Rendezvous (Wylie)

by I. A. R. Wylie

 

Rendezvous

Few Stories More Powerful or as Worth While Have Been Written. Everybody's Will Have More Contributions from the Same Author

By I. A. R. Wylie

Illustration by Laurence Herndon

THE shop door opened quietly, but the moment the stout man with the suitcase crossed the threshold, a fierce whirring, like the buzz of a giant wasp, set up, culminating in a shrill, unmodulated clamor. The intruder seemed astonished and puzzled. He closed the door hurriedly but without diminishing the hubbub which, on the contrary, became more insistent, as if some one were calling frantically for help. The dusk, in which the contents of the shop floated dimly, like half-recognized monsters in an aquarium, added to his discomfort. It was not until, accidentally, he stepped to one side that the noise ceased. He glanced down at his feet, and then, with a good-humored twinkle, at the shadowy woman behind the counter,

“Couldn't think where it came from,” he said.

The woman was knitting. She did not look up.

“The bell is under the boards, monsieur.”

“So I gather. It's enough to scare your customers out of their wits, though, if you don't mind my saying so.”

“Most of my customers know about it. They step off at once.”

“I see. So you can tell a stranger a mile away. I call that a good idea.” He set down his suitcase and rubbed his pink face with a large colored handkerchief. “I hope, though, it doesn't mean that strangers aren't welcome,” he added jovially.

“If they bring business, every one is welcome, monsieur."

“Well, I'm all right, then. You see, madame, I carry business about with me wherever I go. Really, I cannot help myself. It's more than business—it's a hobby—a sport. Another man, landed at a delightful little place like this without a decent train for the next twelve hours, would have taken a holiday. But I'm not like that. I said to myself: 'My friend, who knows? There may be an opening for you even here.' And so—here I am.” Remembering that he still wore his hat, he removed it, with an awkward flourish. “Pardon, madame. It was that noise—it startled the good manners out of me.”

“It doesn't matter,” she murmured.

The dusk still troubled him. He stood rooted to the spot as if he were afraid of treading on something that would let loose a fresh outcry.

“I hope, madame—I am not too late——”

“No, no! I did not expect customers. I will make a light.”

“The days are beginning to close in,” he remarked cheerfully.

She struck a match and held it close to the wick of an oil-lamp hanging from the low ceiling. By the feeble yellow glow he could see her white arms, upstretched and bare to the elbows, and the rounded, gracious lines of her body. It pleased him peculiarly. An agreeable exciting trickle seemed to run down his back-bone. The dusk receded, and he picked up his suitcase and carried it rather laboriously to the counter, where he set it down again with a little grunt of relief. He had carried it all the way from the station and had had enough of it. Though he was almost disproportionately thick-set for his height, he was not really very strong. Or, rather, his strength had grown stiff with disuse. A layer of middle-aged softness covered it. His smart clothes were too tight for him, but ten or fifteen years before he had been slender and wiry and tough as whip-cord. Something about his head, sparsely covered with colorless fair hair, about the small, compressed mouth, still suggested a lost meagerness. His blue eyes, above the round pink cheeks, were unexpectedly bright and piercing. They blinked and snapped with good humor.

“Now 1 am going to show you something,” he said.

He opened the suitcase solemnly, like a magician. The lamp was beginning to burn up, and its light was thrown full on the contents—toys of all sorts—dolls, soldiers, animals quaintly carved and running on wooden wheels, and a small, mysterious box. He picked up the latter object and held it in the palm of his hand.

“Behold!” he said.

Apparently he did nothing. The lid flew open, and a French soldier, carrying the tricolor in one hand and a sword in the other, leaped up. His arms were on wires and waved with a grotesque, lifelike fury. From beneath a minute musical box tinkled the “Marseillaise.” The stout man burst out laughing.

“I can't help it,” he said. “Of course I've seen it a hundred times and every time I have to laugh. Every one laughs—children most of all. At the last place I was at, I took an order for six dozen, and they're repeated already. And it wasn't a big place, either. Now, you, madame ——”

HE LOOKED up at her. There was only the width of the counter between them, and their eyes met, not casually, furtively, as is the way with most people who do not know each other, but full and penetratingly. They were like wrestlers who have caught each other in so close a grip that neither can move. The stout man felt the blood pound in his temples. The queer, delicious feeling in his back-bone came again, only more violently. He had expected nothing like this. If he had managed to get a couple of small orders, he would have thought himself lucky. But her eyes were beautiful—amazing. Under the finely arched brows they seemed almost golden. They dropped at last, with an effort, and he saw the blood rush up under the fair skin of her neck. She had blushed like a girl. He caught the glitter of silver threads amid the dense blackness of her hair. Her white hands were dimpled. The crude, sharp lines of youth had everywhere been blurred and softened. She had the allure of maturity—the fascination of knowledge and experience veiled in a tantalizing womanhood.

