Full text of "Mirage"
SxJ^tbris
PROFESSOR J. S.WILL
Methuen's Shilling Books
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Under the Red Robe Stanley Weyman
Lady Betty across the Water C. N. & A. M. Williamson
Mirage E. Temple Thurston
Virginia Perfect Peggy Webling
Spanish Gold G. A. Birmingham
Barbary Sheep Robert Hichens
The Woman with the Fan Robert Hichens
The Golden Centipede Louise Gerard
Round the Red Lamp A. Conan Doyle
The Halo Baroness von Hutten
Tales of Mean Streets Arthur Morrison
The Missing Delora E. Phillips Oppenheim
The Charm Alice Perrin
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The Blue Bird Maurice Maeterlinck
Mary Magdalene Maurice Maeterlinck
Lady Windermere's Fan Oscar Wilde
De Profundis Oscar Wilde
Selected Poems Oscar Wilde
Lord Arthur Savile's Crime Oscar Wilde
Sevastopol and Other Stories Leo Tolstoy
The Life of Robert Louis Stevenson Graham Balfour
The Life of John Ruskin W. G. Collingwood
The Condition of England C. F. G. Masterman, M.P.
Letters from a Self-made Merchant to
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Under Five Reigns Lady Dorothy Nevill
From Midshipman to Field Marshal Sir Evelyn Wood
Man and the Universe Sir Oliver Lodge
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MIRAGE
BY
E. TEMPLE THURSTON
SEVENTH EDITION
METHUEN & CO. LTD.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
First Published at is. net. (Fifth Edition) . June i&h 1911
Sixth Edition September 1911
Seventh Edition . . 797.2
This Book was First Published . September igot
Second, Third, and Fourth Editions . . 1908
Copyright in the United States of America
by E. Temple T hurst on
TO
THE LITTLE BRASS MAN
" Talk of freedom 1 This a slave's world is, and we
must wake
To slavery as generations pass;
But some there are who cut the fetters from their
feet and make
A little God— of brass."
London, xi. vi., oS.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGB
I. THE BOARDING-HOUSE—
BLOOMSBURY ? ' « « . i
II. THE RESTAURANT— TOTTENHAM
COURT ROAD
III. THE EIGHTEEN SIXPENCES 14
IV. THE POST-OFFICE— BLOOMSBURY 21
V. THE LETTER 27
VI. ROZANNE •«• - '••: 33
VII. THE SOLEMN COMPACT 37
VIII. COURTOT CHOOSES A WIFE - - 42
IX. THE MIRAGE 49
X. MRS. BULPITT - - - - 57
XI. " SONGS OF YESTERDAY" - - 63
XII. THE CONGREGATIONALIST
MINISTER - - - -•• 67
XIII. THE PROPOSAL - - - 70
XIV. THE DINNER 75
XV. THE STRENUOUS SONGS OF
TO-DAY - - - - - 79
XVI. MONSIEUR COURVOISIER - - 81
XVII. THE APPLE TREE— SUNNINGHAM 96
XVIII. HOW TO CALL M. LE VlCOMTE - IOI
XIX. THE INSPECTION - . - 106
XX. ARTHUR DALZIEL •*- •- - 115
XXI. THE COLLECTION - - - 119
XXII. THE SPRING ONION 123
XXIII. THE RESOLUTION - - - 127
XXIV. WHO WAS MRS. SIMPKINS ? - - 132
vin
CHAP.
XXV.
XXVI.
XXVII.
XXVIII.
XXIX.
XXX,
XXXI.
XXXII.
XXXIII.
XXXIV.
XXXV.
XXXVI.
MIRAGE
PACK
THE CONSENT • - - - 134
THE BACKWATER — SUNNINGHAM - 141
THE NEW PINK FROCK - - 149
THE MISTAKE - - - • 157
THE TRUE SENSE OF COMEDY - 168
THE BELIEF IN WOMAN - - 173
THE BARGAIN - - - - 177
DUBILLON ET ClE.f PARIS - - l8$
THE RENUNCIATION 190
THE WILL - - - - - 197
THE BULL-DOG SPIRIT - - 202
THE BOARDING- HOUSE-—
BLOOMSBURY 208
MIRAGE
CHAPTER I
THE BOARDING-HOUSE— BLOOMSBURY.
T.JEMMING in the grey, dreary plot of ground
called Torrington Square, there is not one only,
there are many boarding-houses. In winter, they
look out on to a tangle of black, leafless tree stems in
which no bird ever shelters, on to a patch of grass in
the square's centre which is mottled and worn and
ugly, on to the grimy, sooty palings which surround
this cherished garden of the inhabitants — kept from
the intrusion of outsiders as though it were the planta-
tion of Eden instead of a mocking ghost of green
fields, a haunting skeleton of forests. And in sum-
mer, by the grace of God, the prospect is perhaps a
little better than this.
But here it is, in the heart of these abodes, that
there may be found some of the saddest people in the
world. A boarding-house is not a home; it is not a
lodging. In a home there is sense of possession.
There is sense of possession in those lodgings, the bed-
room and sitting-room, that one takes over a tobac-
conist's or a greengrocer's in a busy street. But in a
boarding-house there is none. These abodes are the
poor-houses, the alms-houses of the gentle, the refined,
the well-to-do pauper — the man who can lay claim to
nothing but his own soul and that self-respect which
becomes the dearest possession that he has.
Here is to be found the foreigner, coming to London
to learn the language on a pittance that admits of
bare living alone. It is a bare living that he gets.
I
2 MIRAGE
Here is the old Army captain, dragging out existence
through its " sandy deltas " on the flimsy substance of
his pension, his wife dead, his daughters married, his
sons ne'er-do-weels in odd corners of the globe. Here
also is the old maid who cannot shake herself free of
the fever of London life in which she moved so bril-
liantly— so she will tell you — when she was a girl; here
the young lady with yellow hair who is learning sing-
ing— perhaps at the Academy; the young man study-
ing medicine, doing the hospitals; the old lady who
likes to be in London when Parliament is sitting and
the Court is in town, who vanishes when the Season is
over and disappears no one knows where. Here you
will find the young clerk, the old man of mysterious
identity, the lady of forty-three with a trembling in-
come, who moves from one of these abodes to another
in the hope that a day may come when she will meet
the man who loves her. Here is the artist, the musi-
cian, the writer, the journalist, all the incompetent
people of the earth — all paupers, every single one of
them, all struggling to keep whole upon their backs
that delicate garment of self-respect which in this life
wears so easily, looks shoddy so soon, and realises so
little when the stress of circumstance forces you to
pledge its value. '
They dine at eight o'clock. They dress for dinner
— the men if they can, the women always. It is a
simple matter to put on a black skirt and turn down
the neck of a blouse when you are rewarded with the
soothing- knowledge that it is more or less exactly what
the best people do.
In the drawing-room afterwards, while the men sit
over their cigarettes and their gritty coffee, the young
lady with the yellow hair sings popular songs and
thinks aloud of the days when she will be in musical
comedy. When the others come upstairs there is
bridge to be played, gossip to be talked, and it all
combines to flatter them with that consciousness of
self-resoect. to drug them with that sedative of thought
THE BOARDING-HOUSE 3
that they are living the lives of English ladies and
English gentlemen in that not too-unfashionable
neighbourhood of Torrington Square.
Here, in this particular square, at a number not to
be mentioned in consideration for those who might
by chance pick up this book, see therein their little
weaknesses, their little follies, and feel incensed that
they had been thus unwittingly betrayed, there lived
an old gentleman. Old ? He was scarcely fifty-eight.
But Time and Circumstance do not deal in the same
lavish spirit of generosity with all of us. They had
dealt unkindly with him. His hair was quite white ;
his moustache, his eyebrows, the little tuft of his im-
perial, these too were very nearly white as well.
All through the winter, at four o'clock on every
afternoon, the door of this house in Torrington Square
would open, then the short, upright, little figure,
wrapped in its black overcoat, the white woollen
muffler tied tightly round his neck, the silk hat fixed
in its exact position on his head, would emerge and
descend the steps on to the pavement. For a moment
he would stand quite still, his head lifted to the sky,
whether there were sky to be seen or not — and you do
not often see the sky during the winter in Torrington
Square. When he had then apparently decided upon
the state of the weather, he would march off in the
direction of the Tottenham Court Road, and his
malacca cane with its faded blue silk tassel would tap
its ferrule on the pavement with each step that he took.
This daily walk was referred to by inmates of the
boarding-house as his — constitutional. One elderly
lady there was who alluded to it on every possible
occasion when they sat down to dinner in the evening.
She would remark that it had been very fine, or that
it had been too wet for his — constitutional. There
is an aristocratic sound about the word, bearing some-
what the same relation to nobility as is to be found in
gout and all such maladies of the rich. Invariably
he answered her in the same courteous way :
4 MIRAGE
" Madam, I take my walk in any weather."
This was quite true. During the two years that he
lived in Torrington Square he only missed it once,
when an impenetrable fog had dropped its cloak of
darkness into the streets, muffling, blinding every-
thing. Then progress had been impossible. He had
seated himself at the dining-room window, nodding his
head, looking sometimes at his watch, sometimes say-
ing under his breath, " What a country — what a
country ! "
Of all the various types herein described as to be
found in a London boarding-house, this old gentleman
is he of mysterious identity. That his name was M.
du Guesclin — a Frenchman of course, a Parisian no
doubt ; that he was of good blood — the du before the
name, the almost old-world courtesy of his manner,
the aristocratic way in which he bore himself all testi-
fying to the fact — were the only details likely of accu-
racy upon which his fellow-boarders could base their
numberless assumptions as to his history. A history
assuredly he had. No man so reticent of his own
affairs, so gentle in conversation, so charmingly polite,
could possibly be reduced to the necessity of living in
a London boarding-house without a past history of
some interest. It is still more unlikely that he should
live amongst such a class of people and not gratui-
tously be given one.
They said that he was a spy in the payment of the
French Government ; they said that political intrigue
had been the cause of his banishment from France.
Some said that Du Guesclin was not his real name be-
cause he never received any letters at the boarding-
house, and that therefore he might be anything from
a member of the house of Orleans to a needy clerk
dismissed from the services of the Republique. It is
a noticeable fact that in all these tales, drawn at a
venture, they ascribed some definite relation between
him and his country. None of them were greatly to
his credit ; but that is easily accounted fcr When the
THE BOARDING-HOUSE 5
curiosity of human nature sets to the weaving of gossip
it seldom grants an enviable reputation. It presumes
— and rightly in most cases — that the man who will say
nothing about himself has nothing good to say. Yet
in every whisper that circulated round the echoing
walls of the house in Torrington Square, there was the
tacit admission that M. du Guesclin had a history
which not one of them could suppose to be wholly in-
significant.
It is not to be expected that they only sat still,
vaguely speculating upon these matters. Active steps
had been taken to elicit further facts about him which
might throw a light upon the shroud of mystery in
which he was enveloped. But they had led to
nothing. Octave Bordenelle, a young French boy,
come from a trading house in Lyons to learn
English for the business requirements of his
firm, had entered into a conspiracy and undertaken the
following of the old gentleman when he took his con-
stitutional at four o'clock in the afternoon. The re-
sult had been disappointing, for beyond proving his
valour in the eyes of a young lady who considered such
things valiant, he had accomplished nothing.
" I follow him " — this was his story. " He go with
his old stick — what you say — knocking along."-
" Tapping — yes, tapping — •"
" I thank you — tapping along. When he get to the
Tottenham Court Road he turn to the left. I follow —
I follow on — on — de Vautre cot% — "
" On the other side," said the young lady.
" Ah, yes—the other side — you are so kind." He
thanked her with devotional eyes, until she bid him
proceed with his story.
" Bien," he continued, "he go down the road with
his head— stiff — his hat " — he made a dumb show with
his hands descriptive of that exact angle of M. du
Guesclin's high silk hat — " comme ca — and he do not
see me ; he do not see anyone — he just walk, walk,
walk " — he held his head rigid — " comme ca. Then
6 MIRAGE
he came to a caft — restaurant. He go in. I pass out^
side ; I see him sitting at a table — I see a waiter come
up to him and bow to him. He order something " —
he spread out his hands — " C'est tout. It was all I
could do.<s»If I go inside — he see me."
" Well, I could have done that much myself," said
the girl. Undoubtedly she could.
Beyond this essay there was little that could actively
be done to clear the mystery. He never went out in
the evenings. In a corner of the drawing-room he sat,
after dinner, with a French book on his lap, his kind
grey eyes sometimes patiently lifting in a gentle ex-
pression of forbearance when the incessant noise of
conversation lifted above a certain note and jarred
upon his ears. True, they peeped into his room when
he was out, but beyond a plain wooden-backed hair-
brush, a razor in its case, a strop at the end of the bed
and a bottle of ammoniated quinine on the dressing-
table, there was nothing to be seen.
In conversation his English was perfect, yet he
seldom talked with anyone. If .one of the ladies left
a room in which he was sitting, the young men would
stare at him as he rose hurriedly to open the door for
her exit. He alone, amongst all the gentlemen there,
stood to his feet when a remark was addressed to him ;
he alone waited until a lady had become seated before
he seated himself. The men called it side — the women
liked it, but admitted that it often made them feel un-
comfortable.
Whenever anyone tried to draw him into conversa-
tion about himself he would say :
" My dear sir " — or " My dear madam, I am not in-
teresting— I am merely old."
If they endeavoured to make him speak about
France, he would reply :
" France — there is no France— there are only a few
French people."
So the visitors to that boarding-house in Torrington
Square came and "went, the length of their visits
THE BOARDING-HOUSE 7
ing according to their means or to their purpose, and
M. du Guesclin, seated at his 'little table by himself
in the dining-room, was always pointed out to them as
the old gentleman with a mystery.
The youth, Octave Bordenelle, staying longer than
most of them, found himself in the position of making-
the mystery the greater.
It happened that 'M. du Guesclin caught a cold and
was confined to his bed. On the second day of his
attack, the Swiss waiter, Adolphe, uncouth and
dishevelled in appearance in the clothes of his short-
lived predecessor, announced that a gentleman wished
to see M. du Guesclin. This was only the second visit
that the old gentleman had been paid. One of the
mysteries it had been, that apparently he knew no one
in London. Now this was dispelled. He had a
friend. If he had a friend more might be learnt of
him.
" What's his name? " asked the proprietress.
Adolphe insipidly shook his head.
" Go and ask," he was told. -
K M. Courtot," he said when he came back.
M. Courtot was shown upstairs to his bedroom, and
whether it was Fate, or whether it was intention,
Octave Bordenelle came out of the drawing-room at
that moment. His mouth opened as he gazed after the
visitor. When M. Courtot turned the stairs out of
sight he slapped his hand excitedly on his leg.
" Mrs. 'Arrison ! " he exclaimed to the proprietress,
" Mrs. 'Arrison, it is him ! It is the waiter ! Pen
suis sure! Absolument ! It is the waiter what come
to him — what came to him — in the cafe. I recognise
him — why not? "
This was a sad and a heavy blow. His friend, a
waiter, in the Tottenham Court Road ! M. du Gues-
clin no longer had political relations with his country.
He was the proprietor of a restaurant — a brasserie — in
Paris, had lost all his money and had come over to
England. This M. Courtot was one of his waiters.
8 MIRAGE
Could anything be more simple ? But what a downfall
from a political exile or a government spy ? It was so
obvious — it was so patent. It explained all his charm
of manner. It explained why he would not seat himself
at dinner before the ladies had sat down. What a
disappointment I What a debacle!
CHAPTER IL
THE RESTAURANT — TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD.
OO much for the deception of appearances! The
*** face of M. Courtot as he mounted the stairs was
expressionless. They could learn nothing from him.
But what need was there for them to learn now?
They knew everything. M. du Guesclin was the pro-
prietor of a cafe — the " du " was no doubt an acces-
sory; the courteous manner, the aristocratic bearing,
all these things were explained away.
But had they seen the face of M. Courtot as the
door of the bedroom closed behind him, had they be-
held his hurried yet deferential steps to the bedside,
had they heard his emotional exclamations "M. le
Vicomte! Mon Dieu! Vous etes malade ! " their
eyes would have started with wonder— they would have
gasped in amazement.
M. le Vicomte! A French nobleman ! Staying in
a Bloomsbury boarding-house ! The matter cries for
explanation, and yet is simple enough when one comes
to think of it.
Pride and penury will drive a man to a strange pass.
With all the pride of the French nobility, and all the
poverty that is to be found in the wake of unfortunate
speculation, M. le Vicomte du Guesclin had left His
beloved Paris and, for two years, dropping his title,
had hidden himself in this miserable boarding-house
in Torrington Square. To such a man as this, pdverty
THE RESTAURANT g
is a disgrace. To such a man as this, disgrace is only
to be borne in silence, the lips tight-closed, the eyes
uncomplaining. Too proud to face the generosity of
his friends, too proud to place the name he bore in an
unbefitting state, he chose rather to leave his country
behind him and bury his existence in a London board-
ing-house— a graveyard where lie buried all hopes, all
ambitions.
So he had exiled himself from every connection of
the past — every connection but one. His servant,
Courtot, followed him. Unable to retain him any
longer in his service, M. le Vicomte had dismissed him
in Paris. But when he came to London, Courtot fol-
lowed. Taking a position as waiter in a restaurant
in the Tottenham Court Road, he one day made his
appearance at the house in Torrington Square. The
first of the two visits which M. le Vicomte had re-
ceived.
Sensitive to the slightest suggestion of pity, the
Vicomte frowned when he came into the ill-furnished
drawing-room, with its miscellaneous assortment of
wicker chairs, and saw Courtot standing deferentially
before him.
" I crave pardon, M. le Vicomte — " Courtot began.
"Here, Courtot," the Vicomte had interrupted, " I
am M. du Guesclin. It is more convenient — it is more
appropriate. How is it that you are in England ? "
"I came, monsieur — I could not stay in Paris."
" But I gave you good letters of recommendation."
" Yes, monsieur — I have them all — but — "
" But what ? "
Courtot prayed inwardly for tact.
"I have served you, monsieur, for seventeen years — "
" And now I need no service, Courtot."
" No, monsieur — I understand — but one gives one's
service, and if one gives it willingly the heart goes with
it. Service is in the blood, monsieur — it is in mine.
I have given you seventeen years, and that is a life-
time. You must understand, monsieur, that when a
I
io MIRAGE
gentleman gets used to the attendance of his servant,
he will not readily exchange it for that of another.
That is so of the master, M. le Vicomte — but it is also
the same of the man."
The Vicomte had looked steadily at a cheap oil
painting that hung on the wall, and his eyes blinked
three times in slow succession.
" Courtot," he had replied, " I have told you that
here I need no servant ; my wants — such as they are —
are all attended to by the people in this house. You
force me to repeat what it has hurt me to say already
— I do not require your services any longer. I am
sorry that you should have thought it wise to come over
to this gloomy city. You will find lighter hearts than
mine in Paris, I assure you."
"I have not come to offer my services, monsieur."
" Then why are you here? What is it you offer? "
Courtot stood stiffly erect. The pride of the master
reflects itself in the man. He felt that he was about
to humble himself in the Vicomte's eyes, and it went
sorely against the grain.
" I am a waiter, monsieur — in a restaurant in the
Tottenham Court Road. I had hoped that some day,
if you were passing, you might step in and I might
serve you with your meal."
The Vicomte had turned away and, for a moment,
gazed out of the window into the dreary square, where
some children, with piercing voices, were chasing each
other in boisterous pursuit. To his eyes the outlook
was almost squalid — squalid beside the great-hearted-
ness of this man — a man of the people — who had
thrown aside all outward dignity in obedience to that
self-sacrifice which is the most dignified of all. Then
he took a little snuff-box from his waistcoat pocket,
opened the lid, dipped in first finger and thumb and,
turning back again, concealed his emotion in a show
of action — the hand shaking beneath the nostril, the
jerky inhalation, the fluttering handkerchief brushing
away the powder from his moustache.
THE RESTAURANT u
" Courtot," he said quietly, " we will talk about this-
matter. I doubt if you have done wisely. I go every
afternoon for a walk at four o'clock. To-morrow
afternoon, if I happen to be near the Tottenham Court
Road, I will come in and take some coffee."
If he happened to be near the Tottenham Court
Road ! There was nothing so certain in his mind at
that moment than that he would be. Here was a
friend ! It had come to this, that his servant was now
his greatest friend in the world. To himself, willingly,
he admitted it. But to admit it to Courtot? That was
impossible. For many minutes the next afternoon, he
had wandered in the vicinity of the restaurant, debat-
ing whether it were wise, whether it were not showing
too plainly his eagerness for companionship, if he ful-
filled his promise upon the striking of the clock.
The evening before, his spirits lifted by the thought
that even in his poverty he was not absolutely alone,
he had written a little poem. To write verse after
the fashion of his beloved Joachim du Bellay, this was
the one pastime in which the Vicomte indulged. He
did it so badly — but it pleased him so well, and since
he had come to London, having no one to whom he
could read these little creations of imagination, his
note-book, in which they had been inscribed, had
scarcely been opened. But now that was no longer
the case. The note-book, with its latest addition, lay
burning in the bottom of his pocket as he walked up
and down the street in his uncertainty of mind.
The uncertainty was not of long duration. Once he
passed the restaurant with head erect and eyes steadily
fixed before him. The next time he entered.
Courtot had come forward. His round, placid,
solemn face betrayed no expression of what was pass-
ing in his mind. He had seen the Vicomte as he went
by the first time ; had misconstrued that set attitude of
the head. Now, he was only a waiter. Was it to be
wondered at that his master should hesitate before
entering to claim acquaintance As he came down
12 MIRAGE
the room between the tables, he was conscious to a
sense of the incongruity of his appearance. Four
-o'clock in the afternoon, and he was waiting on his
master in a low-cut waistcoat ! Ah ! It hurt to the
-quick. How could it enter his conception that there
lay a little poem burning a hole in the bottom of M.
le Vicomte's pocket, or that in the bottom of his heart
lay burning the need for companionship ? (
He could only think, as he walked down between
th£ tables : " What contempt he must have for me !
How he must hate to show that he knows me! " Yet
his round, good-natured face was placid and uncon-
cerned. He bowed as he stood beside the table.
" What would monsieur like ? " he had asked.
To show enthusiasm there, to betray his pleasure,
that would have been out of place. He spoke as
though the Vicomte were a casual customer — come out
of the moment — whom he might never see again.
The old gentleman looked up in hesitating embar-
rassment.
"Coffee, Courtot — coffee. Can you get me some
coffee?"
" Certainly, monsieur."
They both felt very awkward. Neither of them
quite dared to meet the other's eye.
When the coffee was brought, and the Vicomte
had filled his cup, Gourtot bent forward nearer the
table.
" You are comfortable, I hope, monsieur, in the
house in Torrington Square ? '*
"Oh, yes, quite, Courtot — quite."
" They give you good meals, monsieur? "
"Meals — oh, yes — I am a slight eater— you may re-
member that."
"I remember everything, monsieur."
The Vicomte looked up. If the matter were not to
be obvious, this was his opportunity.
"You remember my verses, do you, Courtot?" he
asked, with a hand feeling to his pocket.
THE RESTAURANT 13
" Oh, yes, M. le Vicomte — pardon, monsieur — I have
not forgotten them: —
" ' Tu viens a moi et dans tes yeux,* "
he quoted,
" ' Je vois les ciels d'Avril — ' "
"Good — good." The Vicomte brightened; his eyes
lit up with pleasure. " I had forgotten that one
myself. Good; do you remember how it went on? "
Courtot raised his eyes to the ceiling-, thought, then
dropped them to the floor and thought again.
" ' Si tu connais — ' " he began falteringly.
" Ah, non ! ' Mais je connais — mais je connais-
connais ' — oh, man Dieu ! I have forgotten it myself.
But see, Courtot "—out of the deep pocket of the old
black coat he drew his little note-book — " I have
written one more, after the style of Joachim du Bellay.
Ah, Joachim du Bellay ! There was a man who could
sing ! — sing like a thrush on a hawthorn hedge.
Listen, I have written this — "
He spread out the note-book and read : — •
" There will be another bud
On our red rose tree,
When the spring comes round again ;
There will be another bud
For your eyes to see.
There will be another leaf
In this wilderness,
When the summer comes again ;
There will be another leaf
For your lips to press.
There will be another grave
Where leaves and buds shall sleep^
When the winter comes again;
There will be another grave
Where your heart may weep."
i4 MIRAGE
He looked up when he had finished. Courtot's lips
were tight pressed. He was gazing out of the open
doorway into the street, where the 'buses were lumber-
ing by, splashing the mud in sprays from their wheels.
" You like it, Courtot ? " he asked.
" Elle est charmante, monsieur — mats si vrai —
si vrai — et maintenant — c'est toujours Vhiver."
The Vicomte shrugged his shoulders.
" It is bourgeois to be despondent," he told himself ;
but he offered no denial to the statement, and went on
with his coffee.
When he had paid his bill, he left a sixpence on
the table.
