started from his face as the sun above him hung out of the parched sky. He began to talk to himself, to sing. Under his feet the sand sifted like the soft protest of autumn leaves. He imagined himself back in the forest, marking the rustle of leafy branches and the intermittent dropping of acorns and twigs. All at once his legs refused to move. He stood still, his gaze concentrated on the figure of Greenfield a long moment, then his body crumpled under him and he sank without volition to the ground.
Greenfield stopped, sat down, and waited. After half an hour he drew himself to his feet, moved on, then stopped, returned, approached, and listened to the crooning of the delirious man. Suddenly satisfied, he flung both arms into the air in frenzied triumph, turned, staggered, and reeled away, while back over the desert came the grotesque, hideous refrain, in maddened victory:
“Yankee Doodle Dandy oh!
Yankee Doodle Dandy!”
Frawley watched him go, then with a sigh of relief turned his glance to the black revolving form in the air–at least that remained to break the horror of the solitude. Then he lost consciousness.
The beat of wings across his face aroused him with a start and a cry of agony. The great bird of carrion, startled in its inspection, flew clumsily off and settled fearlessly on the ground, blinking at him.
An immense revolt, a furious anger brought with it new strength. He rose and rushed at the bird with clenched fist, cursing it as it lumbered awkwardly away. Then he began desperately to struggle on, following the tracks in the sand.
At the end of an hour specks appeared on the horizon. He looked at them in his delirium and began to laugh uneasily.
“I must be out of my head,” he said to himself seriously. “It’s a mirage. Well, I suppose it is the end. Who’ll they put on the case now? Keech, I suppose; yes, Keech; he’s a good man. Of course it’s a mirage.”
As he continued to stumble forward, the dots assumed the shape of trees and hills. He laughed contemptuously and began to remonstrate with himself, repeating:
“It’s a mirage, or I’m out of my head.” He began to be worried, saying over and over: “That’s a bad sign, very bad. I mustn’t lose control of myself. I must stick to him–stick to him until he dies of old age. Bucky Greenfield! Well, he won’t get out of this either. If the department could only know!”
The nearer he drew to life, the more indignant he became. He arrived thus at the edge of trees and green things.
“Why don’t they go?” he said angrily. “They ought to, now. Come, I think I’m keeping my head remarkably well.”
All at once a magnificent idea came to him–he would walk through the mirage and end it. He advanced furiously against an imaginary tree, struck his forehead, and toppled over insensible.
VII
Frawley returned to consciousness to find himself in the hut of a half-breed Indian, who was forcing a soup of herbs between his lips.
Two days later he regained his strength sufficiently to reach a ranch owned by Englishmen. Fitted out by them, he started at once to return to El Paso; to take up the unending search anew.
In the late afternoon, tired and thirsty, he arrived at a shanty where a handful of Mexican children were lolling in the cool of the wall. At the sound of his approach a woman came running to the door, shrieking for assistance in a Mexican gibberish. He ran hastily to the house, his hand on his pistol. The woman, without stopping her chatter, huddled in the doorway, pointing to the dim corner opposite. Frawley, following her glance, saw the figure of a man stretched on a hasty bed of leaves. He took a few quick steps and recognized Greenfield.
At the same moment the bundle shot to a sitting position, with a cry:
“Who’s that?”
Frawley, with a quick motion, covered him with his revolver, crying:
“Hands up. It’s me, Bucky, and I’ve got you now!”
“Frawley!”
“That’s it, Bucky–Hands up!”
Greenfield, without obeying, stared at him wildly.
“God, it is Frawley!” he cried, and fell back in a heap.
Inspector Frawley, advancing a step, repeated his command with no uncertain ring:
“Hands up! Quick!”
On the bed the distorted body contracted suddenly into a ball.
“Easy, Bub,” Greenfield said between his teeth. “Easy; don’t get excited. I’m dying.”
“You?”
Frawley approached cautiously, suspiciously.
“Fact. I’m cashin’ in.”
“What’s the matter?”
“Bug. Plain bug–the desert did the rest.”
“A what?”
“Tarantula bite–don’t laugh, Bub.”
Frawley, at his side, needed but a glance to see that it was true. He ran his hand over Greenfield’s belt and removed his pistol.
“Sorry,” he said curtly, standing up.
“Quite keerect, Bub!”
“Can I do anything for you?”
“Nope.”
Suddenly, without warning, Greenfield raised himself, glared at him, stretched out his hands, and fell into a passionate fit of weeping. Frawley’s English reserve was outraged.
“What’s the matter?” he said angrily. “You’re not going to show the white feather now, are you?”
With an oath Greenfield sat bolt upright, silent and flustered.
“D—- you, Bub–show some imagination,” he said after a pause. “Do you think I mind dying–me? That’s a good one. It ain’t that–no–it’s ending, ending like this. After all I’ve been through, to be put out of business by a bug–an ornery little bug.”
Then Frawley comprehended his mistake.
“I say, Bucky, I’ll take that back,” he said awkwardly.
“No imagination, no imagination,” Greenfield muttered, sinking back. “Why, man, if I’d chased you three times around the world and got you, I’d fall on you and beat you to a pulp or–or I’d hug you like a long-lost brother.”
“I asked your pardon,” said Frawley again.
“All right, Bub–all right,” Greenfield answered with a short laugh. Then after a pause he added seriously: “So you’ve come–well, I’m glad it’s over. Bub,” he continued, raising himself excitedly on his elbow, “here’s something strange, only you won’t understand it. Do you know, the whole time I knew just where you were–I had a feeling somewhere in the back of my neck. At first you were ‘way off, over the horizon; then you got to be a spot coming over the hill. Then I began to feel that spot growin’ bigger and bigger–after Rio Janeiro, crawling up, creeping up. Gospel truth, I felt you sneaking up on my back. It got on my nerves. I dreamed about it, and that morning on the trail when you was just a speck on any old hoss–I knew! You–you don’t understand such things, Bub, do you?”
Frawley made an effort, failed, and answered helplessly:
“No, Bucky, no, I can’t say I do understand.”
“Why do you think I ran you into Rio Janeiro?” said Greenfield, twisting on the leaves. “Into the cholery? What do you think made me lay for this desert? Bub, you were on my back, clinging like a catamount. I was bound to shake you off. I was desperate. It had to end one way or t’other. That’s why I stuck to you until I thought it was over with you.”
“Why didn’t you make sure of it?” said Frawley with curiosity; “you could have done for me there.”
Greenfield looked at him hard and nodded.
“Keerect, Bub; quite so!”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Why!” cried Greenfield angrily. “Ain’t you ever had any imagination? Did I want to shoot you down like a common ordinary pickpocket after taking you three times around the world? That was no ending! God, what a chase it was!”
“It was long, Bucky,” Frawley admitted. “It was a good one!”
“Can’t you understand anything?” Greenfield cried querulously. “Where’s anything bigger, more than what we’ve done? And to have it end like this–to have a bug–a miserable, squashy bug beat you after all!”
For a long moment there was no sound, while Greenfield lay, twisting, his head averted, buried in the leaves.
“It’s not right, Bucky,” said Frawley at last, with an effort at sympathy. “It oughtn’t to have ended this way.”
“It was worth it!” Greenfield cried. “Three years! There ain’t much dirt we haven’t kicked up! Asia, Africa–a regular Cook’s tour through Europe, North and South Ameriky. And what seas, Bub!” His voice faltered. The drops of sweat stood thickly on his forehead; but he pulled himself together gamely. “Do you remember the Sea of Japan with its funny little toy junks? Man, we’ve beaten out Columbus, Jools Verne, and the rest of them–hollow, Bub!”
“I say, what did you do it for?”
“You are a rum un,” said Greenfield with a broken laugh. The words began to come shorter and with effort. “Excitement, Bub! Deviltry and cussedness!”
“How do you feel, Bucky?” asked Frawley.
“Half in hell already–stewing for my sins–but it’s not that–it’s–“
“What, Bucky?”
“That bug! Me, Bucky Greenfield–to go down and out on account of a bug–a little squirmy bug! But I swear even he couldn’t have done it if the desert hadn’t put me out of business first! No, by God! I’m not downed so easy as that!”
Frawley, in a lame attempt to show his sympathy, went closer to the dying man:
“I say, Bucky.”
“Shout away.”
“Wouldn’t you like to go out, standing, on your feet–with your boots on?”
Greenfield laughed, a contented laugh.
“What’s the matter, pal?” said Frawley, pausing in surprise.