The stout man was glad she was not quite young any more. He was not young himself. Besides, girls bored him. They giggled stupidly. One was always getting into difficulties—a woman like this was different. She understood. She knew how to take care of herself.

“Well, what do you think of it?” he asked rather confusedly. “It is good—eh?”

“Yes; it is very good——”

But she would not look at him. She took up the toy and pressed the soldier back into his box. The next moment he flew out again, waving frenziedly.

“You see, he is a true Frenchman.” The stout man laughed. “You can't suppress him for long. I tell you. I've sold hundreds——”

“Our people round here wouldn't care for it,” she objected.

“You can't tell. Of course, village folk are slow and conservative—don't I know it?—but, on the other hand, they jump at something really novel. It's cheap, too.”

“Our people are very poor,” she said.

“Well, of course—if you say so—but the place seemed to me rather prosperous—the houses almost new—as if they had been built yesterday. Never bad a fire here, I suppose?”

She had gone back to her knitting.

“No; not a fire.”

“And your little shop, now— I'll wager you do a nice little business. I can tell, you know. I've got a nose for that sort of thing. Have to have. I've got to know whom I can give credit to and whom I can't.” He looked about him appraisingly. The vague and rather menacing shapes which had loomed out of the dusk had now resolved themselves into a harmless, oddly assorted collection of cheap sweets, toys, haberdashery, writing-materials and fancy articles, grouped in painful order on different shelves. Another man might have been contemptuously amused, but he saw at once that the woman behind the counter knew her business.

“You've got the right line, madame, if you don't mind my saying so. All you want now is a few novelties—something to make people talk. I'll tell you what I'll do: I'll let you have three dozen on sale or return, on condition that, if you sell them, you order another two dozen cash down. It's a fair offer. I don't make it to every one. Three francs each. You could get five for them easy——”

“I don't know,” she said in her low voice. “I'd have to think about it.”

“You mean,” he said, shaking a square finger playfully at her; “you mean you're going to consult your husband. Now, you're a clever woman, madame, if you don't mind my saying so. I can see that. I'll wager anything you built this nice little business up yourself—without anybody's help. Now, isn't that so?”

“Yes, monsieur; that is so.”

“You see? Well then, why not follow your own good sense?” From his breast-pocket he took a printed card and laid it on the counter. “That is my firm. Noted for fair dealing. In Paris itself I took orders for nearly twenty thousand francs.”

He paused a moment, watching her carefully. She had taken up the card between her thumb and forefinger and was reading it, but he could not see her face. His eyes wandered to the white neck, to where the black, smooth hair melted into two soft curls, delicate and symmetrical as flowers. His voice thickened a little.

“One of the biggest toy-makers in the world, madame. You can take my word for it—what we turn out, sells. But your husband—well, we men are different—I admit it—difficult and prejudiced—old-fashioned. Women are more practical. They know that business is business.”

“All the same, I must think it over. And to-morrow”—she lifted her eyes fleetingly to his—“monsieur will be gone.”

The glance had been swift as the passage of a rapier. And yet he could not have mistaken its significance. It was part mocking, part tantalizing, part regretful. He felt sure that, bowed again over her knitting, she was smiling to herself.

He leaned nearer to her over the counter. His own eyes were brighter than ever. His pink cheeks had grown moist. It was really a piece of luck for him. Business had been a cruel grind—a fierce haggling with hard-headed men who treated him like dirt, a ceaseless rushing hither and thither with conciliatory grins and platitudes. Now an oasis offered itself in which he could relax, become human, the man that he, in fact, was.

AND he saw her point of view, too. He understood her. Things would be pretty dull in a stagnating little hole like this. Of course, she knew she was beautiful. She knew how to use her eyes, at any rate. And he was a man of the world. The gold band twinkling in and out of the light with the flying white hands did not daunt him. He could imagine her block of a husband. Besides, women knew how to manage when they chose—Frenchwomen, especially. You couldn't beat them at it. There was no need to grudge himself a harmless intermezzo.

“I don't know,” he said. “After all, I've done a lot of business—twice as much as any one expected. I've earned a rest My firm is reasonable. I might put up here for two or three days—especially if I had a friend to make the the pass—” He waited, smiling cunningly.

“Monsieur should make many friends,” she said, still with a hint of secretive laughter in her voice.

“Oh, I don't know—well, perhaps I do. I'm a friendly fellow. I like to give people a good time. I'd like to give you a go time, ff you don't mind my saying so. And why not? Life is short. One has to take one's chance when it comes.”

“That is true, monsieur.”

“And perhaps I could do a bit of business as well. I have to think of that, you know. You might tell people about me—sort of introduce me. Country folk are queer—suspicious. You could make it easier——”

“Yes; perhaps I could do that.”