For one moment Courtot thought to refuse it. He
picked up the money and his fingers rubbed reluct-
antly against the minted edge.
" My coat, Courtot," said the Vicomte.
Courtot hastened forward, took down the old black
coat from its peg and, as the Vicomte turned his back,
he slipped the sixpence into one of the pockets.
" He will find it one day," he thought.
CHAPTER III.
THE EIGHTEEN SIXPENCES.
"\7"OU may picture the sense of solitude which M. le
•* Vicomte had carried back with him to his
boarding-house in Torrington Square. Whenever he
remembered it, he held his head high; but more than
once he found his eyes lowering to the pavement.
Still, it was bourgeois to be despondent. In another
twenty-four hours he would be taking coffee again in
the dingy restaurant. Courtot had liked his little
verses. Was there really anything to grumble at after
THE EIGHTEEN SIXPENCES 15
all ? Up went the head and the malacca cane tapped
more resonantly than ever upon the pavement.
When the door was opened for him, he tried to close
his eyes to the distressing sight of Adolphe's greasy
shirt-front and the black bone stud loose in the well-
worn stud-hole. It was not a very noble sentiment to
be jarred in life by such details as these. Courtot had
liked his little verses : —
" When the winter comes again
There will be another grave
Where your heart may weep.''
" Et maintenant — c'est toujours Vhiver."
He cast his eyes on Adolphe's unhealthy face, on
Adolphe's dirty hands. He looked down the narrow,
linoleumed hall, past the crooked hat-stand to the nar-
row, linoleumed stairs, up which Julia, the maid, in
her pink print dress, was toiling with the enamelled
cans of hot water for those who desired to wash for
dinner. Then he repeated Courtot's little phrase again
to himself :
" Et maintenant — c'est loujours Vhiver."
He shook his head. It was quite a despondent view
of life. Courtot was of the people. He was a fine
fellow no doubt. There were excellent traits in his
character. He had made no scene of enthusiasm in
the restaurant. That was thoughtful of him — that was
considerate. Yes, there were excellent traits in his
character ; but he was of the people. And to prove it
all to himself, as he mounted the stairs to his bedroom,
he repeated the other lines of his little poem : —
" There will be another bud
On our red rose tree
When the spring comes round again."
And he smiled — quite cheerfully, quite genuinely he
smiled.
i6 MIRAGE
That evening at dinner, he had been readily drawn
into conversation. When Miss Amelia Cubbitt had
fulfilled everyone's expectations ol her and said, " It's
been quite a fine day for your constitutional, Mussu
Guesclin," he had surprised he* by a lengthy reply,
involving- a still further tax upon her powers of mak-
ing conversation.
" It's so wonderful to me," she admitted, " to watch
the way the evenin's are drawin' out. Haven't you
noticed it? Last evenin' was quite dark at four
o'clock."
" Are you always waiting for the spring, then ? " he
asked.
"Yes, I suppose I am." The sound of the word
" spring " in that gloomy boarding-house dining-room
cheered her. She smiled at the thought. It seemed
nice to think that she was waiting for the spring. She
felt the younger for it. Then she turned her smile to
him and passed the salt across the table before she had
helped herself.
"After you, madam," he said, and returned it.
When the joint had been served Mrs. Guthrie leant
across from her little table where she was sitting vis-a-
vis with her husband — her husband who had come to
spend his holidays in London by learning motoring.
" Can you tell me why the veal is always so tough
here, Monsieur de Guesclin ? " she whispered. She
made patent endeavours to masticate it as she smiled
into the Vicomte's eyes at the implied humour of her
question.
"Is it tough? " he asked.
" My goodness, you try it ! "
She stopped in her meal to surreptitiously watch him
put the first piece into his mouth. As soon as his
teeth had closed on it she leant across the space be-
tween the tables once more.
"Well?" she whispered.
He looked up surprised, unaware tliat she had been,
observing him.
THE EIGHTEEN SIXPENCES 17
" Aren't I right? "
" I believe it makes it still more tough to think
about it," he said quietly.
She admitted the philosophy of that, but saw no-
thing of the reproach. Why should she ?' The Vicomte
never meant her to — besides, and these things are a
matter of taste as well as of breeding.
All through the dinner they had discussed the food,
until, omitting the last course, he had excused himself
and left the table.
" Not taking any cheese, Mussu Guesclin ? " asked
Miss Amelia Cubbitt, in astonishment.
" No, thank you/' he replied graciously, as though
she personally had offered it* to him. " Not to-night."
" Fancy not taking cheese/1 she said ; " I should go
away from dinner absolutely empty here if I didn't
take cheese.'1
" They don't have to cook that, you see," Mrs. Guth-
rie remarked with a smile. " Miss Girmanoff — the
Russian lady — tells me she comes here to get thin."
She chuckled. " Not surprised, are you? She says
she's lost ten pounds in weight since she's been
here."
Conceive such an atmosphere as this for a vicomte
of the nobility of France ! Imagine it for anyone with
the senses refined ! Picture a Byron in the midst of
them all, who could not bring his eyes to watch food
pass between the lips of the most beautiful woman on
earth!
Yet in such surroundings, never complaining, writing
his little poems week by week and reading them for
the appreciative ear of his faithful Courtot in the dingy
little restaurant in the Tottenham Court Road, the
Vicomte lived for the whole space of two years.
If ever friendship could be said to be complete, k
was that which existed between Courtot and M. le
Vicomte du Guesclin. Yet the old man never lost the
dignity of the master and Courtot never encroached
upon the familiarity of the
i8 MIRAGE
Always it was : " What will monsieur take? "
Always it was: "Coffee, I think, Courfot—
coffee."
And not till well five minutes had gone, till Courtot
by some little allusion — some apparently unprecon-
ceived remark — had removed all obvious eagerness
from the situation, did the Vicomte dive his long, thin
fingers into the deep pocket of the old coat and
bring- forth the notebook with the new poem it con-
tained.
For some weeks matters had continued in just this
way. He took his coffee. He talked to Courtot. He
read his poem — if a new poem were there to be read —
and, as he departed, he left a sixpence lying concealed
away beneath his saucer.
It required no little delicacy of management to al-
ways secure the piece of money without his knowledge.
To slip it into the coat pocket when once he had got
it in his fingers was simple enough. But sometimes
the opportunity did not occur. Then it was kept over
until the next time, held in readiness in the hand and
replaced when the coat was taken off.
One does these things without fear of consequence.
In his imagination, Courtot conceived the Vicomte
finding a stray sixpence in his pocket and feeling the
richer — as if by a pound — in its possession. It never
entered his sense of the probability of things that the
Vicomte might never feel in the pockets of his overcoat
from one week's end to the other ; that one by one the
sixpences might multiply until with their weight and
their jingling, their accumulated existence attracted
his attention.
Least of all did he anticipate that their discovery
would be made in his presence.
Three weeks had gone by since the Vicomte had paid
his first visit to the restaurant, and eighteen sixpences,
their ringing muffled in the fluff that had collected
round them, lay reposing in the capacious lining of
his old black coaJ.
THE EIGHTEEN SIXPENCES 19
As Courtot held the collar and the Vicomte dragged
his arms from the sleeves they dropped the garment
between them.
Then there was a jingling ! The Vicomte looked
round at Courtot, Courtot looked mysteriously at the
Vicomte ; but the blood began its creeping into his
cheeks.
" Now that is most strange," said the old man. He
found just such an interest in the mysterious sound as
a child might show in a conjurer's trick.
" I have heard that noise before," he persisted.
" Just pick up the coat, Courtot, and see — just pick it
up and see. It sounds like money ; but I never carry
money in a pocket, loose — like that. Pick it up and
see."
With infinite reluctance Courtot held up the coat.
" Perhaps it was one of the buttons striking the floor,
monsieur."
" No — no — let me feel in the pockets. Spread it out
over the table ! " He became peremptory.
Courtot drew a breath and laid it down. Then he
looked up at the ceiling. If there were consolation to
be found there he did not discover it. But one always
looks there. It is the direction of heaven.
" Nothing in that," said the Vicomte, as he went
through one pocket after another. " Nothing in that.
Ah ! " He had found the little mass of coins in the
corner of the lining-. Then he began to extract them
one by one through the frayed hole in the bottom of
the pocket. Each one he laid on the table. With
every coin Courtot winced. With every coin the
Vicomte whispered, " Sixpence." And with every coin
the inflection of his voice changed.
Surprise became doubt — doubt, astonishment —
astonishment, bewilderment; then he realised and
stood erect.
"Courtot! "
" Yes, monsieur."
" This is the money I have given you ! "
20 MIRAGE
Courtot clasped his hands, looked this way and then
that. He could not meet the old man's eyes.
" This is the money that I have given you ! " re-
peated the Vicomte.
" I did not want it, monsieur."
"You did not want it? "
" No, monsieur."
" Is that a sufficient reason for you to think that I
should want it ? "
Here was a most tactless thing to have done. Courtot
wished himself at the bottom of the sea. He had not
seen it in that light. What right had he to make a
gift to his master? It was an insult! He had not
seen it in that light. He wrung his hands, but there
was no way out of the dilemma.
" Monsieur, I crave your pardon. It was thought-
less of me. I did not want the sixpences."
" And you thought I did."
" No, monsieur. Je vous assure. Milles pardons,
monsieur ! I thought it would be a pity that the
money should be thrown away upon me when I am
well paid already. I just put it back in your pocket.
I crave your pardon, monsieur.'-'
The Vicomte picked up the money piece by piece.
Eighteen sixpences ! Nine shillings ! Nine shillings
would purchase — Oh ! what did it matter ! He placed
them in Courtot's hand.
M What are your wages here, Courtot ? "
" They are very good, monsieur."
" Ah, yes, but what are they ? "
" Ah, monsieur, it is quite sufficient."
" Exactly — you do not wish to tell me? "
"I will tell you willingly, M. le Vicomte. I have
said it is good pay — it is good for what I have to do."
"And what is it?"
" Ten shillings a week, monsieur."
Ten shillings ! His weekly bill at the boarding-
house was thirty shillings — reduced at that in consider-
ation of the period during which he stayed. For the
THE EIGHTEEN SIXPENCES 21
moment he let his imagination run to what comforts
might be obtained for ten shilling's.
" I have a mind, Courtot," he said quietly, "to send
you back to Paris."
" Oh, no, monsieur, I am happier here. Sometimes
a customer gives me money, monsieur. It is not al-
ways only ten shillings a week."
" And do you put other people's money back into
their pockets ? "
" Ah, no, monsieur."
" Then why mine?"
The shrugging shoulders of a Frenchman are full'
of the prettiest of phrases. The neatest excuse in the
world can lie in just that one way in which he spreads
out the expressive fingers accompanying the gesture.
We have not learnt the art of silence in this country.
Our hands are dumb, not silent members of the body.
They can grip a spade ; they can grip an axe. But in
the grasp of them, a thought is mutilated.
"What would you like, monsieur? " asked Courtot,.
quietly, as the Vicomte seated himself.
The old gentleman looked up and his lips twitched
to smile.
" Coffee, I think, Courtot. Just a cup of coffee."
CHAPTER IV.
THE POST-OFFICE — BLOOMSBURY,
rTHERE is a small printer's and stationer's shop in
the neighbourhood of Torrington Square, which
combines the advantages of its trade with that of
a post-office. An old woman, with grey corkscrew
curls and features which, in expression, are early Vic-
22 MIRAGE
torian, manages the entire business of the shop, while
her two sons superintend the labour of the printing,
which is conducted in a little out-building attached to
the house.
Behind the counter, where stamps are sold and all
the duties of postal arrangements fulfilled, there are
three girl clerks.
These have all been through the Civil Service mill.
They are the modern product — independent, self-
satisfied, self-confident; cheeky sometimes to cus-
tomers who do not accord them their full measure of
respectful attention. But the old lady with the cork-
screw curls and the early Victorian expression has
them all under her thumb as though they were daugh-
ters of her own. No little flirtations are carried on
over the counter when she is in the shop. They move
in dread of the stern glance of her censuring eye, and
not one of them dares to be seen exceeding the limits
of her duty.
To this little shop every morning after breakfast
came the Vicomte for his letters.
" Here's the old Viscount," they whispered each
day when he made his appearance. Why, with a Civil
Service education, they should give him his title in
English cannot be satisfactorily explained, unless it be
that when you learn French for the requirements of
your trade, you use it sparingly and only for the exi-
gencies of that trade itself.
He would walk down the shop, past the counter
where the stationery was sold, acknowledging with a
courteous bow the bob of the old lady with the cork-
screw curls, and in reply to her respectful " Good
morning, sir," he would always say, " Good-morning,
good-mor,ning," twice, the second time in exactly the
same tone of voice as the first.
At the post-office counter he stopped and, as if it
were the first time he had ever done it in his life, ha
would inquire :
"Are there any letters for me? n
THE POST-OFFICE 23.
And Maud, or Alice, or Evelyn, whichever of the
three girl clerks it happened to be who had managed
to be the one to attend to him, would produce the
envelopes from their little pigeon-hole} pushing them
towards him under the wire-netting which separated
them from the customers on the other side of the
counter
They hated to tell him the days on which there was
nothing. It was not because he looked disappointed.
In the back of their minds they all received that im-
pression which he gave to everyone who met him —
that he was far too proud to admit of such an emotion
as disappointment.
" Seems as if all he lived for was his letters," Evelyn
had said one day as he walked, head erect, but empty-
handed, out of the shop.
" Well, next time there's nothing you'd better write
him one yourself," said Maud.
" What's the good of that? It's coming through the
post he likes them."
" Well, post it. It'll only cost you a penny."
" Yes ; then he gets it the next day when he's got
plenty of letters."
"Yes, he gets it if you give it to him," Alice broke
in.
"Keep it then do you mean? "
" 'Course, keep it till there's none."
Here the intrepid young lady paused. The way was
being made so easy that she lost courage. They
taunted her. They laughed.
" I'll do it," she said. " What do you bet I don't ? "
" Bet you sixpence," said Alice.
''Right — taken! " They shook hands on it in the
orthodox way. These young women, in matters mas-
culine, are nothing if not orthodox.
Then the letter was composed, approved of by a
council of three, and posted in the pillar-box outside.
For three days it retained its place in the little pigeon-
hole, other epistles being given precedence. On the
24 MIRAGE
morning of the fourth day it had leant against the side
of the pigeon-hole in all the daring significance of
loneliness.
* Bet you bon't give it to him even now," said Alice.
•"•If old Mother Tyndal gets to hear about it there'll be
a row, you know."
Thought of her sixpence spurred her to intimidate.
One is not really anxious to lose sixpence out of fifteen
shillings a week.
" Bet you I do. Fm calculating Che chances that
he may answer it, then I shall g-et his autograph.
He'll never tell Mrs. Tyndal. Why should he? He's
far too dear an old thing"
And she gave it, sure enough.
When Monsieur le Vicomte walked down the shop,
standing at the counter of the post-office and inquiring
" Are there any letters for me ? " she handed it across
to him as readily as you please. Maud and Alice held
their mouths open, anticipating the moment when he
would look at the writing and guess the secret. Be-
sides making one a coward a guilty conscience plays
the very deuce with one's common sense. How could he
have guessed the secret? Moreover, he never even
looked at his letters. They were just thrust into the
pocket of his old black coat with such an air of uncon-
cern as if the chances were in favour of their never
being opened at all.
So he had done on this occasion, sublimely uncon-
scious of the pretty little trick that was being played
upon him.
The next morning there had been a letter for Evelyn
at the post-office. Instinct prompting her, she tore
open the envelope. The others pressed round.
" M. le Vicomte du Guesclin presents his compli-
ments to Miss Evelyn Jones and thanks her for the
thoughtfulness of her letter."
She laid it down with a vivid sense of disappoint-
ment.
" Wish my name wasn't Jones," she had said. "It
THE POST-OFFICE 2S
sounds so rotten next to his, don't it? And I haven't
got his autograph."
That was the end of the little incident. The
Vicomte himself had come as usual for his letters, just
as gentle, just as courteous as before; but he never
alluded to it across the counter.
Then one day, two years after his first calling at
the post-office, there was a letter for him, containing
news that altered the whole current of his affairs.
He always waited until he got back to the boarding-
house before he opened his correspondence. It was
contrary to all principles he possessed, to be seen
gratifying curiosity in public. In his little bedroom,
with its suite of deal furniture and its one wicker arm-
chair, he took the letters out of his pocket and opened
them.
Before this particular communication he sat for
some minutes reading it again and again. At last he
rose to his feet and began a hurried pacing of the
room, saying all the time to himself, " I must not be
excited, I must not be excited."
But his face was red ; his hands clasped and un-
clasped as he walked backwards and forwards to the
window, looking out over the huddled roof tops of
Bloomsbury and the veil of smoke and smuts blurring
the face of it all.
A cottage— in the country! A: cottage in the
country instead of this ! The good God was too good.
How could it actually be true ? Yet there the fact of
it stared at him placidly from the sheet of notepaper
that he held tremblingly in his hands. *>
M. de Lempriere, friend of the family of Du Gues-
clin, had died, and in his will was the Vicomte's name.
A man of many wanderings, possessing that quaint
twist of the mind which loves to live from place to
place, he had at one time purchased a cottage in Buck-
inghamshire. Opportunity had never come to him to
furnish it. He had never passed a night beneath its
roof. Just seeing it in mid-summer, with its porch of
B
26 MIRAGE
climbing roses burdened with bloom all desecrated by
the glaring ugliness of a house-agent's sign-board, he
had stopped, opened the small wicket gate, walked up
the path and peered in through the low latticed win-
dows. Of course it was charming. Such a chance
could not be lost. At the house-agent's, on his way
through the village, he had remained and, except for
the confirmation of references from one who was an
utter stranger, the matter had been concluded then
and there.
Now it had fallen into the possession of M. ie
Vicomte du Guesclin. True, it had to be furnished,
but there lay in the Credit Lyonnais bank a sum of
just one hundred pounds — all the capital that the
Vicomte had in the world.
" Oh, my friend, oh, my good friend," he said again
and again to himself. It lessened the prospect in no
way in his mind that he had never seen the cottage
and knew nothing of its charm. It was the country !
He looked out of the window again on to the dis-
ordered mass of roofs and chimneys, where never a
tree was to be seen. It was the country ! All the
rest he took for granted. The sense of possession
would become his again. It would all be his own.
And Courtot I Courtot should come with him. The
old regime had come round again.
Was it really all to be believed ?
These two years in this poor-house in Torrington
Square had well-nigh ground their lesson into his
existence. The heart, the spirit of him, that they
could never have touched. But he realised then
that in his habits, in the daily attitude of his mind,
he had almost become a slave.
This sudden freedom, he looked at with eyes in
wonder. That proved how much a slave he had
been. Why should he wonder? Why be amazed?
It was the most natural of all things that a Du Gues-
clin should be master — and in his own house.
He glanced at his watch. It was half-past twelve.
THE LETTER 27
There were three hours and a half to run before it
would be four o'clock. Why not go at once and have
lunch in the little restaurant in the Tottenham Court
Road? He marched downstairs, out into the street,
and a quarter of an hour later Courtot saw the glass
doors swing open to his entrance.
CHAPTER V.
THE LETTER
pERFECTLY self-possessed, but with pulses
beating under the old black coat which Courtot
slowly drew off, he announced his intention of having
lunch.
11 1 thought I should like a change, Courtot. The
hashed mutton in Tavistock Square is- all that might
be expected of it. It is its monotony that I do not
like. Now what are you going to recommend ?"
" The filet mignon is very good, monsieur, or would
monsieur like to begin with soup ? Petite marmite,
croute au pot, bisque de homard? They are all very
good."
" Yes, why not -petite marmite"? Somehow or other
to-day, Courtot, I feel extravagant. Yes, why not
-petite marmite, filet mignon f and give me the wine
list."
In wonder Courtot brought it. What had hap-
pened? Something had happened. Then he, too,
felt his pulses beginning to beat in anticipation. It
might be the latest poem, better than all the rest.
But Courtot's pulses did not beat in anticipation of
that. He could not tell exactly why they were
beating at all. But there it was; and when he
hurried off to order the -petite marmite, he found him-
self questioning what could have occurred.
When he came back, the Vicomte had a letter be-
28 MIRAGE
fore him which he put aside, folding it with quiet
deliberation. On that letter all Courtot's thoughts
centred.
" I will have a small bottle of '43," said the Vicomte.
" If it really is the '74 vintage it ought to be very good.
I hope it will not be corked ?"
" I can guarantee that, monsieur."
" Very well, then, a half bottle.';
" Thank you, monsieur."
Even in the way he said " thank you " there was
a question implied, an appeal to be told everything".
But the Vicomte quietly commenced the taking of his
soup.
Courtot lingeringly picked up the wine list and
departed.
He came back — no wasting of time — with the cob
webbed bottle reposing sleepily in its basket.
" This almost makes one remember, monsieur," he
said, as he carefully wiped the neck with his serviette.
" Remember what, Courtot?"
" The old times, monsieur."
The Vicomte laid down his spoon.
" The wine ? Ah, yes. I had some few dozens of
'74, hadn't I?"
" Eighteen, monsieur."
" Really ? Your memory is too good, Courtot. I
find it better to forget these little things. Look at
the way you remembered my ' Tu viens a mei et dans
tes yeux.' It's a bad practice, Courtot. In this life
look forward — it is generally too distressing to look
back. The people of France dare not look back now.
It is all in front for them, or not at all. You probably
think me too old, Courtot—"
" I, monsieur ? Too old ?"
"Yes, you think my time of looking forward is
gone?"
" If that were so, monsieur, why should I remind
you of what is passed ?''-
" Because you fancy that that has been the best I
THE LETTER 29
shall ever have. You are too despondent. It is
bourgeois to be despondent. What did you say when
I read you out my little poem — nearly two years ago —
the first afternoon that I came in here? Do you
remember, l Et maintenant — c'est toujours VhiverS
That's not true, you know, that's not true. There's
always in the air a breath of spring just coming, or a
breath of summer hardly gone."
" ' C'est toujours Vhiverl ' Nonsense, my good
Courtot, nonsense. This is the third of March and
if only you open your lungs enough you'll find spring
in the air to-day. I feel it — I feel it. Well, what
next? Filet mignon? This wine is excellent."
Yes, something must have happened. Courtot was
convinced of it. He bore off the empty soup plate
as if it were a bowl of roses, his head in the air to
catch their scent, when really, all that reached his
nostrils was the savour of the -petite marmite which M.
le Vicomte had left.
When he returned with the filet mignon the same
little mystery was performed all over again. That
sententious-looking letter upon which all Courtot's
instinct concentrated was once more carefully folded
and put away by the Vicomte's side. The air of
unconcern settled quietly again upon the old man's
face, obscuring all the thoughts which Courlot divined
were alive beneath the placidity of his expression.
It was like watching a veil of dust lie thickly down
upon some transparent surface. The desire to blow
it away — to ask — became almost an obsession to
Courtot. What had happened? But training does
not go for nothing. The perfect servant is he who
gives perfect service by instinct, Courtot's face was
as expressionless as his master's.
He would be told what had happened. In good
time he would be told. Till then he steeled himself
to content.
At last it came. When the little plate of roquefort
was placed in front of him, the Vicomte looked up.
3o MIRAGE
" Courtot," he said quietly, " I have received a letter
to-day from M. Courvoisier, my notary in Paris."
He paused. It was undignified at such a moment
to hurry.
" Yes, monsieur."
" I think, Courtot," he went on slowly, " I think
I shall leave London. It is a beautiful city to those
who love it; to me it is unspeakably grey — unut-
terably lonely. I feel sometimes in London like a
man wedged in a crowd that is crushing the breath out
of him, who might well be conceived saying, ' Now I
must die, but if only I need not die so much alone.'
What would you do, Courtot, if I went to live in the
country?"
" Me, monsieur ? "
" ' I ' is correct, Courtot."
<f Pardon. I, monsieur?"
" Yes — what would you do ?"
" If I could get something to do there, where you
go, monsieur, I should come as well. If you would
permit."
" Supposing there were nothing to do. Where I
think of going, there are no restaurants. It is quite
the country. Just a few cottages, just a few houses,
that is all."
" It is not necessary always to be a waiter, monsieur.
I have worked at the harvest in Brittany when I was
a boy. In my father's farm, not many miles from
Dinan, I have worked in the dairy. It is not necessary
always to be a waiter, monsieur."
" Quite so, Courtot, but it is sometimes necessary to
consider one's dignity. You have been my servant,
Courtot, the best servant perhaps the Du Guesclins
ever had. Have you no pride about that? Has it
not hurt you in some little way to come here and give
your obedience to M. le proprietaire? Will it not
hurt you infinitely more — supposing it were ever pos-
sible for you to get work upon a farm in the country
THE LETTER 31
• — to give your obedience to the rough, uncouth com-
mands of an English farmer?"
Courtot straightened his waistcoat and brought his
heels together.
" The real pride of a servant, monsieur, is not his
form of service, but the master whom he serves. The
pride I have, Monsieur le Vicomte, is to be your ser-
vant. I lose none of that when I work upon a farm.
