect, had acquiesced. Martin, peculiarly wise and almost perfect, had accepted it with enthusiasm. Who was she to question the doings of inscrutable men? They met before small often than during his guesthood, and their common interests being multiplied, their relations became more familiar. They had reached now the period of the year's stress that of the great foie gras making, when fatted geese were slain, and the masses of swollen liver were extracted, and the huge baskets of black, warty truffles had brought him from the beach forests, where they had been hunted for by pigs and dogs. Martin, like everyone else in the household, devoted all his spare moments to helping in the steaming kitchen, supervised by a special chef, and in the long, clean smelling workroom where rows of white apron girls prepared and packed the delectable compound. Here Bigordale presided in Brownit Majesty, and Feliz bustled a smiling second-in-command. It is well to learn everything, she said to Martin. Who knows when you may be glad to have been taught how to make fatted foie gras? So, Martin, though such a course was not contemplated in his agreement with the Hotelier Grotte, received much instruction from her in the delicate craft, which was very pleasant indeed, and the girls looked on at the lessons after the way of their kind, and exchanged glances one with another, and every one, save perhaps Bigordale, who had not yet recovered his serenity overclouded by Carona's rejection of his suit, was exceedingly contented. And then, lo and behold, into this terrestrial paradise strayed the wandering feet of Lucien Viglio. Not that Lucien was unexpected, his father, Monsieur Viglio, Marchand-Devant-en-Graw, and one of the famous circles of the Café de l'Univers, had for the past month or two nightly proclaimed the approaching release of the young man from military service. Martin had heard of him. Bigordale, on their walks home together, had dilated on the heaven-decreed union of the two young people and the loneliness of his lot. Where would he find, at least, such a menagerre as Feliz? "'It's a pity Carona has no sense,' said Martin on one of these occasions. Bigordale heaved a mighty sigh. "'Ah, mon vieux,' said he, by way of answer. The sigh and the, ah, mon vieux, were eloquent of shattered ideals. There is always Madame Toulier, who used to help me when Feliz was little.' He continued, after a while, meditatively. She has experience, but she is as ugly as a monkey, the poor woman. Whereupon he sighed again, leaving Martin in doubt as to the exact position he intended the ill-favoured lady to occupy in his household. Anyhow, Martin was forewarned of the ex-warrior's advent. So was Feliz. "'But I cannot leave you, mon oncle,' she cried in dismay. "'What would become of you? Who would mend your linen? What would become of the hotel? What would become of the fabric?' "'Ah,' said he, snapping his fingers at such insignificant considerations, there is always the bra of Madame Toulier. But I thought you detested her as much as you could detest anybody. "'You are mistaken, mon offour,' replied Bigoda. "'I have a great regard for her. She has striking qualities. She is a woman of ripe age and much common sense.' Which shows how doubled-tongued men may be. "'C'est de vie, Pimbeche!' cried Feliz. "'Tais-toi!' said Bigoda severely, for a vielle Pimbeche means at the very least a horrid old tabby with her claws out. "'I won't be silent,' laughed Feliz rebelliously. "'C'est de vie, Pimbeche, and I'm not going to leave you to her. I don't want to leave you. I don't want to marry.' "'That is what all little girls say,' replied Bigoda. "'But when you see Lucien return, jolly garçon, holding his head in the air like a brave little soldier of France, and looking at you out of his honest eyes, you will no longer tell me. "'Je ne veux pas me marier, mon oncle!' She laughed at his outrageous mimicry of a modest little girl's accent. "'It's true all the same,' she retorted. "'I don't want to marry anybody, and Lucien, having seen all the pretty girls of Paris, won't want to marry me.' "'If he doesn't,' cried Bigoda pregnantly, "'if he dares.' "'Well, what then?' asked Feliz. "'I'll have a serious conversation with his father,' did Claire Bigoda. Thus both Martin and Feliz, as I have said, were forewarned. Yet neither took much notice of the warning. Martin had been aware all along of the destiny decreed for her by the omnipotent triumvirate consisting of her uncle, the bondue, and Monsieur Vidiot. And regarding her as being sealed to another, had walked with Martin-like circumspection, subject in days not long since past for Carina's Railery, along the borderline of the forbidden land of Tenderness. But this judicious and conscientious skirting had its charm. I would have you again realise that the eternal feminine had entered his life only in the guise, first of the kissed damsel who married the onion-loving plumber, secondly of Carina, by whose bow he been vastly terrified until he had taken successfully to saying bow himself, a process destructive for romantic regard, and thirdly of Feliz, a creature—he always remember Fortebrasse's prejudice description—like one of the wild flowers from which Alpine honey is made, and compact of notable, gentle, and adorable qualities. Naturally of the three he preferred Feliz. Feliz, for her part, like the well-brought-up damsel of the French bourgeoisie, never allowed her eyelids to register the flutterings of the heart which the mild young Englishman's society set in action. She scarcely admitted the flutterings to herself. Possibly, if he had been smitten with a fine frenzy of love-making, she would have been shocked. But as he showed respectful gratification of being allowed to consort with her, and gratitude for her little bits of sympathetic understanding, and as she found she could talk with him more spontaneously than with any other young man she had ever met, she sought, rather than avoided, the many daily opportunities for pleasant intercourse. And there was not the least harm in it. And the bogey of a Lucien, whom she had liked well enough years ago in a childish way, was still hundreds of miles from Montaume. In fact, they entered upon as pretty a daftness and chloe iddle as ever was enacted by a pair of innocence. Then, one fine day, as I have stated, in swaggered Lucien's video, ex-quadrillacier, and spoiled the whole thing. His actual hour of a swaggering into Martin's ken was unexpected, by Martin at any rate. He was playing backgammon with a professor at the École Normale, in the midst of elders discussing high matters of local politics. When all of a sudden an uproar arose among these grave and reverent seniors, clapping of hands and rattling on tables, and Martin, looking up from his throw of the dice, perceived the stout, square-headed, close-cropped Monsieur Vidiot, marchant devant en gros, his eyes sparkling at his cheeks flushed above his white mustache and imperial, advancing from the café-d'or, accompanied by his square-headed, close-cropped, sturdy, smiling, swaggeringly sheepish youthful replica. And when they reached the group, the young man bowed puncturiously before grasping each outstretched hand, and everyone called him mon brave, to which he replied, bien aimable, and Monsieur Vidiot presented him formally, mon ease qui vient de terminer son service militaire, de Monsieur Beauzeau, Professor à l'École Normale, a newcomer de Brontôme, and de Monsieur Martin, ancien professeur anglais. Whereupon Monsieur Lucien Vidiot declared himself enchanted at meeting the two learned gentlemen, and the two learned gentlemen reciprocated the emotion of enchantment. Then, amid scuffling of chairs and eager help of waiters, one was made for Monsieur Vidiot and Monsieur Lucien, and the proprietor of the café, Monsieur Cazonsac, swarthy, portly, and heavy-gild, a gas-corn from Agin, who, if the truth were known, took the good, easy folk of Pedi Gore under his protection, came up from behind the high, bottle-armamented counter, where Madame Cazonsac, fat and fair, prodigly beamed on the chance of a ray reaching the hero of the moment. Which happened, indeed, before Cazonsac could get in a word, and brought Lucien to his feet in a splendid spread of homage to the lady. Monsieur Cazonsac, I say, came up and grasped Lucien by the hand, and welcomed him back to the home of his father's. He turned to Monsieur Vidiot. Monsieur Ordres? Du Vendre Champagneux. Happy land, provincial France, where you order champagne as you order brandy and soda, and are contented when you get it. There is no worry about brand or vintage, whether the wine is brew or extra-sec. You just tell the good landlord to bring you champagne. And he produces the sweet, sticky, frothy, genuine stuff. And if you're a Frenchman, you're perfectly delighted. It is champagne, the wine of feasts, the wine of ceremony, the wine of ladies, the wine of toasts. Je livre mon verre. If the uplifted glass is not beaded with bubbles and winking at the brim, what virtue is there in the uplifting? It is all a symbolical matter of sparkle. So at the Café de l'Univers, Monsieur Cazonsac had disappeared portentously, and a few moments later reappeared, ever so much more portentously, followed by two waiters, one bringing the foot-high, sacred glasses, the other, the uncorked bottles, labelled for all who wished to know what they were drinking, Grand Champagne Day, with the wine proprietor's name inconspicuously printed in the right-hand bottom corner. All, including Monsieur Cazonsac, clinked, firming glasses at Lucien, and after he had sipped in his honour, they sipped again to the cries of Vive la Mais and Vive la France, whereupon they all settled down comfortably again to the enjoyment of replenished coblets of the effervescing syrup. Martin looked with some envy at the young man who sat flushed with his ovation and twisted his black pastache to the true Couracier's angle, yet bore himself modestly among his elders. Willing and gay of heart, he'd given the years of his youth to the service of his country. When the great struggle should come, and all agreed it was near, he would be one of the first to be summoned to defend her liberty, and, Willing and gay of