In the Quarter

Rex dropped his face in his hands.

``Oh God! I love her!'' he groaned.

``Gute Nacht, gnädige Herrn!''

Sepp and Federl stood in their door with a light. Two figures were coming down from the Jaeger's cottage. Gethryn recognized the colonel and Monsieur Bordier.

At the risk of scrutiny from those cool, elderly, masculine eyes, Rex's manhood pulled itself together. He went back to meet them, and presently they all joined the ladies in the apology for a parlor, where coffee was being served.

Coming in after the older men, Rex found no place left in the little, crowded room, excepting one at the table close beside Yvonne. Ruth was on the other side. He went and took the place, self-possessed and smiling.

Yvonne made a slight motion as if to rise and escape. Only Rex saw it. Yes, one more: Ruth saw it.

``Mademoiselle has studied seriously since I had the honor – ''

``Oui, Monsieur.''

Her faint voice and timid look were more than Ruth could bear. She leaned forward so as to shield the girl as much as possible, and entered into the lively talk at the other end of the table.

Rex spoke again: ``Mademoiselle is quite strong, I trust – the stage – Sugar? Allow me! – As I was saying, the stage is a calling which requires a good constitution.'' No answer.

``But pardon. If you are not strong, how can you expect to succeed in your career?'' persisted Rex. His eyes rested on one frail wrist in its black sleeve. The sight filled him with anger.

``I would make my debut if I knew it would kill me.'' She spoke at last, low but clearly.

``But why? Mon Dieu!''

``Madame has set her heart on it. She thinks I shall do her credit. She has been good to me, so good!'' The sad voice fainted and sank away.

``One is good to one's pupils when they are going to bring one fame,'' said Rex bitterly.

``Madame took me when she did not know I had a voice – when she thought I was dying – when I was homeless – two years ago.''

``What do you mean?'' said Rex sternly, sinking his voice below the pitch of the general conversation. ``What did you tell me in your letter? Homeless!''

``I never wrote you any letter.'' Yvonne raised her blue eyes, startled, despairing, and looked into his for the first time.

``You did not write that you had found a – a home which you preferred to – to – any you had ever had? And that it would be useless to – to offer you any other?''

``I never wrote. I was very ill and could not. Afterward I went to – you. You were gone.'' Her low voice was heartbreaking to hear.

``When?'' Rex could hardly utter a word.

``In June, as soon as I left the hospital.''

``The hospital? And your mother?''

``She was dead. I did not see her. Then I was very ill, a long time. As soon as I could, I went to Paris.''

``To me?''

``Yes.''

``And the letter?''

``Ah!'' cried Yvonne with a shudder. ``It must have been my sister who did that!''

The room was turning round. A hundred lights were swaying about in a crowd of heads. Rex laid his hand heavily on the table to steady himself. With a strong effort at self-control he had reduced the number of lights to two and got the people back in their places when, with a little burst of French exclamations and laughter, everyone turned to Yvonne, and Ruth, bending over her, took both her hands.

The next moment Monsieur Bordier was leading her to the piano.

A soft chord, other chords, deep and sweet, and then the dear voice:

Oui c'est un rêve,
Un rêve doux d'amour,
La nuit lui prête son mystére

The chain is forged again. The mists of passion rise thickly, heavily, and blot out all else forever.

Hélène's song ceased. He heard them praise her, and heard ``Good nights'' and ``Au revoirs'' exchanged. He rose and stood near the door. Ruth passed him like a shadow. They all remained at the foot of the stairs for a moment, repeating their ``Adieus'' and ``Remerciements.'' He was utterly reckless, but cool enough still to watch for his chance in this confusion of civilities. It came; for one instant he could whisper to her, ``I must see you tonight.'' Then the voices were gone and he stood alone on the porch, the wet wind blowing in his face, his face turned up to a heavy sky covered with black, driving clouds. He could hear the river and the moaning of the trees.

It seemed as if he had stood there for hours, never moving. Then there was a step in the dark hall, on the threshold, and Yvonne lay trembling in his arms.

*

The sky was beginning to show a tint of early dawn when they stepped once more upon the silent porch. The wind had gone down. Clouds were piled up in the west, but the east was clear. Perfect stillness was over everything. Not a living creature was in sight, excepting that far up, across the stream, Sepp and Zimbach were climbing toward the Schinder.

``I must go in now. I must you – child!'' said Yvonne in her old voice, smoothing her hair with both hands. Rex held her back.

``My wife?'' he said.

``Yes!'' She raised her face and kissed him on the lips, then clung to him weeping.

``Hush! hush! It is I who should do that,'' he murmured, pressing her cheek against his breast.

Once more she turned to leave him, but he detained her.

``Yvonne, come with me and be married today!''

``You know it is impossible. Today! what a boy you are! As if we could!''

``Well then, in a few days – in a week, as soon as possible.''

``Oh! my dearest! do not make it so hard for me! How could I desert Madame so? After all she has done for me? When I know all her hopes are set on me; that if I fail her she has no one ready to take my place! Because she was so sure of me, she did not try to bring on any other pupil for next autumn. And last season was a bad one for her and Monsieur. Their debutante failed; they lost money. Behold this child!'' she exclaimed, with a rapid return to her old gay manner, ``to whom I have explained all this at least a hundred times already, and he asks me why we cannot be married today!''

Then with another quick change, she laid her cheek tenderly against his and murmured:

``I might have died but for her. You would not have me desert her so cruelly, Rex?''