“And the little matter of the three dozen? Well, we can talk of that later. I won't hurry you. To-morrow at this time, shall we say? It will be quiet like this? We don't want our chat interrupted, eh? Your husband——”

Her hands had fallen, quiet, in her lap. He had not realized before how pleasing had been the monotonous chatter of her needles. They had filled the shadowy little shop with warmth and homeliness. Now it was as though a heart had stopped beating—as though a spirit had fled, leaving a chill, empty shell.

The woman was looking past him. He felt sure that she was expecting the door to open and some one to come in. He began to hurry his toys back into his suitcase. He wanted suddenly to get away.

“My husband never comes before midnight,” she said, “sometimes not till just before morning.”

And now he could not mistake the significance of her tone. He choked a little, stumbling over his words.

“Well, every one to his taste—so long as one knows— Till to-morrow, then, madame."

“Till to-morrow, monsieur."

But he was in such a hurry that he forgot the door-bell. It screamed at him like a savage animal violently roused.

THE street was empty. Its emptiness and silence startled him even more than the bell had done. It was like being pitchforked from tumult into nothing. Not that the little shop had been exactly tumultuous. But it had been full of warmth and a kind of excitement. The stout man was not in the least imaginative, and it was probably a childish memory of some fairy tale which made him think of a dark cave full of secret enchantments that had closed suddenly behind him. He set down his suitcase and mopped himself.

“Hot stuff!” he said aloud. “No doubt of that—hot stuff!”

But he was already ashamed of his own backwardness. He saw now that he hadn't played up—hadn't taken his opportunity—and it had hurt his pride. He glanced over his shoulder. But evidently she regarded the day's work as finished, for the lamp had been turned out and the shop window gleamed darkly.

“Well, to-morrow is also a day.” He consoled himself. For he knew that he would come back and that she had meant him to come back.

In the mean time, it bothered him a good deal that he did not know in which direction to turn. He had arrived in daylight, and now the stealthy autumn dusk had advanced to nightfall, and all his casually observed landmarks were transfigured or obliterated. And there was no one to ask. Even in the afternoon he had noticed the queer emptiness of the place. There was none of the loitering and gossiping which he associated with village life. The people went their way rapidly, avoiding each other, slipping into their houses like rabbits into their warrens. Now they had disappeared altogether.

“Early birds in this nest,” the stout man reflected disgustedly. “Must take my chance.”

Though the moon was still low on the horizon, it lit the opposite side of the narrow street with an unwelcome brightness. The little white houses were like a row of dead faces with blank eyes and gaping mouths. The stout man walked on, whistling to cover the noise of his own footfalls. He was tired, and his patent-leather boots hurt him, and he felt at once chilled and suffocated, as one might do m a vault or a long underground tunnel. He was glad when the street came suddenly to an end. And yet he had again the odd, sinking sensation of standing on the edge of nothing.

It was the unexpected vastness of the place. The opposite side of the square was like a distant lie of foam. In the center a crucifix, mounted on a low, broad pedestal, reared up starkly, throwing a long shadow, and on either hand the houses seemed to shrink back from it—aghast and horror-stricken.

The stout man crossed the square slowly. The cobbles of the street had been replaced by worn slabs of stone which gave out a melancholy echo under his feet. The suitcase had grown intolerably heavy and halfway across he set it down on the pedestal of the crucifix, and stretched his arms in grotesque and unconscious imitation. He was easier now that he had got away from the houses.

“Some old monument,” he thought. He bent down to decipher the inscription. But there was none. The base of the crucifix was scarred and pitted. There were holes in the soft stone that might have been carved out with a boy's knife. The stout man's eyes traveled slowly up the gaunt, extended figure. And again he suffered a cold discomfort. He looked straight up into the face, bowed tragically, as if to meet his gaze. And it was mutilated. The moon, risen above the roofs of the houses, threw black shadows into the empty eyes and into the great hole which gaped from mouth to ear. The nose had gone. And yet it was still human. It still expressed an awful loneliness and pity. The stout man was not sensitive. He had seen ugly things in his life. He had seen repulsive crucifixes. There was one in his own village. But this was different. This had been hanging there a long time. And corruption had set in.

He remained there for several minutes. He had been hot, and now an icy perspiration broke over his body. A chill breath seemed to be rising out of the stones. He bad a baffling sensation of being held there against his will—of being forced to wait until something happened to him. He knew now that he had never been this way before—and yet somewhere at the back of his brain there lowered a recollection—waiting to pounce upon him.

He shook himself at last.

“I never saw that beastly thing, at any rate,” he said.

With a disgusted oath he caught up his suitcase and set back the way he had come.

“JEAN FRANÇOIS s'en va-i-en guerre,
Tra-la-la, tra-la—
Mais il reviendra—il reviendra—
Tra-la-la, Ira-la-la ——”

“That's a grand little song you're singing,” said the stout man, stepping with roguish exaggeration over the loose board. “But it's a dismal tune, if you don't mind my saying so. One would imagine that poor Jean François wasn't a great favorite. Not much of a welcome waiting for him, eh?”