heart, he would write to his death. And now, in the meanwhile, he had returned to the little square hole in France that had been ordained for him, little square peg, before he was born, and was to be reserved for him as long as his life should last. And Martin looked agape at the chosen child of destiny, and this time with admiration, for he knew him to be a man, a man of the solid French stock that makes France unshakable, of the stock that in peace may be miserly of its pence, but in war is lavish of its blood. I am not that young fellow's equal, thought Martin humbly, and he felt glad that he had not betrayed Bigorda's trust with regard to Feliz. What kind of a wretch would he have been to set himself up as a rival to Lucien Vidiot? Bigorda had been right in proclaiming the marriage as arranged by the bondue. He loved Feliz, who, knowing her, did not, but he loved her in brotherly fashion, and could reconcile it to his heart to bestow her on one so worthy. And all this without taking into account the sentiments of Feliz? Her heart, in military phrase, was Avile Auvert. Lucien had but to march in and take it. After a while, Lucien, having looked about the café, rose and went from table to table, where sat those citizens, who by reason of lowly social status or personal idiosyncrasies had not been admitted into the inner coterie of Notarabla, and greeted old acquaintances. Monsieur Vidiot then caught Martin's eye, and lifted it last again. Avotre-son-té, monsieur Martin! Martin Byrd, à la vôtre, monsieur. I hope that you and my son will be good friends. It is important that the youth of our two countries, so friendly, so intimately bound, should learn to know and appreciate each other, especially when one of them, like yourself, has the power of translating England into terms of France. And with the courteous simplicity of a grey, square-headed, close-cropped Marshal de Vannes-Gorot, he lifted his glass again. When Lucien returned to the Turcle, his father reintroduced him to Martin. In fact, he concluded, here is an Englishman, who not only speaks French like you and me, but he struffles and talks the idiom of the Coréman, and is qualifying himself to be a good Périgaudin. He was charmingly said. The company hummed approval. Lucien again bowed. He would do himself the honor of resenting himself at monsieur's hotel. Monsieur was doubtless staying at the Hotel de Grotte. Monsieur Begouda has taken me as a waiter into his service, replied Martin. T'es mieux! explained Lucien, as if he announced for the most ordinary one in the world, and shook hands with him heartily. C'est comme ça, comme mon père dit, qu'il devient un bon Périgaudin! So Martin went home and contentedly to bed. Again a little corner of the earth that he might call his own was offered him in this new land so courteous to, yet so sensitively aloof from the casual Englishman, but on the other hand so generous and hospitable to the Englishman into whom the spirit of France had entered. Was there here, thought he, the little round hole which he, little round peg, after thirty years of square hole to discomfort, had been preordained to Phil? The thought soothed him. He woke up in the night, worried by some confused dream. In his head stuck the Latin tag, Ubi Bene Ibi Patria. He kicked indignantly against the aphorism. It was the infamous philosophy of the Epicurian Opportunist. If he'd been comfortable in Germany, would he regard Germany as his fatherland? A million times no. When you wake up at four o'clock in the morning to a soul-stirring proposition, you think in terms of millions. He was English of the English. His Swiss motherdom was but an accident of begetting. He was of his father's race. Switzerland did not exist in his being as a national influence. English, narrowly, stupidly, proudly, he was, and English he would remain to the end of time. To denaturalise himself and become a Frenchman, still less a mere Betty Gaudin was abhorrent. But to remain an Englishman, and as an Englishman, an obscure menial Englishman, to be given the freedom of a province of old France was an honour of which any man breathing the breath of life might be justly proud. I can, for he, in the intense lunatic clarity of four o'clock in the morning, show France what England stands for. I have a chance of one in a million. I am an Englishman, given a home in the France that I am learning to love and to understand. I am a hyphen between the two nations. Having settled that, he turned over, tucked the bed-clothes well round his shoulders, and went soundly to sleep again. CHAPTER X A few evenings afterwards, Begaudin gave a dinner of ceremony to the video, and a dinner of ceremony in provincial France is a very simonious and elaborate affair. All day long there had been anxious preparations. Feliz, abandoning the fabrique, toiled assiduously with euphémie, while Begaudin, expert chef like all good hotel-keepers, controlled everything with his master-touch. The crazy ceremonious hour of 7.30 was fixed upon, not only on account of its ceremoniousness, but because by that time the commercial travellers would have finished their meal and melted away. The long middle-table was replaced by a round-table, prodigally adorned with flowers and four broad, trickle-er ribbons, each like the sash of Monsieur Lenaire, radiating from under a central silver epiglain laden with fruit, of which a pineapple was the crown. A bewildering number of glasses of different shapes stood at each place, to be filled each kind in its separate order, with the wine ordained for each separate course. Martin rehearsed to the wine-surface over and over again with a solemn Begaudin. As a lieutenant he had the pleasure, or washer-up of glass and crockery, from the Café de l'Univers, an earnest neophyte tense with the excitement of practising a higher branch of his profession. Hosts and guests were ceremoniously attired. Begaudin and the elder video suffocated in tightly-buttoned frock-coats of venerable and painful fit. Lucien, more dashing, wore a morning-coat, last cry of Bond Street, acquired recently from the Highlife Emporium in Paris. All three men retained yellow-dog-skinned loves until they sat down to-table. Madame Vidiot, stout and placid, appeared in her black silk dress and an old lace collar, and her very best hat, with her very best black ostrich feather, secured by the old rose-dammed buckle, famous throughout the Valley of the D'Ordoinia, which belonged to her great-great-grandmother. And lastly, Felice wore a high-necked simple frock of dazzling whiteness, which might have shown up her delicate dark colouring, had not her cheeks been inordinately pale. Begaudin had Madame Vidiot on his right, Monsieur Vidiot on his left, and Felice sat between Monsieur Vidiot and Lucien. Everyone was most ceremoniously polite. It was Montchers Vidiot and Montchers Begaudin, and the former vous, instead of the Mont-Vio, and the two of the café, and of ordinary life, also Cher Madame, and Monsieur Lucien, and Magnès. And although from childhood Felice and Lucien had called each other by their Christian names, it was now Monsieur and Mme Riseau between them. You see, marriages in France are juice of a ceremony which begins months before anybody dreams of setting the wedding bells and ringing. This dinner of ceremony was the first scene of the first act of the elaborate drama, which would end on the curtain being run down to the aforesaid wedding bells. Really, when one goes into the question and considers all the barbed wire entanglements that French law and custom interpose between two young people who desire to become man and wife, one not only wonders how any human pair can go through the ordeal and ever marry at all, but is profoundly convinced that France is the most moral country on the face of the globe. As a matter of fact, it is. It was a long meal of many courses. Martin, aided by the plongere, acquitted himself heroically. Manners, professional and individual, and also the strain of service, prevented him from attending to the conversation. But what he could not avoid overhearing did not impress him with its brilliance. It was a self-conscious little company. It threw about statistics as to the state of the truffle-crop. It listened to Lucien's modest anecdotes of his military career. It decided that Parisians were greatly to be pitted, in that fate compelled them to live in Paris instead of Brontôme. Even the flush of good cheer failed to inspire it with heartiness. For this, perhaps the scared unresponsiveness of one of the chief personages was responsible. Are you fond of dogs, mademoiselle? asked Lucien, valiant at small talk. Oui, monsieur? replied Phillies. Have you any now, mademoiselle? Non, monsieur? replied Phillies. The beautiful puddle that was so timid is dead, I believe, remarked madame Villot, in support of her son. Oui, madame? replied Phillies. However alluring to the young Frenchman about to marry maybe timid innocence with downcast eyes, yet when it is to such a degree monosyllabic, conversation does not sparkle. Martin, accustomed to her tongue wagging charmingly, wandered at her silence. What more attractive companion could she desire than the beau sabreur by her side? And yet next to nothing. When she was about to decline a beccasso fumée, as to the success of which Euphime's heart was beating like a sledgehammer, he whispered an area, just a little bit, do. And as she helped herself he saw the colour mount to her neck. He felt quite pleased at having prevailed on her to take nourishment. What happened after the meal in the private salon, where Phillies, according to sacred rite, served coffee and liqueurs? Martin did not know. He was too busy with Euphime and the chambermaid and baptiste and the plongeur in clearing up after the banquet. Besides, as the waiter of the establishment, what should he have been doing in that ceremony's gathering? When the work was finished and a concluding orgy on broken meats and half-empted bottles had been temporarily concluded, and Euphime, for the hundredth time, had been informed of the exact appreciation which each particular dish had received from Monsieur de Madame Vidiot. Young people you see, she explained, have their own affairs, and they