“You darned old Englishman,” said Greenfield affectionately. “Say, Bub.”
“Yes, Bucky.”
“The dinkies are all right–but–but a Yank, a real Yank, would ‘a’ got me in six months.”
“All right, Bucky. Shall I raise you up?”
“H’ist away.”
“Would you like the feeling of a gun in your hand again?” said Frawley, raising him up.
This time Greenfield did not laugh, but his hand closed convulsively over the butt, and he gave a savage sigh of delight. His limbs contracted violently, his head bore heavily on the shoulder of Frawley, who heard him whisper again:
“A bug–a little–“
Then he stopped and appeared to listen. Outside, the evening was soft and stirring. Through the door the children appeared, tumbling over one another, in grotesque attitudes.
Suddenly, as though in the breeze he had caught the sound of a step, Greenfield jerked almost free of Frawley’s arms, shuddered, and fell back rigid. The pistol, flung into the air, twirled, pitched on the floor, and remained quiet.
Frawley placed the body back on the bed of leaves, listened a moment, and rose satisfied. He threw a blanket over the face, picked up the revolver, searched a moment for his hat, and went out to arrange with the Mexican for the night. In a moment he returned and took a seat in the corner, and began carefully to jot down the details on a piece of paper. Presently he paused and looked reflectively at the bed of leaves.
“It’s been a good three years,” he said reflectively. He considered a moment, rapping the pencil against his teeth, and repeated: “A good three years. I think when I get home I’ll ask for a week or so to stretch myself.” Then he remembered with anxiety how Greenfield had railed at his lack of imagination and pondered a moment seriously. Suddenly, as though satisfied, he said with a nod of conviction:
“Well, now, we did jog about a bit!”
LARRY MOORE
I
The base-ball season had closed, and we were walking down Fifth avenue, Larry Moore and I. We were discussing the final series for the championship, and my friend was estimating his chances of again pitching the Giants to the top, when a sudden jam on the avenue left us an instant looking face to face at a woman and a child seated in a luxurious victoria.
Larry Moore, who had hold of my arm, dropped it quickly and wavered in his walk. The woman caught her breath and put her muff hastily to her face; but the child saw us without surprise. All had passed within a second, yet I retained a vivid impression of a woman of strange attraction, elegant and indolent, with something in her face which left me desirous of seeing it again, and of a pretty child who seemed a little too serious for that happy age. Larry Moore forgot what he had begun to say. He spoke no further word, and I, in glancing at his face, comprehended that, incredible as it seemed, there was some bond between the woman I had seen and this raw-boned, big-framed, and big-hearted idol of the bleachers.
Without comment I followed Larry Moore, serving his mood as he immediately left the avenue and went east. At first he went with excited strides, then he slowed down to a profound and musing gait, then he halted, laid his hand heavily on my shoulder, and said:
“Get into the car, Bob. Come up to the rooms.”
I understood that he wished to speak to me of what had happened, and I followed. We went thus, without another word exchanged, to his rooms, and entered the little parlor hung with the trophies of his career, which I looked at with some curiosity. On the mantel in the center I saw at once a large photograph of the Hon. Joseph Gilday, a corporation lawyer of whom we reporters told many hard things, a picture I did not expect to find here among the photographs of the sporting celebrities who had sent their regards to my friend of the diamond. In some perplexity I approached and saw across the bottom written in large firm letters: “I’m proud to know you, Larry Moore.”
I smiled, for the tribute of the great man of the law seemed incongruous here to me, who knew of old my simple-minded, simple-hearted friend whom, the truth be told, I patronized perforce. Then I looked about more carefully, and saw a dozen photographs of a woman, sometimes alone, sometimes holding a pretty child, and the faces were the faces I had seen in the victoria. I feigned not to have seen them; but Larry, who had watched me, said:
“Look again, Bob; for that is the woman you saw in the carriage, and that is the child.”
So I took up a photograph and looked at it long. The face had something more dangerous than beauty in it–the face of a Cleopatra with a look in the deep restless eyes I did not fancy; but I did not tell that to Larry Moore. Then I put it back in its place and turned and said gravely:
“Are you sure that you want to tell me, Larry Moore?”
“I do,” he said. “Sit down.”
He did not seek preliminaries, as I should have done, but began at once, simply and directly–doubtless he was retelling the story more to himself than to me.
“She was called Fanny Montrose,” he said, “a slip of a girl, with wonderful golden hair, and big black eyes that made me tremble, the day I went into the factory at Bridgeport, the day I fell in love. ‘I’m Larry Moore; you may have heard of me,’ I said, going straight up to her when the whistle blew that night, ‘and I’d like to walk home with you, Fanny Montrose.’
“She drew back sort of quick, and I thought she’d been hearing tales of me up in Fall River; so I said: ‘I only meant to be polite. You may have heard a lot of bad of me, and a lot of it’s true, but you never heard of Larry Moore’s being disrespectful to a lady,’ and I looked her in the eye and said: ‘Will you let me walk home with you, Fanny Montrose?’
“She swung on her foot a moment, and then she said: ‘I will.’
“I heard a laugh go up at that, and turned round, with the bit in my teeth; but it was only the women, and you can’t touch them. Fanny Montrose hurried on, and I saw she was upset by it, so I said humbly: ‘You’re not sorry now, are you?’
“‘Oh, no,’ she said.
“‘Will you catch hold of my arm?’ I asked her.
“She looked first in my face, and then she slipped in her hand so prettily that it sent all the words from my tongue. ‘You’ve just come to Bridgeport, ain’t you?’ she said timidly.
“‘I have,’ I said, ‘and I want you to know the truth. I came because I had to get out of Fall River. I had a scrap–more than one of them.’
“‘Did you lick your man?’ she said, glancing at me.
“‘I licked every one of them, and it was good and fair fighting–if I was on a tear,’ I said; ‘but I’m ashamed of it now.’
“‘You’re Larry Moore, who pitched on the Fall Rivers last season?’ she said.
“‘I am.’
“‘You can pitch some!’ she said with a nod.
“‘When I’m straight I can.’
“‘And why don’t you go at it like a man then? You could get in the Nationals,’ she said.
“‘I’ve never had anyone to work for–before,’ I said.
“‘We go down here; I’m staying at Keene’s boarding-house,’ she said at that.
“I was afraid I’d been too forward; so I kept still until we came to the door. Then I pulled off my hat and made her a bow and said: ‘Will you let me walk home with you steady, Fanny Montrose?’
“And she stopped on the door-step and looked at me without saying a word, and I asked it again, putting out my hand, for I wanted to get hold of hers. But she drew back and reached for the knob. So I said:
“‘You needn’t be frightened; for it’s me that ought to be afraid.’
“‘And what have you to be afraid of, you great big man?’ she said, stopping in wonder.
“‘I’m afraid of your big black eyes, Fanny Montrose, ‘I said, ‘and I’m afraid of your slip of a body that I could snap in my hands,’ I said; ‘for I’m going to fall in love with you, Fanny Montrose.’
“Which was a lie, for I was already. With that I ran off like a fool. I ran off, but from that night I walked home with Fanny Montrose.
“For a month we kept company, and Bill Coogan and Dan Farrar and the rest of them took my notice and kept off. The women laughed at me and sneered at her; but I minded them not, for I knew the ways of the factory, and besides there wasn’t a man’s voice in the lot–that I heard.
“But one night as we were wandering back to Keene’s boarding-house, Fanny Montrose on my arm, Bill Coogan planted himself before us, and called her something to her face that there was no getting around.
“I took her on a bit, weeping and shaking, and I said to her: ‘Stand here.’
“And I went back, and caught Bill Coogan by the throat and the belt, and swung him around my head, and flung him against the lamp-post. And the post broke off with a crash, and Coogan lay quiet, with nothing more to say.
“I went back to Fanny Montrose, who had stopped her crying, and said, shaking with anger at the dirty insult: ‘Fanny Montrose, will you be my wife? Will you marry me this night?’
“She pushed me away from her, and looked up into my face in a frightened way and said: ‘Do you mean to be your wife?’
“‘I do,’ I said, and then because I was afraid that she didn’t trust in me enough yet to marry me I said solemnly: ‘Fanny Montrose, you need have no fear. If I’ve been drunk and riotous, it’s because I wanted to be, and now that I’ve made up my mind to be straight, there isn’t a thing living that could turn me back again. Fanny Montrose, will you say you’ll be my wife?’
“Then she put out her two hands to me and tumbled into my arms, all limp.”