The woman behind the counter smiled faintly.

“There are many ways of coming back, monsieur.”

“Are there? Well—perhaps. Nobody could help coming back to you anyhow, madame.” He made her a gallant bow. “But I don't like dismal songs. I'm a lively fellow. There's enough worry in the world without our making a song about it. That's what I say. And that 'Jean François' business—why, everybody seems to sing it here. The girl at the estaminet was at it last night. It gets on my nerves.”

“It's an old village song, monsieur. It comes back to us when we are at work and thinking of other things. I won't sing it when you are here.”

“That would be a pity. You have a nice voice. I'm very fond of singing. In fact, my parents wanted me to go in for the opera. But then—well, my career was interrupted. I had to make money to keep the family going. Well, it's no use crying over the past——”

“The past is father to the present, monsieur."

“Ah, madame is a philosopher! I'm a simple fellow—too simple, perhaps. I take things as they come. I don't worry.”

This time he had not brought his suitcase with him. But he took the square jack-in-a-box from his pocket and laid it on the counter.

“Well, what about this little fellow, eh, madame? Shall we say three dozen, sale or return?”

“Yes. I have thought it over—three dozen, then——”

“I thought you would. You won't regret it. I have a paper here—if you would just sign your name they will be delivered in a week. And in two days you will be sold out—hey presto——”

He was in a merry, self-confident mood, and smarter than ever. He wore a fancy waistcoat and his pointed patent-leather boots had been polished till they shone. The night before he had been overtired by the long journey and inclined to imagine things. His nerves had run away with him. Now he was quite sure of himself.

“If you would sign just there, madame——”

She had found pen and ink, and she wrote in the place which he had indicated with his stubby forefinger—carefully and laboriously, after the manner of a peasant. It gave him time to look at her unobserved. Well, his imagination had not deceived him on that score, at any rate. You might scour the aristocracy of Europe for anything so richly beautiful. He grew a little warm looking at her. He could feel his heart against his ribs.

“There, monsieur——”

He took the paper from her. Their hands touched, and it was as though a current of electricity had rushed up his arm to his brain.

“'Marguerite Foissart'—what a pretty name! I like the 'Marguerite' best, though, if you don't mind my saying so. And I'll tell you what—you're prettier than either of them.”

She gave him one of her quick, deep glances.

“Monsieur is flattering. I am an old woman.”

“Old? Bah!” He snapped his fingers. “That for your old age!”

“Fifteen years ago I was just twenty, monsieur."

“Well, that's one way of telling me—I'm not much older myself. Thirty-five—what's that? Nothing. One is at the beginning of life. Anything is possible.”

“Anything,” she admitted under her breath.

“One has learned wisdom. One looks at things sensibly—reasonably. One knows that one must take one's chance of a good time—when it offers itself——”

He leaned nearer to her with his elbow on the counter. He felt a subtle fragrant warmth creeping over his senses, like the breath of an enchantment. She drew back a little. On her half-averted face he caught the flicker of a smile. He laughed. He knew the game. Two could play at it.

“Why, you're so young you play with toys!” He pounced upon a rag doll, soiled and battered, which he saw lying forgotten on one side, and brandished it triumphantly—accusingly. “Aren't you ashamed——”

She gave it a swift sidelong glance and resumed her knitting.

“That—belongs to my daughter, monsieur."

“A daughter who still plays with dolls, then? That's almost as good. I'll wager she's not more than five years old.”

“Yes—about five——”

“You see? Five! A charming age. I envy you. I love children. Give her Monsieur Jack-in-a-box with my love. Do you know, madame, I have one ambition in life. It is to have a home of my own—a wife—a quiverful of jolly boys and girls to play with. But it's a hard business for a fellow like me. I'm too generous. Money comes and money goes. And then my work—always on the move—there's no home in the world for me.” The tears came to his eyes. He was deeply moved. “Sometimes it's almost too much for me. Last night, for instance, I felt so alone and friendless. And then this place; it isn't particularly cheerful, if you don't mind my saying so. When I got into that square of yours, as deserted as a desert, I wanted to cut my throat——”

SHE stopped knitting, and again the blank left by those softly chattering needles chilled him. It put him unaccountably on his guard.

“The square? We have no square, monsieur. If it is the church you mean——”

“I didn't see any church. There was a battered old crucifix——”

“The church is there, monsieur. It is still there.”

He pinched his lower lip between his finger and thumb, blinking rapidly, as though disconcerted by some sudden thought.

“You mean— Oh, I see—it hadn't occurred to me. Well, it's a dismal place. You people ought to build there—get on with things. No use brooding over the past. That's what I say.”

“The church is very old, monsieur. They say there are kings of France buried in the vaults.”

He nodded.