see everything rose-coloured, and you would give them boiled horse-liver, and they wouldn't know the difference between that and read of all à la paireale. Doesn't matter what you put into the stomachs of children, but with old, serious folks it is important. I made the stomach of Monsieur Vidiot the central idea of my dinner. I have known the stomach of Monsieur Vidiot for twenty years. Also that of Madame, for old ladies, voyez-vous, no more than you think. And when the weary and zealous servants had gone their separate ways, Martin locked up, and, escaping from the generous atmosphere of the kitchen, entered the dimly-lit vestibule with the idea of smoking a quiet cigarette before going to bed. There he found Bigorda, sprawling his great bulk over the cane-seated couch. Did things go all right? he asked. Oh, wonderfully! Everybody died well. They can go to the ban, an arrié ban, of their friends and relations, and say that there is not such a cuisine in Périgord as as for the Hotel de Grotte. And the service was excellent, not the smallest hitch. I congratulate you and thank you, mon ami. But, whoff! he took a great breath of relief. I am glad it is over. I was not built for the formalities of society. Saffu fatige. It's also fatiguing from the waiter's point of view, laughed Martin. But it is all necessary when one has a young girl to marry. The father and mother of the young man expected. It is very complicated. Soon there will be the formal demand in marriage. They will wear gloves, sit idio. But what would you have? It is the custom. And then there will be a dinner of ceremony at the videos. He has some chombata in his cellar, my old friend video. Ha! mon petit matin! He blew a kiss to the purple goddess, beloved of Bacchus, and by him melted into each cobwebbed bottle. It is the only thing that reconciles me to it. Truth to say one dines abominably at the videos. If he does not produce some of that chombata, I withdraw the dowry of Feliz. It's all arranged then, Martin asked. All what? The marriage? Ah, without a doubt. Then Monsieur Lucia has been accepted by mademoiselle Feliz. I mean he has proposed to her, as we English say. And they know, could I be go down with a shocked air. Lucia is a correctly brought up young man, I would not offend the proprieties in that matter. It is not the affair of Lucia and Feliz, it is the affair of the two families, the parents. And for Feliz I am in loco parentis. Proposed to Feliz? What are you talking about? It all interests me so much, replied Martin. In England we manage differently. When a man wants to marry a girl, he asks her. And when they have fixed up everything between themselves, they go and announce the fact to their families. To which big order made the amazing answer. Say the Flem, Britannica! British phlegm, when a man takes his own unflagmatic way with a maid. Martin could find no adequate retort. He was knocked into a cocked hat. He threw away his cigarette, and, being very tired, half stifled a yawn. Big order responded mightily, and rose to his feet. Alon d'Ordo, said he, all this has been terribly fatiguing. So fatiguing had it all been that Feliz, for the first time since the chickenpox and measles of childhood, remained in her bed the next day. Ifymy, her personal attendant, found her in the morning a one ghost with a splitting headache, and forbade her to rise. She filled her up with chileul, the decoction of lime leaves which in French households is the panacea for all ills, and good and comfortable gossip extolled in Gallic hyperbole the dazzling qualities of M. Lucien. At last fever-eyed and desperate, Feliz sat up in bed and pointed to the door. Mabon, Youfimy, laissez-moi tranquille, va-t'en. Fiche-moi la paix. Youfimy gaped in a bill-wilderment. It was as though her dove had screamed, leave me alone, go away, go to Blaises. Youfimy knew not what she was saying, but she went. She went to begoda, and told him that Mamoiselle was in delirium. She had brain fever, and if he wanted to save her reason, he must send her once for the doctor. The doctor came, diagnosed the chileul on the vaguest of symptoms, and ordered soup-palluille. This invalid fare is a thin vegetable soup with a layer of salad oil floating on the top, with the object of making the liquid slip gratefully down the gullet, and the French gullet, be it understood. Feliz, in spite of her lifelong French training, had so much of England lingering in her esophagus that it abhorred soup-palluille. The good doctor's advice failed. She fasted in bed all day, deterring that headache apart, she was perfectly well. And the following morning a wraith of herself arose, and went about her ordinary applications. But what is the matter with her? asked begoda of Martin. Nothing could have I disagreed with her at that abominable dinner, because she didn't eat anything. As Martin could throw no light on the sudden malady of Feliz, begoda lit a cigarette, and inhaled a huge puff. He needs a woman, for ye vues, to look after a young girl. Men are all good. There are a heap of secrets. With his arms he had to get him au plon, piled on Mount Everest. I shall be glad when she is well and duly married. Perhaps the approaching patrol will affect her. Women have nerves like that. She is anxious to know the result of the negotiations. At the present moment the video are free to make or make not their demand. It would be good to reassure her a little. What do you think? Martin gave utterance of the profound apophagym. There is nothing so upsetting as uncertainty. That is my idea, begoda. Pardon me for consulting you on these details, so intimate and a little sacred, but you have a clear intelligence and a loyal heart. She came to pass that, after Dejeuner, took Feliz into their own primly and plushily furnished sonnel, and, like an amable bull in a boudoir, proceeded to smash up the whole of her universe. There is no doubt, he proclaimed, M.A. video had dreamed of it for ten years. I give you a dowry. There is no merit in it, because I love you like my own daughter. But I give you a dowry such as there are not many in Perigor. Lucien loves you. He is bon garçon. It is never entered his head to think of another woman for his wife. It is all arranged. In two or three days you must allow for the convenance. M. video and Lucien will call on me. So, my dear little angel, do not be afraid. Feliz had listened to this white-faced unholy ride. But I don't want to marry Lucien, mon oncle. Ah, come on. You don't want to marry Lucien? No, mon oncle. Abad. He swept the air with a protesting gesture. I have already told you so, said Feliz. But, my cher petit, that wasn't serious. It was because you had some stupid and beautiful idea of not deserting me. That is all imbecile. Young people must marry Sacre Bleu. So that the races perpetuated, and fathers and mothers and uncles don't count. But what has that got to do with it, mon oncle? Protested Feliz. I find Lucien very charming. But I don't love him. If I loved him, I would marry him. But as I don't love him, I can't marry him. But marry him, and you will love him! Crib begoda, as millions of French fathers and uncles have cried for the last three or four hundred years. It is very simple. What more do you want than a gallant fellow like Lucien? Then, of course, she broke down and began to cry. Begoda, unused to feminine tears, tried to touch his hair. If it had been longer than half an inch of upstanding bristle, he would have torn it. You don't understand, mon oncle. She sobbed with bowed head. It is only my mother who can advise me. I must see my mother. Begoda put his arm round the girl's slender shoulders. Your mother, my poor Feliz, sees nobody. She raised her head and flashed out. She sees my father. She lives with him in the same house. Why shouldn't she see me? Dear, dear, my dear Feliz, Crib begoda, soothingly, there is no need for you to consult your mother. Both your father and your mother have a long while ago decided that you should marry Lucien. Do you think I would take a step at which they did not approve? A long while ago is not to-day, sobbed Feliz. I wanted to talk to my mother. Begoda walked across the saddle with his back to her and snapped his fingers in peculiar agitation, a mutter below his breath, and on the dew, and on the dew, and on the dew. Kindest heart is of mortals, though he was. He resented the bottom being knocked out of his scheme of social existence. For years he had looked forward to this alliance with the video. Personally he had nothing to gain. On the contrary he stood to lose the services of Feliz and a hundred thousand francs. But he had set his heart on it, and so had the video. To go to them and say, my niece refuses to marry your son, would be a slash of the whip across their faces. His failure to bring up a young girl in the proper sentiments would be a disgrace to him in the eyes of the community. He felt hurt, too, because he no longer surfaced her. She wanted her mother, and it was out of the question that she should go to her mother. No wonder he swore to himself softly. But, mon dieu, said he, turning round, what have you against, Lucien? Whereupon they went over all the argument again. She did not love Lucien. She didn't want to marry Lucien. She would not marry a man she did not love. Then you will die an old maid, said Vigoda, an old maid, figuratoire. It would be terrible. Feliz sniffed at such terrors. Vigoda, in desperation, asked what he was to tell the video. The truth, said Feliz. But what was the truth? Tell me, my little Feliz, said he gently. There is, by chance, no one else. Then, for he's waxed indignant and routed the unhappy man, she gave him to understand that she was a jovial bien élève, and was not in the habit of behaving like a kitchen maid. It was cruel and insulting to accuse her of clandestine love affairs. And Vigoda, bound by his honourable conventions, knew that she was justified in her resentment. Again he plucked at his bristles, scared by the spectacle of outraged maidenhood. The tender-eyed dove had become a flashing little eagle. A wilyer man than he might have suspected the over-protesting damsel. Womanlike, she pressed her advantage. Mourne-encle, I love you with all my heart, but