If you will be so good, monsieur, I hope you will allow
me to find work in the country where in my spare
time I may be able to be of service to you."
All this must be nonsense ! These things never
happen. Yet I assure you just such a conversation
did take place in a little restaurant in the Tottenham
Court Road ; and when it came to this point the old
gentleman rose to his feet and held out his hand.
" Courtot," he said, " you are coming with me to
the country. Not as a labourer — not giving only spare
time to my service. I want a servant, someone to at-
tend to my needs and to look after my rooms."
Courtot took the hand that was offered him and
bent over it.
Could he believe what he heard? Were not some
things too good to be true ?
The Vicomte sat down again.
" You remember M. de Lampriere? " he said.
" Yes, monsieur."
" He is dead. He died some few weeks ago. In his
will, the good fellow has remembered me. He pur-
chased a cottage down in Buckinghamshire — one of
those impetuous impulses of his — now he bequeaths it
to me. And that is where I am going- to live. I do
not think I shall require more than one servant,
Courtot. Can you cook ? "
" I shall do my best, monsieur."
" And your wages? Well, to be honest, I must ad-
mit that I cannot afford to pay you as I used to. These
facts are regrettable, but it is as well to be honest and
admit them."-
32 MIRAGE
u There is no need to talk of the wages, M. le
Vicomte."
" Pardon me, Courtot, I shall pay you forty pounds
a year. If that will please you, I shall be pleased to
have you come."-
" I want no more than I am getting here, monsieur."
The Vicomte took no notice.
" This is the letter I received," he went on, "from
M. Courvoisier. I will read it to you." He spread
out the paper.
" ' The will of your late friend, M. de Lampriere,
was read out yesterday. In it, your name was men-
tioned. He leaves you the entire possession of the
little cottage which he purchased some time back in
the village of Sunningham in the county of Bucking-
hamshire. It is not furnished, for, if I remember
rightly, M. de Lampriere just looked in at the win-
dows but never even stood under its roof. Sunning-
ham, you will probably remember, is the place where
your cousin's daughter, Rozanne Somerset, has gone
to live with her uncle, Mr. Wilfrid Somerset, so that
if you take possession and occupy the cottage you will
have friends quite near you.' "
When he had finished he looked up at Courtot and
his eyes were focussed to a far mental vision. !
" Rozanne Somerset," he said, half to himself. " She
was a baby of three when I saw her last. Courtot — "
" Yes, monsieur."
" Do you remember Mme. Somerset, my cousin ? "
" Yes, monsieur. I remember her setting the roses
on your table the last time she came to see you."
The Vicomte folded up the letter and put it in his
pocket.
" Ah," he said gently, " so you haven't forgotten
that? Neither have I — neither have I."
ROZANNE 33
CHAPTER VI.
ROZANNE.
"LJERE follows the departure of M. le Vicomte du
•*••*• Guesclin from the boarding-house in Torring-
ton Square. Mrs. Harrison was shocked when she
heard the news.
" I hope you've nothing to complain about the
food," she said with acidity.
" Nothing, madam, I assure you. I have always
found it the same."
He had a sense of the humorous, had M. le Vicomte
du Guesclin, but he could wrap it up in such a way
that the tissue of the compliment concealed the jest
against oneself.
" I suppose you're going back to Paris? " she asked
with natural inquisitiveness. Things had probably
gone better; he was going to open another brasserie.
He was at liberty to ; but he was a foolish man. He
would be coming back one of these days to live
cheaply once more on the excellent fare which her
establishment provided.
" Perhaps when you come over to London we shall
see you again-? " she added. That was her wish. A
vague desire formed itself in her mind that his restaur-
ant would be a failure, and, accompanying it, the
scarcely conscious realisation that he would return to
be a source of income to her for the rest of his days.
This is the essence of charity — the utmost of it — in the
mind of the proprietress of a boarding-house.
" I've no doubt we shall see you again one day,"
she concluded cheerfully with a chilling smile.
"All things are possible, Mrs. Harrison," he re-
plied.
Adolphe, with his dirty shirt front and his unwashed
face, had come to the door, brought the Vicomte's
34 MIRAGE
trunks to the cab outside and been munificently re-
warded. Julia had had her share as well. They were
all sorry to see him go.
Miss Amelia Cubbitt, coming down to the drawing--
room to shake his hand, had said that they would all
miss him very much; yet seeing that, except for her-
self, they were a very fluctuating contingent — there
one day and gone the next — the compliment was a
doubtful one. But she meant it well.
"I suppose you go back to Paris?" she said, with
the same taint of curiosity in her voice as had
prompted Mrs. Harrison's question. " Pm sure Paris
must be very lovely — in the spring — just at this time
of the year. I've never been to Paris." She an-
nounced the fact very wistfully, very regretfully.
" I don't suppose you would like it so well as you
think, Miss Cubbitt," said the Vicomte. " There is
nothing to complain of in Paris. It is always itself.
Here, in London, one can never be sure. One day
is never the same as another. You can be so cross,
so put out with London. You can't be cross with
Paris. I think you would miss that. English people
like to be cross — they are disappointed with life if it
offers nothing to be cross about. No, I think you are
happier in London. Think how happy you are when
it is a wet day and the King is compelled to drive to
Paddington in a closed carriage so that you cannot
see him. Do you follow me? Good-bye."
She stared after him. What did he mean? What
in the name of goodness did he mean ? For a week
she asked everyone in the boarding-house what he
could have meant. They said he had not meant any-
thing; that he had not known what he was talking
about.
And so departed that kind, chivalrous old gentleman
— gentleman by courtesy — the proprietor of a French
cafe, a Parisian brasserie — from the boarding-house —
whose number may not be mentioned — in Torrington
Square.
R02ANNE 35
One does not come to Sunningham by train. The
nearest station is four miles away. A cab must be
chartered at the livery and bait stables which belongs
to the station hotel near by. Into this antiquated
vehicle, the Vicomte stepped that afternoon, sniffing
at the musty odour of damp upholstery with which it
was cushioned, but complaining of nothing. Life was
too good to complain.
Three days before, Courtot had been sent on to
superintend the arrival of the furniture and get the
house ready for his master. He had written that day
to say that everything was prepared, and now the
Vicomte, sitting- behind the ambling trot of the old
station horse, sometimes leaning back with a sigh of
content against the dilapidated cushions, sometimes
gazing out with the wonder of a child at the passing
country, was coming to his own.
The cottage stood out to the road, with only a little
strip of garden and a wooden paling protecting it from
the passing of the traffic. As he drove up the road,
past the muddled cluster of houses which comprised
the village of Sunningham, the- Vicomte could with
difficulty control his eagerness. He had to lean for-
ward. He had to peer through the window at the
lights in the cottage that twinkled through the pale
green leaves of three lilac trees which sheltered the
house from the vulgar g"aze of the public.
Everything was ready for him. It was all his own.
He could see the firelight dancing on the white walls
within. Then, as he stepped out of the cab, the cot-
tage door opened and Courtot appeared. The Vicomte
straightened himself. He gripped his malacca cane
very firmly in his hand and walked sedately up the
little path into the house. Courtot followed respect-
fully, watching the Vicomte with an expectant eye, as
the old gentleman stood and looked about him.
" Well, monsieur — well, monsieur, do you like what
I have done? Isn't this better than the boarding-
house in Torrington Square? "
36 MIRAGE
This was what he was longing to say. These were
the words that danced in silence on his lips. But he
stood there, beside the Vicomte, his face cast in the
plaster of subdued expectancy, and the two of them
played at dignity — the dignity of the master, the
dignity of the man — like a couple of children in a
nursery.
" Courtot," said the Vicomte at last.
" Yes, M. le Vicomte."
" I am going to propose an amendment."
"An amendment? I do not understand."
" I am going to suggest an alteration to a remark
you once made to me in the restaurant in the Totten-
ham Court Road."
"Ah, yes — and what is it, M. le Vicomte? "
" Maintenant, ca va etre toujoursle -printem-ps.**
"Ah, monsieur — yes — I was wrong. I am of the
people. It is bourgeois to be despondent."
" You say that after me, Courtot."
" No, Monsieur le Vicomte."
" You have heard me say it."
"No."
" That is strange. What made you think of it? "
" You make me think of saying it, monsieur. You
are never despondent. You are of the nobility— I am
of the people. You are always cheerful, I am not.
Eh lien " — up went the hands and the shoulders
shrugged — " it is bourgeois to be despondent."
" So," said the Vicomte, with a smile, " one may
come to the same truth from two opposite quarters of
the compass. What is that? " He bent his head to
listen.
" Someone knocks, monsieur."
The Vicomte stood away so that he could not be
seen.
" Go and see, Courtot."
Courtot went to the door. He opened it.
" Has the Vicomte du Guesclin arrived yet? "•
Courtot hesitated.
THE SOLEMN COMPACT 37
"Yes, mademoiselle."
" Well, will you kindly give him Mr. Somerset's
compliments and say that if there is anything that he
wants, will he send up to the Red House ? You might
say, too, that Miss Somerset hopes that he will find
everything comfortable."
The Vicomte stepped forward.
" Is that my little cousin Rozanne? " he asked.
Courtot stood aside to let her pass, and when he saw
her, the Vicomte's eyes widened, his fingers gripped
the gold knob of his malacca cane.
"Are you Rozanne?" he whispered.
She nodded, pushed the brown hair from her fore-
.head, laughed with her grey eyes.
" Yes," she said, " I'm Rozanne. We're cousins,
aren't we?" Her hand stretched out.
The Vicomte bent his head to it. Then he looked
up.
"Yes," he replied, "we're cousins. So were your
mother and I."
CHAPTER VII,
THE SOLEMN COMPACT.
"\7t7HEN the Vicomte said that — " So were your
mother and I," he talked into the past as one
who answers an echo. It is quite possible for a
man, well run in years, to begin life over again. But
there is only one way he may do it. He repeats him-
self. Fifty-nine is not the age to discover new sensa-
tions. We go back, hopping, fluttering like a wounded
bird to its nest. Safe there, it is in the reach of the
imagination to fancy that we are just beginning to
fly. Then the old sensations come back — a flock of
memories with a rushing of wings that sounds so real
it is hard to believe they are only phantoms.
38 MIRAGE
With the sight of Rozanne, the Vicomte heard these
rush of wings. Sensation repeated itself in his brain
— the echo of all he had felt when first he saw her
mother.
"You knew my mother well, didn't you? "she
asked, and quickly added, " But then how foolish of
me — of course you were cousins."
" That hasn't made you and me well acquainted
until now," he said with a smile
" No — quite true. When did you know her first
then?"
" We met first in '75."
He drew off his gloves, undid the buttons of his old
black coat and took that off as well, hiding the frayed
lining lest she should see it.
"'Seventy-five," he repeated, "before you were
born or thought of."
" It must seem a terribly long time ago."
"Do you think so?" he asked. "When you have
time behind you, you'll find it very short. It's only
yesterday and to-morrow that seem a long way off.
Yesterday because it's gone so utterly, gone so much
more than last year, and to-morrow because you are
waiting for it to come. It seems years to me now
since I left London. I might have been here always.'*
" Where did you live in London ? " she inquired.
" I— I lived by myself."
"Yes, but where?"
" In a house not far from Russell Square."
Her eyebrows lifted. That was just like her mother,
he thought.
"Aren't the houses very large and very expensive
there ? " she said. " You'll find this cottage very
tiny, I'm afraid."
He bowed and smiled.
" It's large enough for all I need."
" Well, do you like London ? I don't. I can't think
why you ever left Paris. I love Paris. I was there,
you know, all the time until I was fourteen. Then,
THE SOLEMN COMPACT 39
when father died, I came over here to Uncle Wilfrid.
I've never been back since."
" Do you want to go back ? "
" What ! Why over my bed I've got a little paint-
ing of the Champs Elysees in the middle of summer,
with all the bonnes in their white caps and the chil-
dren playing about, and I look at it every morning
when I wake and try and make myself believe that it
was really true that I used to play there."
"And did you?"
"Oh, yes, but for all you say it seems a terribly long
time ago to me — so long that I can hardly believe it."
The Vicomte sat down in front of her and took her
hand.
" Here we make a solemn compact," said he, with
a smile.
"What's that?"
"We will go back to Paris" together — one time in the
middle of May — and we'll sit on the Champs Elysees
under the trees and listen to all the children, and talk
to the bonnes in their white caps. Do you speak
French now at all? "
" Never," she pouted, just like her mother. " I've
no one to talk to."
"Your uncle?"
" He won't talk French, and when he does it makes
you feel twice as much in England."
" Then will you talk to me?"
"Oh, shouldn't I love it! "
" Will you promise to come and talk then every day
— tous les jours."
" But it'll be worrying you if I come every day.'7-
" \Vorrying me ? My little cousin ! There was once
a whole month when I talked to your mother every
day. Say something to me now in French — just let me
bear — just let me hear — "
He closed his eyes to listen. And when she spoke
her voice tingled through him. He thought it was
all new; he believed he was young; again. Does any
40 MIRAGE
man ever admit to himself that half his life is an
echo ? Does any man consent to believe that when
he loves the second time it is only the repetition of the
first ? The world goes on twisting and turning as it
always twisted and turned ; but men and women will
never bring themselves to admit it. No more offensive
proverb was ever written for a lover to read, yet none
more true, than when the wise man, Solomon, pressed
his style upon the wax or his pen upon the parchment
and wrote, " There is nothing new under the sun."
" Whatever shall I say ? " she asked.
He did not open his eyes. The unconscious realisa-
tion was there that circumstance seldom conspires to
trick every sense at once. He would not open his eyes.
" Anything," he said gently, " say anything."
" Eh, lien—Je dit que je suis ires enchante dt vous
votr."
This was the passing of the wand. The trick was
done. M. le Vicomte du Guesclin was a young man
again. The years had fallen from his shoulders as a
caterpillar sheds its skin and, in all the pride and
ardour of a new-found existence, he thought he had
left his crumpled age behind. It was not for him to
realise then that he had but passed from one period
of years into another; that what he had left behind
him was not age, but that last remnant of youth which
the stress of circumstance had shrivelled in its hands.
With eyes alight he looked up into hers.
" I was going to say you throw me back," he began,
" I was going to say you have lifted me up and
dropped me into the past, but that would be wrong-
that would be incorrect. I — I am where I was — it is
the past you play with — not me. You are the past.
You are the present too."
She smiled. She thought him the dearest old man
she had ever met. There was an air of romance in
every line of his figure, an atmosphere of chivalry in
all the words he said, in the very way Be said them.
The days when they would be talking French together
THE SOLEMN COMPACT 41
iretched out before her, filled with promise. Life in
Smningham had not been all she wished of it. Her
uicle was a man eccentric in habits, morose in man-
ng-. His hobby of entomology absorbed every moment
of his day. He talked of nothing else. Paris ! He
loathed it. The world — as half the world understands
it—he shuddered at. If his bees were not preparing to
sw£rm at the proper time, that world, which Rozanne
hac almost grown tired of talking about, was upside
down for him. He stamped the garden. He left his
meals unfinished just to have a look at them. In the
evenings, the scent of camphor permeated the room
while he went over his cases of butterflies and moths,
or he would expect her to follow him round the garden
with a bicycle lamp while he stumbled blindly from
tree to tree, painting the bark with a mixture of rum
and treacle — lure for the wandering moth.
Now, here was a man who knew the world, had seen
the world, had lived in it. And he wished to be with
her, to talk to her every day — tous les jours. With
all her heart! Why not? All that quaintness, that
old-world courtesy in him which had pleased the ladies
of the boarding-house in Torrington Square — though
it made them feel uncomfortable — fascinated her. She
fell in love with him at once. He was the most charm-
ing old person she had ever met. No wonder ! He
was French. To her taste that accounted for it all.
They fell to talking then in right earnest and the
night was drawing in and Courtot was pulling the
blinds before she rose to her feet to go.
" Then you will begin the French to-morrow," said
the Vicomte, taking her hand.
" I'd begin it sooner," she replied, "if there were
a day in between."
" There is only the day in between," said he, " when
there is nothing to look forward to in to-morrow. When
will you come? In the morning I am going to begin
to work upon my garden."
" Oh, of course, you've got a little garden."
42 MIRAGE
"Yes."
" I suppose there was nothing of a garden in tie
house off Russell Square? "
" No, no; I see you don't know the neighbourhood"
"Why not?"
" That question would not have occurred to you.'
•' Wouldn't it? Well, you've got an apple tree in
this garden — did you know that ? "
"Yes."
"And it's in bloom now."
" Of course, yes, it must be."
" Then if you'll have a little table put under the
apple tree to-morrow afternoon I'll come and have
tea."
" That is a contract," said the Vicomte.
" Of course."
"Then now I will see you home."
" Oh, no ! I'm all right by myself."
" I'll see you home," repeated the Vicomte, quietly.
" Very well, then you shall peep in at Uncle Wil-
frid. But if he wants to show you his butterflies and
you want to get back, put it off. It's a proceeding
that takes two hours at least, and you won't get the
smell of camphor out of your nose for a week."
CHAPTER VIII.
COURTOT CHOOSES A WIFE.
A ND so M. le Vicomte du Guesclin came to Sun-
^*" ningham. He is a pessimist — a misanthrope —
who complains of the country in England. Even
to others than Englishmen there is nothing quite like
it. Those flat, green meadows, spangled with wild
flowers, cut into shapes, with their hedges of hawthorn
where the birds build cunningly, they are not to be
found quite the same anywhere else. The cottages,
COURTOT CHOOSES A WIFE 43
he old inns, the red-bricked farm-houses, standing
just as they did in the Tudor days, are absolutely
inimitable.
After London with its fogs, its sky of roofs and
gibles, the country is such freedom as a bird must
find, set at liberty from its narrow cage. In Sunning-
ban, the Vicomte was another being.
But that is not only to be accounted for by the
change of scene. It is not only to be accounted for
by the fact that he was no longer an inmate of one of
those poor-houses in which London shelters her well-
to-do paupers.
Rozanne was the deeper cause. She made the echo.
Through her eyes he saw himself young again. In
her voice, he heard the brave note of youth. And
when he held her hand, at seemed the light, quick-
beating pulse of it was his.
This is the mirage, the phantom sight of the green
palm trees which a man will sometimes see across the
desert of years that lies behind him.
To reach that phantom oasds, he strained every step
that first moment of their meeting. Courtot watched
him. He, too, had seen the resemblance to her mother
in Rozanne. He, too, knew the past ; remembered the
days when the Vicomte, a young man of twenty-eight,
had spent the hours, the days of his life, to win just
a few minutes in the presence of the woman he had
learnt to love too late.
And it is quite possible that there is something in-
fectious in this deceptive spirit of youth, for Courtot
himself fell under the spell of it.
There lived in the village of Sunningham a widow,
whose husband had been a servant in the newly-built,
capacious house which lies at the edge of the Thurn-
ham woods. There, too, until he had died, she had
been mistress of the kitchen. Now, supplementing
a slender pension, she did what little washing was not
taken by the steam laundry in the nearest town.
When Sunningham was first thrilled by the news
44 MIRAGE
that a vicomte of the French nobility — these thing;
find outlet in some wonderful way — had come to livs
in the little cottage which had been empty for so Ion*,
when also it was learnt that he had brought but one
servant with him, the brilliant tho-ught occurred to
Mrs. Bulpitt that he might need a cook.
She put on her best bonnet, she dressed herself in
that well-known black frock, with the tassels of jet on
the shoulders, which was always tabe seen every Sun-
day in the third row of pews in the Congregational
chapel, then off she went to the Vicomte's cottage.
Courtot opened the door to her timid rapping of the
.knocker.
" Good-morning," she said. " I want to see the
Viscount."
" M. le Vicomte is at his breakfast"
" Goodness me I why, it's nearly ten o'clock. He'll
have finished soon, won't he? "
" That is quite possible. For why do you wish to see
him?"
" Well, I can tell him that myself, can't I ? "
This was pardonable British spirit rising before im-
perturbable superiority. Courtot began to close the
door.
" Oh, yes," he said quietly, " you can tell him.
Then will you call another time ? "
This conquered her. She admitted him master of
the situation.
"I'm sorry," she said simply. "I didn't mean that
the way you took it. Don't shut the door. I only
came to know if he wanted a cook. I was cook up at
Thurnham House — by Thurnham woods up there. I
was cook there till my husband died. He was the
butler. I thought the Viscount might want someone
like that, seeing as you were the only person about
the place. See what I mean? "
" Oh, yes, I understand," said Courtot. "And what
age are you ? "
•" Forty-nine last birthday."
COURTOT CHOOSES A WIFE 45
He asked it in such a proper spirit that she felt
bound to answer him.
w Your husband is dead, you say ? "•
" Yes."
"Any children ?'i
" One son. He's in the Army. Good boy he is, too.
'Listed when he was nineteen with the Suffolks. He's
been all through South Africa he has. Got three
medals."
" And what religion are you ? >fi
" Congregational."-
11 What is that ? «
" Chapel. I go to Mr. Mathews. He's our min-
ister."
" You know M. le Vicomte is a Roman Cafholic."-
" Well, I don't suppose he can help that, can he ?
1 suppose that was the way he was brought up. I
don't mind."
" And I am a Roman Catholic myself," added
Courtot.
" Well, that's no reason why we shouldn't get on
well together, is it ? as long as you don't try and make
me believe it. I couldn't believe it, you know. Good-
ness knows how you can. Mr. Mathews says — well,
perhaps I'd better not say — but he's a good man is
Mr. Mathews. I don't mind myself if you're fifty
Roman Catholics. They didn't believe nothing at all
up at Thurnham House, and that didn't interfere with
my cooking."
Courtot looked at her quite solemnly.
" Then you think we should get on well together ? *J.
he said.
"Yes; I'm very easy — very easy indeed."
Courtot accepted the statement. There was nothing
else to be done with it. He bowed.
" I will tell M. le Vicomte what you say," he said
courteously. " But I am afraid myself that it is out
of the question. However, I will let you know."-
"Shall I wait?"
46 MIRAGE
Courtot shook his head. The project that was
forming in his mind did not admit of waiting. He
shook his head decisively.
" I have told you M. le Vicomte is at his break-
fast/* he replied. " I could not speak to him about
such matters now. Where do you lave ? "
" See that little cottage there, three doors from the
sweet shop — the one with the nasturtiums — I planted
them myself— see ? " She pointed with a rigid finger.
« That's where I live."
" Then I will come and see you when I have heard
what he has to say."
He bowed, she bobbed. Then he closed the door.
When the Vicomte had finished his breakfast,
Courtot cleared away. There a definite answer faced
him. The Vicomte had not eaten the fish which he
had cooked. No complaint was made, not a word
spoken. The Vicomte was reading the paper when
Courtot removed the dishes. Bearing them away into
the kitchen, he took a piece of the fish from the untidy
plate and put it in his mouth.
" No wonder! " he muttered, "no wonder! " The
fact was obvious. Being a Frenchman did not insure
his being able to cook. He had realised that before,
but never so fully as now, just at this very moment
when a way out of the impasse had just offered itself.
Without hesitation he went back to the Vicomte.
" Monsieur le Vicomte."
"What is it, Courtot?"
" I am an unmarried man, M. le Vicomte."
" Do you regret the fact, Courtot? "
" I have begun to do so, monsieur."
''Since when?"
" Skice I have been here."
" You mean you have seen someone who has taken
your fancy ? "
Courtot bent his head as became the acknowledg-
ment.
" Yes, monsieur."
COURTOT CHOOSES A WIFE 47
" Oh ! " The Vicomte drummed his fingers on the
table. " Do I understand then that you wish to give
me notice? "
" Oh, no, Monsieur le Vicomte."
" What then ? "
" I have come to ask your permission."
"You want your wife to live here? "
" Yes, monsieur."
The Vicomte left his seat and walked to the window,
where, with a Napoleonic attitude, he gazed out into
the garden. This was a serious matter. At any other
time, he would scarcely have entertained it. Now,
with this mirage of his youth ever before his eyes, he
could not find the heart to swing the hammer of autho-
rity and crush even so bourgeois a romance as this.
Yet it went sorely against his taste, interfered most
grievously with his habits.
" Suppose, Courtot," he said, turning suddenly
round, " suppose I said that if it were really your wish
to marry then you must find service elsewhere? "
Out went Courtot's hands, up went his shoulders.
" Then that would be all, M. le Vicomte."
" You mean you would go ? You love this young
woman ? "
" No, monsieur, I mean I should stay."
That would have touched the sentiment of any man.
The Vicomte came back to his chair.
"But how do you think," he said quietly, "in this
small cottage we are going to put up with the noise of
children? Had you thought of that? "
" It crossed my mind for a moment, M. le Vicomte."
"Well—?"
"There will be no children, monsieur."
" Oh ? And what will the young woman say to
that?"
u She will say nothing, monsieur," replied Courtot,
solemnly. " She is forty-nine."