“I can believe that. I should think their spooks were on the prowl last night. I'm not superstitious, but I didn't like the place. I'm a genial sort of fellow—no ghosts for me. I like to have friends—a good time—a pretty woman——”

The little shop seemed to have grown stiflingly hot. The heat blurred his vision—lay thick in his throat. Through the haze he could see her hand shining on the counter—inert and waiting. Before he had time to thick, he had seized it and was kissing it furiously. He could feel the cool, strong fingers tighten on his. He was swept off his feet, drunk with excitement.

“Margarita! Margarita!”

“Hush,” she said quietly, imperatively.

She withdrew her hand. The door had opened, and out of the dusk an old woman came into the shop. She wore shawl over her gaunt shoulders, and the gray, straight hair hung in neglected wisps about her face. Her skin was yellow and lined, and she had brooding, melancholy eyes, deep-sunken under the bony brows, which rested on the man and then dropped, avoiding him.

He coughed. He fidgeted with the goods on the counter, pretending to examine them. He was trembling all over. It had happened just as he had meant it to happen. Or, perhaps, not quite. It was like paddling in a shallow pool and stumbling suddenly into deep black waters.

“For three sous, then——”

“Vous voilà, maman——”

“And I have a note for you from the Dubois.”

“Thank you. Give them my regards——”

“Good-night.”

“Good-night.”

The old woman went out as she had come in, noiselessly, avoiding the treacherous bell, closing the door cautiously behind her.

“Margarita,” he whispered thickly.

She looked straight at him. There was no light laughter in her strange eyes, but an overwhelming, torrential emotion. And yet her lips smiled steadily. They made mock of him. He seized her hand again. He pressed his hot mouth to her white arm. And now she no longer resisted. Rather, it was as though she, too, were laying fast hold of him.

“Margarita, you're the finest beauty I've set eyes on! I fell head over heels in love with you the moment I saw you—I couldn't help myself—I stayed on because of you—I forgot business—everything. I knew we had to be friends. You believe in fate, don't you?”

“Yes—I believe in fate.”

“When I got off that train I had a queer feeling—as if it had all happened to me before—as if I'd come back and something amazing was going to happen.”

But even in his extraordinary excitement he knew that she was looking past him. His eyes, raised involuntarily, followed hers, and it seemed to him that people were watching them through the shop windows—white, ghastly smudges pressed against the thick panes—blurred, distorted faces.

“We're not safe here,” he muttered. “Any one might come in. I must see you—I've got to have you to myself. Isn't there any spot in this God-forsaken nest?”

Her eyes had dropped. All at once she changed. She became demure—shrinking, virginal. Her hand quivered in his. His self-confidence came back to him with a rush. He had been half afraid. Now he was master of himself—of her. He laughed unsteadily.

“Come,” he said, winking at her; “you're a clever woman. Surely it can be done.”

“In a little place like this,” she murmured, “people watch——”

“Don't I know it? But at night—eh? You said your husband didn't come back till late. An hour's tête-à-tête with a poor wanderer—come now!”

“There's the mill,” she said, hardly above her breath. “I used to live there. It's empty now. You go across the wooden bridge and over to the farther bend of the river—up the wooden steps——”

“I've seen the place,” he whispered back. “You can see it from the inn. At nine o'clock——”

“At nine o'clock, then.”

She gave his hand a furtive pressure and released herself, drawing back into her deep calm. He understood. He stood up, breathing heavily, but with his light-blue eyes dancing with triumphant excitement. From the door he made her a bow—profound and mocking.

“Au revoir, madame.”

“Au revoir, monsieur.”

The bell sent its furious, menacing cry after him. It was strange that he could not remember it.

HE TOOK care to leave the inn unobserved. The evening had turned cold, with a hint of rain in the wind, and he did not want to draw attention to himself by unusual conduct. Above all things, he did not want trouble. A commis-voyageur who made even a village impossible for himself was a fool. He had to take his pleasures discreetly.

“I'll be off to-morrow,” he thought. “That'll put an end to it.”

He was pleased to find that he could consider the episode so coolly. In the shop he had lost his head. He had behaved like a raw youth, and it made him purse his small mouth uneasily to realize that there had been a moment when he had been prepared to fling his career to the winds and himself to the devil. He comforted himself with the thought that it had been only a momentary upheaval, with no aftermath. He could go forth on his little adventure in the right spirit of bonhomie and gallant discretion as became a man of the world. But at the bottom he nursed a grievance—a kind of resentment. She had made him dance to her tune. Now, at any rate, she should dance to his.

Even after he had left the inn well behind him he walked slowly, casually, like a man going for an aimless stroll. On the bridge he lingered a moment and looked down at the broad, deep river running swiftly. He was not imaginative, but he thought of Marguerite Froissart. She was like that water. One had to look out or one would be swept off one's feet.

He fit a cigar, and smiled knowingly to himself. He had dined well, and he felt warm and stout and self-confident.