you are a man and you don't understand. That is absolutely true, said he. So you see, there is only one person I can explain it to, and that is my mother. Thus she completed the vicious little circle. And again the helpless Vigoda walked across the saloon and turned his back on her, a mutt of the incantation which brings relief to distracted man. But this time she went up to him and put an arm round his great body, and laid her face against his sleeve. It was a knife stuck in the honest fellow's heart. He caught her to him, and in his term, protested vehemently, he would not allow her to be unhappy. He would cut off his head rather than allow her to be unhappy. He would do anything—his friend Corsham forbade an offer to send the videos packing—anything in reason to bring the collar back to her white cheeks. Suddenly he had an inspiration which glowed all over his broad face and caused him to hold her out at arm's length and laugh joyously. You who can't see your mother, but there is your good aunt La Tilde, she will be a second mother to you, a woman so pious and so sympathetic. You will be able to tell her all your troubles. She has married a regiment of daughters. What she doesn't know of young girls isn't worth knowing. You are tired, you are ill, you need to change your little holiday. Go and spend a month with her, and when you come back we'll see what can be done with regard to Lucien. I'll write to her now. And without waiting to hear her demure, Pierre Mononcle, he escaped to the bureau where he should find the writing materials which did not profane the sacred primeness of the saddle, and plunged into correspondence. Ferris left alone, pondered for a moment or two, with faint wrinkling of her smooth forehead, and then sketching a gesture of fatalistic resignation went off to the kitchen, where a great special boiling of goose-livers was in progress. On the way she met Martin carrying a load of porcelain pots. But she passed him by coldly, and for the rest of the day she scarcely threw at him a couple of words. Meanwhile Bigorda beamed over the matter to his elder sister La Tilde a comfortable and almost opulent widow who lived at Châtres. They had not met for a dozen years, it is true, and who she had only once seen Felice. But the sense of the family is very strong in France, especially where marriage alliances are concerned, and he had no doubt that she would telegraph, as requested, and authorise him to entrust Felice to her keeping. Verily it had been an inspiration. It was a solution of difficulties. The videos are given signs of an almost indecent hurry which naturally had scared Felice. A month was a long time. La Tilde was a woman of her experience, tact and good sense. She would know how to bring Felice to a reasonable state of mind. If she did not succeed, well, he was not the man to force his little Felice into a distasteful marriage. In any case, he had a month's respite. Having stated his case at length, he went out into the town to post such an important letter at the Central Post to telegraph, and on the way back looked in at the shop of the very respectable Madame Chauvet, who, with her two elderly daughters, sold crucifixes and rosaries and books of devotion and candles, and all that would supply the devout needs of the religious population. And after a prolonged and courtly conversation, he induced Madame Chauvet, in consideration of their old friendship, her expenses, and an honorarium of 20 francs, to undergo the safe convoy Felice from Montaume to the house of Madame Robinaud, her aunt La Tilde, at Chathra. Madame Robinaud was tall, angular, thin-lipped, and devout, and so far as she indulged in social intercourse, loved to mingle with other angular, thin-lipped and devout ladies who belonged to the same lay sisterhood. She dressed in unrelieved black, and always worn her bosom a bronze cross of threatening magnitude. She prayed in the cathedral at inconvenient hours, and fasted as rigorously as her confessor, Monsieur Labé Douloup himself. Monsieur Labé regarded her as one of the most pious women in Chathra. No doubt she was. But Felice, although a good Catholic in her very simple way, and anxious to win favor by observance of the rules of the solitary household, was wicked enough to wish that our aunt were not quite so pious. In religious matters a wide latitude in aerialism prevailed at the Hotel de Grotte. There, with a serene conscience, one could eat meat on Fridays, and crack a mild joke at the expense of the good Saint Peter, but neither forbidden flesh nor jocularity on any subject, let alone on a saint's milder foibles, mitigated the austerities of the perky, windswept little house at Chathra. No wonder thought Felice aunt Cotille to have married off a regiment of daughters. Four, to be exact. It had been an easy matter. She herself would have married any caricature of a man, rather than spent her life in an atmosphere so rarefied and so depressing. She pitied her cousins, although according to her aunt Cotille's pragmatical account they were all doing splendidly and had innumerable babies. By the end of the first week of her visit, she consolidated an intense dislike to Chathra and everything in it, especially the Cathedral. Now it may be thought that anyone who can shake the fist of disapprobation of the Cathedral of Chathra is beyond the pale of human sympathy. But when you are dragged relentlessly thither in the icy dark of every winter morning, and the bitter gloom of every winter evening, to say nothing of sporadic attendities during the day-time, you may be pardoned if your aesthetic perceptions are obscured by the sense of outrage inflicted on your personal comfort. To many generations of men the Cathedral has been a symbol of glories, revelations, and eternities. In such slanting shafts of light, mystically hewed, the grail might have been made manifest, the sacred dove might have glided down to the head of the Holy One. But what need to tell of its spiritual wonders and of its mystery, the heart of which it is given to every suffering man to pluck out according to his own soul's needs? It was a little tragedy that to poor Felice the Cathedral symbolized nothing but an overwhelming tyranny. She hated every stone of it, as much as she hated every shiny plank and every polished chair in her aunt's frigid saddle. Even the streets of Chathra repelled her by their bleakness. They lacked the smiling homeliness of Bronthorne, and the whole place was flatter than the Sahara. She sighed for the rocks and hills of Pettigore. She also ate the unaccustomed bread of idleness. Had her aunt permitted, she would delightedly have helped with the housework. But Madame Robinot, widow of a dealer in ingrain, who before his death had retired on a comfortable fortune, lived, according to her lights, at her ease, her wants being scrupulously ministered to by a cook and a maid. There was no place in the domestic machine for Felice. Her aunt passed long, chilly hours over ecclesiastical embroidery, sitting bolt upright in her chair with a chaufferette beneath her feast. Felice, unaccustomed needle-woman, passed longer and chilly hours, having no chaufferette, either playing with a grey ascetic cat, or reading aloud Lacroix, the only newspaper allowed to cross the threshold of the house. Now and again Madame Robinot would drop her thin hand into her lap and regard her disapprovingly. One day she said, interrupting the reading, My poor child, how your education has been neglected. You scarcely know how to hold a needle. You can't read aloud without making faults, and you are ignorant of the elements of our holy religion. My aunt, Felice replied, I know how to manage a hotel. That would be of little use to your husband. Felice winced at the unhappy word. I'm never going to marry my taunt, she said. You surely do not expect to be admitted into a convent. Heaven forbid! cried Felice. Heaven would forbid! said Madame Robinot severely, seeing that you have not the vacation. But the Jean-Ville Bien-Elevée, in the mouth of her aunt Clotilde, the familiar phrase assumed a detestable significance, implying to Felice's mind a pallid young creature from whom all blood and laughter had been driven by undesirable virtues. The Jean-Ville Bien-Elevée has only two careers offered to her, for convent or marriage. For you, my dear child, it is marriage. Well, said Felice with a smile, preparing to resume the article in the newspaper over which she had stumbled. Perhaps the beautiful prince would come along one of these days. But Madame Robinot rebuked her for vain imaginings. It is true what I said that your education has been neglected. A young girl's duty is not to look for princes, but to accept the husband chosen by the wisdom of her family. Matonde, said Felice de Muley, after a pause during which her aunt took up her work again. If you would teach me how to embroider, perhaps I might learn to be useful in my future home. From this, and many other conversations, Felice began to be aware of the subtle strategy of Bigelda. On the plea of providing her with pro-maternal consolation, he had to deliver her into the hands of the enemy. This became abundantly clear as the days went on. Aunt Clotilde, incited there too by her uncle, was opening a deadly campaign in favour of Lucien Vidiot. Now, the cathedral, though paralyzing, could be born for a season, and so could the blight that pervaded the house. But the campaign was intolerable. If she could have resented the action of one so beloved as Bigelda, she would have resented his sending her to Aunt Clotilde. Under the chaperonage of the respectable Madame Chauvet, she had fallen into a pretty trap. She had found none of the promise sympathy. Aunt Clotilde, although receiving her with the affectionate hospitality due to her sister's child, had, from the first interview, frozen the genial current of her little soul. The great bronze cross in itself repelled her. If it had been a nice gentle little cross, rising and falling on a motherly bosom, it would have worked its all human, adorable influence. But this was a harsh, aggressive, common-be-crucified sort of cross, with no suggestion of pity or understanding. The sallow austere face above it might have easily