The old gentleman rose again and assumed his
Napoleonic attitude ; but it was not until his back was
48 MIRAGE
turned to the room that the solemnity of his features
relaxed. It was to be supposed that Courtot knew his
own mind. A woman of forty-nine ! His imagination
flew involuntarily to Rozanne. She had come to him
every day since his arrival. Every day that it had
been fine they had sat together under the apple tree
in the garden and talked French until the belief that
he was back again in the days when Paris had been
the city of his world could only be roughly shaken
from him with her ultimate departure.
And Courtot, losing his heart to a woman of forty-
nine 1 The Vicomte felt old as he thought about it.
Still, it was to be supposed that he knew his own mind.
" How old are you, Courtot? " he asked, when a be-
fitting expression of gravity had settled on his face
again.
" Fifty-seven, M. le Vicomte. "
"Ah, yes, yes, of course we are much the same
You might have thought, to hear him say it that,
if anything, he was the younger of the two. They
have some cunning, these old men. When a man
gets past sixty, he becomes as cunning over his age
as a woman who sees just thirty years behind her.
"Well, what is her name?" he inquired. "What
is she?"
" Her name, Monsieur le Vicomte/ will certainly be
improved for the changing. At present it is Mrs.
Bulpitt."
" Oh, she's a widow?"
"Yes, monsieur."
" Well, let me see her. If she's coming to live here
in the cottage, I think I'd better see her. I shall not
be exacting, Courtot. She might be able to do some-
thing about the house. What do you think? When
does she want to be married ? "
" I cannot say that, monsieur, I have not asked
her yet."
THE MIRAGE 49
" Oh, mon Dtcu ! There is a proverb in English,
Courtot, about the counting- of chickens. Do you know
it?"
" Oh, yes, monsieur, but Mrs. Bulpitt she is no
chicken,"
CHAPTER IX.
THE MIRAGE.
ITH all the millions of people in it, with all the
crowds that throng in the streets, knocking
elbows, rubbing shoulders, it is a desert, this world —
a desert across which the caravans ply to some far
city where there is rest.
Then what may be a caravan? Just a small com-
pany of people, knit together in a common end, bound
in fellowship, joined in sympathy, in fact, just that
small company of people who matter to us most in
life, just those few souls whom we really know, who
really make any difference, who really count when the
whole sum of it all is reckoned up by the watchman
at the gates of that far city of sleep.
This is a caravan, and of all the myriads of other
human beings who come and go, pass in and pass out,
it may merely be said — they are grains of sand in
this great stretch of the desert of Existence across
which our own particular little caravan of souls goes
wearily or gaily, slowly or fast to its journey's end.
It is a safe enough journey after all. Storms there
are, no doubt, but they can be weathered. A stout
heart will face them through. But it is the mirage —
that dazzling, tempting semblance of the phantom
oasis — which is the most subtle danger of all. When
once it rises in the mind's eye, when once it grasps
the ready credence of the brain, there are few indeed
who will not leave all — the beating heat of the sun,
50 MIRAGE
the aching monotony of the way — to find the shade of
those palm trees which vanish — vanish — vanish the
nearer you approach.
"It's a mirage! it's a mirage! " the others cry to
you. " Come back, it's only a mirage."
But your heart has gone out, your eyes have seen.
You will not, you must not, you cannot disbelieve,
and, parting from them all, you run with hastening
eager steps. There it is before you, only a mile or
so away. Those deep green shadows under the palms,
that gurgling of water in the well, you can feel it cool
on your brow as you hurry onward, you can taste in
your nostrils the scent of the cool green growing
things in the heart of this dry desert of dust.
And you run, and you run, and you run. And the
sun dips away behind the hills of sand, and the
world shivers as the twilight stretches out her tapering
fingers, and then, suddenly, your eyes are empty, the
oasis has gone. And all that is left is the limitless,
trackless desert and the night.
When M. le Vicomte du Guesclin — that old noble-
man of a r'egime which France has seen the end of and
the whole world will find to vanish all too soon — when
he fir.st saw Rozanne that evening, as he stood in the
hall of his little cottage, it was to him that sudden
glimpse of the mirage when those who first behold it
stop, hands shading the eyes, heart beating in the
breath, afraid to believe, afraid to understand.
So great was her resemblance to the woman whom
he had loved, so like her poise of the head, so like her
little trick of the voice — even to the childish stammer-
ing on an odd word here and there — far enough apart
to let you forget it, quaint enough to let it charm you
each time that it came — so identical were they, that
at is not to be wondered at that he was tricked.
He had told her to come the next day, and the next.
That talking of French was only his excuse. True, it
helped the illusion all the more; it made that little
THE MIRAGE 51
garden of his, with its knotted apple tree and its
clusters of straggling roses, the stately gardens of Ver-
sailles, where, with her mother, nearly twenty years
before, he had wandered and talked of the things that
might have been.
But added to all that now — added and making the
whole seem wonderful — there lurked in the corner of
his heart a silently-growing belief that now this was
not in vain. These were not the things that might
have been ; these were the things that yet could be.
One difficulty lay in the way — one insurmountable
difficulty. He was too poor. There was nothing he
possessed which, in his idea of chivalry, was fit offer
to a woman from any man.
It was a strain upon that slender purse of his to pay
Courtot his wages at the end of the first month. And
what, he asked himself, would a wife be, if it were an
effort to pay his servant? He had grown accustomed
to deprivations for himself, but when he thought of
Rozanne as his wife, all his thoughts flew back to the
days of luxury that had passed.
What would she think of him if he offered her a her*
ring for breakfast? He could take it himself, badly
cooked by Courtot, and eat it with an air as if it were
the daintiest dish out of all the kitchens in France.
But he knew that was impossible with a wife for
audience. Pride is the last sentiment you may hope to
assume with effect before a wife.
They thought he was rich, but that was another
matter. Everyone in the village believed him to be
well-to-do. He fostered the idea. There was no pride
in his mind to be poor.
When, for instance, Rozanne's uncle first came to
see him, he opened one of the three bottles of wine
which he had brought with him — saved from the wreck
of his fortunes in France.
All those two years in the boarding-house in Tor-
rington Square he had kept them nailed up in their
53 MIRAGE
wooden case thinking, " One day — one day perhaps it
will seem well if I can produce a bottle of wine like
that."
And the day had come. The bottle had been pro-
'duced. He had felt the wrench of it when Courtot
clrew out the cork.
"If wine were to be had like this now," he had said
as he held up his glass to the light, " we should have
all the wit of France back again in the place of its
blasphemy."
Old Mr. Somerset had gone away with the taste of
it lingering on his palate, and looking at Rozanne
over the dinner-table he had said, in his practical
British way — though in life he was the most unpracti-
cal of men you could find — " A man who can afford
to keep wine like that, Rozanne," he had said, " and
bring it out when you make a casual call upon him,
must be fairly substantial. I can't touch my sherry
after it. It's like water out of a ditch."
And did you tell him that M. le Vicomte had a
capital of seventeen pounds in the Credit. Lyonnais
bank, that an income of one hundred pounds a year
was all that came in to him, he would have pointed
to that bottle of wine and refused to believe it.
And so the Vicomte passed as a wealthy member of
Sunningham society. In the village, Courtot never
contradicted it. To Mrs. Bulpitt he spoke proudly of
his master's lavish extravagance ; but of his conversa-
tions with her, more has yet to be told. We are gaz-
ing at the mirage now, gazing at it with the Vicomte's
eyes — the milage of his youth which stands out into
the light, just that tempting mile or so away, across
the desert of years which lay behind him.
Every afternoon at four o'clock — under t&e apple
tree in the garden if it were fine, or in the house if
the weather forbade it — Rozanne came and they talked
—of nothing at all if the truth were known ; but to the
Vicomte those two hours, until six o'clock, were
THE MIRAGE $3
charged with noble things that found their way into
speech. He was flowery, perhaps ; no doubt he was
grandiloquent. Yet it seemed natural enough in him.
You would have expected it had you seen him.
He confessed to Rozanne his weakness for writing
verse. She listened, full of sympathetic interest. Any-
thing that rhymed pleased her. But he thought, as
she delivered it, that her appreciation was the more
worth winning than any praise of critics of the pen.
After that first evening, when he had seen her,
framed in the doorway, her eyes lighting his way back
to memories which he had thought were dead, he had
written a verse in his little notebook, which by then
was all but filled.
One afternoon, under the apple tree, when the first
petals of the apple blossom were beginning to drop,
circling and fluttering to the ground, he found courage
to read it to her.
" I used to write verse sometimes for your mother,"
he had said, playing with the leaves of the notebook
between his fingers, pretending to be unable to find
the place.
" How wonderful," she had replied, and there was
that far-off look in her eyes as when a child tries to
gaze into a time it has never known. " That's nearly
thirty years ago." He shut his eyes.
They were calling him back again. " It's a mirage,
it's all a mirage," they were saying, but he only
closed his eyes.
Then she took her eyes back from the distance and
brought them to his.
"I wonder will anyone ever write verses for me? "-
she had questioned.
" But these are for you, little cousin."
" Yes — I know — but I mean — "
She could not read the look that had passed across
his face. There, she had seen it, yet, utterly ignorant
of its meaning, she had instinctively checked herself.
54 MIRAGE
" Oh, yes, I know — " and her sentence had fallen to
a whisper.
He leant forward in his chair nearer her.
" You mean someone not old like me, eh ? "
She looked up quickly, sensitive that she had hurt
him.
" But you are not old. Why do you always insist
that you are so old ? "
" For fear that you should think me so, Rozanne."
" And is that why you always* want me to call you
cousin, instead of M. le Vicomte ? "
He smiled.
" I suppose it is."
" Well, I will. But you look more like a vicomle
than a cousin."
" Ah, that is my white hair and my wrinkled face,
eh?"
" There ! You are doing it again — cousin. Is that
what my mother always called you? "
" Sometimes. Not — quite — always."
She tried to catch all the meaning in that subtle in-
flection in his voice. Meaning- there was, surely?
The woman's instinct in her told her that; but the
child in her — she was no more than a child — could not
frame it into words.
" I love to hear you talk about my mother," she said
wistfully, the first expression of the instinct to wheedle
it all out of him, steal from him the secret of the ro-
mance which she knew must be there. Then she
caught sight of his fingers playing patiently with the
leaves of his notebook and generosity thrust all other
thoughts aside. " But you haven't read me the
verses," she said eagerly. " The first verses that any-
body ever wrote for me. Do read them, please ! "
He spread the book out slowly on his knee. Per-
haps he did not want to read them after all, she
thought; but she had not the knowledge of him which
Courtot possessed. It would have taken long years of
THE MIRAGE 55
close watching to have ever seen that M. le Vicomte
du Guesclin could be mastered by any emotion so
bourgeois as that of eagerness.
He coughed gently behind his hand, brushed his
moustache with a deep-coloured silk handkerchief and
began to read :
" If I could tell the Fate that brings
The fruit upon the apple tree
Too late in gentle murmurings
To woo the blossom on the pear;
Then surely I could tell to thee
Why thou hast struck a chord that sings
And mingles all Love's melody
With all of Life's despair."
" That's lovely ! " she exclaimed when he had
finished. " But isn't it terribly sad ? Why should
you say life is so full of despair when love is so full of
melody?"
" Have you ever been in love? " he asked.
" No."
"And how old are you? But then I know."-
" I'm twenty."
" Then why should you be surprised who only know
;.fe for twenty years and have never been in love? "
"Yes, I know." She looked up with a smile. " I
don't suppose I'm really qualified to say anything. But
it sounds very despondent."
" Despondent ? " He sat erect. " No— surely not! " ,
" I think it is."
" But I'm never despondent."
" Never ?"-
" No — oh, no — it is bourgeois to be despondent."
" Don't you think you were just a little bit when you
wrote that? But perhaps despondency is a poetic
licence. That's right, isn't it? There are such things. <
But I wish you wouldn't make use of them. I always »
56 MIRAGE
think of you as so happy. Always cheerful — always in
good spirits."
He folded the pocket-book and put it away.
" What makes you think that ? Is it because you
always see me when I am just seeing you ? Why do
you think I should be always so cheerful ? "
" Well, you've got nothing to worry you. You're
very well off. I expect if Uncle Wilfrid were half as
well off he'd be twice as cheerful as he is. Oh, there
are lots of reasons why you should always be in good
spirits."
A smile — you could not say whether it were bitter or
not — twitched the corner of the Vicomte's lips.
" And that I'm rich is one of them ? " he said.
11 Yes. You live in this little cottage, of course, but
then you don't want any more room than that, do
you?"
" No, it's quite big enough for my demands. They
are not very exacting.;"
" Well, then " — she rose with a laugh to her feet —
" I don't think you ought even to take the poet's
licence of despondency. It wasn't made for you.
Only for poor poets who work in garrets and never see
the sun. Why have I struck a chord that sings so sad
a tune as that? Why shouldn't it sing something
happy instead ? "
" Would you like it to^ Rozanne ? " He stood up
and took her hand.
" Yes, of course I would."
It was quite an easy matter to persuade himself that
she understood — quite an easy matter. He did it with-
out the slightest hesitation.
" I will, then," he said; " I will. The next verses I
write for you shall be what I'm only too willing they
should be—little cousin."
MRS. BULPITT 57
CHAPTER X.
MRS. BULPITT.
A/TRS. BULPITT was sitting at the parlour window,
•*••*• the top of her head just rising above the
leaves of the three geranium plants that stood
on the low window-sill. She was mending a garment
of underwear — called in more effective language, lin-
gerie— and applied to more effective creations than
that which was being submitted to her needle. It was
not a fascinating garment. As a Congregationalist,
it became her ; but as a woman — no !
A flounce — no other name could be given it — sur-
rounding the termination of the garment itself was
threatening to become separated from the main struc-
ture. Mrs. Bulpitt was rejoining it with stitches such
as the texture of the material demanded.
She was bent over her work, engrossed in it, when
the clatter of the little wicket gate at the foot of that
narrow piece of ground she called her front garden
reached her ears. She sat up hastily and peered out.
It was the man-servant from the cottage where the
Viscount lived.
Driving her needle hastily into the material, she
concealed it under the cushion of the chair on which
she was sitting and ran to the mantelpiece to tidy her
hair in the mirror. There was one place between the
many flaws which the glass contained where she could
see herself quite well. She found it by instinct. Her
hands moved swiftly about her head, pushing in pins,
tucking away stray locks that were loose.
A whole week had passed by since that morning
when she had made her application for the situation
of cook at the cottage, and she had begun to be afraid
that success was past hoping for. Now, undoubtedly,
this visit meant business. She dragged a clean white
apron out of a cupboard in the wall, tied it about her
58 MIRAGE
waist and walked to the door, with pulses beating, in
answer to Courtot's knock.
" May I come in, Mrs. Bulpitt ? '-'•
She held the door wide in answer.
" Walk inside, please, Mr. . I don't know yotu
name, and I don't suppose I could pronounce k if I
did."
Courtot allowed his features to relax. He smiled*
" My name is Courtot," he replied.
She closed the door.
" Courtot." She nodded. " Well, as long as you
don't spell it for me, I expect it's all right. Sounds
easy enough. Won't you come into the parlour, Mr.
Courtot? It's very untidy — you musn't mind that. I
was just doing a piece of sewing — "
"Ah ! you sew, with the needle ? "
Here was another accomplishment needed in the
Vicomte's household.
" I like to see a woman sew," he added.
" Yes, every man does. My husband used to say it
kept me quiet. Won't yer sit down ? "
Courtot laid his hat on the table and seated himself.
^ I do not wish that you should stop your sewing be-
cause I am here," he said politely.
She sat firmly into the chair under the cushion of
which the garment was reposing and declared that she
had no intention of doing any more just then.
" Any case," she added, " I suppose you've come
here because you've got something to tell me. I'd
almost given up thinking about it, it's that long since
I came up to the cottage to speak about it."
Courtot settled himself more easily in his seat.
11 Well," he began slowly, for the matter needed
tact, " it is like this. You say like this ? "
"I didn't; you did."
" Ah, yes, but I mean, is that rig-ht ? Does one say
—like this — it is like this ? Comme ca ! "
"Oh, I don't understand," she said, bewildered:
MRS. BULPITT 59
"go on with what you were saying. * It's like this/
vou said. Well, what is it like? "
Courtot smiled with relief. " Eh, lien ! I was right.
Well, it is like this. M. le Vicomte du Guesclin — "
He paused. It is hard enough to tell a good lie at all
times, but when the matter has to be accomplished in
a language other than one's own, the affair becomes
worthy of the skill of an equilibrist.
" M. le Vicomte du Guesclin," he continued medi-
tatively, " like all men who are great, has his peculi-
arities. He does not like women servants. In Paris —
in the days of the ancien regime — " He laid his
hand dramatically on his breast. By the expression
.on- Mrs. Bulpitt's face he saw that she was impressed.
But she did not understand a word he was saying. He
gained confidence from that.
" In the days of the ancien regime" he continued,
" M. le Vicomte had none but men-servants. In his
house in the Avenue Kleber there were six of them, all
in my charge. He has been used to such a household
as that all his life. You, who live here, you do not
know, you have no — what is it? — conception of the
days of the last Empire in France. You live in this
little cottage — two rooms — it is comfortable — mats oui
— but it makes you that you do not understand. The
salons in Paris ! Ah, mon Dieu t you think your
church here — this what you say — congregationale
affair — it seems big — " Steadily he was lifting him-
self into enthusiasm. Now he could not speak with-
out gesticulation. " It seems big to you," he con-
tinued, and his arms encompassed a vast area which
made the matter infinitely more comprehensive, " but
compared to the salons — ah ! it is — " He brought his
hands together and screwed up his lips to show how
small it was.
" And it is to places such as these," he went on,
" that M. le Vicomte has been accustomed, where you
will only see men-servants from one room to another."
Mrs. Bulpitt's mouth had been slowly opening in
60 MIRAGE
wonder. The enthusiasm of a Frenchman is at least
descriptive. He can transform the parlour of a work-
man's cottage into a palatial chamber by the mere
sweeping gesture of his arm. Undoubtedly Mrs. Bul-
pitt was impressed. She had understood very little of
what had been said to her ; but the fact that the houses
to which the Vicomte had been accustomed had had
rooms which were infinitely larger than the hall of her
Congregational chapel had found its way home. She
understood it all from that.
" Then," she said, dejectedly, " it simply means that
he doesn't want me, eh ? "
" It means " — Courtot shruggod his shoulders de-
jectedly too — " that M. le Vicomte does not want a
cook."
" Because he doesn't want a woman in the house ? "•
" Ah, I would not say that — I would not say that.
As a servant — no — certainly not; but supposing, Mrs.
Bulpitt, only supposing I were to get married — some-
times I think of it. Sometimes it seems a wise thing
that I might do. Then I should come to M. le Vicomte
and I should say, ' M. le Vicomte.' ' Yes, Courtot,'
he would say. ' I think that it might be wise, M. le
Vicomte, if I were to marry.' And he would say,
'Eh, bien ! si vous voules.' "
" What's that mean? " she asked with deepening in-
terest.
" It means ' Oh, just as you like.' "
" And he'd let your wife live in the house ? "
"Oh, yes; but why not? Certainly, if I made pro-
mise that there would be no children. The cottage is
small. M. le Vicomte would not allow there to be
children. But a woman who was my wife — oh, yes."
Mrs. Bulpitt looked at him with speculating eyes.
"Then I suppose you'll marry some day ?" she said.
He gazed out of the window, over the heads of the
three geranium plants. A farmer's waggon was
rumbling with a heavy noise down the little street.
He did not notice it. There was a tender look in his
MRS. BULPITT 61
eyes such as no farmer's waggon could ever inspire.
Ah, there is no doubt of it, however bourgeois he may
be, an understanding of women runs in the blood of
a Frenchman. He knows to a fraction of time that
moment when even so slight an instinct as curiosity
will make her susceptible. *
" I wonder you haven't married before," she con-
tinued, watching Courtot's face. He let her wonder.
This was not the moment to speak. The more she
wondered that, the more she would be attracted to the
possibility of marrying him herself. He steadily per-
sisted in looking fondly through that little window as
though, before his eyes, there were passing a whole
pageant of romance.
The curiosity then to know what he was thinking
about, if he were thinking of her, became absorbing.
She fidgeted in her seat.
" You're very quiet all of a sudden," she said.
"Won't you have a cup of tea? I make very nice
tea. Course, I suppose it's no good my hoping to get
cook at the Viscount's now, not after what you've said.
But that's no reason why we shouldn't have a cup of
tea together. I don't bear any ill-will. 'Tisn't as if
you could help it."
Courtot watched her pensively as she rose from her
chair and went to the cupboard where the cups and
saucers were kept.
" You are a good woman, Mrs. Bulpitt," he said, as
with a sudden moment of enthusiasm. " You are a
good woman. Can you believe — ah, mon Dieu ! how
I suffered when I came here this afternoon? I say to
myself, 'Mrs. Bulpitt, she will be so cross — she will be
so cross when she knows,' I keep on saying to myself.
Bten ! I come and tell you, and you say, ' Will you
'ave some tea ? I bear not any ill-will. It is not as it
were your fault.' You make me proud. I — I — " Up
went the shoulders — oh ! charmingly done ! " I am
fond of you. You are — too good."
Now Mr. Bulpitt had never wooed like this. It
62 MIRAGE
needs a skill that is not in the temperament of this
country to see qualities in a woman which she does
not possess and woo her with the praise of them. We
are a fault-finding people, the best of us. When we
can love, despite the faults we find, that, certainly, is
to our credit ; but discover them we must.
Mrs. Bulpitt was unused to such subtle ingenuity
as this. She warmed under Courtot's praise. Her
face beamed and she passed to the fireplace to m#ke
the tea, remarking that it was very kind of him and
that he must make himself at home.
" I expect it's very lonely with the old gentleman at
the cottage, isn't it? " she asked presently. She made
the remark, eyes searching to the fire, thinking that if
he did not see her face, he would fail to discover the
hidden motive in what she said. It was the best con-
ception of tact she possessed. As she poked up
the fire underneath the kettle she really considered
that she had been very clever. But then she was dealing
with a clever man. She had the sense to know that.
Courtot stroked his clean-shaven upper lip with a
steady hand.
" Is it more lonely," he asked, " than it must be for
you here, with no one? "
She looked round. She had never thought of this
before. Why had it never occurred to her that it was
lonely to sit evening after evening by the fire, until the
knitting pins were laid down quietly in her lap, and
her eyes, gazing in a wandering of ideas at the glowing
ashes, closed gently and she knew it must be time to
go to bed ? Why had she never realised before that
she must be very lonely ?
" Do you know, I suppose it must be/' she said with
conviction, " I suppose it must be lonely." She stood
up abruptly. " Well, if you like to come in of an
evening-, I don't see no harm why we shouldn't keep
each other company. You can smoke if you like. I'm
not one of those as objects to it. I like the aroma-r
of tobacco."
fc SONGS OF YESTERDAY" 63
Then they sat down to tea, and for five minutes
neither of them could think of a word to say to each
other.
" I make this bread myself, Mr. Courtot," Mrs. Bul-
pitt said at last. " How do you like it? "
" You make it yourself ! "
" Haven't I just said I did? "
This clinched the matter. There was no doubt left
in Courtot's mind.
" I must come to tea again then," he said.
" Come as often as you like, you're always welcome.
You mustn't think it forward of me " — she smiled,
quite a girlish smile, in which youth flickered like the
flame of a candle — " but it's nice for me to have some-
one to talk to. I'd a' gone on here never thinking I
was lonely, if it hadn't 'a Been for what you said. I
like the way you say things, I do, 'pon me word."
And as she stretched forward to take his cup their
hands touched and she laughed with a little jerk in
her throat.
Oh, it was quite pretty in its way. She had caught
a glimpse of the mirage too. Her sight was not quite
so young-, her hearing- not so keen, as they used to be.
But there was no doubt of it in that moment. She
could see the shadows of the palm trees; she could
hear the gurgling of cool water in the well.
And she simpered as she picked up the cup, sim-
pered just as she would have done twenty — thirty years
before, and felt the younger and the happier for such
foolishness.
CHAPTER XI.
" SONGS OF YESTERDAY "
TXJTHEN a man takes it upon himself to fall in love
with a girl who is forty years younger than
himself he absorbs some reflex of the spirit of
youth which filters into his blood as the sunshine falls
64 MIRAGE
in patches through the blinds into some darkened
room. Parts of him are lighted up by it. Parts of
him are invigorated. Yet they bear but little relation
to the entire man. They impel him to actions at
which the more mellow, the more subdued side of his
nature stands aghast.
M. le Vicomte was poor. As a poor man he knew
that marriage was forbidden him. But when Rozanne
listened to those fragile little verses which he read to
her from his notebook, when she declared them won-
derful and complete — just because they happened to
rhyme and jingle prettily in her ears — the reflection of
that spirit of youth fell in a brilliant patch of light
upon the Vicomte's mind and lit him to an ambition
at which reason, in its sombre shadow of sixty years,
looked on in pained surprise.
He determined to publish a book of poems.
You should have seen him every evening after that
decision had been made ; oh, you should have seen him !