THE wind covered the sky with a thin veil of drifting cloud. To the southeast, whence it came, lay a black mass, moving imperceptibly, like the closing of a monstrous trap-door overhead. The light was curiously deceptive. The stout man, for instance, could see the old mill at the bend of the river quite distinctly, but the ground at his feet lay in a bog of shadow. His progress was made the more difficult by the condition of the road, which was, in fact, little more than a cart-track. The ruts were deep and slippery, and he stumbled in and out of them, cursing to himself. Trivial though the annoyance was, it disturbed his pose, his pleasant sense of security and power, and in an effort to escape he clambered awkwardly up a steep bank on his right hand, feeling along its edge with the point of his walking-stick.

But his condition was hardly bettered. In the increasing darkness he ran the risk either of losing all contact with the road or of stumbling back into it painfully and ignominiously. Obeying an impulse, he suddenly left the embankment altogether, striking across the fields toward the mill, which, lying to the west, was still visible—a grotesque shadow that peered over the river-mist, watching him.

Almost at once he regretted his decision. A coarse, tall grass whipped his legs with its wet thongs. His feet squelched in and out of the clayey soil with a thick, slobbery sound that was unaccountably familiar and detestable. He had a feeling that this, too, had happened to him before. On some other night in his life he had toiled against mud and rain and wind. And he had been angry. The memory, indefinite and haunting, increased his obscure resentment which flung itself on the thought of the woman who waited for him with a kind of hunger. He would show her that he was not the man to be disturbed for nothing.

He stumbled over a mound of earth and righted himself with a convulsive effort. The trap-door had closed overhead suddenly and completely. His hand, groping blindly for support, struck against a wooden stem that rose straight out of the ground to the level of his waist. There were others. All at once he found himself slithering and stumbling over a sea of rolling earth, battering himself against an incredibly hideous maze of stakes and cross-bars that seemed to dance about him in his desperate effort to escape barking his shins, tearing the skin from his outflung, frantic hands, striking into his soft body.

He stood still at last, like a maddened horse that has exhausted itself against an implacable terror. He was panting and wet with a cold perspiration. But gradually he grew calmer. He reasoned with himself. In a brief lull in the wind he struck a match, holding it to the obstacle nearest him.

It was a cross. In the circle of flickering light and spreading into the mist beyond were other crosses, rank upon rank, uniform, dropped from their fantastic dance into a martial rigidity. They stood round the stout man and seemed to wait for him, pathetic and menacing. On each cross was a brief inscription, roughly carved.

The match went out. He drew himself up with a deep breath and rubbed the moisture out of his eyes. He felt badly shaken. It was a nasty thing to have happened. But, after all, a cemetery was a cemetery. If he had not read the inscription on the cross nearest him it would not have troubled him so much. He muttered aloud:

“Good Heavens! It isn't possible—and yet—well, one never knows— Why not?”

He nerved himself to go on. Now that he had seen them and knew them for what they were, the crosses stood still and let him pass among them without hindrance. But the mounds over which he slithered made him sick. He had to remind himself that they were artificial shapes made to flatter the grave-diggers' conventional sense of decency. In reality, no doubt, the bodies had been lumped together anyhow.

When, suddenly, the crosses fell away from him, he cried out. It was like falling headlong into nothing. He began to run into sheer terror, for he had now lost all sense of direction. The mill had vanished; the mist encircled him. The blood throbbed in his ears so that the sound of water was lost. In his blind haste he plunged on until he almost flung himself against a black, invisible wall, which to his inflamed fancy was solid darkness.

He stood back, panting and furious. He knew now where he was. Guided by a thread of light overhead, he could make out the wooden steps of which Madame Froissart had spoken. He grunted to himself. It had been a beastly business. But it was over. He was wet through and disheveled, and the pleasant after-dinner glow had been kindled to a devastating passion beyond his control. From the good-humored man of the world he had been shaken into something violent and primitive. But he did not care. He was glad. He was free. He had burst his chains. Too many people had treated him like dirt——

He began the ascent of the slippery steps, licking his cracked lips.

THE steps were rotten with moisture, and he felt them bend under him. He heard the mournful creak of the locked mill-wheel and the muttering of the mill itself, moribund and helpless in the grip of the rising wind. Had it not been for the narrow golden strip overhead he would have turned back. He would not have believed that a living thing beyond the scurrying rats could be in the place.

There must have been a strong draft somewhere. The door at the top of the steps resisted him, and the resistance stung his nervous impatience to fury. He flung his whole weight against the panels, which gave way violently with a screech of warped wood and rusty hinges, flinging him over a last huge step into the light. He was at first too blinded and breathless to see what lay before him, and the door, caught in a sudden gust, slammed to again. The next moment he was laughing noisily.

“Good Heavens! A party!”

The room was very large. In other days it might have been used as a granary. The high rafters lost themselves in darkness. There were four candles on the long, bare table, and their flames waved frantically in the wind that came from the loosely shuttered window opposite.