been twisted into such a cross. He conveyed no invitation to the sufferer to pour out her troubles. Uncle Bigelda was wrong again. Rather would for these have poured out her troubles into the portentous ear of the Suisse at the cathedral. Her aunt and herself met nowhere on common ground. They were forever at variance. Madame Robinot spoke disparagingly of the English, because they were Protestants, and therefore heretics. But I am English, and I am not a heretic, cried Felice. You are not English, replied Herod, because you have a French mother and have been brought up in France. And as for not being a heretic, I am not so sure. Mr. Labé-Douloup thinks you must have been brought up among Freemasons. Ah, Norm, par exemple, explained Felice indignantly. For in the eyes of the church, French Freemasons are dreadful folk, capable of anything sacrilegious, from denying the miracle of St. Januarius to slitting the Pope's wheeze-and. So, ah, Norm, par exemple, cried Felice. Freemasons, indeed. Her uncle Gaspard, it is true, did not attend church regularly. But yes, he did attend regularly. He went once a year, every Easter Sunday, and he was the best of friends with Monsieur Le Curé of their paroisse. And as for herself, Monsieur Le Curé, who looked like a venerable saint in the Holy Pictures, had always a smile and a machère enfant for her whenever they met. She was on excellent terms with Monsieur Le Curé. He would have more of dreamed of associating her with Freemasons than accusing her of being in league with devils. He was a good, common-sensical old Curé, like thousands of the Second Eclergy in France, and knew how to leave well alone. Questioned by the ecclesiastically environed Abbe-Douloup as to the spiritual state of Felice, he would intuitively have answered with serene conviction, if a soul is so pure and so candid, which I have watched from childhood, is not acceptable to the bondue, than I know no more about the bondue than I know about the Emperor of Patagonia. But Felice, disliking the Abbe-Douloup and many of his works, felt a delicacy in dragging her own Curé into the argument, and contented herself with protesting against the charge of heresy. As a matter of fact, she proclaimed her Uncle Gaspard was not a Freemason. He held in abhorrence all secret political societies as being subversives of the state. No one should attack her Uncle Gaspard, although he had betrayed her so shabbily. In vain she sought some link with her aunt. Even Mimi, the lean old cat, did not form a bond of union. As a vagrant kitten it had been welcomed years ago by the late good-natured Robinot, and the widow tolerated its continued presence with Christian resignation. Felice took the unloved beast to her heart. From Aunt Latille's caustic remarks she gathered that her four cousins, of whose exemplary acceptance of husbands she had heard so much, had eyed Mimi with the coldness of her mother. She began to thank Providence that she did not resemble her cousins, which was reprehensible, and now and then manifested a lack of interest in their impeccable doings, which was more reprehensible still, and thus stirred up against her the maternal instincts of Madame Robinot. Relations grew strained. Aunt Latille spoke to her with sharp impatience. From her recalcitrance to the matter of Lucien she deduced every fault conceivable. For the first time in her life Felice dwelt in an atmosphere where love was not. She longed for home, she longed especially for her father and his wise tenderness. Because she longed so greatly she could not write to him as a father should be written to, and the many paged letters into which, at night, she put all her aching little heart. In the morning she blushed at the thought of sending. In spite of his lapse from Grace, she could not be so disloyal to the beloved Uncle Gaspard. Nor could she distress her suffering angel mother by her incoherent account of things. If only she could see her. At last, one dreary afternoon, Madame Robinot opened an attack in force. Put down that cat, I have to talk to you. Felice obeyed and Aunt Latille talked. The more she talked, the more stubborn front did Felice oppose. Madame Robinot lost her temper, her thin lips twitched. I order you, she said, to marry Lucien Viro. I am sorry to say anything to vex you, my taunt, replied Felice valiantly, but you have not the power. And I suppose your uncle has not the power to command you. In matters like that, no, my taunt, said Felice. Aunt Latille rose from her straight back to chair and shook a long, threatening finger. The nail at the end was also long and not very clean. Felice often wondered whether her aunt abhorred a nail brush by way of mortification. When one considers all the benefits my brother has heaped on your head, she cried in a rasping voice, you are nothing else than a little monster of ingratitude. Felice flared up. She did not lack spirit. It is false, she cried. I adore my uncle Gaspar. I will give him my life. I am not ungrateful. It is worse than false. It is true, retorted Madame Robinot, otherwise you would not refuse him the desire of his heart. Without him you would not have a rag to your back or a shoot to your foot, and no more religion than a heathen. It is to him you owe everything, everything. Without him you would be in the gutter where he fished you from. She ended on a shrill note. Felice, very pale, faced her passionately with a new light in her mild eyes. What do you mean, the gutter, my father? Bah, your father, your vagabond, no-do-wheel scamp of a father. He is a scandal to the family of your father who should never have been born. The girl reeled. It was a foul bludge and blow. Madame Robinot, with quick realisation of folly, checked further utterance, and allowed Felice white, quivering, and vanquished, but carrying her little head fiercely in the air, to retire from the scene with all the honours of war. Madame Robinot was sorry. She had lost both temper and dignity. Her next confession would be an unpleasant matter. Possibly how the adobe du loop would understand and guess the provocation. She shrugged her lean shoulders. It was good sometimes for hoity-twenty damsels to learn humility. So she stacked down again, pursing her lips, and continued her embroidered stull until it was the hour of Vespers. Contrary to custom, she did not summon Felice to accompany her to the cathedral. An hour or two of solitude, she thought, not unkindly, would bring her to a more reasonable frame of mind. She went out alone. When she returned, she found that Felice had left the house. It was a very scared young person that persuaded herself of the guichet at the railway station and asked for a second-class ticket to Paris. She had never travelled alone in her life before. Even on her rare visits to the metropolis of Perigo, in whose vast emporium of fashion she clothed herself, she was attended by Euphime or the chambermaid. She felt lost, a tiny, helpless creature, in the great high station in which an engine, letting off steam, produced a bewildering uproar. How much she paid for her ticket, thrifty and practised housekeeper that she was, she did not know. She clutched the change from a hundred-frank note, which, a present from her uncle before leaving Brontome, she had preserved intact, and scuttled like a little brown rabbit to the door of the salle de tante. The salle de Paris, a côte-roir sans compte, said the official of the door, as though this palpitating adventure was the commonplace of every minute. And that will be, she gasped. He cocked an hour at the clock, in half an hour. A train was on the point of starting. There was a scuttle for seats. She felt sure it was the Paris train. From it emanated the magic influence of the great city with which she was bound. A question-porter informed her it was going in the opposite direction. The Paris Express left at four-fifty. The trains teamed out. It seemed to feel easy though she had lost a friend. She looked round helplessly, and seeing a fat peasant woman sitting on a bench, surrounded by bundles and children, she ran to her side for protection. It is the unknown that frightened. In the Hotel de Grotte she commanded men with a serenity of Queen Elizabeth. And as for commercial travellers and other male visitors, she took no more account of them than of the geese that she plucked. And the terrifying Aunt Clotilde had terrified in vain. But here, in this cold, glass-roofed, steel-strutted screeching, ghostly inferno of a place, with men proudly about like roaring lans seeking probably whom they might devour, conditions were terrifyingly unfamiliar. Yet she did not care. Under the blasphemous roof of her Aunt Clotilde she could not have remained. For, in verity, blasphemy had been spoken. Her father was loved and honoured by all the world, by her mother, by Uncle Gaspar, by Corinna, by Martin. And she herself, did she not know her father? Was there ever a man like him? The insulting words rang through her brain. She would have confronted terrors a millionfold more grisly than these in order to escape from the blasphemer, whom she could never forgive. No, not for all the curies and abbeys in Christendom. An intense little soul was at her filly's fort in brass. It swept her irresistibly out of the unhallowed villa, with a handbag containing a nightgown, a toothbrush, and a faded little photograph of her father and mother standing side by side in wedding garb, on the way to the dread, fascinating whirlpool of Paris, where dwelt the worshipped gods of her idolatry. And as she sat in the comforting lee of the fat and unafraid peasant woman, and her bundles, and her children, she took herself to task for cowardice. The journey, under two hours, was but a trifle. Had it been to Brontome, an all-night affair, she might have had reason for quailing. But to Paris it was practically but a step. The abbey du Loupe spoke of going to Paris, as her uncle spoke of going to Périgieu. Yet her heart thudded violently during the interminable half-hour. It was the grim possibility of the appearance of pursuing Aunt Clotilde. She kept a fearful eye upon the doorway of the salda-taunt. At last the train rushed in, and there was clanger of luggage-strucks, and clamour of raucous