II
Larry Moore rose and walked the length of the room. When he came back he went to the wall and took down a photograph; but with what emotion I could not say, for his back was to me. I glanced again at the odd volatile beauty in the woman’s face and wondered what was the word Bill Coogan had said and what was his reason for saying it.
“From that day it was all luck for me,” Larry Moore said, settling again in the chair, where his face returned to the shadow. “She had a head on her, that little woman. She pulled me up to where I am. I pitched that season for the Bridgeports. You know the record, Bob, seven games lost out of forty-three, and not so much my fault either. When they were for signing me again, at big money too, the little woman said:
“‘Don’t you do it, Larry Moore; they’re not your class. Just hold out a bit.’
“You know, Bob, how I signed then with the Giants, and how they boosted my salary at the end of that first year; but it was Fanny Montrose who made the contracts every time. We had the child then, and I was happy. The money came quick, and lots of it, and I put it in her lap and said:
“‘Do what you want with it; only I want you to enjoy it like a lady.’
“Maybe I was wrong there–maybe I was. It was pride, I’ll admit; but there wasn’t a lady came to the stands that looked finer than Fanny Montrose, as I always used to call her. I got to be something of a figure, as you know, and the little woman was always riding back and forth to the games in some automobile, and more often with Paul Bargee.
“One afternoon Ed Nichols, who was catching me then, came up with a serious face and said: ‘Where’s your lady to-day, Larry–and Paul Bargee?’ And by the way he said it I knew what he had in mind, and good friend that he was of mine I liked to have throttled him. They told me to pitch the game, and I did. I won it too. Then I ran home without changing my clothes, the people staring at me, and ran up the stairs and flung open the door and stopped and called: ‘Fanny Montrose!’
“And I called again, and I called a third time, and only the child came to answer me. Then I knew in my heart that Fanny Montrose had left me and run off with Paul Bargee.
III
“I waited all that night without tasting food or moving, listening for her step on the stairs. And in the morning the postman came without a line or a word for me. I couldn’t understand; for I had been a good husband to her, and though I thought over everything that had happened since we’d been married, I couldn’t think of a thing that I’d done to hurt her–for I wasn’t thinking then of the millions of Paul Bargee.
“In the afternoon there came a dirty little lawyer shuffling in to see me, with blinking little eyes behind his black-rimmed spectacles–a toad of a man.
“‘Who are you?’ I said, ‘and what are you doing here?’
“‘I’m simply an attorney,’ he said, cringing before my look–‘Solomon Scholl, on a very disagreeable duty,’ he said.
“‘Do you come from her?’ I said, and I caught my breath.
“‘I come from Mr. Paul Bargee,’ he said, ‘and I’d remind you, Mr. Moore, that I come as an attorney on a disagreeable duty.’
“With that I drew back and looked at him in amazement, and said: ‘What has he got to say to me?’
“‘My client,’ he said, turning the words over with the tip of his tongue, ‘regrets exceedingly–‘
“‘Don’t waste words!’ I said angrily. ‘What are you here for?’
“‘My client,’ he said, looking at me sidelong, ’empowers me to offer you fifteen thousand dollars if you will promise to make no trouble in this matter.’
“I sat down all in a heap; for I didn’t know the ways of a gentleman then, Bob, and covered my face with the horror I had of the humiliation he had done me. The lawyer, he misunderstood it, for he crept up softly and whispered in my ear:
“‘That’s what he offers–if you’re fool enough to take it; but if you’ll stick to me, we can wring him to the tune of ten times that.’
“I got up and took him and kicked him out of the room, and kicked him down the stairs, for he was a little man, and I wouldn’t strike him.
“Then I came back and said to myself: ‘If matters are so, I must get the best advice I can.’
“And I knew that Joseph Gilday was the top of the lot. So I went to him, and when I came in I stopped short, for I saw he looked perplexed, and I said: ‘I’m in trouble, sir, and my life depends on it, and other lives, and I need the best of advice; so I’ve come to you. I’m Larry Moore of the Giants; so you may know I can pay.’ Then I sat down and told him the story, every word as I’ve told you; and when I was all through, he said quietly:
“‘What are you thinking of doing, Mr. Moore?’
“‘I think it would be better if she came back, sir,’ I said, ‘for her and for the child. So I thought the best thing would be to write her a letter and tell her so; for I think if you could write the right sort of a letter she’d come back. And that’s what I want you to show me how to write,’ I said.
“He took a sheet of paper and a pen, and looked at me steadily and said: ‘What would you say to her?’
“So I drew my hands up under my chin and thought awhile and said: ‘I think I’d say something like this, sir:
“‘”My dear wife–I’ve been trying to think all this while what has driven you away, and I don’t understand. I love you, Fanny Montrose, and I want you to come back to me. And if you’re afraid to come, I want to tell you not a word will pass my lips on the subject; for I haven’t forgotten that it was you made a man of me; and much as I try, I cannot hate you, Fanny Montrose.”‘
“He looked down and wrote for a minute, and then he handed me the paper and said: ‘Send that.’
“I looked, and saw it was what I had told him, and I said doubtfully: ‘Do you think that is best?’
“‘I do.’
“So I mailed the letter as he said, and three days after came one from a lawyer, saying my wife could have no communication with me, and would I send what I had to say to him.
“So I went down to Gilday and told him, and I said: ‘We must think of other things, sir, since she likes luxury and those things better; for I’m beginning to think that’s it–and there I’m a bit to blame, for I did encourage her. Well, she’ll have to marry him–that’s all I can see to it,” I said, and sat very quiet.
“‘He won’t marry her,’ he said in his quick way.
“I thought he meant because she was bound to me, so I said: ‘Of course, after the divorce.’
“‘Are you going to get a divorce then from her?’
“‘I’ve been thinking it over,’ I said carefully, and I had, ‘and I think the best way would be for her to get it. That can be done, can’t it?’ I said, ‘because I’ve been thinking of the child, and I don’t want her to grow up with any stain on the good name of her mother,’ I said.
“‘Then you will give up the child?’ he said.
“And I said: ‘Yes.’
“‘Will he marry her?’ he said again.
“‘For what else did he take her away?’
“‘If I was you,’ he said, looking at me hard, ‘I’d make sure of that–before.’
“That worried me a good deal, and I went out and walked around, and then I went to the station and bought a ticket for Chicago, and I said to myself: ‘I’ll go and see him’; for by that time I’d made up my mind what I’d do.
“And when I got there the next morning, I went straight to his house, and my heart sank, for it was a great place with a high iron railing all around it and a footman at the door–and I began to understand why Fanny Montrose had left me for him.
“I’d thought a long time about giving another name; but I said to myself: ‘No, I’ll him a chance first to come down and face me like a man,’ so I said to the footman: ‘Go tell Paul Bargee that Larry Moore has come to see him.’
“Then I went down the hall and into the great parlor, all hung with draperies, and I looked at myself in the mirrors and looked at the chairs, and I didn’t feel like sitting down, and presently the curtains opened, and Paul Bargee stepped into the room. I looked at him once, and then I looked at the floor, and my breath came hard. Then he stepped up to me and stopped and said:
“‘Well?’
“And though he had wronged me and wrecked my life, I couldn’t help admiring his grit; for the boy was no match for me, and he knew it too, though he never flinched.
“‘I’ve come from New York here to talk with you, Paul Bargee,’ I said.
“‘You’ve a right to.’
“‘I have,’ I said, ‘and I want to have an understanding with you now, if you have the time, sir,’ I said, and looked at the ground again.
“He drew off, and hearing me speak so low he mistook me as others have done before, and he looked at me hard and said: ‘Well, how much?’
“My head went up, and I strode at him; but he never winced–if he had, I think I’d have caught him then and there and served him as I did Bill Coogan. But I stopped and said: ‘That’s the second mistake you’ve made, Paul Bargee; the first was when you sent a dirty little lawyer to pay me for taking my wife. And your lawyer came to me and told me to screw you to the last cent. I kicked him out of my sight; and what have you to say why I shouldn’t do the same to you, Paul Bargee?’
“He looked white and hurt in his pride, and said: ‘You’re right; and I beg your pardon, Mr. Moore.’
“‘I don’t want your pardon,’ I said, ‘and I won’t sit down in your house, and we won’t discuss what has happened but what is to be. For there’s a great wrong you’ve done, and I’ve a right to say what you shall do now, Paul Bargee.’
“He looked at me and said slowly: ‘What is that?’