The room was full of women. They surrounded the table. They seemed to crowd endlessly out of the shadow. Madame Froissart sat at the head of the table. She was knitting, and the soft click of her needles played an odd accompaniment to the somber rush of the water underfoot. Beside her was the old woman with the gray, disheveled hair, staring in front of her with her sunken, melancholy eyes.

They were of all ages, but one thing was common to them all: it was as if a gray, hardly perceptible mist enveloped them. They were like people in whom life, diverted from its course, had taken a strange new form. One of them was different from the rest. She stood immediately opposite the stout man, so that he saw her first. She was not a peasant. She had an air of authority, and her clothes, flung on anyhow, were of a faded, tattered elegance. A flowered hat perched crazily on her gray hair. Her lips kept up an incessant movement, but no sound came from them. She might have been ludicrous or pitiable.

And there was a girl—big and fat, with a large, misshapen head and a lolling mouth and dead eyes. She sat on the right of Madame Froissart and played with a jack-in-a-box, who jumped in and out of his prison like a mad thing, the tiny musical contrivance underneath him tinkling broken fragments of the “Marseillaise.”

The stout man took off his cap and made a stiff, satirical bow! He was choked with anger. He saw that he had been fooled and made ridiculous. He wanted to beat the woman at the head of the table. As it was, he had to get himself out of the affair gracefully.

“I beg pardon, mesdames. I see I intrude. There is a nasty storm coming up, and I took refuge. I had no idea the place was occupied.”

He congratulated himself. It was neatly done. Then it struck him as odd that no one looked at him. They seemed to be unaware that he was there at all. A horrible, ridiculous suspicion assailed him that they were ghosts, or that he himself was unreal—the shadow of some one's dream.

“It was in the autumn,” Madame Froissart said. “I remember it clearly, because we had just finished with the harvest.” She spoke as one continuing a conversation. “A wonderful harvest. On the very night that they came, Christophe told me there had not been anything like it for twenty years.”

“We had been talking of their coming,” a voice said out of the twilight. “We knew that it might happen. We were always hoping, though——”

“Fire and blood—fire and blood everywhere——”

Madame Froissart nodded deferentially toward the woman in the flowered hat.

“Of course, mademoiselle. They came to the château first. It is not likely that you would forget.”

“We saw the flames go up. It was a dark night. We had no idea they were so near. I was sitting, sewing, I remember——”

“Look here,” the stout man interrupted impatiently. “I'm intruding. Permit me to withdraw.”

He turned. But one of the women stood behind him against the door. She was old and gaunt, and one side of her face was badly scarred. He could have knocked her down easily, but he did not want to touch her. He shrank from the very thought. Besides, it was absurd——

“Of course, if you ladies insist—” he said, laughing immoderately. “But let me join, in, at any rate. Pray present me to the company, madame——”

He appealed to the woman at the head of the table. He was not angry with her now. He was glad that they were friends. He wanted to be friendly—get on a good footing. But she did not look up from her knitting. It seemed to him that she had changed. The mist lay over her too, but also she had grown younger—more familiar. It was like one of those mad dreams in which one person gradually becomes somebody else. The girl beside her was the only one who appeared to have heard him. She gazed idiotically in his direction, making little uncouth sounds as though she were trying to say something. She had ceased to play with the jack-in-a-box.

“We did nothing. What could we do? We just waited. Then François came running from the château. Somehow or other he had managed to get away. He told us to look out for ourselves.”

“Fire and blood—fire and blood,” said the woman in the flowered hat. She spoke more clearly, with a gesture erf despair, and they turned toward her gravely.

“Yes, mademoiselle; you saw it all. François told us how you stood at the head of the great stairs. It was wonderful. Even they stopped for a moment. You said 'Gentlemen, everything in my house is at your disposal, but leave the village.'”

“You tried to save us.”

“We shall never forget that, mademoiselle.”

“Fire and blood,” the woman in the flowered hat repeated, with a kind of resignation.

“They laughed. One of them ran up the stairs and caught hold of you. That was the last François saw.”

“They found the wine-cellar. They turned on the taps. They lay on their faces, lapping it up like dogs——”

The stout man beat his fist in the palm of his hand.

“Listen,” he repeated loudly; “I don't know what you're talking about. It's all nothing to do with me.”

IT WAS like being in a padded cell. No one heard him. He flung himself against soft walls that would not break. His voice was muffled. He tried to calm himself.

“It's absurd—absurd!” he repeated indignantly.

Madame Froissart counted her stitches. He could see her lips move. They were all silent for a moment. The steady mutter of the water underneath and the crack of the rotten rafters resumed predominance. The wind, rushing between the cracks of the shutters and under the warped door, sent dust scurrying in little whirlpools across the floor. The candle-light waved frantically, making the shadows behind the women sway hither, become monstrous and shrink to nothing.