voices announcing the train for Paris. And a flow of waiting people, among whom was her neighbour, with her varied impedimenta, swept across the lines, and scaled the heights of the carriages. By luck, in front of her lease, loomed a compartment showing second-class on the door-panel, and dame sole on the window. She clambered in and sank into a seat. Who her lonely lady fellow-travellers were, she could not afterwards remember, for she kept her eyes closed, absorbed in the adventure that still lay before her. Yet it was comforting to feel that as long as the train went on, she was safe in this feminine sanctuary, free from depredations of marauding males. Paris. One of the ladies, seeing that she was about to remain in the carriage, jerked the information over a descending shoulder. Feliz followed, and took for a moment more confused than ever in the blue glare and anthill hurry of the gare de Montparnasse. A whole town seemed to have emerged from the train, and a stream like a rout of refugees flying from disaster, men, women, and children laden with luggage toward the barrier. Count along, she arrived there at length, gave up her ticket, and, issuing from the station, found herself on a narrow street, at the end of which, still following the throng, she came to a thundering thoroughfare. Never, in all her imaginings of Paris, had she pictured such a soul-stunning phantasmagoria of flashing light and flashing movement. There were millions of faces passing by her on the pavement, in the illuminated interiors of omnibuses, in the dimmed recesses of taxi-autos, on wagons, on carts, on bicycles. Millions, in gaily lit cafes. Before her dazzled eyes, millions seemed to be reflected even in the quivering, lucent air. She stood at the corner of the Place de Rennes, and the Boulevard de Montparnasse, paralysed with fear, clutching her handbag tight to her side, in that perilous street thousands of thieves must jostle her. She grew up with a step, overwhelmed by the immensity of Paris. A good nature of Sajor de Ville, possibly the father of British daughters, noticed her agonised distress. It was not his business to perform unsolicited deeds of night-eventry, but, having nothing else to do for the moment, he caught her eye and beamed paternal encouragement. Now, Sajor de Ville is a Sajor de Ville, recognisable by his uniform all France over. Felice held Père Chavrôle, who exercised that function at Brontôme, in high esteem. This policeman had a fat, dark, grinning, scrumbley-moustache face, which resembled that of Père Chavrôle. She took her courage and her handbag in both hands. — Monsieur, she said, can you direct me to the Rue Maud-Grabine? — He couldn't. He did not know that street. — In what courtier was it? — Felice with England. — C'est là où de mieux m'empère, she added. C'est Monsieur Forte-Hembrass. Tout le monde le connaît à Paris. — But, alas, the Sajor de Ville had never heard of the illustrious Forte-Hembrass. — But, alas, the Sajor de Ville had never heard of the illustrious Forte-Hembrass. Which was strange, seeing that all blond tome knew him, although he did not live there. — What, then, shall I do, Monsieur? asked Felice to get to my father. The Sajor de Ville pushed his keppie to the back of his head and cogitated. Then, with uplifted hand, he halted a crawling fiacre. Rue de Maud-Grabine? Of course, the glazed-headed muffled-up driver knew it. Somewhere between the Rue de la Roquette and the Avenue de la République. The Sajor de Ville smiled vain gloriously. It was only sa vieux collignon, old drivers of fiacre, that knew their Paris, he explained. The chauffeur of a taxi-auto would have been ignorant of the whereabouts of the arcs that we offer. He advised her to engage the omniscient cabman. The Rue de Maud-Grabine was infinitely distant on the other side of the river. Felice suggested that a cab would cost enormously. In Brontoam, legends were still current of scandalous exactions levied by Paris cabman on provincials. The driver twisted his head affably, and hoarsely murmured that it would not cost a fortune. Perhaps two francs, two francs fifty, with a little bourgeois. He did not know. The amount would be registered. The Sajor de Ville pointed out the taxi-meter. Be not afraid, ma musée, enter. What number? Number twenty-nine. He opened the door of the stuffy little broom. Felice held out her hand as she would have held it out to Pierre Chavreau, and thanked him as though he had preserved her from legions of dragons. The last she saw of him as she drove off was in the act of majestically sweeping back a group of idlers who had halted to witness the touching farewell. The old cab jolted and swerved through blazing vistas of unimagined fur affairs, over bridges spanning mysterious stretches of dark waters and connecting looming masses of gigantic buildings, and through more streets garish with light and apparent revelry. Realisation of its glory came with a little sob of joy. She was in Paris, the wonderland of Paris transcending all her dreams. Brontorme and Chathreau seemed to far off. She had the sensation of a butterfly escaping from the chrysalis. She had been a butterfly for ages. What unremembered kind of state had been her grub condition? Thrills of excitement swept her little body. She was throbbingly happy. And at the end of the magic journey she would meet her father, Marvel among men, and her mother, the strange, sweet, mystical being, the enchanted princess of her childish visions, the warm, spiritual, all-understanding, all-embracen woman of her maiden longings. The streets grew narrower, less important. They were passing through the poor neighbourhood east of the Place de la Bastille. Fairyland suffered a sinister touch. Slight fears again assailed her. Some of the streets appeared dark and suspect. Evil-looking folk haunted the pavements. She wandered with a catch of the breath whether she was being driven. At last the cabs swung into a street, darker, more suspect, more ill-odoured than any, and stopped before a large, open doorway. She peered through the window. Above the door she could just discern the white figure, 29, on the blue plaque. Her rosy dreams melted into night. Her heart sank. She alighted. This is really 29, Rue Maudrabine? Abyssoul Mamzil. She had forgotten to look at the taximeter, but, taking three francs from her purse, she asked the driver if that was enough. He thanked her with raised hat for munificence, and, whipping up his old horse, drove off. Therese entered a spilly little paved courtyard and gazed about her helplessly. She had imagined such another decent little house as her aunt's, a bit to ring at the front door would ensure immediate admittance. In this extraordinary dank well she felt more lost than ever. Paris was a bewildering mystery. A child emerged from some dark cavern. Can you tell me where Monsieur Fortinbrass lives? The child advised her to ask the concierge and pointed to the armed bell-pull. Therese rang. The frizzy concierge gave the directions. Therese entered the corner-cavern and came on an evil spelling stone staircase, lit here and there by naked gas-jets, which blackened the walls at intervals. The cold gathered round her heart. On the second landing some noisy, ill-dressed men clattered past her and caused her to shrink back with fear. She mounted the interminable stairs. Here and there an open door revealed a squalid interior. The rosy dream became a nightmare. She had made some horrible blunder. It was impossible that her father should live here. But the concierge had confirmed the address. On the fourth floor she paused, then as directed to turn on a small ill-lit passage to the left. On a door facing her at the end she noticed the gleam of a card. She broached it. It bore the printed legend. Daniel Fortinbrass, ancien avoué de Londres, argent de famille, etc., etc., and written in pencil was the direction. Sonnet civublie. The sight reassured and comforted her. Behind this thin barrier dwelt those dearest to her on earth, the dimly-remembered saintly mother, the wise and tender father. She forgot the squalor of the environment. It was merely a feature of Paris, mighty and inscrutable, so different from Brandt-Dorm. She felt a little throbber pride in her daring, in her achievement. Without guidance, ungenerously, she took no account of the social reveal of the cabinet of the concierge. She travelled from Chartres to this inmost heart of Paris. She had accomplished her stupendous adventure. The card invited her to ring. Above it hung a bit of wood, attached in the middle to a length of twine. She pulled, and an answering clang was heard from within the apartment. Her whole being vibrated. After a moment's waiting, the door was flung open, by a coarse, red-faced, slattenly woman standing in a poverty-stricken little vestibule. She looked at the girl with curiously glazed eyes, and slightly swayed, as she put up a hand to dishevelled her. What is you do? Monsieur Forte-Bras, cast for ease, scared by the abominable apparition. Monsieur Forte-Bras? She mimicked the girl's tear accent. Oui, madame? replied Félix. Whereupon the woman withered her with a sudden volley of drunken abuse. She knew how Forte-Bras occupied himself all day long. She did not complain. But when the gorses of the Rive-Gouche had the indecency to come to his house, she should very soon put them across her knee and teach them manners. This is but a paraphrase of what fell upon Félix's terrestrial ears. It fell like an avalanche. But it did not last long. For suddenly came a voice well known, but pitched in an unfamiliar key of anger. And Forte-Bras appeared. As he caught sight of his daughter's white face, he clapped his hands to his head and reeled back, horror in his eyes then. And seizing the woman masterfully by the arms, he pushed her into some inner room, kneeling Félix shaking on the threshold. In a moment or two he reappeared, caught overcoat and an old silk hat from a peg, and, motioning Félix back, marched out of his home and slammed the door behind him. Father and daughter were now in the neutral ground at the end of the dim, malodorous presage. What in the name of God are you doing here, Félix? I came to see my mother. The fleshy, benign face of