“‘You took my wife, and I gave her a chance to come back to me,’ I said; ‘but she loved you and what you can give better than me. But she’s been my wife, and I’m not going to see her go down into the gutter.’
“He started to speak; but I put up my hand and I said: ‘I’m not here to discuss with you, Paul Bargee. I’ve come to say what’s going to be done; for I have a child,’ I said, ‘and I don’t intend that the mother of my little girl should go down to the gutter. You’ve chosen to take my wife, and she’s chosen to stay with you. Now, you’ve got to marry her and make her a good woman,’ I said.
“Then Paul Bargee stood off, and I saw what was passing through his mind. And I went up to him and laid my hand on his shoulder and said: ‘You know what I mean, and you know what manner of man I am that talks to you like this; for you’re no coward,’ I said; ‘but you marry Fanny Montrose within a week after she gets her freedom, or I am going to kill you wherever you stand. And that’s the choice you’ve got to make, Paul Bargee,’ I said.
“Then I stepped back and watched him, and as I did so I saw the curtains move and knew that Fanny Montrose had heard me.
“‘You’re going to give her the divorce?’ he said.
“‘I am. I don’t intend there shall be a stain on her name,’ I said; ‘for I loved Fanny Montrose, and she’s always the mother of my little girl.’
“Then he went to a chair and sat down and took his head in his hands, and I went out.
IV
“I came back to New York, and went to Mr. Gilday.
“‘Will he marry her?’ he said at once.
“‘He will marry her,’ I said. ‘As for her, I want you to say; for I’ll not write to her myself, since she wouldn’t answer me. Say when she’s the wife of Paul Bargee I’ll bring the child to her myself, and she’s to see me; for I have a word to say to her then,’ I said, and I laid my fist down on the table. ‘Until then the child stays with me.’
“They’ve said hard things of Mr. Joseph Gilday, and I know it; but I know all that he did for me. For he didn’t turn it over to a clerk; but he took hold himself and saw it through as I had said. And when the divorce was given he called me down and told me that Fanny Montrose was a free woman and no blame to her in the sight of the law.
“Then I said: ‘It is well. Now write to Paul Bargee that his week has begun. Until then I keep the child, law or no law.’ Then I rose and said: ‘I thank you, Mr. Gilday. You’ve been very kind, and I’d like to pay you what I owe you.’
“He sat there a moment and chewed on his mustache, and he said: ‘You don’t owe me a cent.’
“‘It wasn’t charity I came to you for, and I can pay for what I get, Mr. Gilday,’ I said. ‘Will you give me your regular bill?’ I said.
“And he said at last: ‘I will.’
“In the middle of the week Paul Bargee’s mother came to me and went down on her knees and begged for her son, and I said to her: ‘Why should there be one law for him and one law for the likes of me. He’s taken my wife; but he sha’n’t put her to shame, ma’am, and he sha’n’t cast a cloud on the life of my child!’
“Then she stopped arguing, and caught my hands and cried: ‘But you won’t kill him, you won’t kill my son, if he don’t?’
“‘As sure as Saturday comes, ma’am, and he hasn’t made Fanny Montrose a good woman,’ I said, ‘I’m going to kill Paul Bargee wherever he stands.’
“And Friday morning Mr. Gilday called me down to his office and told me that Paul Bargee had done as I said he should do. And I pressed his hand and said nothing, and he let me sit awhile in his office.
“And after awhile I rose up and said: ‘Then I must take the child to her, as I promised, to-night.’
“He walked with me from the office and said: ‘Go home to your little girl. I’ll see to the tickets, and will come for you at nine o’clock.’
“And at nine o’clock he came in his big carriage, and took me and the child to the station and said: ‘Telegraph me when you’re leaving to-morrow.’
“And I said: ‘I will.’
“Then I went into the car with my little girl asleep in my arms and sat down in the seat, and the porter came and said:
“‘Can I make up your berths?’
“And I looked at the child and shook my head. So I held her all night and she slept on my shoulder, while I looked from her out into the darkness, and from the darkness back to her again. And the porter kept passing and passing and staring at me and the child.
“And in the morning we went up to the great house and into the big parlor, and Fanny Montrose came in, as I had said she should, very white and not looking at me. And the child ran to her, and I watched Fanny Montrose catch her up to her breast, and I sobbed. And she looked at me, and saw it. So I said:
“‘It’s because now I know you love the child and that you’ll be kind to her.’
“Then she fell down before me and tried to take my hand. But I stepped back and said:
“‘I’ve made you an honest woman, Fanny Montrose, and now as long as I live I’m going to see you do nothing to disgrace my child.’
“And I went out and took the train back. And Mr. Gilday was at the station there waiting for me, and he took my arm, without a word, and led me to his carriage and drove up without speaking. And when we got to the house, he got out, and took off his hat and made me a bow and said: ‘I’m proud to know you, Larry Moore.'”
MY WIFE’S WEDDING PRESENTS
I
I don’t believe in wedding functions. I don’t believe in honeymoons and particularly I abominate the inhuman custom of giving wedding presents. And this is why:
Clara was the fifth poor daughter of a rich man. I was respectably poor but artistic. We had looked forward to marriage as a time when two persons chose a home and garnished it with furnishings of their own choice, happy in the daily contact with beautiful things. We had often discussed our future home. We knew just the pictures that must hang on the walls, the tone of the rugs that should lie on the floors, the style of the furniture that should stand in the rooms, the pattern of the silver that should adorn our table. Our ideas were clear and positive.
Unfortunately Clara had eight rich relatives who approved of me and I had three maiden aunts, two of whom were in precarious health and must not be financially offended.
I am rather an imperious man, with theories that a woman is happiest when she finds a master; but when the details of the wedding came up for decision I was astounded to find myself not only flouted but actually forced to humiliating surrender. Since then I have learned that my own case was not glaringly exceptional. At the time, however, I was nonplused and rather disturbed in my dreams of the future. I had decided on a house wedding with but the family and a few intimate friends to be present at my happiness. After Clara had done me the honor to consult me, several thousand cards were sent out for the ceremony at the church and an addition was begun on the front veranda.
Clara herself led me to the library and analyzed the situation to me, in the profoundest manner.
“You dear, old, impracticable goose,” she said with the wisdom of just twenty, “what do you know about such things? How much do you suppose it will cost us to furnish a house the way we want?”
I said airily, “Oh, about five hundred dollars.”
“Take out your pencil,” said Clara scornfully, “and write.”
When she finished her dictation, and I had added up the items with a groan, I was dumbfounded. I said:
“Clara, do you think it is wise–do you think we have any right to get married?”
“Of course we have.”
“Then we must make up our minds to boarding.”
“Nonsense! we shall have everything just as we planned it.”
“But how?”
“Wedding presents,” said Clara triumphantly, “now do you see why it must be a church wedding?”
I began to see.
“But isn’t it a bit mercenary?” I said feebly. “Does every one do it?”
“Every one. It is a sort of tax on the unmarried,” said Clara with a determined shake of her head. “Quite right that it should be, too.”
“Then every one who receives an invitation is expected to contribute to our future welfare?”
“An invitation to the house.”
“Well, to the house–then?”
“Certainly.”
“Ah, now, my dear, I begin to understand why the presents are always shown.”
For all answer Clara extended the sheet of paper on which we had made our calculations.
I capitulated.
II
I pass over the wedding. In theory I have grown more and more opposed to such exhibitions. A wedding is more pathetic than a funeral, and nothing, perhaps, is more out of place than the jubilations of the guests. When a man and a woman, as husband and wife, have lived together five years, then the community should engage a band and serenade them, but at the outset–however, I will not insist–I am doubtless cynically inclined. I come to the moment when, having successfully weathered the pitfalls of the honeymoon (there’s another mistaken theory–but let that pass) my wife and I found ourselves at last in our own home, in the midst of our wedding presents. I say in the midst advisably. Clara sat helplessly in the middle of the parlor rug and I glowered from the fireplace.
“My dear Clara,” I said, with just a touch of asperity, “you’ve had your way about the wedding. Now you’ve got your wedding presents. What are you going to do with them?”
“If people only wouldn’t have things marked!” said Clara irrelevantly.
“But they always do,” I replied. “Also I may venture to suggest that your answer doesn’t solve the difficulty.”
“Don’t be cross,” said Clara.
“My dear,” I replied with excellent good-humor, “I’m not. I’m only amused–who wouldn’t be?”
“Don’t be horrid, George,” said Clara.