He sat at the table in the parlour of the cottage,
collecting all his scraps of paper together, sorting
them into sonnets or lyrics, rondels or triolets, num-
bering each page and pinning them together.
" It may bring me in quite a lot of money, Courtot,"
he said one evening. " You know, of course, that it
costs nothing — or so I believe — nothing at all to pub-
lish a book. The publisher sees to that. He takes
the risk. Of course I must ask somebody about this
business. I am not quite sure myself how it is
done. I knew a good many young literary men in
Paris once upon a time; but I never asked them really
how they set to work to get a book published. There
must be some proper way of doing it, you know. It
costs nothing to the author. I'm quite sure of that.
But whether he takes a sum down or accepts royalties
— that is what it is called — royalties — whether he does
that I am not quite certain. I am inclined to think,
Courtot," he added, " I am inclined to thimk that I
should take a sum down."
"SONGS OF YESTERDAY" 65
Here was the mellowed reason of sixty years
prompting the enthusiasm of twenty. If it had been
possible for the sunlight of youth to have flooded the
whole of his being, up would have gone that book of
poems to the publisher like a rocket. You would have
heard no talk of business, no whisper of doing things
properly. To get it there, to get it into print, that
would have been the attitude of mind of the boy of
twenty.
" Now what would you think I ought to ask,
Courtot?" he questioned, looking up, as he pinned
the last sheet of the bundle of triolets. " What would
you think would be a reasonable sum ? I calculate
that the book will be published at five shillings net.
Net, I think, means that there is no mistake about
being five shillings. I shall have it bound in white
parchment with covers that flap over and are tied with
white silk ribbons which are laced through the binding.
I fancy, too, it would look nice if the paper were hand-
made— cream hand-made. I like those rough, un-
trimmed edges. They must be trimmed at the top, of
course, and gilt. But five shillings net would be a
reasonable price for such a book as that. Think of
the number of people who would be attracted by the
appearance of such a book in a bookseller's shop and
— and buy it. I should myself, of course — I certainly
should myself if I could spare the money. Now what
sum would you think I ought to take down for a book
bound like that? "
Courtot smoothed his hair back over his head and
thought seriously. He thought of the number of
people in England, vaguely estimating them at some
millions. Dividing that vaguely in half to allow for
those who would not be tempted by the binding- —
it became some thousands. Multiplying that by five
produced another indefinite total which might reason-
ably be called fifty thousand shillings. Fifty
thousand shillings were — his brain staggered — were
two thousand five hundred pounds. For some
66 MIRAGE
unaccountable reason — mainly perhaps because of the
colossal proportions of the sum — he divided that
ag-ain in half and said :
" About one thousand two hundred and fifty
pounds, M. le Vicomte."
The old gentleman looked pleased. A gleam of
hopeful credulity for one moment lit upon his face,
but the sombre reason of his sixty years could not
permit him to accept it.
" No, that is too much, Courtot," he said. " But
it is very hard to know. So I think I shall decide
upon the royalty system."
On the royalty system then he detrmined, and the
book of poems was sent up to London. Courtot
made up the parcel. Rozanne tied the string, and
the Vicomte wrote the address in his thin, spidery
handwriting. He had looked up the names
of publishers in one or two books on Mr.
Somerset's shelves in the library at the Red House,
and decided upon one which he considered most
suitable in sound to be the publisher of his book of
verse.
Songs of Yesterday, was the title he gave it, and on
the fly leaf, underneath the dedication to my cousin,
Rozanne, was the following triolet :
" This little book of verse of mine
Sets sail— it is my argosy.
And if I ask thee — call it thine —
This little book of verse of mine,
I cannot hope thou wilt divine
How much its treasure means to me.
This little book of verse of mine
Sets sail — it is my argosy."
"And what is an argosy?" Rozanne had asked
when he had read it to her.
" An argosy?" In that moment he had been
inspired. " An argosy, my little cousin, is a phantom
THE CONGREGATIONALIST MINISTER 67
merchant ship that all the world waits for. It rides
the seas just behind that line of vision which is called
the horizon."
" Then no one ever sees it?"
" No. No one ever sees it.'*
CHAPTER XII.
THE CONGREGATIONALIST MINISTER.
TT came to this — and Courtot, no doubt, had
•*• meant it should — that the entire village was
unanimous in its belief that Mrs. Bulpitt had set her
heart upon the Viscount's man-servant.
Every Sunday morning-, just at about the time
when Couitot would be coming back from Mass—
a time which fortunately did not interfere with her
own devotions in the Congregational chapel — Mrs.
Bulpitt might have been seen making her way along
the high road that led to the town of Maidlow,
which lay just a mile and a half to the east of Sun-
ningham. In her black-gloved hand she gripped the
hymn book which had been in use at her own service.
The three little wires adorned with jet beads — in the
shape of a somewhat lean aigrette — jerked in a
staccatoed way from the crown of her black bonnet,
and, lying limply in the shadow of them, was an
orange-coloured flower, the one piece of vivid colour
in her attire.
When on the first occasion she saw Courtot in the
distance, her heart beat very irregularly under her
black cape. She wished she had not come. He
would think she was too forward. He would think
she was setting her cap at him. In that moment
she would have given her three geranium plants to
have been able to turn and run back into Sunning-
ham; but it was so many years since she had run a
68 MIRAGE
step, and if he were to recognise her, what would he
think ?
It was incumbent upon her to face it out then ;
so on she walked. She would not show the slightest
hesitation when they met. He should not think she
had come out on purpose to meet him. It would not
be difficult. Men were easily deceived.
And when he did stop before her with his hat so
gallantly raised and his head so graciously bent —
as they do do it in any country but this — she came
to a standstill, just as if it were what she had been
hoping for, what she had been looking for and had
found at last.
" This is quite a pleasant surprise," she said.
It was her best effort of deception at the moment.
She had meant to explain how she was going into
Maidlow to see a young woman who was sick; but
you have to reach the first faint suspicion of belief
in your lie before you can tell it with any conviction.
Mrs. Bulpitt had not had time for that. The words
caught round her tongue, and so, " This is quite a
pleasant surprise," was all she had said in her effort
to deceive him.
Then back into Sunningham they had walked
together, and the little group of men seated on the
benches outside the Crooked Billet had nudged each
other with their elbows as they passed.
It would be wrong- to say that public opinion
drove her to it. Public opinion truly is a stern master,
who will not be denied his sacrifice ; but Mrs. Bulpitt
was a willing victim.
One misgiving- she had in her mind — Courtot was
a Roman Catholic. That weighed upon hei. and
more because he was a good Catholic than a bad one.
" There'd be more hope for him if he was not what
you might call conscientious," she whispered in
confidence to a bosom friend of hers, "Who repeated
the entire conversation soon afterwards, " but he
THE CONGREGATIONALIST MINISTER 69
goes to that church of his in Maidlow as regular as a
clock every Sunday. I think I'd better speak to Mr.
Mathews about it, because any day now he might ask
me, and I'm sure as I should say yes, just without
thinking like."
So it was that Mr. Mathews, the Congregationalist
minister, became the recipient of her confidences.
She beat about the bush first — women do, some with
the fine point of a willow switch, but there are few
of these.
11 You once said something about Catholics in a
sermon, Mr. Mathews," she began. " Are they really
as bad as that ? "
The minister looked cautiously at her. What he
had said in the momentary enthusiasm of a sermon
might not of necessity be wise to repeat in the cooler
moments of conversation He stroked his long,
uncombed moustache, which, with his hollow cheeks
and deep-set eyes, gave him so close a resemblance
to a rabid sea-lion.
" I have never held that Catholics were bad, Mrs.
Bulpitt," he said emphatically. He used the word
" held " with conscious intention. It gave an air
of matured consideration to his statement which he
felt sure would impress her.
" To my mind there is no reason, Mrs. Bulpitt,"
he continued magnanimously. " why a Catholic
should not lead as excellent a life as any one; though
I feel compelled to say, from convictions which I have
not allowed to possess me lightly, that the doctrine
of the Church of Rome is one which — which cannot
lead one to the truest or the noblest motives in life."
It is not really so difficult a matter to convince a
washerwoman of Mrs. Bulpitt's intelligence that a
pholosophy which has faced out some nineteen
hundred years is wrong at the core. Mr. Mathews
was quite sure of his audience. He watched the
dropping of her jaw with inner satisfaction.
;o MIRAGE
11 Do you think it would be wrong then for a
person to marry a Catholic?" she asked.
"Ah, that all depends. Is the Catholic a man or
a woman?"
She hesitated. She tightened her bonnet-strings.
" He's a man," she said, shifting the weight of hex
body from one foot to the other.
" Oh, and what religion is the other party? "
"Well, I've heard, Mr. Mathews, as she's chapel,
same as me. Leastways, that's what I'm told."
The minister looked at her sentendously, hiding
his smile under that walrus moustache of his.
" Then I think, Mrs. Bulpitt," he said, ' seeing
that it's the woman who is the Congregationalist,
and that it is always the woman in the house who
has the greatest power of persuasion in the matter
of religion, I think I should marry him if I were
you."
He hurried away, chuckling at his cleverness,
and the good woman stood gaping after him.
" Well, how he guessed is a wonder to me," she
said aloud. " Somebody must have told him."
CHAPTER XIII.
THE PROPOSAL.
'"PHE formal proposal took place in the little
-1- parlour of Mrs. Bulpitt's cottage. She was
making a piece of toast on the prongs of an ordinary
table fork. Courtot said she must be burning her
hand. She declared she was not, and added that it
made little difference if she were, since she was
making the toast for him.
Then he tried to take the fork from her, gallantly^
THE PROPOSAL 71
but not to be denied. She held to it. He held lo
her hand. It was a rough, coarse hand, shrivelled
with the work of many a washtub ; but had it been
the hand of the Empress of France, he could not have
raised it more graciously to his lips. She watched its
journey with reverent wonder. Never in the whole
period of their courting", in the whole course of their
married life, had Mr. Bulpitt ever kissed her hands.
At times he had told her to clean them. This Mr.
Courtot was a wonderful man. Such manners !
She dropped the toasting-fork. She felt she ought
to drop him a curtsey. She had a picture on her
wall, cut from the cover of the Christmas number of
an illustrated paper; it was of a gallant kissing a
lady's hand in the gavotte. She was bowing. Mrs.
Bulpitt cast the corner of her eye at the picture, but
when she felt his lips touch the back of her hand, she
simply said :
" Oh, Mr. Courtot. Oh, what am I to say?"
" Say what will make me the happiest of men in
the world," he whispered.
"And what's that?" She looked into his eyes
as he lifted his head from the bunched-up fingers
that he held. But that was more than she could
withstand. Nobody had ever looked at her quite
like that before. With a deep sigh that strained and
creaked the stiffening of her best bodice, she leant
forward in the most uncomfortable of attitudes and
laid her head on his shoulder — just as much a
romantic at forty-nine as she had ever been in her
life.
" Oh, I never thought of this," she whispered, " I
never thought of this."
She had thought of nothing else; but no woman
will ever be stopped at the gates of heaven for telling
a lie.
He took her in his arms then, creaking best bodice
and all; and perhaps the thought that now M. le
72 MIRAGE
Vicomte would have his meals well cooked was
scarcely appreciable to his mind. In the moment of
conquest a man is too flattered by victory to think
of why he strove.
So ended the wooing of Mrs. Bulpitt.
In twenty-five days the whole feat had been
accomplished. Courtot had broken down every
obstacle, even that serious matter of his religion.
She agreed to be married in his church as well as her
own.
" Musn't let him have anything to face me with
afterwards," she told herself; by which it may be
seen that the good lady had not completely failed
to strain experience from wedded life. " I've no
doubt he'll be coming to chapel with me next
summer," she continued hopefully. " God bless
him, he's that nice. I don't believe I care if he
don't. "<
That evening Courtot walked back in an emotional
ecstasy of mind to the unromantic duty of cooking
two sausages for the Vicomte's dinner.
As he passed round the back of the house to the
kitchen entrance, he kept his eyes rigidly before him.
The old gentleman was sitting with Rozanne under
the apple tree. Long ago they had finished tea.
He had served it himself at half-past four when he
had gone out. Yet seeing, without looking — a trick
of the senses when curiosity concentrates more
vividly than sight — he had observed the Vicomte
pick up his cup and lift it to his lips. It was meant
to convey that they were still taking their tea, that
they had not quite finished yet, that that was the
reason why they were still sitting under the apple
tree.
When a man has just come fresh from his own
wooing, he notices such little things as these without
looking at them.
A few moments later they came back into the
THE PROPOSAL 73
house. Courtot heard them in the square-roomed
hall as he laid the table for dinner in the parlour.
" I think I'm going to stay to dinner with you this
evening," he heard Rozanne remark.
The blood ran cold in him. Surely the Vicomte
must know. He would not permit it. Two sausages f
He had ordered them himself. The Vicomte liked
sausages. They were not expensive. They were
easy to cook, moreover.'* He laid a fork gently on
the table and strained his ears for the Vicomte' s
reply.
" You will stay and dine with me?"
There was fear in his voice certainly, but there was
eagerness too. Courtot caught the high note of it.
There was no mistake. The perspiration broke out
on his forehead. Mon Dieu ! It would be disgrace !
Yet what a pity, what a shame ! Why should she not
stay to dinner? There were still two bottles of the
wine. If only there were something suitable to eat !
Cutlets a la "Ravigotte. Filet mignon. Anything.
His hand went to his pocket; he counted out his
money into an open palm. Three shillings and
eightpence ! Sacre ! It was very little. If M. le
Vicomte had only paid him his wages for the first
month of his service ! Three and eightpence was all
that he had in the world. But it would buy cutlets ;
and then, if he knew how to make a sweet. Ah,
Mrs. Bulpitt !— his Mrs. Bulpitt !
What were they saying now ?
"Are you sure Mr. Somerset will net be — be
vexed?" the Vicomte had asked.
Ah, the moment of eagerness was over now.
The old gentleman was beginning to realise the
impossibility of it all. But why should it be im^
possible? Why should anything be impossible
with Mrs. Bulpitt ? First, before heaven, she was a
*Thry are not, as a matter of fact. But this only argues the
poverty of Courtot's skill in the art
74 MIRAGE
cook ! The incidental fact that she was to be his
wife only made the whole affair more reasonable to
his mind. But she was a cook ! To-night, she should
be an artist !
Now what were they saying? Mademoiselle
Rozanne was persuading him that her uncle liked to
be alone. She was telling rftm that even when she
was there he read at the table, read books on — oh !
some terrible name, it did not matter what. It did
tiot matter in the least. How could M. le Vicomte
avoid it now? And Courtot knew well enough how
little he wished to say her no.
All those days in Paris — nearly twenty years ago —
when that lady with the red-brown hair and the eyes
as blue as the china vases that stood on the mantel-
piece of the house in the Avenue Kleber had come to
see M. le Vicomte, had brought him roses and filled
those very vases herself — all the memory of them
came back to Courtot's mind.
One evening especially he recalled when, coming
in to announce that M. le Vicomte's meal was served,
he had heard his master say :
" Stay, will you, Rozanne, stay? Have one meal
with me. Let me see you sitting opposite me just
once."
And, forgetting that Courtot was there, she had
laid her hand on the Vicomte's shoulder and said :
" If I stayed once, Phillippe, how could I bear it
not to stay always?"
Courtot had never forgotten that. And now, here
was history repeating itself. But instead of asking,
M. le Vicomte was being asked, and Courtot knew
that in his heart he was thinking he must refuse.
He should not refuse !
" Courtot!"
" Yes, M. le Vicomte."
The old gentleman hurried into the parlour.
" What is there for dinner, Courtot?" he whis-
THE DINNER 75
pered. " Would it be possible that I could ask
Mademoiselle Rozanne to stay?"
''Oh, yes, monsieur!" Courtot shook out an
emphatic affirmative. " Oh, yes ! "
" There is enough, do you think?"
" Mais out ! Absolument!"
"What is there? What is there? Tell me what
there is."
" Oh, M. le Vicomte, you can trust me, you can
trust me. There will be enough. II sera -pret tout
de suite!"
"And the cooking, Courtot, you will be careful?
You — you — I don't want to say that you cook badly,
but you — you won't burn anything?"
" M. le Vicomte " — he stood erect with his hand on
his breast, swallowing something that rose in his
throat — " I may not be a good cook, but you shall
have a good dinner." His eyes flashed with the
truth of it, and, what is most wonderful of all, is that
M. le Vicomte believed him.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE DINNER.
'"PHERE is something about the excitement
- attaching itself to the impossible, which makes
the impossible so well worth doing.
What, in the name of heaven, would have seemed
more outrageous to the menial English mind than
that a dinner fit for the entertainment of a romance,
should be furnished out of nowhere, on nothing more
nor less than three and eightpence, and that within
half an hour?
First of all, the romance would have been no reason
in itself; and secondly — combining every argument
76 MIRAGE
unto the very last — the thing would have been
impossible.
But these two were the very reasons which at-
tracted Courtot to its accomplishment.
The moment that the Vicomte had rejoined
Rozanne, he slipped into the kitchen, piled coals upon
the fire, crept out of the back door, hurried through
the garden and sped down the village street to Mrs.
Bulpitt's cottage.
In answer to the hurried knock, the good lady
came running to the door.
" Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! what is it ? " she gasped.
Courtot took her in his 'arms and kissed her three
times in rapid succession. This is the approved-of
way if you would win a favour of any woman. Kiss
her first; she knows you love her then, and that idea
becomes inextricably mixed in her mind with the
favour when you ask it.
" Ma cherie /" he exclaimed. He was out oi
breath. A hundred yards is no mean distance to
run when one is over fifty. Then he told her every-
thing, which is to say he told her everything that he
meant her to know.
He had to cook a dinner — ah ! he could tell a story
could this Courtot. The more impromptu it was,
the more readily his wits would gather for the effort.
He had to cook a dinner, and he, mon Dieu ! he was,
really no cook at all. Mademoiselle Somerset had
been asked to stay to dinner at a moment's notice.
They had never had visitors to dine before, and it
was as much as his place was worth.
" Oh, ma cherie!" he wound up in an ecstasy of
untruth, " if you will but come and help me, no one
need know; M. le Vicomte, he never comes into the
kitchen, and I shall be saved."
In all her fluster of excitement, she realised that he
had called her something which she did not under-
stand.
THE DINNER 77
"Well, tell me what it means," she said, "what
it means when you call me ma something or other? "
He threw his arms about her, laughing- with
delight. "What it means? Ma cherie? Oh, mon
Dieu ! what does it mean ? Yes, yes ! My darling !
My darling ! And you will come now — now at
once?"
" Wait till I get my hat."
Five minutes later, Courtot was smuggling her into
the kitchen. Sweetbreads and cutlets had been
secured at the butcher's, various other things at the
little confectioner's, also the dairy. They had their
arms full as they crept through the garden and let
themselves in by the back door.
It may have been a little more than half an hour
before Courtot announced that dinner was served.
It is only in fairyland that the impossible is accom-
plished upon the striking of the clock. That, in fact,
is the only difference between real-land and fairyland.
We are always doing the impossible. We are always
building castles — colossal affairs with domes and
minarets that stretch up into the infinite blue — but
they are built with heart-rending labour, with heart-
aching pain, and the clock strikes many and many an
hour before their completion, if indeed they are ever
completed.
But it was not to be expected that M. le Vicomte,
engaged as he was, would be in a mood to worry
because the dinner was ten minutes late.
When Courtot came to the door and said, " Dinner
is served, M. le Vicomte," he rose and gave his arm
to Rozanne as if they were about to attend a palatial
repast in which puctuality was taken for granted.
Nevertheless, as they walked towards the parlour,
he whispered in her ear, " I have very simple meals,
you know, little cousin, you must not expect a ban-
quet."
She looked up into his face and smiled.
78 MIRAGE
" I do, you know," she whispered in return, " I ex-
pect everything about you to be very wonderful."
The Vicomte felt his heart sink within him. The
day before, his dinner had consisted of a little piece
of steak with boiled potatoes. What would it be to-
night ? He felt that this illusion was essential to his
happiness, but how could it be made to last ? He had
hazarded it all by allowing Rozanne to stay to dinner.
He should have waited — waited in any case until his
book of poems had brought him in some money ; then
he could have given a little dinner — ah, such a little
dinner ! But who would have cooked it ? That was
another terrible thought. Little as they might be hav-
ing for dinner now, it was more than likely to be
poorly cooked. What would she think of that ? In a
moment of emotional enthusiasm, he had taken
Courtot at his word. Now, how bitterly he regretted
his folly.
But what was this? He sat down to the table and
stared at a little card in front of him. A menu!
Five courses ! Written in French ! What did it
mean ? There was one also in front of Rozanne. She
was looking at it.
When Courtot had gone out of the room she glanced
up.
" This is quite a banquet to me," she said. " It is
just like you to make everything you have seem no-
thing. D-did you think I was going to expect ten
courses at a moment's notice? If I'd thought you
were going to put yourself out in any way I shouldn't
have asked to stay. But this is quite a banquet to
me."
" Very well " — he bent his head, it hid the wonder
in his eyes — " then it is a banquet. That is what we
will call it — a banquet."
The first cover was laid before them. The Vicomte
tasted it ; then, as he raised his head, his eyes sought
Courtot's face. It was expressionless.
THE STRENUOUS SONGS OF TO-DAY 79
CHAPTER XV.
THE STRENUOUS SONGS OF TO-DAY.
E all build our castles. M. le Vicomte had built
his. Its foundation stone was that book of
verse — those Songs of Yesterday — bound already in
his imagination in that wonderful cover of parchment,
with hand-made pages and silken ribbons.
One morning came and he found his castle in ruins
about his feet.
The parcel came back from the publishers to whom
he had sent it. They declined — not even regretfully —
not even with thanks ; but merely — they declined.
For some moments he stood looking at that curt an-
nouncement which, with its levelling blow, had shat-
tered his bravest hope. Then Courtot had come into
the room. One glance and he had understood. The
absolutely motionless figure of his master explained
everything. The set pose of his head filled the silence
with meaning. The book had been returned.
" You see, Courtot," the Vicomte looked up, " they
will have nothing to do with my little book of verse.
They will remain Songs of Yesterday. I chose the
title well. The Songs of Yesterday can never be quite
as stirring as the Songs of To-day, I suppose." With
infinite care he folded up the parcel and handed it to
Courtot. " Put it away in the long drawer of the chest
in my bedroom," he said. " I chose the title too
well."
Courtot took the package reverently.
" There are other publishers, M. le Vicomte."
" Of course, of course," the old gentleman nodded.
"But I doubt if they could be more explicit, Courtot.
Take it away."
When Rozanne came that afternoon, the Vicomte
told her.
So MIRAGE
" You will never see your little book of verse be-
tween the parchment covers, Rozanne," he said.
"Oh, why?"
The keen note of disappointment in her voice only
added to his own.
He shrugged his shoulders. " The publishers say
no — no Songs of Yesterday for us, we want the Songs
of To-day. And isn't that what you would prefer too,
right in the heart of you ? Aren't the Songs of Yester-
day just a little bit out of date, just a little bit old-
fashioned for you ? Wouldn't the strenuous Songs of
To-day please you better? "
How could it be expected that she would understand
what he meant ? She was only a girl. So subtle a
wooing as this was beyond her understanding. Had a
young man said such words as these, she would have
felt the thrill of them in her veins for many days to
come. But the Vicomte ! This old gentleman with
white hair, whose years were written so legibly in his
face ! It never entered her mind that such a thing
were possible. His manners, his chivalry, the things
he said, the very way he said them, he was so lovable
for all these. She would have told him so without a
moment's consideration that she could possibly be mis-
understood.
" Wouldn't the strenuous Songs of To-day please
you better ? "
She took it in its literal sense; saw nothing of the
depth of meaning hidden underneath.
" No," she said firmly, "I want your Songs of
Yesterday ! The strenuous Songs of To-day, as you
call them, are too hard, t-too ungentle, if there is such
a word. I love that one you wrote for me, that one
that begins :
" ' If I coald tell the Fate that brings
The fruit upon the apple tree
Too late in gentle murmurings
To woo the blossom on the pear — ' "-
MONSIEUR COURVOISIER 81
I love that. They're afraid to write things like that
now. They'd call it sentimental."
" And you don't, little cousin ? "
"No! Indeed, I don't!"
" Then you prefer my Songs of Yesterday to the
strenuous Songs of To-day ? "
" You know I do. I simply love them, and I t-think
the publishers are — are hateful."
What might not have happened then ? He did not
understand because he was old; she did not under-
stand because she was so young. What might not
have happened then? But at that moment Courtot
came out into the garden.
" I beg pardon, M. le Vicomte."
"Well, Courtot?"
" M. Courvoisier is here. He has come down from
London especially to see you."-
CHAPTER XVI.
MONSIEUR COURVOISIER.
COURVOISIER! His notary from Paris!
What did it mean ? It would have been idle
to pretend that his heart did not leap to all
the voiceless possibilities of the unexpected. He felt
that he was on the threshold of some portentous event.