the man fell into the sags of old age. His lower lip hung loose. His mild blue eyes, lamping out from beneath noble brows, stared agony. Your mother? Yes. Where is she? He drew a deep breath. Your mother? Well, she is in a nursing home, dear. No one, not even I, can see her. He took about the arm and hurried her to the staircase. Come, come, dear, we must away from this. You understand, I did not tell you, your mother was ill, for fear of making you unhappy. But that dreadful woman, Father, she cried. And the alpine flower from which honey is made, looked like a poor little frost-bitten lily of the valley. She faced him on the landing. That woman, that—he waved an arm. That, said he, creating bitterly, is a woman of no importance. Ah! cried Fetis. With some of the elemental grossnesses of life she was acquainted. You cannot manage a hotel in France which is a free, non-puritanical country, and remain in imbecile ignorance. She was shocked to the depths of her being. Come! said Fortebras, with outstretched hand. But she shrank from him. Come! he commanded. There's no time to lose. We must get out of this. Where are we going? she asked. To the gare de Montparnasse. You must return at once to Chartre. I will never enter the house of Aunt Clotilde again, said Felice. But for what has happened? My God, what has happened? he asked, as they hurried down the stairs. Breathlessly, brokenly, she told him. In the courtyard he pawled, put his hand to his head. But what can I do with you? My God, what can I do with you in this dreadful city? Isn't there a hotel in Paris? she asked coldly. He laughed in a mirthless way. There are many. The Ritz and the Maurice and the Elisabeth Palace. Yes, there are hotels enough. I have plenty of money, she said. No, no, my child, said he. Not a hotel. I should go mad. I have an idea. Come! They had just reached the evil pavement of the Rue Mogerabine, when Cécile Fortembrass, sister of the excellent Gaspard Bigaudin, and the pious Clotilde Robinaud, and mother of Felice, recovered from the stupor to which the unprecedented fury of her husband had reduced her, and reeled drunkenly to the flat door. She started to tear the hussy's eyes out. But by the time she had accomplished the difficult descent, and had expounded her grievances to an unsympathetic concierge, a motor-omnibus was conveying father and daughter, silent and anguished, to the other side of the river Seine. CHAPTER XII The huge door on the Boulevard Saint-Germain swung open at Fortembrass's ring, and admitted them to a warm marble-floored vestibule adorned with rugs, palms, and a cast or two of statuary. Facing them, in its cage of handsome wrought armwork, stood the lift. All indicated a life so far apart from that of the Rumeau-Grabine that Felice, in spite of the despair and disillusion that benumbed her soul, uttered an exclamation of surprise. Who lives here? Lucille Meriton, an American girl, pray God she is in, replied Fortembrass, opening the lift-gate. We can but see. He pressed the second floor button, and the lift shot up. On the landing were the same tokens of luxury. A neat maid answered the door. Ma'am was her Meriton was at home, but she had just begun dinner. Fortembrass drew a card from a shabby pocket-book. A tell-ma'am was out of the mattress urgent. The maid retired, leaving them in a small lobby, beyond which was a hall lit by cunningly subdued lights, and containing, to Felice's unsophisticated vision, a museum of costly and beautiful objects. Strange skins of beasts lay on the polished floor, old Spanish chests in glowing crimson, girt with steel, queer chairs with straight tall backs, such as she had seen in the sacrosities of old churches in the Dordogna, and richly carved tables were ranged against the walls, and above them hung paintings of old masters, such as she was going to call holy pictures, in gilt frames. From the soft mystery of a corner'd leaned a marble copy of the Venus de Medici, which, from Felice's point of view, was not holy at all. Yet the sense of beauty and comfort pervading the place appealed to her senses. She stood on the threshold, looking round, wonderingly, when a door opened, and, in a sudden shaft of light, appeared a tall, slim figure, which advanced with outstretched hand. Felice shrank behind her father. Why, Fortembrass, what good wind has brought you? The lady spoke in a rich and somewhat lazy contralto. Excuse that celestial idiot of a celeste for leaving you standing here in the cold. Come right in. She led the way into the hall, and then became aware of Felice, and flashed at glance of inquiry. This is my little daughter, Lucila. Why not Felice? She gave her both hands in a graceful gesture. I'm so glad to see you. I've heard all about you from Carina Hastings. I put her up for the night on her way back to London, you know. Now, why? Still holding Felice's hands. Have you kept her from us all this time, Fortembrass? I don't like you at all. Paris, said Fortembrass, isn't good for little girls who live in the heart of France. But surely the heart of France is Paris! cried Lucilla Meritan. Paris, my dear Lucilla, replied Fortembrass gravely. Maybe the bliver, the spleen, the pancreas, whatever giblets you please of France. But it is not its heart. Lucilla laughed. And when she laughed, she had a way of throwing up her head, which accentuated the graceful setting of her neck. Her thick, brown hair brushed back, ever so little suggested that the pompadour, from her straight forehead, aided the unconscious charm of the habit. We won't argue the point. You brought Felice here because you want me to look after her. How did I guess? My dear man, I've lived twenty-seven years in this ingenious universe. How babes unborn don't spot its transparent simplicity, I never could imagine. You haven't dined. I have, said Fortembrass, but Fiddy's hasn't. You shall dine again. It's the first time you've condescended to visit me, and I exact the penalty. She went to the open door whence she had issued. Celeste! The maid appeared. Monsieur and mademoiselle are dining with me, and mademoiselle is staying the night. See that she has all she wants, and have eat. Go, my dear Mr. Celeste, and be quick for dinner's getting cold. And when Fiddy's, subdued by her charming masterfulness, had retired in the wake of the maid, this meriton turned on Fortembrass. Now, what's the trouble? In a few words he told her what was meat for a stranger to know. So she ran away and came to you for protection, and you can't put her up. Is that right? The perch of an old vulture like myself, said he, is not fit place for my daughter. Lucilla nodded. That's all right. But say you don't approve of this medieval sort of marriage business, do you? I retain my English views. I shall explain them to my brother-in-law and forbid the alliance. Besides, the excellent big order is the last man of the world to force her into a distasteful marriage. Reassure her on that point. She can go back to Brontome with a quiet mind. Will you remain in Paris with a mind equally serene? Lucilla asked, her deep gray eyes examining his face, which he had vainly endeavoured to compose into its habitual aspect of detached benevolence. He met her at last. The derelict, said he, is a thing of no account. But it's better that it should not lie in the course of the young and living ship. Lucilla put her hands behind her back and sat on the corner of an old Venetian table. And she still looked at him profoundly interested. Here was a fought-in-brass she had never met before—a broken man, far removed from the shrewd and anxious Marchand de Bonheur of the Latin Quarter with his rolling periods and opportunist philosophy. There is something behind all this, she remarked. If I am to be any good, I ought to know. He recovered a little and smiled. Your perspicacity does credit to your country, said he. Also to your sex. There is much behind it, an unbridgeable gulf of human sorrow. Remember that, should my little girl be led away, which I very much doubt to talk to you of most unhappy things. She only came to the edge of the gulf half an hour ago. The marriage matter is but a thistle-dion of care. I more or less see, said Lucilla. The vultures' perch overhangs the gulf. Right, now what do you want me to do? Just keep her until I can find a way to send her back to Brontorne. Lucilla raised her hand and reflected for a few seconds. Then she said, I'll run her down there on myself in the car. That is most kind of you, replied Fortenbross, but Brontorne is not Versailles. It is nearly three hundred miles away. Well, what of that? I suppose I can commandeer enough gasoline in France to take me three hundred miles. Besides, I'm due the end of next week anyway to stay with some friends at Capmanta, before going to Egypt. I'll start a day or two earlier and drop Felice on my way. Will that suit you? But again, Brontorne is not on your direct route to Monte Carlo. He objected. She slid to her feet and laughed. Do you want me to be a young mother to your little girl, or don't you? I do, said he. Then don't conjure up lines of the path. See here, she touched his sleeve. You were a good friend to me once, when I had that poor little fool Effie James on my hands. I shouldn't have pulled her through without you. And you wouldn't accept more than your ridiculous fee. And now I've got a chance of showing you how much I appreciate what you did. I don't know what the trouble is, and now I don't want to know. But you're my friend, and so is your daughter. Fortinbras smiled, sadly. It is you that are the Marshal de Bonheur. You remove an awful load from my mind. He took his old silk hat from the consul, where he had deposited it, and held out his hand. The old vulture won't stop to dinner. He must be flying. Give my love my devoted love to Felice. And, with an abruptness which she could not reconcile with his usual suave formality of manner, he turned swiftly and walked through the lobby, and disappeared. His leave-taking almost resembled the flight he spoke of. The wealthy, comely, even balanced American girl looked blankly at the flat door, unwondered, conscious of tragedy. What was the girl for which she spoke? She knew little about the man. Two years before, a girl from