“It _is_ deliciously humorous,” I continued. “Quite the most humorous thing I have ever known. I am not cross and I am not horrid; I have made a profound discovery. I know now why so many American marriages are not happy.”
“Why, George?”
“Wedding presents,” I said savagely, “exactly that, my dear. This being forced to live years of married life surrounded by things you don’t want, you never will want, and which you’ve got to live with or lose your friends.”
“Oh, George!” said Clara, gazing around helplessly, “it is terrible, isn’t it?”
“Look at that rug you are sitting on,” I said, glaring at a six by ten modern French importation. “Cauliflowers contending with unicorns, surrounded by a border of green roses and orange violets–expensive! And until the lamp explodes or the pipes burst we have got to go on and on and on living over that, and why?–because dear Isabel will be here once a week!”
“I thought Isabel would have better taste,” said Clara.
“She has–Isabel has perfect taste, depend upon it,” I said, “she did it on purpose!”
“George!”
“Exactly that. Have you noticed that married people give the most impossible presents? It is revenge, my dear. Society has preyed upon them. They will prey upon society. Wait until we get a chance!”
“It is awful!” said Clara.
“Let us continue. We have five French rugs; no two could live together. Five rooms desecrated. Our drawing-room is Art Nouveau, furnished by your Uncle James, who is strong and healthy and may live twenty years. I particularly abominate Art Nouveau furniture.”
“So do I.”
“Our dining-room is distinctly Grand Rapids.”
“Now, George!”
“It is.”
“Well, it was your Aunt Susan.”
“It was, but who suggested it? I pass over the bedrooms. I will simply say that they are nightmares. Expensive nightmares! I come to the lamps–how many have we?”
“Fourteen.”
“Fourteen atrocities, imitation Louis Seize, bogus Oriental, feathered, laced and tasseled. So much for useful presents. Now for decoration. We have three Sistine Madonnas (my particular abomination). Two, thank heaven, we can inflict on the next victims, one we have got to live with and why?–so that each of our three intimate friends will believe it his own. We have water colors and etchings which we don’t want, and a photograph copy of every picture that every one sees in every one’s house. Some original friend has even sent us a life-size, marble reproduction of the Venus de Milo. These things will be our artistic home. Then there are vases–“
“Now you are losing your temper.”
“On the contrary, I’m reserving it. I shan’t characterize the bric-a-brac, that was to be expected.”
“Don’t!”
“At least that is not marked. I come at last to the silver. Give me the list.”
Clara sighed and extended it.
“Four solid silver terrapin dishes.”
“Marked.”
“Marked–Terrapin–ha! ha! Two massive, expensive, solid silver champagne coolers.”
“Marked.”
“Marked, my dear–for each end of the table when we give our beefsteak dinners. Almond dishes.”
“Don’t!”
“Forty-two individual, solid or filigree almond dishes; forty-two, Clara.”
“Marked.”
“Right again, dear. One dozen bonbon dishes, five nouveau riche sugar shakers (we never use them), three muffineers–in heaven’s name, what’s that? Solid silver bread dishes, solid silver candlesticks by the dozen, solid silver vegetable dishes, and we expect one servant and an intermittent laundress to do the cooking, washing, make the beds and clean the house besides.”
“All marked,” said Clara dolefully.
“Every one, my dear. Then the china and the plates, we can’t even eat out of the plates we want or drink from the glasses we wish; everything in this house, from top to bottom has been picked out and inflicted upon us against our wants and in defiance of our own taste and we–we have got to go on living with them and trying not to quarrel!”
“You have forgotten the worst of all,” said Clara.
“No, my darling, I have not forgotten it. I have thought of nothing else, but I wanted you to mention it.”
“The flat silver, George.”
“The flat silver, my darling. Twelve dozen, solid silver and teaset to match, bought without consulting us, by your two rich bachelor uncles in collusion. We wanted Queen Anne or Louis Seize, simple, dignified, something to live with and grow fond of, and what did we get?”
“Oh, dear, they might have asked me!”
“But they don’t, they never do, that is the theory of wedding presents, my dear. We got Pond Lily pattern, repousse until it scratches your fingers. Pond Lily pattern, my dear, which I loathe, detest, and abominate!”
“I too, George.”
“And that, my dear, we shall never get rid of; we not only must adopt and assume the responsibility, but must pass it down to our children and our children’s children.”
“Oh, George, it is terrible–terrible! What are we going to do?”
“My darling Clara, we are going to put a piece of bric-a-brac a day on the newel post, buy a litter of puppies to chew up the rugs, select a butter-fingered, china-breaking waitress, pay storage on the silver and try occasionally to set fire to the furniture.”
“But the flat silver, George, what of that?”
“Oh, the flat silver,” I said gloomily, “each one has his cross to bear, that shall be ours.”
III
We were, as has been suggested, a relatively rich couple. That’s a pun! At the end of five years a relative on either side left us a graceful reminder. The problem of living became merely one of degree. At the end of this period we had made considerable progress in the building up of a home which should be in fact and desire entirely ours. That is, we had been extensively fortunate in the preservation of our wedding presents. Our twenty-second housemaid broke a bottle of ink over the parlor rug, her twenty-one predecessors (whom I had particularly selected) had already made the most gratifying progress among the bric-a-brac, two intelligent Airdale puppies had chewed satisfactory holes in the Art Nouveau furniture, even the Sistine Madonna had wrenched loose from its supports and considerately annihilated the jewel-studded Oriental lamp in the general smashup.
Our little home began at last to really reflect something of the artistic taste on which I pride myself. There remained at length only the flat silver and a few thousand dollars’ worth of solid silver receptacles for which we had now paid four hundred dollars storage. But these remained, secure, fixed beyond the assaults of the imagination.
One morning at the breakfast table I laid down my cup with a crash.
Clara gave an exclamation of alarm.
“George dear, what is it?”
For all reply I seized a handful of the Pond Lily pattern silver and gazed at it with a savage joy.
“George, George, what has happened?”
“My dear, I have an idea–a wonderful idea.”
“What idea?”
“We will spend the summer in Lone Tree, New Jersey.”
Clara screamed.
“Are you in your senses, George?”
“Never more so.”
“But it’s broiling hot!”
“Hotter than that.”
“It is simply deluged with mosquitoes.”
“There _are_ several mosquitoes there.”
“It’s a hole in the ground!”
“It certainly is.”
“And the only people we know there are the Jimmy Lakes, whom I detest.”
“I can’t bear them.”
“And, George, there are _burglars_!”
“Yes, my dear,” I said triumphantly, “heaven be praised there _are_ burglars!”
Clara looked at me. She is very quick.
“You are thinking of the silver.”
“Of all the silver.”
“But, George, can we afford it?”
“Afford what?”
“To have the silver stolen.”
“Supposing there was a burglar insurance, as a reward.”
The next moment Clara was laughing in my arms.
“Oh, George, you are a wonderful, brilliant man: how did you ever think of it?”
“I just put my mind to it,” I said loftily.
IV
We went to Lone Tree, New Jersey. We went there early to meet the migratory spring burglar. We released from storage two chests and three barrels of solid silver wedding presents, took out a burglar insurance for three thousand dollars and proceeded to decorate the dining-room and parlor.
“It looks rather–rather nouveau riche,” said Clara, surveying the result.
“My dear, say the word–it is vulgar. But what of that? We have come here for a purpose and we will not be balked. Our object is to offer every facility to the gentlemen who will relieve us of our silver. Nothing concealed, nothing screwed to the floor.”
“I think,” said Clara, “that the champagne coolers are unnecessary.”
The solid silver champagne coolers adorned either side of the fireplace.
“As receptacles for potted ferns they are, it is true, not quite in the best of taste,” I admitted. “We might leave them in the hall for umbrellas and canes. But then they might be overlooked, and we must take no chances on a careless burglar.”
Clara sat down and began to laugh, which I confess was quite the natural thing to do. Solid silver bread dishes holding sweet peas, individual almond dishes filled with matches, silver baskets for cigars and cigarettes crowded the room, with silver candlesticks sprouting from every ledge and table. The dining-room was worse–but then solid silver terrapin dishes and muffineers, not to mention the two dozen almond dishes left over from the parlor, are not at all appropriate decorations.
“I’m sure the burglars will never come,” said Clara, woman fashion.
“If there’s anything will keep them away,” I said, a little provoked, “it’s just that attitude of mind.”
“Well, at any rate, I do hope they’ll be quick about it, so we can leave this dreadful place.”