Was he wrong ? In another moment, he would be
beyond the threshold, and, supposing he found no-
thing, just the greeting of a good friend, the hand-
shake, the considerate inquiries of one who had not
seen him for so long ?
He steeled himself to stoicism. His face betrayed
nothing ; his voice was empty of emotion. Only his
heart leapt ; that one spasmodic bound of hope which
the mellowed side of his nature critically reviewed with
all the unemotional wisdom of its sixty years.
82 MIRAGE
" M. Courvoisier," he said quietly. " Oh ! " Then
he turned easily to Rozanne.
" Will you forgive me, Rozanne ? I may not be
long, but if you would sooner go — "
"I'll stay," she said eagerly, "please let me stay
if you aren't going to be long. We haven't had our
tea yet. I couldn't miss that. Let me read the book
while you're gone — can I ? "
" The Songs of Yesterday* "-
"Yes.'*
" Courtot."
" Yes, monsieur."
" In the long drawer of the chest in my room you
will find a brown paper parcel. Bring it down to Miss
Somerset."
Then he walked into the house. His head was very
erect — very stiff, as Octave Bordenelle would have
called it. He felt for his snuff-box. It was ready,
there in his hand, as he entered the square-roomed
hall where M. Courvoisier awaited him. That gentle-
man stepped forward, hand stretched out, pleasure
lighting up every feature in his face. It was plain
enough how much this pedantic old nobleman had
endeared himself to all those with whom he came in
contact. It had been so, even in Torrington Square.
It had been so with Rozanne.
" Well, M. Courvoisier, the surprise of this is not
great enough to make me forget the pleasure,"
Excuse must be found for the Frenchman when
emotion rises easily to the throat. It is none the less
sincere than the reticent repression of it in this
country.
When M. Courvoisier saw this old gentleman whom,
when a boy, he had known in the prime of his man-
hood, whom he had seen in those last days in Paris
when everything he possessed was being sold to
honourably meet his creditors, whom afterwards he
had pictured, living buried in that boarding-house in
Torrington Square— when he saw him then, un-
MONSIEUR COURVOISIER 83
touched, unaltered, except in years — by the stress of
circumstance which had fallen upon him, the thought
of all he had suffered — suffered too in that dignity of
silence which is the greatest suffering of all — rose
vividly before him, and it is not to be credited against
him that the lump rose in his throat, that the tears
burnt in his eyes, or that, without a word, he bent over
the Vicomte's hand perhaps a little longer than was
necessary.
When he looked up it was with gratitude.
" I suppose," he said with a smile, " there is some
fortune or other to be thanked for finding you at home.
I have to return to London by the next train, which
gives me less than half an hour in your company, and
I might easily have missed you."
" Not so easily, my friend, as you think. I go out
but little. An hour's walk perhaps every day. That
is all. I have a garden to look after here, thanks to
M. de Lampriere. And you would scarcely credit
what a responsibility a few rose bushes can be. Chil-
dren are nothing to them." He pulled himself to his
full height. The same instinct of pride prompted him
that had possessed Courtot in his waiter's clothes in
the restaurant in the Tottenham Court Road — just the
same instinct as that.
" That is the life we live now, M. Courvoisier," he
added finely, " and compared to the old times, the
salons, the receptions, it is perhaps as well to be so
quiet. Even if we could imitate the past it would be
child's play, and I am getting too old for that sort
of thing."
He touched his fingers lightly on his white hair and
smiled.
" That is not the colour for child's play, my friend."
He shook his head and smiled again. " Oh, no, one
needs golden hair for child's play."
This was so wise of him, so much as it ought to have
been ; as M. Courvoisier, seeing his white hair and the
deep lines of his face, must have expected to find it.
84 MIRAGE
Here there was nothing to be seen of the youth of
twenty. Only the subdued mellowness of his sixty
years was speaking now. There was no atmosphere
of the mirage about M. Courvoisier. He was quite
real. In the past he had been a young boy, now he
was a full-grown man who knew the responsibilities
of life. There was neither thought of deceiving nor
deception about him. M. le Vicomte felt the full
weight of his sixty years as he stood before him.
So, without thinking, he was himself acting no part,
playing with no hallucination. He was just an old
man, sixty years of age, who had permitted nothing,
not even all the adversity of circumstance, to humble
the greatness of his pride.
" Golden hair, my friend," he repeated, " that is
the colour for child's play."
He sounded so wise when he said that, so full of
the proper spirit towards life. He even deceived his
own illusion of youth, cried aloud to himself, "It's a
mirage, it's a mirage ! " and fancied in that moment
that he had ceased to follow its pursuit.
M. Courvoisier nodded his head to such infinite
wisdom.
" That is true, M. le Vicomte," he said, <{ that is
true. Golden hair for child's play and golden metal
for life. It is for that I came over from Paris last
night to see you."
Again the Vicomte's heart leapt. Golden metal !
What did he mean by that? There still wa? wealth,
much indeed, to be found in all the branches of his
family. That was the thought which had rushed to
his mind in the garden when Courtot had mentioned
his visitor's name. -^Golden metal !^ Golden metal for
life ! What did he mean by that ? His snuff-box was
still in his hand. He opened it, and just as he had
done once before, he concealed his emotion beneath
the show of action. Not until he had put the little
gold box back again in his pocket and brushed his
handkerchief across his moustache did he reply.
MONSIEUR COURVOISIER 8*
" Life which comes from that crucible, M. Cour-
voisier," he said quietly then, " it does not interest me.
I live comfortably here and existence does not chafe,
There is a little chapel just a mile and a half away in
the town of Maidlow. It is a quiet walk for me every
Sunday. I have my garden to think of, my roses ; my
apple tree will yield quite a lot of fruit this year. My
neighbours are kind and occasionally interesting. A
man who has paid his adieux to sixty would be tempt-
ing Providence to ask for more. And I never tempt
Providence, M. Courvoisier, not now — not now. She
is too fickle a maid and wants so much more than you
ever promise her."
The notary smiled. It gave him the greatest plea-
sure in life to say what he was going" to say. He
looked forward so eagerly, like a child almost, for M
le Vicomte's exclamations of delight.
" But this I have to tell you, M. le Vicomte," he
said, " is Providence herself and no temptation."
The old gentleman set his lips.
"What is this news? " he asked.
M. Courvoisier cleared his throat.
" I have been notary to your side of the family for
many years."
" That is so."
" Eh, lien! the Marquis de Pontreuse, your uncle,
is — " His hands expressed the approaching calamity.
An Englishman would have said at death's door, " He
is well over eighty. I was at his bedside but two days
ago in reference to some estate and he told me that he
had left the bulk of his fortune — in English money
some forty thousand pounds — to you."
The Vicomte's hand felt involuntarily for his snuff-
box.
" Do you think you heard aright ? " he asked with
extreme quietness. " M. le Marquis de Pontreuse has
little affection for me."
Where were the exclamations of delight ? Where
were those expressions of surprise he had so childishly
«6 MIRAGE
anticipated ? Positively, the notary looked his disap-
pointment.
" I could not fail to believe my ears," he said. " But
ryou do not seem pleased, M. le Vicomte. You take it
very coldly. You even show no surprise."
" Surprise ! >? The old gentleman tapped his snuff-
box with a trembling finger. " It is a weakness, M.
Courvoisier, which the Du Guesclins have never
allowed themselves to be mastered by. Besides, why
should one be surprised when one does not credit?"
Ah ! then there was some show of emotion ! M.
Courvoisier gesticulated. His hands, his arms, his
shoulders, they all said so much more, conveyed his
chagrin so infinitely better than the mere tumbling of
his words.
" Would I, your notary," he exclaimed, " would I
travel from Paris to tell you what is false ? I say I
heard it w.ith my own ears."
" Then I believe you, M. Courvoisier."
The Vicomte walked to the window and stood look
ing on to the road, the road that led through Sunning
ham on its way to the little town of Maidlow.
Forty thousand pounds. How could he believe it,
even now? Forty books of poems would not have
brought him in so much. Was this the end then, the
end of all this struggle to seem other than he was ?
Would there be no more trembling of the spirit if a
visitor proposed they should stay for dinner? Would
he be able to go back to Paris, his Paris, Rozanne's
parjs — where the bonnes play with the children in the
Champs Elysees and the fountains in the gardens at
Versailles shake out their jewels of water drops ID
the beating light of the sun ?
Did it mean the awakening from this nightmare of
poverty, the lifting up of the head from what had
seemed a pillow of the stone of bitterness, to the reali-
sation that after all it was the soft down of content ?
Did it mean that he would no longer be compelled
to strain at his purse to pay the good fellow Courtoi
MONSIEUR COURVOISIER 87
s wages ? He had not paid them yet, but he was
Ding to — of course he was going to. He could uot
ave brought himself to discharge him for the second
me, for the second time to have him know that the
cpense of such a luxury was too great.
And lastly, did it mean that Rozanne — Rozanne
ho had rather the Songs of Yesterday than those
Tenuous verses of To-day — did it mean that he had
ut to ask — that it was now in his power to ask — that
le fruit upon the apple tree had not come too late
fter all — that he had but to reach up his hand and
luck that white, white blossom of the pear?
Forty thousand pounds !
Was that all it meant? How could it possibly mean
lore ? and yet, how easily it could mean less.
" Forty thousand pounds," he said aloud.
" 'Tis a large sum, M. le Vicomte."
He turned round quietly.
"7Tis a useful sum, M. Courvoisier."
Here, at last, thought the enthusiastic notary, is an
dmission. But all the excitability of his nature de-
landed more. And so keen were its demands that it
obbed him of diplomacy.
" Forgive me," he said excitedly, " but I felt over-
Dyed when I heard, because I knew that here in Eng-
ind, though he had come into this small property
f M. de Lempriere, you were nevertheless poor. I — "
He stopped. There was an expression upon M. le
ficomte's face which chilled him. The old gentleman
fas standing his full height, his head was thrown back^
" I do not know what poverty is, M. Courvoisier,"
ic said proudly. " Poverty is of the mind, not of the
jody. I am not poor. I — I could not be poor." He
aid that so grandly. Inches seemed to be added to
lis stature as he spoke. You knew he must believe
ivery wJrd he uttered when he said it like that. You
rvould almost have believed it yourself. " Had it been
^ou," he continued, " who had offered me that money,
and for that reason, I should have refused it. Poverty"-
88 MIRAGE
— he smiled, the moment of resentment had passed —
" poverty can only attach itself to poor people. One
pities poor people, that is all. May I give you some
wine?"
Such pedantry ! Such exalted sentiments ! And to
end it all in that grandiloquent way, " May I give you
some wine?" when there was only one bottle left in
the house ! Ah, he had a noble idea of life, had this
old gentleman. His thoughts were big. They were
far beyond his means. But what did that matter?
Life is short, but it is never short enough for one's
means. It is no good expecting it to be.
M. Courvoisier shrank into himself. He had not,
•when one comes to think of it, so discriminating a
mind as Courtot, that excellent fellow of the people.
And even Courtot had made his faux pas over the
eighteen sixpences.
" Thank you, M. le Vicomte/' he said in a subdued
voice, "I will not take anything, and I — I crave your
.pardon. I did not mean that you should take what I
said—"
" It is granted, monsieur. Please say nothing more.
Now tell me more about this money. You say my
uncle is very ill?"
" He cannot live, they tell me, more than a month at
the utmost." He laid his hand on his heart. "It is
so weak that he dare not move.'1
The Vicomte nodded slowly.
" And he actually told you that the bulk of his for-
tune would come to me ? "
" Those were his words."
" And do you think those words are to be relied
upon ? "
"Ah, yes, why not? His intellect is as strong as
ever it was."
The Vicomte cast his eyes to the window that looked
out into the garden.
" But others have a greater right to expect it than
I," he said slowly.
MONSIEUR COURVOISIER 89
" One other, perhaps/'
" Yes, one other." He nodded quietly to himself.
Did you know that she lived here with her uncle,
only a few hundred yards from this cottage? "
M. Courvoisier made no attempt to conceal his sur-
prise.
" Mon Dieu ! " he exclaimed, " of course, that fs so.
I had forgotten it altogether. Tho' I believe I men-
tioned it in my letter to you when I wrote about this
cottage."
"Yes, she lives here," said the Vicomte. "Made-
moiselle Rozanne Somerset."
" Exactly. The same. His grandchild. The
daughter of your cousin, Rozanne de Pontreuse, who
married so foolishly." M. Courvoisier moved uneasily
in his chair. Since the Vicomte's outburst against his
use of the word poverty, he was not quite certain of
himself, and this perhaps was just such another dan-
gerous topic. He shot a swift glance at the old gentle-
man. " So foolishly," he added, feeling his way.
" M. le Marquis never forgave her for that," he con-
tinued. " For which reason, I suppose, although you
say you are no favourite of his, he is leaving his for-
tune to you. Yes, she is the other, the daughter of
Rozanne de Pontreuse."
" Whom the good God made wonderfully beautiful,"
said the Vicomte.
M. Courvoisier looked up quickly. Here was a tone
in the voice which he did not understand. Evidently
there was no resentment to what he had said. None
at all. M. le Vicomte was gazing steadily before him,
but there was no limitation of horizon in the expres-
sion of his eyes. " He looks into the past," thought
the notary, but that was not all. M. Courvoisier saw
nothing of the mirage which was floating so realisti-
cally before the Vicomte's brain. The deep green
shadows in that phantom oasis did not exist for him ;
his ears were deaf to the sound »f the cool waters
gurgling in the well.
D
po MIRAGE
"Beautiful, like her mother?" he said.
" I was speaking of her mother. Rozanne Somerset
is her reflection. There is a resemblance that is beau-
tiful in itself."
For a few moments the notary kept silent. One
treads lightly when one is walking in the past; the
faintest sound, the faintest echo so easily vibrates and
shatters illusions ais a glass is broken by a single un-
sympathetic note.
" How long has Rozanne de Pontreuse been dead ? "
he asked presently.
" Twelve years. She died when this child was eight
years old. But I never saw her after that famous ball
at the Russian Embassy — you remember it? "
"Ah, yes, of course; but you did not leave Paris
then?"
" Oh, no, I left the salons, I left the receptions. I
might have come in her way."
They paused again. Just that moment of silence to
allow the faint vibrations of the present to settle down
once more like dust that has been disturbed in a secret
chamber.
Then M. Courvoisier began again.
"*Twas strange," he said, "that you should never
have met her until after her marriage to Mr. Somer-
set ? "
The Vicomte's shoulders shrugged.
" Not so very strange," he said. " Of course I had
seen her as a little girl, just as I saw this child of
hers. You must remember, she did not live in Paris
then. When, first she came to Paris she was a mar-
ried woman."
" And you never met her till then ? I understand,
it was your friendship with her after she was married
which did much, I fancy, to anger the Marquis de
Pontreuse. He would have wished that she bore your
name?"
"He would have wished if; yes, the things one
wishes for one generally wishes for too late."
MONSIEUR COURVOISIER QI
" Ah, don't say that, M. le Vicomte, that is too de-
spondent."
" Do you call me despondent, too ? "
The Vicomte rose with determination from his chair.
"I tell you it is bourgeois to be despondent," he
said, as though he had been dinning the fact into the
notary's ears. " Would you call me bourgeois ? Can
I not make a little truism but what everyone must call
me despondent? No, my friend. I look forward — al-
ways forward. It is only when one looks behind that
one is despondent. But you are right on the other
matter. That is how I earned the disapproval of my
uncle. Can you wonder then that at first I doubted
your story?"
He took a little miniature from the wall, brushed
the glass with his handkerchief and handed it to his
visitor.
"" There she is," he said reminiscently, looking be-
hind him into the past if any man ever did ; " the
world held many roses for us, M. Courvoisier, but they
grew in ploughed fields and her feet were too dainty
to cross such ugly ground to pick .them."
He looked up to the ceiling then. Everyone does
it. Heaven is only a direction, it is not a place.
" Courvoisier, my dear fellow," he said suddenly,
" this is the first time I have talked of my affairs for
years. Silence is golden, I suppose, a wonderful
thing to store in one's secret chambers, but it is not
the current coin of speech, and there is always bound
to come a day when one feels that one must be lavish
with it. This is my day, I suppose. You must forgive
me if I seem garrulous."
" Garrulous? How glad do you think I am, M. le
Vicomte, to have this opportunity of talking to you ?
You have so utterly shut yourself away from us."
The old gentleman looked up proudly.
"And don't you think that has been for the best?"
iie asked. " I could not stay in Paris. Paris is for
lovers with light hearts. It is here in England that
D2
g2 MIRAGE
one can well nurse one's troubles. The atmosphere
suits them and the people are not on the whole in-
quisitive."
" And so you've kept these matters to yourself ? "
" Yes, to myself. The English are a strange people.
They have not the understanding. They love, but it
is a solemn ceremony, and then the majority of them
marry their lovers, which is more solemn still. But if
by chance a woman does tire of her husband — and it
is not unheard of, my friend — she wears her life out
in hiding it and the fact that she has an amant, and
that is the most solemn ceremony of them all. Mar-
ried men and married women have their lovers here
in this country, oh, yes ! but they are ashamed of them
in their hearts, which seems a strange principle, for if
they are ashamed, it must be a poor passion, so little
worth its while. "
The notary shook his head sententiously. He de-
clared it to be a weak-kneed morality.
" Perhaps it is better than none at all," said the
Vicomte. " Well, so you see," he went on, " I am but
little more than a cloistered monk. If it were not for
this child of Rozanne de Pontreuse, who comes here
every day to see me, I should be alone, quite alone,
except for that good fellow, Courtot."
" What is this girl's name? "
" I told you. Just as her every feature is the same
as her mother's, so is her name. On the very day that
I came here, she paid me her first visit. And I assure
you that when I saw her — framed in that doorway
there — I thought that Fate was playing with my
senses."
" What did you do ? "
"Do, M. Courvoisier? What does a gentleman do
when a lady pays him a visit ? Do you think there is
a moment under the sun when a gentleman can forget
what he should do? And when she spoke — "
" Her voice as well? "
" Ah, my dear Courvoisier, one hears at times one's
MONSIEUR COURVOISIER 93
own echo and laughs at its grotesqueness. An echo !
The word does not approach its description. She was
Rozanne de Pontreuse come back to life again to add
a gesture to our last conversation."
"And how old is she?"
Ah, what a pair of romantic garrulous old men!
And not so very old after all. M. Courvoisier was
only just looking at his fiftieth year. As yet he had
not recognised it.
" How old is she ? " he repeated.
" How old ? " echoed the Vicomte. " What is age ?
Ah, tell me that ! The accumulation of life's troubles.
And we call them years. The greatest trouble of her
life is that she cannot sit of a morning in the Champs
Elysees and listen to the bonnes, in their white caps
and streamers, playing with the children under the
trees. That is her age."
He turned to the window, looked out again on to
the road. The farm waggons trundled by, coming
back from the fields. The men walked contentedly
at the horses' heads, those huge, strong, massive horses
with their shaggy fetlocks and their ragged manes.
He watched the little streams of dust that were lifted
on the wheels' rims and under the shuffling hoofs of
those patient, ambling beasts, watched them as they
circled away in little eddies of smoke and filtered
through the already whitened hedgerows.
For a moment the eyes of the notary followed him in
a comprehensive glance. Then, as if it were too sacred
— just as one hesitates to watch the moving lips of a
woman in prayer — he turned the other way, looked out
of the other window into the garden.
He saw the apple tree. He saw the figure seated
beneath it, turning over the leaves of paper on her lap.
Suddenly, she looked up at some little sound, some
little noise in the branches above her head, and M.
Courvoisier caught his breath.
Had his glance been comprehensive, his knowledge
now was complete. A moment longer he gazed, then
94 MIRAGE
turned before the old gentleman should have seen
him.
As if that movement had broken the spell M. le
Vicomte turned as well.
" And now let us finish romancing, M. Courvoisier,"
he said with a level tone. " Let us finish romancing
with a material question. Are you sure " — his voice
dropped to seriousness—" that M. le Marquis de Pon-
treuse told you I should be the recipient of his for-
tune?"
He .crossed the room again and looked steadily into
the notary's eyes.
" As certain, M. le Vicomte," was the answer, " as
that your material question, so far from ending ro-
mance, begins it."
Their eyes met in silence, just at that moment when
the thinness of a thread will suspend the weightiest
of meanings. One moment ! If you do not catch it
then the thread snaps and you have lost touch with the
infinite.
The Vicomte pulled out his snuff-box, his fingers
felt instinctively For the catch upon the lid.
" And how long will it be, M. Courvoisier," he asked
reverently, " before the formalities attending my
uncle's death will be got through ? "
" Six months, M. le Vicomte. Nothing less."
" Ah, I see, you men of the law^ you pay yourselves
with time — is it not so ? "
The notary laughed.
"Time certainly is our perquisite, M. le Vicomte."
His eyes fell on the gold snuff-box. He touched it
with his fingers. " That is charming," he said ; " is it
old?"
" If troubles are years, M. Courvoisier, it is. That
was given to my grandfather by Louis XVI. Upstairs,
under lock and key, I have a ring, it belonged to Marie
Antoinette. It is set about a little braid of her hair.
This snuff-box, you see, bears the fleur-de-lys and his
name in diamonds."
MONSIEUR COURVOISIER 95
The notary handled it reverently.
" But these are worth, ah, they are worth — "
" Their weight in the history of France, my friend.
And now tell me — it is some years since we met —
would you think to look at me that I have grown very
—old ? 'i
M. Courvoisier smiled. His thoughts were speeding
through that window at his back to the figure of a girl
seated beneath the apple tree.
" No older than your question, M. le Vicomte," he
said. " But now I must be going. I shall let you
hear from me from time to time. I shall, of course,
let you know ;the moment when — when it is all over.
And directly the will is read, of course if you should
want any money you have only to let us know."
" Quite so, I understand. And in the meantime,
supposing I were to find myself in any little temporary
embarrassment ? "
" We shall be willing to lend you the money, M. le
Vicomte. '^
The old gentleman shook his head emphatically.
" Ah, no, no, not that. I do not borrow, my friend.
It is the politest form of theft, and politeness is not
everything."
The notary's hand shot out in gentle deprecation.
" Then I can only suggest, M. le Vicomte, that you
realise some money upon those treasures that you
have. They would fetch a wonderful price."
The Vicomte looked at him amazed.
" I would sooner part with my life, M. Courvoisier/'
he replied.
" Oh, I merely meant that you could get a large
amount advanced upon such valuable objects, M. le
Vicomte. That was all. I assure you that was all.
Forgive me if I hurry now. The time is impatient
with me. Good-bye."
They shook hands. The Vicomte opened the door,
and with another handshake the notary walked down
the little path to the wicket gate.
96 MIRAGE
" Good-bye," he called out again, " good-bye."
" Good-bye," said the old gentleman. Then he
turned into the house.
" Sell them," he muttered, " sell them! Bourgeois!
Bourgeois ! Tch-tch-tch-tch-tch."
And his head was still nodding reprovingly at the
thought as he walked back through the garden to
Rozanne.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE APPLE TREE— SUNNINGHAM
Q HE did not hear his approach and for one moment
he stopped and watched her.
Forty thousand pounds. How long would it take
before he could actually believe it to be true ? What
kind of process must his mind pass through before it
.would positively accept it without question?
" Little cousin," he said.
She looked up.
" Put the book away. The Songs of Yesterday have
all been sung. It's To-day now. Let me wrap it up
again and send it back to the long drawer in the chest
in my room.'L
"Do you mean it will never be published?" she
asked ruefully.
" Would you wish it to be? "
" My book of poems ? Why, of course I should ! "
" Then it shall be, one day. I'll pay for it." He
look the parcel from her. " Are we going to have tea
now? I haven't kept you too long, have I? "
" Oh, no, I'd forgotten tea. Let me call Courtot."
He stood and watched her as she ran down the
garden, and when she called " Courtot, Courtot, can
we have tea ? " the sound of that name in her voice,
just as he had often heard her mother use it, was too
finishing a touch to the phantom mirage in his mind.
THE APPLE TREE— SUNNINGHAM 97
They might cry their warning to him a thousand
times, but he must go on now. He saw, he believed,
he knew his heart had gone out. He must pursue it
now until the end.
" I want you to do me a favour," she said as she
came back to the apple tree. " I want you to give
me some advice. Don't say a word until I've t-told
you everything."
That little stammer was fascinating. The inclina-
tion to remind her of it whenever she spoke was
tantalising on his lips.
" Go on," he said. Perhaps if he drew her attention
to it she would try to check herself. That would be
too great a pity.
" Well, now, listen. You've heard of Mr. Brabazon,
the rich, vulgar man who lives up at Thurnham
House?"
" The nouveau richef Oh, yes."
" Well, some time ago he advised Uncle Wilfrid to
buy shares in a mine— some sort of a mine, a gold
mine I suppose — and Uncle Wilfrid had not got the
money. So Mr. Brabazon lent it."
" And your uncle told you nothing about it ? "
" No, he never said a word."
