The Adventures of a Modest Man

"And that is to have you think well of me."

"I – I do."

" – And each day – think better of me."

"I – will – probably – "

"And in the end – "

She neither stirred nor turned her eyes.

" – In the end —Listen to me."

"I am wi-willing to."

"Because it will be then as it is now; as it was when even I didn't know it – as it must be always, for me. Only one person in the world can ever matter to me – now… There's no escape from it for me."

"Do – do you wish to – escape?"

"Cecil!" he said under his breath.

"They're dancing, below," she said leaning over the gallery, one soft white hand on the polished rail, the other abandoned to him – carelessly – as though she were quite unconscious where it lay.

"They are dancing," she repeated, turning toward him – which brought them face to face, both her hands resting listlessly in his.

A silence, then:

"Do you know," she said, "that this is a very serious matter?"

"I know."

"And that it's probably one of those dreadful, terrible and sudden strokes of Fate?"

"I know."

"And that – that it serves me right?"

He was smiling; and she smiled back at him, the starry beauty of her eyes dimming a trifle.

"You say that you have chosen a 'Voice,'" she said; "and – do you think that you would be the last man to go to sleep?"

"The very last."

"Then – I suppose I must make my choice… I will … some day… And, are you going to dance with me?"

He raised her hands, joining them together between his; and she watched him gravely, a tremor touching her lips. In silence their hands fell apart; he stepped nearer; she lifted her head a little – a very little – closing her lids; he bent and kissed her lips, very lightly.

That was all; they opened their eyes upon one another, somewhat dazed. A bell, very far off, was sounding faintly through the falling snow – faintly, persistently, the first bell for Christmas morning.

Then she took the edges of her silken gown between thumb and forefinger, and slowly, very slowly, sank low with flushed cheeks, sweeping him an old-time curtsey.

"I – I wish you a Merry Christmas," she said… "And thank you for your wish… And you may take me down, now" – rising to her slim and lovely height – "and I think we had better dance as hard as we can and try to forget what our families are likely to think of what we've done… Don't you?"

"Yes," he said seriously, "I do."

"And that's what comes of running after trains, and talking to fat conductors, and wearing chinchilla furs, and flouting the Mystic Three!" added Williams throwing away his cigar.

CHAPTER XII

IN WHICH A MODEST MAN MAUNDERS

"In my opinion," said I, "a man who comes to see Paris in three months is a fool, and kin to that celebrated ass who circum-perambulated the globe in eighty days. See all, see nothing. A man might camp a lifetime in the Louvre and learn little about it before he left for Père Lachaise. Yet here comes the United States in a gigantic "mônome" to see the city in three weeks, when three years is too short a time in which to appreciate the Carnavalet Museum alone! I'm going home."

"Oh, papa!" said Alida.

"Yes, I am," I snapped. "I'd rather be tried and convicted in Oyster Bay on the charge of stealing my own pig than confess I had 'seen Paris' in three months."

We had driven out to the Trocadero that day, and were now comfortably seated in the tower of that somewhat shabby "palace," for the purpose of obtaining a bird's eye view of the "Rive Droite" or right bank of the Seine.

Elegant, modern, spotless, the Rive Droite spread out at our feet, silver-gray squares of Renaissance architecture inlaid with the delicate green of parks, circles, squares, and those endless double and quadruple lines of trees which make Paris slums more attractive than Fifth Avenue. Far as the eye could see stretched the exquisite monotony of the Rive Droite, discreetly and artistically broken by domes and spires of uncatalogued "monuments," in virgin territory, unknown and unsuspected to those spiritual vandals whose hordes raged through the boulevards, waving ten thousand blood-red Baedekers at the paralyzed Parisians.

"Well," said I, "now that we have 'seen' the Rive Droite, let's cast a bird's-eye glance over Europe and Asia and go back to the hotel for luncheon."

My sarcasm was lost on my daughters because they had moved out of earshot. Alida was looking through a telescope held for her by a friend of Captain de Barsac, an officer of artillery named Captain Vicômte Torchon de Cluny. He was all over scarlet and black and gold; when he walked his sabre made noises, and his ringing spurs reminded me of the sound of sleigh-bells in Oyster Bay.

My daughter Dulcima was observing the fortress of Mont-Valerien through a tiny pair of jewelled opera-glasses, held for her by Captain de Barsac. It was astonishing to see how tirelessly De Barsac held those opera-glasses, which must have weighed at least an ounce. But French officers are inured to hardships and fatigue.

"Is that a fortress?" asked Dulcima ironically. "I see nothing but some low stone houses."

"Next to Gibraltar," said De Barsac, "it is the most powerful fortress in the world, mademoiselle. It garrisons thousands of men; its stores are enormous; it dominates not only Paris, but all France."

"But where are the cannon?" asked Dulcima.

"Ah – exactly – where? That is what other nations pay millions to find out – and cannot. Will you take my word for it that there are one or two cannon there – and permit me to avoid particulars?"

"You might tell me where just one little unimportant cannon is?" said my daughter, with the naïve curiosity which amuses the opposite and still more curious sex.

"And endanger France?" asked De Barsac, with owl-like solemnity.

"Thank you," pouted Dulcima, perfectly aware that he was laughing.

Their voices became low, and relapsed into that buzzing murmur which always defeats its own ends by arousing parental vigilance.

"Let us visit the aquarium," said I in a distinct and disagreeable voice. Doubtless the "voice from the wilderness" was gratuitously unwelcome to Messieurs De Barsac and Torchon de Cluny, but they appeared to welcome the idea with a conciliatory alacrity noticeable in young men when intruded upon by the parent of pretty daughters. Dear me, how fond they appeared to be of me; what delightful information they volunteered concerning the Trocadero, the Alexander Bridge, the Champ de Mars.

The aquarium of the Trocadero is underground. To reach it you simply walk down a hole in France and find yourself under the earth, listening to the silvery prattle of a little brook which runs over its bed of pebbles above your head, pouring down little waterfalls into endless basins of glass which line the damp arcades as far as you can see. The arcades themselves are dim, the tanks, set in the solid rock, are illuminated from above by holes in the ground, through which pours the yellow sunshine of France.

Looking upward through the glass faces of the tanks you can see the surface of the water with bubbles afloat, you can see the waterfall tumbling in; you can catch glimpses of green grass and bushes, and a bit of blue sky.