“They’ll never come if you’re going to watch them,” I said angrily.
We had quite a little quarrel on that point.
The month of June passed and still we remained in possession of our wedding silver. Clara was openly discouraged and if I still clung to my faith, at the bottom I was anxious and impatient. When July passed unfruitfully even our sense of humor was seriously endangered.
“They will never come,” said Clara firmly.
“My dear,” I replied, “the last time they came in July. All the more reason that they should change to August.”
“They will never come,” said Clara a second time.
“Let’s bait the hook,” I said, trying to turn the subject into a facetious vein. “We might strew a dozen or so of those individual dishes down the path to the road.”
“They’ll never come,” said Clara obstinately.
And yet they came.
On the second of August, about two o’clock in the morning I was awakened out of a deep sleep by the voice of my wife crying:
“George, here’s a burglar!”
I thought the joke obvious and ill-timed and sleepily said so.
“But, George dear, he’s here–in the room!”
There was something in my wife’s voice, a note of ringing exultation, that brought me bolt upright in bed.
“Put up your hands–quick!” said a staccato voice.
It was true, there at the end of the bed, flashing the conventional bull’s-eye lantern, stood at last a real burglar.
“Put ’em up!”
My hands went heavenward in thanksgiving and gratitude.
“Make a move, you candy dude, or shout for help,” continued the voice, shoving into the light the muzzle of a Colt’s revolver, “and this for you’s!”
The slighting allusion I took to the credit of the pink and white pajamas I wore–but nothing at that moment could have ruffled my feelings. I was bubbling over with happiness. I wanted to jump up and hug him in my arms. I listened. Downstairs could be heard the sound of feet and an occasional metallic ring.
“Oh, George, isn’t it too wonderful–wonderful for words!” said Clara, hysterical with joy.
“I can’t believe it,” I cried.
“Shut up!” said the voice behind the lantern.
“My dear friend,” I said conciliatingly, “there’s not the slightest need of your keeping your finger on that wabbling, cold thing. My feelings towards you are only the tenderest and the most grateful.”
“Huh!”
“The feelings of a brother! My only fear is that you may overlook one or two articles that I admit are not conveniently exposed.”
The bull’s-eye turned upon me with a sudden jerk.
“Well, I’ll be damned!”
“We have waited for you long and patiently. We thought you would never come. In fact, we had sort of lost faith in you. I’m sorry. I apologize. In a way I don’t deserve this–I really don’t.”
“Bughouse!” came from the foot of the bed, in a suppressed mutter. “Out and out bughouse!”
“Quite wrong,” I said cheerily. “I never was in better health. You are surprised, you don’t understand. It’s not necessary you should. It would rob the situation of its humor if you should. All I ask of you is to take everything, don’t make a slip, get it all.”
“Oh, do, please, please do!” said Clara earnestly.
The silence at the foot of the bed had the force of an exclamation.
“Above all,” I continued anxiously, “don’t forget the pots. They stand on either side of the fireplace, filled with ferns. They are not pewter. They are solid silver champagne coolers. They are worth–they are worth–“
“Two hundred apiece,” said Clara instantly.
“And don’t overlook the muffineers, the terrapin dishes and the candlesticks. We should be very much obliged–very grateful if you could find room for them.”
Often since I have thought of that burglar and what must have been his sensations. At the time I was too engrossed with my own feelings. Never have I enjoyed a situation more. It is true I noticed as I proceeded our burglar began to edge away towards the door, keeping the lantern steadily on my face.
“And one favor more,” I added, “there are several flocks of individual silver almond dishes roosting downstairs–“
“Forty-two,” said Clara, “twenty-four in the dining-room and eighteen in the parlor.”
“Forty-two is the number; as a last favor please find room for them; if you don’t want them drop them in a river or bury them somewhere. We really would appreciate it. It’s our last chance.”
“All right,” said the burglar in an altered tone. “Don’t you worry now, we’ll attend to that.”
“Remember there are forty-two–if you would count them.”
“That’s all right–just you rest easy,” said the burglar soothingly. “I’ll see they all get in.”
“Really, if I could be of any assistance downstairs,” I said anxiously, “I might really help.”
“Oh, don’t you worry, Bub, my pals are real careful muts,” said the burglar nervously. “Now just keep calm. We’ll get ’em all.”
It suddenly burst upon me that he took me for a lunatic. I buried my head in the covers and rocked back and forth between tears and laughter.
“Hi! what the —-‘s going on up there?” cried a voice from downstairs.
“It’s all right–all right, Bill,” said our burglar hoarsely, “very affable party up here. Say, hurry it up a bit down there, will you?”
All at once it struck me that if I really frightened him too much they might decamp without making a clean sweep. I sobered at once.
“I’m not crazy,” I said.
“Sure you’re not,” said the burglar conciliatingly.
“But I assure you–“
“That’s all right.”
“I’m perfectly sane.”
“Sane as a house!”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“Course there isn’t. Hi, Bill, won’t you hurry up there!”
“I’ll explain–“
“Don’t you mind that.”
“This is the way it is–“
“That’s all right, we know all about it.”
“You do–“
“Sure, we got your letter.”
“What letter?”
“Your telegram then.”
“See here, I’m not crazy–“
“You bet you’re not,” said the burglar, edging towards the door and changing the key.
“Hold up!” I cried in alarm, “don’t be a fool. What I want is for you to get everything–everything, do you hear?”
“All right, I’ll just go down and speak to him.”
“Hold up–“
“I’ll tell him.”
“Wait,” I cried, jumping out of bed in my desire to retain him.
At that moment a whistle came from below and with an exclamation of relief our burglar slammed the door and locked it. We heard him go down three steps at a time and rush out of the house.
“Now you’ve scared them away,” said Clara, “with your idiotic humor.”
I felt contrite and alarmed.
“How could I help it?” I said angrily, preparing to climb out on the roof of the porch. “I tried to tell him.”
With which I scrambled out on the roof, made my way to the next room and entering, released Clara. At the top of the steps we stood clinging together.
“Suppose they left it all behind,” said Clara.
“Or even some!”
“Oh, George, I know it–I know it!”
“Don’t be unreasonable–let’s go down.” Holding a candle aloft we descended. The lower floor was stripped of silver–not even an individual almond dish or a muffineer remained. We fell wildly, hilariously into each other’s arms and began to dance. I don’t know exactly what it was, but it wasn’t a minute.
Suddenly Clara stopped.
“George!”
“Oh, Lord, what is it?”
“Supposin’.”
“Well–well?”
“Supposin’ they’ve dropped some of it in the path.”
We rushed out and searched the path, nothing there. We searched the road–one individual almond dish had fallen. I took it and hammered it beyond recognition and flung it into the pond. It was criminal, but I did it.
And then we went into the house and danced some more. We were happy.
Of course we raised an alarm–after sufficient time to carefully dress, and fill the lantern with oil. Other houses too had been robbed before we had been visited, but as they were occupied by old inhabitants, the occupants had nonchalantly gone to sleep again after surrendering their small change. Our exploit was quite the sensation. With great difficulty we assumed the proper public attitude of shock and despair. The following day I wrote full particulars to the Insurance Company, with a demand for the indemnity.
“You’ll never get the full amount,” said Clara.
“Why not?”
“You never do. They’ll send a man to ask disagreeable questions and to beat us down.”
“Let him come.”
“You’ll see.”
Just one week after the event, I opened an official envelope, extracted a check, gazed at it with a superior smile and tendered it to Clara by the tips of my fingers.
“Three thousand dollars!” cried Clara, without contrition, “three thousand dollars–oh, George!”
There it was–three thousand dollars, without a shred of doubt. Womanlike, all Clara had to say was:
“Well, was I right about the wedding presents?”
Which remark I had not foreseen.
We shut up house and went to town next day and began the rounds of the jewelers. In four days we had expended four-fifths of our money–but with what results! Everything we had longed for, planned for, dreamed of was ours and everything harmonized.
Two weeks later as, ensconced in our city house, we moved enraptured about our new-found home, gazing at the reincarnation of our silver, a telegram was put in my hand.
“What is it?” said Clara from the dining-room, where she was fondling our chaste Queen Anne teaset.
“It’s a telegram,” I said, puzzled.
“Open it, then!”
I tore the envelope, it was from the Insurance Company.
“Our detectives have arrested the burglars. You will be overjoyed to hear that we have recovered your silver in toto!”