" And the mine was a failure? "
" Yes. How d-did you know ? "
" That is just the way things happen, Rozanne.
Mines, shares, investments, books of poems, all these
things are argosies; we count upon them, and we
count and we count, but they ride the seas just behind
the horizon and we never see them. It is only the im-
possible— a wonderful ship she is too — that comes sail-
ing into the harbour out of the sun one fine morning
while we are sitting at the end of the jetty, our eyes
closed, fast asleep, tired out with watching for our ex-
pected argosy. That is the way life goes. And I said
I wouldn't interrupt. I've been giving my advice too
soon. That's the way with old men."
" You're not old. I won't let you call yourself old.
98 MIRAGE
Why, Uncle Wilfrid's two years younger than you,
but he always seems ages older."
How pleasant that was to hear. So pleasant that
Ee could afford to doubt it in order that she might be
induced to add another proof.
Ah, but he is very energetic. NI see him sometimes
going out in the morning with tils butterfly net just
like a schoolboy. And my little walk every day is a
very funereal affair."
" Well, perhaps it is, but—"
" Oh, I only suggested it was."
" Well, then, it isn't, of course you know it isn't.
But you must listen. Here comes tea, now listen.
I'm giving a party next week, a sort of garden-party,
in honour of Mr. Dalziel, a gentleman who is coming
to stay with us, and I want to know if you think I
ought to ask Mr. Brabazon, seeing that we are still in
his debt. Do you th-think I ought? "
He waited until Courtot had laid the things before
her. He waited, drumming with his fingers upon the
garden table, until Courtot had departed again into
the kitchen. Then he delivered judgment — such wise
judgment. No wonder this child of a girl looked up to
him, thought him the most wonderful person in the
world. He could be so wise at times.
"If it were a hundred and thirty years ago," he said,
" I should say advice were superfluous. Mr. Brabazon
would not dare to come, even if he were asked. He
would realise that no claim upon his host could ever
make him feel at ease. But that is not what happens
now. Money is the freedom into the holiest of holies ;
there is no lock but for which it can mould a key. I
am sorry, little cousin, sorry for your sake, but that
is true. Everything is moulded, stamped and minted
now, even a gentleman. 'r It would be wiser for you to
ask him. But I will be there. I will help."
"You will? Oh, will you really?" She stretched
out both her hands and took his. " I don't mind in
the least then— in fact it'll be rather fun then."
THE APPLE TREE— SUNNINGHAM 09
She threw back her head and laughed — laughed as
her eyes threaded their way through the tangled
branches of the apple tree to the paling sky above.
Tfien she felt his lips touch her hand. The laugh
checked on her tongue and she looked down. His
head was still bent over her hand.
" Why do you do that ? " she asked. All the
laughter was gone. She did not know why, but in
that moment, the evening seemed to have grown
colder. She felt the chill of it in her blood.
He let her hands fall.
" You object ? "
" No, no." She was afraid she had hurt him.
" Why should I ? " Out went the hands once more.
" You may do it again. "-
He kissed them again, more lingeringly, more gal-
lantly than before.
And then she repeated :
"Why -do you do that? Used you to kiss my
mother's hands like that? "
That was her instinct, the romantic instinct of the
schoolgirl, the woman scarce awake. She did not take
it for herself. The romance was not hers. She never
believed it was hers; but in the dim uncertainty of her
mind it foreshadowed it. One day someone would
kiss her like that. One day — she thrilled to the
thought of it.
" Used you ? " she asked once more when he looked
up in silence.
" Yes, oh, yes, I have kissed her hands many times
— many times."
" Then why did you never marry her ? "
It seemed such a logical question to her. She never
quite understood why he smiled, and because he smiled
so sadly, she never dared ask him the reason of it.
Perhaps she had said something foolish ; the very
thought of it prompted her to repeat the question.
" Why ? " she asked. " Tell me why you never mar-
ried her."
too MIRAGE
" If I could tell the Fate that brings
The fruit upon the apple tree
Too late in gentle murmurings
To woo the blossom on the pear — H
There was still the same smile in his eyes as he
quoted it.
She shook her finger at him.
"Ah, you did not write that for me. Now I know
who you wrote it for."
"Do you think you really do know? " he asked.
" Do you think you really do ? Give me your hands
again."
She held them out to him, and for the third time he
pressed them to his lips.
And as Courtot came out into the garden to clear
away, he saw, but his face was expressionless. Even
his lips did not twitch when he found that the tea had
not been touched at all. For an instant he looked at
his master, thinking, should he draw their attention
to the fact.
It was more tactful not to.
He bore the tray away in silence while Rozanne and
the Vicomte looked solemnly after him. Then, with
a twinkle in her eyes, she leant across the table.
" Did you realise that we never touched the tea,"
she said, " and it's getting on for seven o'clock? *L
" Never took our tea? " He sat upright.
" No, never touched it."
The old gentleman looked after Courtot's retreating
figure as though he would call him back, but in the
bend of those shoulders he seemed to read — under-
standing.
He leant back in his chair and said nothing.
HOW TO CALL M. LE VICOMTE 101
CHAPTER XVIII.
HOW TO CALL M. LE VICOMTE.
HEN a man is in love certain wits about him are
sharpened. He becomes more observant of
those moments which are advantageous, more cunning:
in snatching" them from the hand of Circumstance
before they actually slip away.
Courtot's wooing of Mrs. Bulpitt may have had all
the appearance of a very material affair. To marry
a woman because she is a good cook must surely seem
the essence of that spirit which predominates in the
mariage de convenance. And no doubt it is perfectly
true that that was the spirit in which it began.
You do not open the door to a lady who applies to
your master for a situation and fall in love with her
because you have to turn her away. Oh, certainly,
you do not do that. You may feel sorry for her. But
that is another matter.
And when your cunning prompts you to acquire her
services all the same, saving your master the expense
of her wages by marrying her yourself, why, you do
not even love her then.
No. Love, let us hope it at least, is a nobler senti-
ment than that.
But if when, in the process of this very materialistic
wooing, you find that the good woman has a heart
above all the culinary craft in the world, and that you
— of your own engaging personality — have touched it;
when you find her rough, worn hand, just trembling
under yours, her eyes lit with that illumination of ro-
mance which is unmistakable, just because your own
eyes have looked into them, you are well apt to forget
all your unselfish purposes, you are quite likely indeed
to realise, not only that you yourself must be a fine
fellow, but that she has qualities of gentleness, of
102 MIRAGE
goodness and of lovableness which you had never
dreamed of.
All this — nothing more or less than this — had hap-
pened to Courtot.
He was in love.
When Mrs. Bulpitt, without question, except as to
what was the meaning of ma cherie, without hesitation
and without complaint, has assisted him so willingly
in saving the Vicomte from that impasse into which
Rozanne's self-imposed invitation had placed him,
Courtot had been won to unstinted homage and devo-
tion.
Then he was in love. Then his wits were sharpened.
He had seen the old gentleman kissing Rozanne's
fingers in the garden that evening, had realised the
advantage it gave him and snatched it greedily from
the hand of Circumstance without delay.
As he served the coffee that evening after dinner
to M. le Vicomte, he made so bold as to say that the
date for his wedding could now be fixed if M. le
Vicomte would permit.
The old gentleman looked up with an indulgent
smile. When we are in love ourselves, we are always
indulgent to others in the same predicament. It is
so much more than probable that they are never as
deeply moved as ourselves; so likely that their feel-
ings are not as serious — not as intense. But they
love and we feel sympathy for them. On that score
we are ready to grant them anything. Courtot was
quite aware of that. And had he not seen M. le Vicomte
kissing Rosanne's fingers under the apple tree?
" So the lady has given her consent, Courtot ? "
" Yes, M. le Vicomte."
" And of course you are very happy? "
" Yes, M. le Vicomte. She is good— it may not be
that she is beautiful — but she is very good. I did not
know in England that a woman could be so good as
Mrs. Bulpitt."
The old gentleman looked up with a frown. He was
HOW TO CALL M. LE VICOMTE 103
in love. It must not be forgotten that he was in love.;
"The world is full of good women, Courtot," he
said, " but it needs a man who is good himself to find
them. If you have found a good woman, Courtot, you
are a good man. There is some truth in that, believe
me. Well, then '' — he folded his serviette with infinite
care and laid it on the table beside his empty cup —
" when am I to see this Mrs. Bulpitt ? I told you I
should like to see her before I decided whether there
— whether there would be room for her in the cot-
tage."
" You may see her, M. le Vicomte," said Courtot,
* at any moment that you please."
" Now, could I see her now? >L
"Oh, yes, monsieur."
" Then why not now ? She lives in the village, you
said ? "•
"Yes, monsieur."
" Then go and fetch her now— I'll see her now.
Tell her, Courtot, tell her that— that— ah ! yes— tell
her that I am accustomed to men-servants in my house
and that — that — I only just want to see if she is quiet
and agreeable before I — you understand — you'll know
better how to talk to her than I shall, but give her
some reason, some reason, but I must see her. It's a
responsibility, you know, Courtot — this marrying — it's
quite a responsibility, and if she's to live in the cottage
here — well, you see, I shall have to share it. But I
shall be lenient, you can rely upon my being lenient."
When Mrs. Bulpitt was told of the impending inter-
view her mouth opened, her eys dilated.
"Oh, I can't! "she exclaimed. "How can I?
Why, look at me ! "
Courtot did look at her, then he kissed her.
" It is quite good," he said, " you will do splendid.
I have told M. le Vicomte you are not beautiful. ' She
is good,' I tell him. ' I did not know,' I tell him, ' I
did not know in England there could be so good a
woman as Mrs. Bulpitt.' And he say to me, ' The
104 MIRAGE
world is full of good women, Courtot.' Ah, he is
wonderful, the things he say. Allez! Allez! Put on
your hat."
" It's no good, my dear " — the poor woman sank
into the nearest chair overcome in her bewilderment—
" I can't come like this. You aren't going to persuade
me that a gentleman like him is likely to believe I'm
a good woman with the state I'm in. Why, I'm a
sight, that's what I am. If I can't go and take the
dirt off my face and put on a clean apron, well, I
won't come at all. We'll call off the banns to-morrow
morning and I'll go on Mrs. Bupitt for the rest of my
days."
Courtot gazed at her in despair. He pictured M. le
Vicomte waiting, patiently drumming with his fingers
on the table.
Oh, these women ! Will they never realise that
virtue is the greatest beauty they possess? The
thought spread across his mind in his own language.
He found quite a lot of wisdom in it. That all men
think like that of a woman once they love her did not
occur to him. Quite fondly he imagined it to be
original. He tried to frame it into English for her
benefit. It would n«t go.
"Very well, very well," he exclaimed disconsolately,
" go and wash, put on your clean apron — le bon Dieu
tu benisse — I love your dirty face — allez! "
She did more than wash her face. She did more
than put on a clean apron. She absolutely changed
her dress ! When after a few moments and impatience
had got the better of him, Courtot called out that he
was going, she cried back in reply :
" You can't come in ! You can't come in ! "
Oh, these women ! That is the worst of them !
They know exactly what a man means when he talks
like that. He calls out, " I am going, I am going! "
And they call back, "You can't come in, you can't
come in ! n It is very simple, it is very charming.
But that is the worst of them.
HOW TO CALL M. LE VICOMTE 105
And wh*n she did make her appearance in the won-
derful blatk frock and the black cape— the lean
aigrette nodding- perkily on the top of her black
bonnet — the only retaliation left to Courtot was the
retaliation that he took.
" I thought so ! " he exclaimed. " I guessed it ! "
While really it had never entered his head at all.
Then they walked up to the cottage together, and
once in the darkness, her hand felt out nervously for
his arm.
" He won't be very — very strict, will he ? " she whis-
pered. " And oh, goodness ! I forgot. What do I
call him ? How do you call him ? "
" M. le Vicomte."
He said it in his most French of French accents.
Just to tease her, only to tease her. We tease the
women we love, we can't help it. They seem such
children. And when the word " we " is used it means
men. Men are such superior beings 1
" Say it again," she asked nervously.
" M. le Vicomte."
He repeated ,it in precisely the same tone of voice.
She looked up into his face. It was absolutely solemn.
" It's no good," she whispered. " I couldn't do it."
Then he laughed at her, put his arm round her
shoulders and pulled her to him, kissing her cheek.
" Oh, don't," she said, " somebody'll see."
There was nobody within sight upon the road.
"Eh, bienf " he said, taking away his arm. " You
are ashamed. I love you and you are ashamed. Very
well. Mon Dteuf Quel -pays!" His gesture con-
veyed the utmost depths of despair. Then he stopped
still in the middle of the road.
" Mrs. Bulpitt," he said firmly, " kiss me ! If you
do not kiss me here, now, you will have put on that
bonnet and that cape and that frock all for nothing.
No ! Do not look to see if anyone is coming. Kiss
me!"
There was really nothing for it but to obey. French-
106 MIRAGE
men had very peculiar Ideas about things. She was
not quite certain whether she disliked those ideas or
not ; but it was quite impossible to thini that she
should have put on her best dress for nothing, so she
kissed, there in the middle of the road, praying in the
heart of her that none of the chapel people were look-
ing out of their windows.
" Now," he said, I will tell you how to call M. le
Vicomte.'2-
CHAPTER XIX.
THE INSPECTION.
TXTHEN the door into the square hall opened,
M. le Vicomte was in the midst of writing a
poem. He always strove to express in verse those
moments in his life which stood apart, and this — this
day when M. Courvoisier had thrown open for him
the gate into a garden, luxuriant with the flowers of
glorious possibility, was such a moment when all his
emotions, all surprise, all delight, concentrated them-
selves into those fragile- inadequate, useless little
poems he had so aptly called Songs of Yesterday.
" There shall be no more sighing of the wind,
No longer breezes whisper in the wheat
With an arm as lithe
As the reaper's scythe
Fate scatters all her harvest at my feet."
He had got as far as this, the end of the first verse.
But he was not quite satisfied with that first line.
Why, for instance, should there be no more sighing
of the wind ? Sighing — oh, yes ! Sighing, certainly !
That there should be no more of it all harmonised
with that undeviating principle of his life that it was
bourgeois to be despondent. But why of the wind?
THE INSPECTION 107
Could he justify it? No. Would it be likely that
after the harvest was cut the winds of heaven would
alter their courses for one single moment ? Most
certainly it would not. Yet it sounded well. " There
shall be no more sighing of the wind." He could not
help liking it, just as a line, that was all, only as a
line.
" There shall be no more sighing of the wind
No longer breezes whisper in the wheat."
Oh, it must do. He let it pass. Then the door
opened — following a timid knock which he had been
too engrossed to notice — and admitted Mrs. Bulpitt.
When he turned round she bobbed and said, " Good-
evening, sir," regardless of all the rehearsals which
Courtot had given her.
"Good-evening, Mrs. Bulpitt," he said amiably;
and to himself he added, " A most respectable-looking
woman, my good Courtot. But why marry her ? "
" I understand," he continued aloud, " from
Courtot, my servant, that you and he wish to be
married."
" Yes, sir " — she bobbed again — " he's asked me,
that is, and I'm agreeable."
" Ah, well, I — I hope you'll be very happy." He
smiled at her, and oh ! he could smile so charmingly.
She wreathed into smiles herself and pulled, bashfully,
at a loosened stitch in her black glove. Maybe it is
difficult to imagine it quite fascinating to see the
foolish embarrassment of a woman of forty-nine who
is in love, but it is quite fascinating — quite. " But,
let me see," he continued, " oh, yes, I'm — I'm only
accustomed to men-servants, you know, Mrs. Bulpitt."
She nodded her head.
" So he told me, sir, so he told me when he first
came to see me."
When he first came to see her? What did that
mean ? He had only told Courtot to say that to her
this evening. However
io8 MIRAGE
" Well, I understand," he went on. " that Courtot
wishes to bring1 you here to the cottage. Of course,
so long" as he is in my service, he must live here.
And this is a small place, Mrs. Bulpitt ; oh, it is wee
— tiny. So I told Courtot that I must see you first
before I gave him permission. I am sure you under-
stand. It is only that I should not like to have
anyone in this cottage who would — would " — he tried
so hard not to hurt her feelings — " make it uncom-
fortable for me. But of course," he added quickly,
very quickly, " now that I have seen you, I find you
quiet, respectable, honest, everything that I could
wish." How could one be dishonest with such a
trusting nature as this ? He had only seen her for
five minutes. " And I am sure that Courtot is a very
happy man."
Of course, she loved him then. They all loved him.
He did everything so beautifully. His dignity was
never lessened however friendly his conversation
might be.
" I don't think you'll have anything to complain of
in me, sir," she said, " and I'm sure I'm very much
obliged to you. I know I shall be very happy here.1'
She kept back her natural inclination to tears, knowing
how much gentlemen objected to them.
" Oh, I think you will be happy," he said.
" Courtot is a good fellow, the best in the world.
And I assure you I should not willingly let him marry
unless he had found a good woman like yourself who
was worthy of him."
This was all very harassing. She did her best not
to cry. Her eyes blinked and she sniffed a little.
These French people had an uncomfortable way of
touching one's heart. She did not really want to cry;
but she felt perilously near it. An Englishman in
the same situation would have just looked her up and
down and passed her, as they judged the horses ia
the cattle fair at Maidlow. But these Frenchmen !
THE INSPECTION log
Well, look at the way Courtot had wooed her ! She
began to think it a characteristic of the country. No
wonder, with two such palpable examples before her
very eyes.
" I'm sure I hope I'll come up to your expectations,
m-m-mossier." She gave it up ! She was too agitated
then to remember all the different inflections in
Courtot's voice when he had rehearsed her out in the
garden. " And of course if there's anything I can
do about the house, sir, I shall be only too plased.
I think I may say I can cook. I had superintendence
of the kitchen for three years up at Thurnham House
there — Mr. Brabazon's place — while my late husband
was butler; when he died they got a man to do the
cooking, a foreign I think he is. But I fancy I may
say I can cook."
Now she was taking advantage of him. If she was
going to interfere to any extent in the management
of his household, he must nip it in the bud.
" I don't think I shall expect you to do anything
like that, Mrs. Bulpitt," he said quickly. " Courtot
can cook very well indeed when he likes. I had
someone to dine with me the other evening and he
served me as nice a little dinner as I could want.
Oh, he can cook very well when he likes."
Was ever a woman placed under such a stress of
temptation as this ? It was hard, it was very bitter.
It is so naturally human to grudge the praise given
to another, which by every right — except that of
loyalty— one might claim for oneself. Praise, after
all, is the only payment in this world. The minted
metal, clinking in the hand, is nothing to it. Still,
though they who work in the glare of the footlights,
eager to skim the sudden surface of applause though
they may be in the public eye, yet he who works by
the light of one tallow candle is in the eye of God.
She wanted the glare of the footlights. In that
moment she craved for the surface of applause, did
no MIRAGE
; that estimable Mrs. Bulpitt. But loyalty won out.
She chose the obscure light of the tallow candle.
She kept her own counsel. This is heroism.
" I didn't say that, sir, meaning as I should want
to interfere," she explained. " I was only telling you
that I had been cook up at Thurnham House — in fact,
of course, sir, as you know, it was through applying
here for the situation of cook that I came to meet
Courtot."
She saw no harm in saying that. There was no
disloyalty in insisting that however good in the craft
he might believe Courtot to be, still, she knew her
work. It was not incumbent upon her to absolutely
plead incompetence.
"You came here to apply for the situation of
cook?" repeated the Vicomte. Slowly the truth was
beginning to reach him. " A most respectable-
looking woman, my good Courtot, but why marry
her ? " He remembered that thought crossing his
mind when first she had entered the room. Was this
why ? Was this why ?
" Yes, sir, Courtot said he'd speak to you about
it."
"Well, well!"
"And then he came to me a few days later and
said as how you didn't like women servants about
the place. That was the way it all began, sir."
"You fell in love then?"
M Well, sir, I can't say as I did, straight from the
first. It hadn't entered my head. It wasn't till he
said about my being lonely that the thought of it
first came to me."
" I see, oh, I see, Mrs. Bulpitt. You mean the
fancy found him first?"
"Well, it's generally in that way, isn't it, sir?
The man's eye falls on the woman first, as you
might say. I know I shouldn't have thought of
taarrying Mr. Bulpitt if he hadn't, in a manner of
Speaking, begun it."
THE INSPECTION in
" Yes, I quite understand." He rose to his feet inti-
mating that the interview was at an end. " Well, thank
you, Mrs. Bulpitt, for this — this little conversation.
I shall be obliged if, when you go out, you would
tell Courtot that I want to speak to him. Thank
you, good-evening — good-evening."
As the door closed, he turned on his heel, took his
snuff-box from his pocket, pinched the powder
vehemently between his fingers, and shook it under-
neath his nose as he walked excitedly across the
room.
XThe rascal," 'he mu*' red to himself; " the un«
pardonable villainy of it!"
Oh, he was incensed ! The eighteen sixpences
were nothing to this ! To decoy this unsuspecting
woman into marrying him because she was a capable
cook! Mon Dieu! His blood boiled.
Then Courtot entered, imperturbable, serene.
" Yes, M. le Vicomte."
" Courtot." He turned on him. His anger in
the restaurant in the Tottenham Court Road had
been nothing to this, a mere ruffling breeze. This
was a hurricane.. The sense of chivalry in him had
been outraged. To treat a woman like this — no
matter what her station — it was unpardonable!
" Courtot, are you going to marry this Mrs.
Bulpitt?"
" I wish to do so, M. le Vicornte," he replied
humbly. " If you will permit it."
" You wish to do so?"
" Yes, monsieur."
"Why?"
Courtot looked steadily at his master. What had
happened? What had she told him? Had she told
him that she had cooked the dinner the other even-
ing ? No ! Whatever had occurred, he believed
more in the goodness of Mrs. Bulpitt than to think
that. Then what had taken place?
"Why?" repeated the Vicomte. " Answer me."-
j 12 MIRAGE
" I have told you, M. le Vicomte," he replied
simply. " She is good — she may not be beautiful,
but she is good. I love her."
Now what could the old gentleman say to that?
It was direct, it was simple. As Courtot made the
statement, you could not have believed but that it
came from the heart. There is no disguising of the
fact when the heart is in the voice, unless your own
heart be very ill-acquainted with such matters. The
Vicomte looked up at him, wavering in his mind,
completely undecided now. It was a very serious
accusation he was about to make. He hesitated
considerably. It was an extremely serious
accusation.
" Then is it "true," he asked, avoiding the direct
denunciation, " that Mrs. Bulpitt first came here to
inquire for a situation as cook?"
" Oh ! this was what she had said. How simply
one's most cunning intentions could come to light.
" Yes, M. le Vicomte, that is true."
"And you sent her away? You said that you
would speak to me about it?"
" Yes, monsieur."
" Then, having asked my permission to be allowed
to marry, when you had only seen her that once,
you go back and tell her that I am only accustomed
to men-servants in my house and therefore cannot
employ her services. Is all this so."
" Yes, M. le Vicomte, it is so."
" Then again I ask you " — he curbed himself so
strenuously, lest he should bring down his hand
upon the table with the question, and that would be
so undignified — " why do you wish to marry this
excellent woman?"
"Because, M. le Vicomte," he replied, "I love her."
Well, of course, the Vicomte was utterly disarmed
by such simplicity as this. But it irritated him; it
annoyed him.
" Do you mean to say," he exclaimed, " that you
THE INSPECTION 113
can be so readily susceptible to a grand passion that
you fall in love when — when you have just seen —
oh ! — it is preposterous, Courtot ! It is preposter-
ous ! You are deceiving this good woman. Tell
me now, tell me honestly, did you cook that dinner
the other evening when Mademoiselle Rozanne
stayed to keep me company?"
" No, M. le Vicomte."
"Ah, I knew it! I knew it!" He rose excitedly
to his feet, walked across the room to the window
and back again. " Mrs. Bulpitt cooked it? Is it not
so?"
" Yes, monsieur."
Ah, such villainy, such villainy ! But he had ex-
posed it.
" And now tell me," he said quietly, " what it was
that made you wish to marry Mrs. Bulpitt?"
There was no help for it now. The position was
inevitable, just as inevitable as it had been when
M. le Vicomte discovered the sixpences in the lining
of his overcoat pocket. Courtot took a deep breath.
" Will you please, if I may explain," he said,
gathering time.
" Unless you can explain to my satisfaction,
Courtot, I shall consider it my duty to tell this good
woman exactly the value of your sentiments. Go on,
I am listening."
" Well, M. le Vicomte, it was like this." When-
ever Courtot was about to use the ingenuity of his
wits, building a story upon a scaffolding of truth,
he began with this particular phrase, " It was " or
''It is like this." It helped him to visualise the
whole structure he was about to create. " It was
like this, M. le Vicomte. Mrs. Bulpitt she came to
the door one morning while you were at breakfast.
' Does he want a cook ?' she say. I shake my head.