“Some of us ran into the fields. But most of us thought it better to stay where we were. After all, we were inoffensive people. We had done nothing. We had a right——

“We heard them in the distance. I remember Gustave leaning across the table and patting my hand. 'It will be all right,' he said. 'We are old—every one respects gray hairs.' The children woke up crying. They came running to him. But I was not afraid for them. I thought, 'The children will be all right.'”

“You are all mad—every one of you!” shouted the stout man.

“We are all mad,” the woman in the flowered hat said; “every one of us.”

But she did not seem to know that he had spoken. Rather, it was as though he had echoed an inner voice to which she was always listening.

Madame Froissart put down her work. She leaned forward, with her chin resting on her strong white hand, her gleaming eyes fixed beyond the stout man on the door behind him, and he knew that she was watching for it to open.

“I had been standing here, watching and praying. I dared not go to the window, but I could see the red glare on the wall opposite. I could hear screams and shouting. I was terrified—especially for Christophe, who had not come home. It was then close on midnight. Suddenly he came up the steps. He was covered with mud. He was beside himself. He said: 'It's all over. They're after me. I've killed one of them. They spitted old Gustave on their bayonets as he came out of his cottage. I couldn't stand it. They have set fire to the church. They are hacking the crucifix——'”

“No! No!” the stout man shouted. "It's nothing to do with me. I wasn't there—I swear I wasn't. I don't remember the place. If I had been there, I should have remembered it. It stands to reason——”

The sweat ran down his limbs. If they had been men, he would have fought them—fought his way out. But they were more terrible. They were waiting for him to give the signal. They were closing in on him—noiselessly, imperceptibly. His soul quaked, went sick before the thought of what would happen when at last they touched him. And yet none of them had moved or looked at him. Only that strange, terrible girl——-

“'There's no hope,' Christophe said. 'I shall kill both of us.' He ran to the box where he kept his old gun, but it was not loaded. Of course it was not loaded. We were peaceful people. And before he could do anything they were crowding up the steps. I tried to fling myself in front of Christophe, but it was too late. They had seen him—with the gun in his hand—and they fired—several of them together—right in his face——”

THE stout man tried to throw out his hands as he did when he was pacifying an angry customer, but they were like lead. He could hardly move them.

“The whole thing is absurd, I tell you! I wasn't there! You can't hold me responsible. It isn't fair——”

“Can you remember what happened then, Madame Froissart?”

“They sacked our home. Somehow or other, the mill wouldn't burn, so they made a bonfire of the furniture outside. This table was too big—besides, Christophe had fallen across it—face upward—and even they——”

“And then?”

“One of them remained behind.”

“I deny it—I deny it absolutely! If you have anything against me, say it straight out. I'm a peaceful fellow. I go about my business. I do no harm to any one. You oughtn't to brood over the past like this. If it's money you want—why, I'm willing to do the right thing——”

“The light had gone out, but there was light enough from the bonfire. His companions had gone off, laughing and joking. I could see him distinctly, standing with his back to the door, grinning at me. I can hear his voice now. 'You're a pretty bit of goods, if you don't mind my saying so.'”

The stout man's voice rose to a scream and broke.

“I was drunk—I was drunk! O my God! I didn't know what I was doing——”

“That was fifteen years ago.”

“You see—fifteen years—fifteen years—” He dropped to his knees. He crawled toward them. “You can't—you can't—you have hearts—you are women—good Christians. Besides, I tell you I was drunk. A man isn't responsible when he's drunk. You know it—you should have pity——”

They did not see him. They did not hear him. Madame Froissart picked up her knitting. The woman behind him spoke for the first time.

“And then Yvette was born——”

“Nine months later.”

He turned his head slowly, inevitably toward the girl seated at the table. She was looking at him with her opaque, sightless eyes, without knowledge, without understanding. Then, as though wearied in an effort to grasp something beyond her reach, she went back to her toy. But the spring had broken and she began to cry.

The stout man gulped. An immeasurable horror had him by the throat. He knew that the end had come—the breaking- point—a nameless end, hideous and unendurable.

But they had forgotten to guard the window opposite. He remembered it clearly. It looked out over the river. If only he could reach it before they guessed his intention! He began to shuffle toward it, cringing, mouthing, with his hands held up before his face like a man breaking through thorns. His knees shook under him. His feet were leaden with nightmare. There was only a little way to go. At each step he expected to feel their hands on him tearing him down. He could feel the heat of their breath. But no one moved. He sobbed aloud in the agony of their indifference. Like a panic-stricken, tortured animal he flung his soft body against the shutters, passing out with a broken whimper into space and silence.

The women sang as they made their way home over the dark fields.

“Jean François s'en-va-l-en guerre,
Tra-la-la, tra-la-la—
Mais il reviendra—il reviendra,
Tra-la-la, tra-la-la—”

The last notes of their voices were solemn and prolonged, like the last notes of a clarion-call.