THE SURPRISES OF THE LOTTERY
I
The Comte de Bonzag, on the ruined esplanade of his Chateau de Keragouil, frowned into the distant crepuscle of haystack and multiplied hedge, crumpling in his nervous hands two annoying slips of paper. The rugged body had not one more pound of flesh than was absolutely necessary to hold together the long, pointed bones. The bronzed, haphazard face was dominated by a stiff comb of orange-tawny hair, which faithfully reproduced the gaunt unloveliness of generations of Bonzags. But there lurked in the rapid advance of the nose and the abrupt, obstinate eyes a certain staring defiance which effectively limited the field of comment.
At his back, the riddled silhouette of ragged towers and crumbling roof reflected against the gentle skies something of the windy raiment of its owner. It was a Gascon chateau, arrogant and threadbare, which had never cried out at a wound, nor suffered the indignity of a patch. About it and through it, hundreds of swallows, its natural inheritors, crossed and recrossed in their vacillating flight.
Out of the obscurity of the green pastures that melted away into the near woods, the voice of a woman suddenly rose in a tender laugh.
The Comte de Bonzag sat bolt upright, dislodging from his lap a black spaniel, who tumbled on a matronly hound, whose startled yelp of indignation caused the esplanade to vibrate with dogs, that, scurrying from every cranny, assembled in an expectant circle, and waited with hungry tongues the intentions of their master.
The Comte, listening attentively, perceived near the stable his entire domestic staff reclining happily on the arm of Andoche, the Sapeur-Pompier, the hero of a dozen fires.
“No, there are no longer any servants!” he exclaimed, with a bitterness that caused a stir in the pack; then angrily he shouted with all his forces: “Francine! Hey, there, Francine! Come here at once!”
The indisputable fact was that Francine had asked for her wages. Such a demand, indelicate in its simplest form, had been further aggravated by a respectful but clear ultimatum. It was pay, or do the cooking, and if the first was impossible, the second was both impossible and distasteful.
The enemy duly arrived, dimpled and plump, an honest thirty-five, a solid widow, who stopped at the top of the stairs with the distant respect which the Comte de Bonzag inspired even in his creditors.
“Francine, I have thought much,” said the Comte, with a conciliatory look. “You were a little exaggerated, but you were in your rights.”
“Ah, Monsieur le Comte, six months is long when one has a child who must be–“
“We will not refer again to our disagreement,” the Comte said, interrupting her sternly. “I have simply called you to hear what action I have decided on.”
“Oh, yes, M’sieur; thank you, M’sieur le Comte.”
“Unluckily,” said Bonzag, frowning, “I am forced to make a great sacrifice. In a month I could probably have paid all–I have a great uncle at Valle-Temple who is exceedingly ill. But–however, we will hold that for the future. I owe you, my good Francine, wages for six months–sixty francs, representing your service with me. I am going to give you on account, at once, twenty francs, or rather something immeasurably more valuable than that sum.” He drew out the two slips of paper, and regarded them with affection and regret. “Here are two tickets for the Grand Lottery of France, which will be drawn this month, ten francs a ticket. I had to go to Chantreuil to get them; number 77,707 and number 200,013. Take them–they are yours.”
“But, M’sieur le Comte,” said Francine, looking stupidly at the tickets she had passively received. “It’s–it’s good round pieces of silver I need.”
“Francine,” cried de Bonzag, in amazed indignation, “do you realize that I probably have given you a fortune–and that I am absolving you of all division of it with me!”
“But, M’sieur–“
“That there are one hundred and forty-five numbers that will draw prizes.”
“Yes, M’sieur le Comte; but–“
“That there is a prize of one quarter of a million, one third of a million–“
“All the same–“
“That the second prize is for one-half a million, and the first prize for one round million francs.”
“M’sieur says?” said Francine, whose eyes began to open.
“One hundred and forty-five chances, and the lowest is for a hundred francs. You think that isn’t a sacrifice, eh?”
“Well, Monsieur le Comte,” Francine said at last with a sigh, “I’ll take them for twenty francs. It’s not good round silver, and there’s my little girl–“
“Enough!” exclaimed de Bonzag, dismissing her with an angry gesture. “I am making you an heiress, and you have no gratitude! Leave me–and send hither Andoche.”
He watched the bulky figure waddle off, sunk back in his chair, and repeated with profound dejection; “No gratitude! There, it’s done: this time certainly I have thrown away a quarter of a million at the lowest!”
Presently Andoche, the Sapeur-Pompier, the brass helmet under his arm, appeared at the top of the steps, smiling and thirsty, with covetous eyes fastened on the broken table, at the carafe containing curacoa that was white and “Triple-Sec.”
“Ah, it’s you, Andoche,” said the Comte, finally, drawn from his abstraction by a succession of rapid bows. He took two full-hearted sighs, pushed the carafe slightly in the direction of the Sapeur-Pompier, and added: “Sit down, my good Andoche. I have need to be a little gay. Suppose we talk of Paris.”
It was the cue for Andoche to slip gratefully into a chair, possess the carafe and prepare to listen.
II
At the proper age of thirty-one, the Comte de Bonzag fell heir to the enormous sum of fifteen thousand francs from an uncle who had made the fortune in trade. With no more delay than it took the great Emperor to fling an army across the Alps, he descended on Paris, resolved to repulse all advances which Louis Napoleon might make, and to lend the splendor of his name and the weight of his fortune only to the Cercle Royale. Two weeks devoted to this loyal end strengthened the Bourbon lines perceptibly, but resulted in a shrinkage of four thousand francs in his own. Next remembering that the aristocracy had always been the patron of the arts, he determined to make a rapid examination of the _coulisses_ of the opera and the regions of the ballet. A six-days’ reconnaissance discovered not the slightest signs of disaffection; but the thoroughness of his inquiries was such that the completion of his mission found him with just one thousand francs in pocket. Being not only a Loyalist and a patron of the arts, but a statesman and a philosopher, he turned his efforts toward the Quartier Latin, to the great minds who would one day take up the guidance of a more enlightened France. There he made the discovery that one amused himself more than at the Cercle Royale, and spent considerably less than in the arts, and that at one hundred francs a week he aroused an enthusiasm for the Bourbons which almost attained the proportions of a riot.
The three months over, he retired to his estate at Keragouil, having profoundly stirred all classes of society, given new life to the cause of His Majesty, and regretting only, as a true gentleman, the frightful devastation he had left in the hearts of the ladies.
Unfortunately, these brilliant services to Parisian society and his king had left him without any society of his own, forced to the consideration of the difficult problem of how to keep his pipe lighted, his cellar full, and his maid-of-all-work in a state of hopeful expectation, on nothing a year.
Nothing daunted, he attacked this problem of the family bankruptcy with the vigor and the daring of a D’Artagnan. Each year he collected laboriously twenty francs, and invested them in two tickets for the Great Lottery, valiantly resolved, like a Gascon, to carry off both first and second prizes, but satisfied as a philosopher if he could figure among the honorable mentions. Despite the fact that one hundred and forty-five prizes were advertised each year, in nineteen attempts he had not even had the pleasure of seeing his name in print. This result, far from discouraging him, only inflamed his confidence. For he had dipped into mathematics, and consoled himself by the reflection that, according to the law of probabilities, each year he became the more irresistible.
Lately, however, one obstacle had arisen to the successful carrying out of this system of finance. He employed one servant, a maid-of-all-work, who was engaged for the day, with permission to take from the garden what she needed, to adorn herself from the rose-bushes, to share the output of La Belle Etoile, the cow, and to receive a salary of ten francs a month. The difficulty invariably arose over the interpretation of this last clause. For the Comte was not regular in his payments, unless it could be said that he was regular in not paying at all.
So it invariably occurred that the maid-of-all-work from a state of unrest gradually passed into open rebellion, especially when the garden was not productive and the roses ceased to bloom. When the ultimatum was served, the Comte consulted his resources and found them invariably to consist of two tickets of the Lottery of France, cash value twenty francs, but, according to the laws of probability, increasingly capable of returning one million, five hundred thousand francs. On one side was the glory of the ancient name, and the possibility of another descent on Paris; opposed was the brutal question of soup and ragout. The man prevailed, and the maid-of-all-work grudgingly accepted the conditions of truce. Then the news of the drawing arrived and the domestic staff departed.