Cheyenne, Wyoming, who had brought her letters of introduction, came to terrible grief. There was blackmail at her throat. Somebody suggested Fortinbras as counsellor. She, Lucilla, consulted him. He succeeded in sending a damsel, foolish, reprehensible, and frightened, but intact in reputation and pocket, back to her friends in Cheyenne. His fee for doing so amounted to twenty francs. For two years, therefore, she had passed the time of day friendly-wise with Fortinbras whenever she met him. But, until her fellow-student Carina Hastings sought her hospitality on the way back to England, and told her of Blanton and Felice, she had regarded him merely as one of the strange, sweet monsters devoid of domestic attributes, even of a private life, that Paris, city of portents and prodigies, had a monopoly in producing. And now she had come upon just a flabby, elderly man, pittusily anxious to avert some sordid mystery from his own flesh and blood. She sighed, turned, and saw Felice in charge of Celeste. Calm, you must be famished! She put her arm round the girl's waist and led her into the dining-room. Your father couldn't stay, but he told me to give you his love and to regard myself as a sort of young mother to you. Felice murmured a shy acknowledgement. She was too much dazed for coherent thoughts or speech. The discovery of the conditions in which her father lived, and the sudden withering of her faith in him, had almost immediately been followed by her transference into this warm wonder-house of luxury, owned and ruled by this queenly young woman, so exquisite in her simple marvel of address. The soft lights, the pictures, the elusive reflections from polished wood, the gleam of heavy silver and cut glass, the bowl of orchids on the table, the delicate napery. She had never dreamed of such, though she held herself to be a judge of table linen. The hundred adjuncts of a wealthy woman's dining-room all filled her with a sense of the unreal, and at the same time raised her poor fallen father in her estimation by investing him with the character of a magician. Dainty food was placed before her, but she could scarcely eat. Lucilla, to put her more at her ease, taught of Carina and of Brontome, which she was dying to visit, and of the quaint Englishman, she had forgotten his name, who had become a waiter. How was he getting on? A musimata? Very well, thank you. She put down the glass of wine which she was about to raise to her lips. For nearly an hour she had not thought of Martin. She felt sundered from him by many seas and continents. Since seeing him through what scorching adventures had she not passed. She had changed. The world had changed. Nothing would ever be the same again. Tears came into her eyes. Lucilla, observing them, smiled. You like, Monsieur Martin? Everybody likes him. He is so gentle, said Felice. But is that what women look for in a man? asked Lucilla. Doesn't she want someone strong to lean on? Something to appeal to the imagination? Something more panache? Felice thought of Lucien's video and his cavalry prume and shivered. No, she did not want panache. Martin's quiet, simple ways—she knew not why—were worth all the clanking of all the sabers in the world put together. That depends on temperament, Mamoiselle, said Felice in French. Lucilla laughingly exclaimed. You dear little mouse, I suppose a Tom cat frightens you to death. But Felice was only listening with her outer ears. I am very fond of cats, she replied simply. Whereupon Lucilla laughed again with quick understanding. I have a half-grown Persian kitten, she said, rather a beauty. A celeste a porte-moi le char de pierce. That's my little joke. C'est un colombeux, said Felice, with a smile. Of course it is. It's real smiley to see it. I call him Padishir. C'est bought a grey woolly mass of felinity from a basket in a dim corner, and handed it to Felice. The beast purred and stretched contentedly in her arms. Oh, what a dear! she cried. What a fluffy little dear! For the last week or two, she found herself saying, my only friend has been a cat. What kind of a cat? asked Lucilla. Oh, not one like this. It was a thin old tabby. And under the influence of the soft baby thing on her bosom and the kind eyes of her young hostess, the shyness melted from her, and she told of Mimi and Aunt Clotilde, and the abhorred cathedral, and the terrors of her flights to Paris. She had come more or less to an end, when celeste brought in a piquenese spaniel, and set him down on the hearth-rug to a plate of minced raw beef, which he proceeded to devour with lightning gluttony. Having licked the polished plate from hearth-rug to a chattering parquet, and licked it underneath in the hope of a grain of nourishment having melted through, he artched his tail above his back, and, composing his miniature Leonine features, regarded his mistress with his soul in his eyes, as who should say, Now having tasted, when shall I truly dine? But Lucilla sent him to his chair, where he assumed an attitude of polite surprise. And she explained to Felice, captivated by his doggie winsomeness, that she called him Gabby, which was short for heliogabalus, the voluptuary, which illusion Felice not being familiar with the decline and fall of the Roman Empire did not understand. But when Lucilla, breaking through rules of discipline, caught up the tawny little aristocrat, and apostrophised him as the noseless blunder, Felice laughed heartily, thinking it very funny, and, holding the kitten in her left arm, took him from Lucilla with her right, and covered the tiny headness with caresses. When the meal was over, Lucilla took her, still embracing kitten and dog, into the studio, the wealthy feminine amateurs' studio, a room with polished floors and costly rugs, and divans and tapestries, and an easel or two, and a great wood fire blazing up an imitation Renaissance chimney-piece. And Lucilla talked not only as though she had known Felice all her life, but as though Felice was the most fascinating little girl she had ever met, and it was all more wonderland for Felice. And so it continued during the short evening, for Lucilla, seeing that she was tired, ordered the removal to the respective padded baskets of dog and cat, both of which Felice had retained in her embrace, and sent her to bed early, and it continued during the processes of undressing amid the beautiful trifles wherewith she performed her toilette, and after she had put on the filmic Gossamer garment adorned with embroidered miracles that Celeste had laid out for her, and after she had sunk asleep in the fragrant linen of the warm nest. But in the middle of the night she awoke and saw the face of the dreadful woman, the roomo-grobine, and heard the voice of her aunt Clotilde speaking blasphemy against her father, and then she upgraded herself for being led away by the enchantment of the wonder-house, and, breaking down, sobbed for her lost illusions until the dawn. In the meanwhile a heart-broken man sat in a sordid room, toiling duly at the task of translating French commercial papers into English, by which means he added a little to his precarious income, while on the other side of the partition his wife slept drunkenly. That had been his domestic life, good God, he reflected, for more years than he cared to number. But up to then Felice had been kept in ignorance. Now the veil had been lifted. She had indeed retained the mother of her dreams, for what cost to him? Would it not have been better to tell her the truth? He stared at the typewritten words until they were hidden by a mist of tears. He had lost all that made life sweet for him, the love for Felice. He bowed his head in his hands. Judgment had at last descended on him for the sins of his youth, for he had erred grievously. All the misery he had endured since then had been but a preparation for the blow that had now fallen. It would be easy to go to her to-morrow and say, I deceived you last night. The woman you saw was your mother. But he knew he would never be able to say it. He must pay the great penalty. He paid it the next day when he called humbly to see her. She received him dutifully and gave him her cheek to kiss. But he felt her shrink from him and read the anguished condemnation in her eyes. He saw too, for he was quick at such things, how her glance took in for the first time in her life, his warm black clothes, his frayed linen, his gentile shabbiness, a grotesque contrast to the air of wealth in which she found herself. And he knew that she had no mean thoughts, but was pierced to the heart by the discovery. For she turned her head aside and bit her lip, so that he should not guess. I should like to tell you what I have done, said he, after some desultry and embarrassed talk about Lucila. I have telegraphed to Shatra and Brontome to say that you are safe and sound, and I have written to your Uncle Gaspar about Lucia Viglio. You will never hear of the matter again, unless your Aunt Clotilde goes to Brontome, which I very much doubt. Thank you, Father, said Felice, and the commonplace words sounded cold in her ears. She was delivered, she knew, from the nightmare of the past few weeks, but she found little joy in her freedom. Then she asked, Have you told Uncle Gaspar why I ran away from Aunt Clotilde? Enough, dear, for him to understand. He will ask you no questions, so you needn't tell him anything. Won't that be ungrateful? I have treated him ungrateful enough already. Fortimbros stretched out his hand, today it caressedly on her head, as he had done all her life. But remembering, withdrew it with a sigh. Your Uncle is the best and truest man I have ever met, said he, and he loves you dearly, and you love him, and with love in gratitude can't exist. Tell him whatever you find in your heart. But there is one thing you need never tell him, what you saw in the rumour of Grabeen last night. I have done so already. In this way there will be nothing secret between you. She sat, with tense young face, looking at her hands. Again she saw the squalid Virago. She would see her till her dying day. To no one on earth could she speak of her. Fortimbros rose, kissed her on the forehead, and went forth to his day's work of deely-out happiness to a clamouring world.