This comedy, annually repeated, was annually played on the same lines. Only each year the period intervening between the surrender of the tickets and the announcement of the lottery brought an increasing agony. Each time as the Comte saw the precious slips finally depart in the hands of the maid-of-all-work, he was convinced that at last the laws of probability must fructify. Each year he found a new meaning in the cabalistic mysteries of numbers. The eighteenth attempt, multiplied by three, gave fifty-four, his age. Success was inevitable: nineteen, a number indivisible and chaste above all others, seemed specially designated. In a word, the Comte suffered during these periods as only a gambler of the fourth generation is able to suffer.
At present the number twenty appeared to him to have properties no other number had possessed, especially in the reappearance of the zero, a figure which peculiarly attracted him by its symmetry. His despair was consequently unlimited.
Ordinarily the news of the lottery arrived by an inspector of roads, who passed through Keragouil a week or so after the announcement in the press; for the Comte, having surrendered his ticket, was only troubled lest he had won.
This time, to the upsetting of all history, an Englishman on a bicycle trip brought him a newspaper, an article almost unknown to Keragouil, where the shriek of the locomotive had yet to penetrate.
The Comte de Bonzag, opening the paper with the accustomed sinking of the heart, was startled by the staring headlines:
RESULTS OF THE LOTTERY
A glance at the winners of the first and second prizes reassured him. He drew a breath of satisfaction, saying gratefully; “Ah, what luck! God be praised! I’ll never do that again!”
Then, remembering with only an idle curiosity the one hundred and forty-three mediocre prizes on the list, he returned to the perusal. Suddenly the print swam before his eyes, and the great esplanade seemed to rise. Number 77,707 had won the fourth prize of one hundred thousand francs; number 200,013, a prize of ten thousand francs.
III
The emotion which overwhelmed Napoleon at Waterloo as he beheld his triumphant squadrons go down into the sunken road was not a whit more complete than the despair of the Comte de Bonzag when he realized that the one hundred and ten thousand francs which the laws of probability had finally produced was now the property of Francine, the cook.
One hundred and ten thousand francs! It was colossal! Five generations of Bonzags had never touched as much as that. One hundred and ten thousand francs meant the rehabilitation of the ancient name, the restoration of the Chateau de Keragouil, half the year at Paris, in the Cercle Royale, in the regions of art, and among the great minds that were still young in the Quartier–and all that was in the possession of a plump Gascony peasant, whose ideas of comfort and pleasure were satisfied by one hundred and twenty francs a year.
“What am I going to do?” he cried, rising in an outburst of anger. Then he sat down in despair. There was nothing to do. The fact was obvious that Francine was an heiress, possessed of the greatest fortune in the memory of Keragouil. There was nothing to do, or rather, there was manifestly but one way open, and the Comte resolved on the spot to take it. He must have back the lottery tickets, though it meant a Comtesse de Bonzag.
Fortunately for him, Francine knew nothing of the arrival of the paper. Though it was necessary to make haste, there was still time for a compatriot of D’Artagnan. There was, of course, Andoche, the Sapeur-Pompier; but a Bonzag who had had three months’ experience with the feminine heart of Paris was not the man to trouble himself over a Sapeur-Pompier. That evening, in the dim dining-room, when Francine arrived with the steaming soup, the Comte, who had waited with a spoon in his fist and a napkin knotted to his neck, plunged valiantly to the issue.
“Ah, what a good smell!” he said, elevating his nose. “Francine, you are the queen of cooks.”
“Oh, M’sieur le Comte,” Francine stammered, stopping in amazement. “Oh, M’sieur le Comte, thanks.”
“Don’t thank me; it is I who am grateful.”
“Oh, M’sieur!”
“Yes, yes, yes! Francine–“
“What is it, M’sieur le Comte?”
“To-night you may set another cover–opposite me.”
“Set another cover?”
“Exactly.”
Francine, more and more astonished, proceeded to place on the table a plate, a knife and a fork.
“M’sieur le Cure is coming?” she said, drawing up a chair.
“No, Francine.”
“Not M’sieur le Cure? Who, then?”
“It is for you, Francine. Sit down.”
“I? I, M’sieur le Comte?”
“Sit down. I wish it.”
Francine took three steps backward and so as to command the exit, stopped and stared at her master, with mingled amazement and distrust.
“My dear Francine,” continued the Comte, “I am tired of eating alone. It is bad for the digestion. And I am bored. I have need of society. So sit down.”
“M’sieur orders it?”
“I ask it as a favor, Francine.”
Francine, with open eyes, advanced doubtfully, seating herself nicely on the chair, more astonished than complimented, and more alarmed than pleased.
“Ah, that is nicer!” said the Comte, with an approving nod. “How have I endured it all these years! Francine, you may help yourself to the wine.”
The astonished maid-of-all-work, who had swallowed a spoon of soup with great discomfort, sprang up, all in a tremble, stammering with defiant virtue:
“M’sieur le Comte does not forget that I am an honest woman!”
“No, my dear Francine; I am certain of it. So sit down in peace. I will tell you the situation.”
Francine hesitated, then, reassured by the devotion he gave to his soup, settled once more in her chair.
“Francine, I have made up my mind to one thing,” said the Comte, filling his glass with such energy that a red circle appeared on the cloth. “This life I lead is all wrong. A man is a sociable being. He needs society. Isolation sends him back to the brute.”
“Oh, yes, M’sieur le Comte,” said Francine, who understood nothing.
“So I am resolved to marry.”
“M’sieur will marry!” cried Francine, who spilled half her soup with the shock.
“Perfectly. It is for that I have asked you to keep me company.”
“M’sieur–you–M’sieur wants to marry me!”
“Parbleu!”
“M’sieur–M’sieur wants to marry me!”
“I ask you formally to be my wife.”
“I?”
“M’sieur wants–wants me to be Comtesse de Bonzag?”
“Immediately.”
“Oh!”
Springing up, Francine stood a moment gazing at him in frightened alarm; then, with a cry, she vanished heavily through the door.
“She has gone to Andoche,” said the Comte, angrily to himself. “She loves him!”
In great perturbation he left the room promenading on the esplanade, in the midst of his hounds, talking uneasily to himself.
“_Peste_, I put it to her a little too suddenly! It was a blunder. If she loves that Sapeur-Pompier, eh? A Sapeur-Pompier, to rival a Comte de Bonzag–faugh!”
Suddenly, below in the moonlight, he beheld Andoche tearing himself from the embrace of Francine, and, not to be seen, he returned nervously to the dining-room.
Shortly after, the maid-of-all-work returned, calm, but with telltale eyes.
“Well, Francine, did I frighten you?” said the Comte, genially.
“Oh, yes, M’sieur le Comte–“
“Well, what do you want to say?”
“M’sieur was in real earnest?”
“Never more so.”
“M’sieur really wants to make me the Comtesse de Bonzag?”
“_Dame!_ I tell you my intentions are honorable.”
“M’sieur will let me ask him one question?”
“A dozen even.”
“M’sieur remembers that I am a widow–“
“With one child, yes.”
“M’sieur, pardon me; I have been thinking much, and I have been thinking of my little girl. What would M’sieur want me to do?”
The Comte reflected, and said generously: “I do not adopt her; but, if you like, she shall live here.”
“Then, M’sieur,” said Francine, dropping on her knees, “I thank M’sieur very much. M’sieur is too kind, too good–“
“So, it is decided then,” said the Comte, rising joyfully.
“Oh, yes, M’sieur.”
“Then we shall go to-morrow,” said the Comte. “It is my manner; I like to do things instantly. Stand up, I beg you, Madame.”
“To-morrow, M’sieur?”
“Yes, Madame. Have you any objections?”
“Oh, no, M’sieur le Comte; on the contrary,” said Francine, blushing with pleasure at the twice-repeated “Madame.” Then she added carefully: “M’sieur is quite right; it would be better. People talk so.”
IV
The return of the married couple was the sensation of Keragouil, for the Comte de Bonzag, after the fashion of his ancestors, had placed his bride behind him on the broad back of Quatre Diables, who proceeded with unaltered equanimity. Along the journey the peasants, who held the Comte in loyal terror, greeted the procession with a respectful silence, congregating in the road to stare and chatter only when the amiable Quatre Diables had disappeared in the distance.
Disdaining to notice the commotion he produced, the Comte headed straight for the courtyard, where Quatre Diables, recognizing the foot block, dropped his head and began to crop the grass. The new Comtesse, fatigued by the novel position, started gratefully to descend by the most natural way, that is, by slipping easily over the rear anatomy of the good-natured Quatre Diables. But the Comte, feeling the commotion behind, stopped her with a word, and, flinging his left leg over the