I did not think, M. le Vicomte, that it was so. I
send her away and say I will speak to you. But t
know, M. le Vicomte, oh, yes, I know that you did
ti4 MIRAGE
not want a cook. She would be too expensive. So
I say to myself, c No, oh, no ' ; but I did not want
to hurt her feelings, so I say, ' I will tell M. le
Vicomte,' and I send her away. Then, monsieur,
when I see you do not eat the fish what I had cooked
for your breakfast, I taste it, and then I know. -1 1
cannot cook,' I say to myself, ' it is no good, but I
cannot, and M. le Vicomte, he will not feed properly
if his food is not cooked.' So then I think, mon-
sieur— Mrs. Bulpitt — as a cook she would be expen-
sive, but as my wife, oh, no ! oh, no ! So I come and
ask your permission. Then I go and see the good
woman herself. So much, monsieur, I admit, I de-
ceive her. It is the mariage de convenance. But
see what happens ! We become friends. She is so
good, it may not be that she is beautiful, but she
is so good, and I, ah ! M. le Vicomte, if you can
know the love that comes to a man's heart when
he kisses the hand of a good woman you will under-
stand. Now, M. le Vicomte, it might be that she
could not make the simplest cup of coffee and I
would still ask to make her my wife."
Of course, there was nothing more to be said.
Imbue a Frenchman with the spirit of Romance and
he will forgive anything. Besides, Courtot had
chosen that phrase of his so happily, there was so
much of the genuine air of simplicity about it, " If
you know the love that comes to a man's heart when
he kisses the hand of a good woman." Had not the
old gentleman realised it himself only that very
afternoon? Oh, certainly, it was well chosen. It
absolutely clinched the matter. The Vicomte held
out his hand.
" I have misjudged you, Courtot," he said. " That
is often the way in this world. There is always
something better below the surface of things than
any of us are ever aware of. Mrs. Bulpitt shall live
here, oh, yes, certainly she shall live here. She
shall cook me little dinners as she did the other
ARTHUR DALZIEL US
night; but she shall be in my service, Courtot> not
in yours, not in yours. We have passed the days
when a man's wife is his servant."
CHAPTER XX. jj
ARTHUR DALZIEL.
^\NE grows old as much from habit as anything
^^ else. There is nothing like a groove, nothing
like a deep-rooted custom to atrophy the mind, to
waste it away into old age before its time. The man
who takes his hour's sleep every afternoon and comes
to need it from habit may be preserving his health,
but he is in a fair way towards becoming a prey to
senility. That is so. One might think health has a
lot to do with youth. It is a mistake. There was
scarcely a healthier man in the whole of Buckingham-
shire than Wilfrid Somerset, but habits and grooves
and invariable customs had made him an old man at
fifty-four. Typically, he was an Englishman, and that
accounts for a great deal of it. As a nation we are
the slaves of custom, whilst middle age and senility
are our most noticeable characteristics.
Rozanne had made a comparison. The odiousness
of such things render them none the less inevitable.
She had even remarked to M. le Vicomte that though
her uncle was some years his junior, he yet seemed
much the older of the two. The truth of it was
undeniable; the reason obvious. He no longer lived.
You cannot call it life when even existence itself
comes to be a matter not of your own choice but
merely an obedience to the habits which have fastened
themselves upon you.
There is an old man of the sea, waiting somewhere
for every one of us, and habits are the fingers by
which he clings to our unwilling shoulders, When
once his claws are firmly embedded, when once we
,16 MIRAGE
come to need a thing, not because we want it but
because we cannot do without it, then— though such
honesty be hard to find — we may fairly admit to our-
selves that we are old, we may reconcile ourselves to
the fact that it is impossible to shake off this old man
of the sea, that then his burden must be borne as well
as our own until the end.
The first glass of port that makes its appeal of
necessity after a meal is the first insidious whispered
persuasion of that very legendary yet very real old
man of the fairy tale.
Upon the shoulders of Mr. Somerset at the Red
House in Sunningham, he had fastened his gripping
fingers, and at fifty-four, Rozanne's uncle had become
old in mind, wanting in initiative, a man who just
keeps himself alive by the pursuit of those hobbies to
.which he has grown accustomed.
Is it then to be wondered at that the youth of
Rozanne should have found no company with such
a nature? His bees and his beetles, his butterflies
and his moths, they were interesting — what tiniest
insect in the whole of creation is not ? — but pinned
to a setting board, or watched through the glass
windows of the latest-patterned hive, they lost all
charm to her.
In youth it is the freedom of life that appeals — the
liberty to live. When that has lost its fascination
youth goes with it — a flame rushing heavenwards,
leaving cold ashes. Nothing but a great emotion will
ever draw it back again.
But despite all this soporific atmosphere — as deaden-
ing as the odour that oozed so heavily from his killing
bottles — with which Mr. Somerset had surrounded
Rozanne ever since she had left the convent in France
and come to live under his protection, he had not
succeeded in robbing her of the spirit of youth. She
was too young for that. And when M. le Vicomte
bad taken up his abode in the cottage and she had
ARTHUR DALZIEL 117
gone regularly every afternoon to see him, the dreary
evenings at the Red House, when wooden squares
were being made for the bees in which to secrete
their honey, or new labels were being gummed under
the endless rows of inanimate insects, had no longer
any power to depress her.
Then came Arthur Dalziel, the visitor whose advent
she had mentioned to the Vicomte under the apple tree
in the garden.
He arrived one afternoon. The same old vehicle
which had brought the Vicomte from the station that
first day of his arrival, conveyed him also from the
train. Its heavy, lumbering movements, the torn and
faded leather of its cushions, produced a very different
effect upon him from what it had done upon M. le
Vicomte. He chafed under the lethargy of its pro-
gress. At twenty-four the world and all that is in it
goes much too slowly.
" Can't you get that horse of yours to move on a
bit quicker ? " he called out once during the drive.
The coachman practically pulled up the animal to
a standstill and looked round . in amazement. Go
faster ? But what for ? The young gentleman was
not going to the station ; he was coming from it.
There were times in the placidity of their existence
when the old white horse had to put his best foot
foremost to catch a train; but even that was very
seldom. He never let it run as close as that if he
could help it. But coming from the station !
" Are yer in an 'urry, sir? " he asked.
" No, I'm not in a hurry, but I don't want to take
all night."
He tried to put some feeling into the statement, '
but an irresistible sense of humour made him laugh
at the end of it. The coachman laughed too. The
young gentleman was only joking. It was only his
fun. They were going along quite fast enough.
Why, they had passed Banks, the butcher's cart,
n8 MIRAGE
further down the road. It was standing still, certainly,
while the butcher boy flirted with the maid up at the
house where he was delivering meat, but it could
move when it liked and it had not passed them yetr
Oh, it was only his fun. And so on they went at the
same pace, the hedges crawling by as though they
,' were loath to lose such amiable company.
But how comes it that a young man of twenty-four
arrives to pay a visit to a man of thirty years his
senior, and old at that ? What possibly can two such
natures have in common ? Yet it is no more strange
than that an old gentleman of the French nobility
should take up his abode in a Bloomsbury boarding-
house; it is no more straDge than many another of
the incredible things that happen in this most strange
of worlds.
Two years previous to the arrival of Arthur Dalziel
in Sunningham, Mr. Somerset had paid a visit to the
county of Cambridgeshire in a vain search for a
specimen of the large copper butterfly which every
treatise on the science of Entomology will convince
you to be extinct. There he had met a youth who
had carried over the boyish enthusiasm for catching
butterflies until his last term at the 'Varsity. They
had compared notes. Collections they could not
compare; but the invitation had been issued then
with a blind disregard for consequences and but a
vague understanding as to when the visit should be
paid.
Two years had gone by. Mr. Somerset had prac-
tically forgotten the existence of young Dalziel until,
at one of the river regattas, he had run across him
again, introduced him to Rozanne and renewed the
invitation to see his collection. With his eyes turning
from Rozanne, Dalziel had asked boldly for a definite
date. A definite date had been given him.
And now he had arrived.
The station fly turned through the open gate on to
the gravel drive leading up to the door of the Red
THE COLLECTION 119
1 House and, at the sound of it, one of the curtains
shivered in an upper window, then fell back into place
as though a breath of wind filtering through the mass
of climbing roses on the window-sill had just lifted
it gently and rearranged its folds.
CHAPTER XXI,
THE COLLECTION..
1 'HPHIS passion for collecting has nothing to do
•*• with science. It is a phase of youth, pursued
strenuously between the ages of twelve and sixteen;
sold ruthlessly then for what it will fetch. Some-
times it returns again at thirty, when you are just
beginning to think how fine a thing it was to be
young. Then you start collecting once more;
anything, it little matters what — just to repeat the
sensation of youth. Finally it comes with old age.
Here youth had nothing to do with it. You collect,
and your principles are certainly more scientific
then, but the instinct is that of a miser; the
delight you find in your rows of beetles or your boxes
of eggs is simply the miserly delight in a hoard.
And when it comes to the miser showing his hoard
to one who has passed the phase of his youth, you
will find the essence of egotism in the one and the
extreme of boredom in the other.
That first evening when, after dinner, Mr. Somer-
set took out his collection and had the dining-room
table cleared for its more convenient display, was
one which called for the most strenuous effort of
patience on the part of young Dalziel.
He leant on the table, his eyes wandering to
Rozanne's face whenever the old gentleman gave
him opportunity, and prayed that each box as it was
iragged, smelling of camphor out of its case, would
3e the last.
120 MIRAGE
"Do you collect, Miss Somerset?" he asked in
a moment's interval.
"I? Oh, no," she laughed. "There must be
some b-buUerflies left to fly about in the world. I'd
much sooner see them out in the garden than — "
She nodded with her head at the pile of boxes. He
looked up to see if the old gentleman had heard
that last remark. Not a word of it ! He was pin-
ning in a fresh specimen of the Clouded Yellow
variety in place of one that had been damaged in
the collection. Moreover, the miserly collector
hears nothing which does not directly concern his
own specimens.
Dalziel smiled, smiled at her, just that little inter-
change of thoughts which, when the third person
present is unaware of it, leads to a better under-
standing. From that moment they entered into a
tacit collusion to deceive him. At least Dalziel
knew the full extent of her sympathies with ento-
mology, and if she did not actually know his, she
might have guessed them.
When the next opportunity for conversation came
— the putting away of the last box containing the
beetles and the reaching down of the first of what
promised to be an interminable number containing
the butterflies — Dalziel asked her if she was fond
of music.
She nodded her head. Strictly speaking, it is
not the best of manners for a lady to nod her head
in answer to a question, but there are various ways
of doing it.
" Do you sing at all?"
Mr. Somerset planted the first box heavily on the
table and dusted the glass with a coloured silk
handkerchief.
" I'm beginning first with the greylings," he
said ; " every one of these I caught myself. You'd
hardly believe there were so many varieties."
Dalziel struggled to give his attention. It was
THE COLLECTION 121
quite useless. He was far more interested to hear
an answer to his question.
" Yes, I do sing," replied Rozanne. " Oh, but
very little, I've really hardly sung at all since I
came away from the convent."
"What are you saying, Rozanne?" The old
gentleman looked up, blowing his nose with the
coloured silk handkerchief. " What are you say-
ing ? You mustn't interrupt, dear. Mr. Dalziel's
interested. You see, Dalziel, of course you know
the majority of these. But have you ever seen that
species before?"
It was all a see-saw at cross-purposes. When-
ever he could, without a breach of manners, with-
draw his attention from the endless case of butter-
flies and lead the conversation with Rozanne to-
wards the suggestion that presently he should come
and hear her sing in the drawing-room, Dalziel did
so. But all his efforts were fruitless. Mr. Somer-
set, benignly oblivious of coercion, toiled weari-
somely through his labour of love. Oh, he took
an unconscionable time over it ! Rozanne knew the
business. She had been through it many times
before. But Dalziel thought it was never going
to end. When the last case of butterflies was put
away, he stood up with an inward sigh of relief.
" Would it be too late to sing me a song now,
Miss Somerset?" he asked. He felt there would be
sanctuary in the drawing-room if they could only
once get there.
" You haven't seen the m-moths yet," she whis-
pered. " There are fifteen cases of moths."
Then she laughed. Her uncle's back was turned.
How could she possibly help it ? His look of despair
was so positively comical. Many another had she
seen wearing just the same expression — not so obvi-
ously as he, perhaps. She always tried to save
them from the ordeal. M. le Vicomte, she had saved
already. It always seemed to her as if her uncle
E
122 MIRAGE
were an ogre who dragged unsuspecting visitors
to his lair, from the tortures of which, she did her
best to save them. It had been impossible to save
this victim. He had been such a willing dupe.
She had thought he was one of those who took that
incomprehensible delight in the pangs of martyr-
dom. Now she saw her mistake. There was
still the case of moths, and his endurance was
already exhausted. How could she help but laugh ?
It was so ludicrous.
" You've got to see the m-moths now," she re-
peated. Oh, this collusion was very dangerous !
Give two people a secret to keep from a third party
and they are bound to come at some understanding
of friendship in the holding of it.
" Now we come to the moths, Dalziel," said Mr.
Somerset, laying the case on the table and dusting
it as before. " I think I may say that I've got the
best private collection in the south of England.
Rozanne has helped me a lot over this. She carries
the bicycle lamp while I go round the trees in the
garden with rum and treacle — excellent thing rum
and treacle, excellent. Rozanne, you look tired.
You'd better go to bed. You've seen all these
before. You go to bed."
She held out her hand obediently to Dalziel. He
took it, too chagrined to notice the twinkle of
amusement in her eyes.
" You'll have to sing to me to-morrow," he said.
Mr. Somerset looked up.
"Is she going to sing? Oh, all right, very well;
I've got to get ready for my bees, they'll swarm any
day now. ^You must come and see my bees. Good-
night, my dear." He gave her his cheek to kiss
without taking His eyes off the case of moths,
" These are Burnets, you see, Dalziel. I'm rather
proud of my transparent specimens. They're only
to be found in Ireland, you know; never been seen
in this country yet."
THE SPRING CNION 123
He looked round. Dalziel had gone to the other
end of the room to open the door for Rozanne.
When he returned, the old gentleman said the whole
introduction over again — his introduction preli-
minary to the exhibition of the moths, which never
varied.
" These are Burnets, you see," and so on.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE SPRING ONION.
TOURING the next week Rozanne came to tea but
•— once. The next day after the arrival of her
uncle's guest, she wrote a little note to M. le
Vicomte. The maid from the Red House handed
it to Courtot at the door of the cottage.
" For the old gentleman," she said.
Courtot lifted his eyebrows, shook his head.
" I do not know," he replied. He did not even
put out his hand to take the letter.
She turned the envelope round, showing the name.
" I don't know how you pronounce it," she said.
He looked at the writing.
" Oh, that is my master, M. le Vicomte du Gues-
clin."
"Well, he's an old gentleman, isn't he?"
She spoke in the independent tone of voice of the
ordinary English domestic. Courtot resented it.
One can just fancy that he would.
" When you, mademoiselle," said he, " are a few
years older you will speak more respectfully of age.
Do you wait for an answer ? "
She tossed him a negative over her shoulder and
Courtot closed the door.
" Bourgeois.'" he muttered, "bourgeois!" and he
carried the letter into the dining-room, where M.
le Vicomte was at breakfast.
11
I24 MIRAGE
" A letter, M. le Vicomte."
He laid it by his side on the table and departed.
The Vicomte picked it up. It was the first letter
she had written him. He wavered between delight
and apprehension, wondering what it could be
about.
When one is young, there is no implement sharp
enough for cutting the obdurate flap of an envelope;
later on one lingers over it. Half the pleasure lies
in pondering upon what the contents may or may
not be. In youth — but then youth is all impetuous-
ness.
He put it down again on the table and went on
with his breakfast. Five minutes later and he
picked it up once more, inserting the edge of a table
knife with careful precision beneath the flap and
neatly cutting it open. In just the same way he
had opened the letters which he used to get at the
post-office off the Tottenham Court Road, in the
little stationer's shop where presided the old lady
with the cork-screw ringlets.
This is the most obvious characteristic about age.
When once you find that you are beginning to do
the same things in precisely the same way — no
variation whatever in your methods, no susceptibility
to the influence of the moment's mood — then it is
just as well to admit to age. The servant from the
Red House was quite right. M. le Vicomte was an old
gentleman; but that, did not justify her statement
in Courtot's eyes.
He spread out the letter before him and was read-
ing it for the third time when Courtot came to
clear the breakfast things away. Then he looked
up.
" I shall not require tea in the garden this after-
noon, Courtot," he said quietly.
" You are going out, Monsieur?"
"No; oh, no."
He said it quite cheerfully, quite casually. Merely!
THE SPRING ONION 125
it was that he did not want it. That was what
Courtot was meant to understand. But Courtot's
comprehension was of finer quality. He had hap-
pened to see the young gentleman drive up to the
Red House the day before; now he went back into
the kitchen carrying the breakfast things, and seat-
ing himself at the table, he gazed out of the window
into the garden, fixing his eyes upon the empty
wicker table under the apple tree, as if the table or
the apple tree had anything to do with it. Oh, he
was a sentimentalist, was this good fellow Courtot.
Most men are.
But when the next day and the next passed by,
and there was no Rozanne and no tea under the apple
tree, you could not but have felt that intangible
sense of something wanting, something lost in the
atmosphere of quiet reserve which surrounded those
two old French romantics in the little cottage at
Sunningham.
They hardly spoke to each other. They were
really very miserable, both of them. It was all very
well to say that despondency was bourgeois. M. le
Vicomte forgot all about that. He was really very
unhappy; yet the knowledge that soon — soon per-
haps he would be rich again, more than rich enough
to ask her to be his wife, brought him some con-
solation.
For Courtot there was none. He knew nothing
of the possibility of the forty thousand pounds,
knew nothing of the prospect of their return to
Paris. All he realised was that a young gentleman
had come to visit at the Red House — a fact which
even M. le Vicomte was not fully aware of — and that
Rozanne had not called to have tea in the garden
for three consecutive days. There was no consola-
tion for him. He sat dejectedly in the kitchen in
the interval between his duties, and not even the
most importunate appeals from Mrs. Bulpitt, when
he went to see that good lady in the evenings, could
126 MIRAGE
draw from him any expression of the trouble that
was weighing upon his mind, beyond the statement,
"It is bourgeois to be despondent, that is what M.
le Vicomte says — alors — je deviendrai bourgeois —
oh, la, la!"
She looked at him questioningly.
" If you talk to me in that language," she said,
" you know what I've told you. It's as good as
having secrets from me, and I don't think it's right.
Now what is it? Did you burn the Viscount's
dinner for him last night? I told you when you
showed me that little bit of lamb that it only wanted
forty-five minutes. Is that what it is ? "
Courtot put his arm round her ample waist. This
was sufficient testimony that he had no secrets.
When he kissed her that clinched the matter.,
" It is nothing," he said, " nothing, ma ckerte."
Fancy calling a washerwoman who is forty-nine
years old ma cherie ! But there are ways of doing
it.
When he tried to kiss her again, Mrs. Bulpitt
pushed him away. " You'd better not do it any
more," she said warningly. " I'm afraid I must
seem very disagreeable, I've been eating onions. I
ought to have told you that at first, but you do kiss
so sudden. There's no telling when you're going to
do it."
" Eh, lien! He shrugged his shoulders resign-
edly. "It is I surely who am to mind, and I do
not. You English, I do not understand." He looked
at her in despair. " Because you eat onions, mon
Dieu / The good God made them; is it not so ? And
is He ashamed? Is He disagreeable? Ah, qu*nonf
rdu tout ! du tout ! du tout ! That is no secret. It
means, of course, of course not. Tell me where
you keep your onions? Have you eat them all?"
" No, there are some in that cupboard. They're
spring onions too. They come out of my little bit
of garden at the back. I cut them myself."
THE RESOLUTION 127
He ran to the cupboard. A plate of them was
facing him as he threw open the door.
" Allesf" he exclaimed. " Now I become dis-
agreeable also." He picked up the first that came
to his hand and bit it through. Then he turned to
her.
" Now, Mrs. Bulpitt, you and I and le ton Dieut
we are all, oh ! such disagreeable people ! But you
will kiss me now because I smell myself. Voila!
What a world!"
CHAPTER XXIII,
THE RESOLUTION.
T MPETUOUSNESS is in the blood. And even
**• that is not quite true; for so much has it to do
with the speed of passage at which the blood passes
from the heart to the brain that it cannot be actually
defined as a definite quality. Certain it is that the
older you become, the more lethargic is the running
of that vital stream, the more sluggish in their
effect are the ideas that move you to determined
action.
It may be said that his falling in love with Rozanne
had come quickly enough to M. le Vicomte; that it
is only when the veins are the bed of a mill race
that one falls in love at first sight. But this is
not a true argument. All that was the mirage, the
phantom oasis. He had but dropped back to his
youth. He was only loving again, the continuation
of that very same emotion which he had known for
her mother, Rozanne de Pontreuse.
But when it came to the definite action of asking
Mr. Somerset for her hand, then you might have
seen how slowly the blood must have been toiling
through the veins. He was not rich enough. How
128 MIRAGE
dare he presume to ask her to share his poverty
with him. But in his place a young" man would
have laughed at poverty. The world would only have
been waiting to lay its fortunes at the feet of a
young man. He would have taken that for granted
and urged his suit without a moment's delay.
Even then, when M. Courvoisier came with his won-
derful and unexpected news, the old gentleman was
not spurred to immediate deeds. When the money was
actually his, then — ah, yes ! then. But before then
would be too soon ; before then would be unwise.
So he would have continued, waiting on, until M.
le Marquis de Pontreuse was dead and the will had
been made public, had not circumstance — that master
of every situation — driven the blood in a mad race
of apprehension beating from his heart in a wild
rush to his brain and urging him to action.
On the morning of the fourth day of Rozanne's
absence, he was standing at the window of the
square-roomed hall, looking out on to the road.
This was the first time since he had come to the
cottage that he had left Nature to do what she liked
with his roses. Every other morning you might
have seen him, wearing a pair of rough leather
gardening gloves to protect his hands from the
thorns and moving from one rose bush to another
with a bowl of soap and water and a small penny
squirt, syrnging the shoots that were harbouring
the pestilent green-fly. He really thought he did
such an amount of good. But, practically, you
can't do much to thwart the affairs of Nature with a
penny squirt and a little soap and water. To
borrow an expressive phrase from the vocabulary
of slang — it is not on to do. Yet, until this morn-
ing, he had rigidly persisted in it, and the few green-
flies that had fallen from their occupation made
scarcely any difference to the life of the rose, there
were so many that clung on.
This morning they were at liberty to stay there,
THE RESOLUTION 129
all of them, whilst he stood in the hall, looking out
of the window, quietly telling himself that he ought
to be ashamed.
He spoke aloud under his breath. You might
have seen his lips moving.
" This is the way with you," he was saying to
himself. " You are never contented. It was just
the same with you in Paris years ago, my friend.
You chafed and you worried because you had nothing
to make your heart beat, and then, when the good
God sent you the most beautiful woman in the
world, you must needs worry your soul to a shadow
because she could not be yours. You want too
much, my good M. le Vicomte, you want too much.
It was the same in London. Every night, when you
went to bed, you crossed yourself and asked the
good God to give you back what you had lost.
And upon my soul, when I come to look back upon
it all, it was not so terrible a time in that boarding-
house, not so terrible by any means. The hashed
mutton was monotonous perhaps; Miss Cubbitt was
a little bit too — too insistent, but there was coffee in
the afternoon in the Tottenham Court Road. When
first you had that to look forward to, you were
pleased enough, but, mon Dieu ! how soon did you
become discontented again? Oh, very soon, very
soon ! And now — now when you are going to be
rich again, when everything looks — oh, ridiculous !
— you are discontented once more, just because this
little child of yours has to do her duties to her
uncle's visitors. Oh, my friend, my good M. le
Vicomte, there must be something bourgeois in your
nature after all. Go and look after your roses, my
friend. While you stand gaping out of this window
there are green-fly eating away at the heart of your
best blossoms for which you are responsible to the
good God Himself. Go and look after your roses — "
And undoubtedly he would have gone had not
circumstance stepped in at that very moment.
i3o MIRAGE
Down the road, with a sun-hat swinging loosely
from the ribbons that were tied beneath her chin,
walked Rozanne. She was laughing. She was talk-
ing. He caught the sound of her little stammer
upon a passing word and his heart — yes, over sixty
years of age, but his heart beat the faster. She
was with their visitor, her uncle's guest. Instinc-
tively the Vicomte's eyes rushed critically to
Dalziel's face. Her uncle's guest ! Her uncle's
friend ! But he was young ! He was a boy ! His
heart almost dropped into silence. How could it-
be? How could that old gentleman, that very old
gentleman up at the Red House, have so young a
friend as this ? There must be some mistake !
Surely there must be some mistake.
But he knew it was true. Inexplicable though
it was, he knew it must be true. Then the blood
flowed as swiftly as you please — it tingled through
his veins. It was jealousy — anything— -call it
what you like, but it drove him to the doing of what
he had so long, so foolishly postponed.
There, before his eyes, she was being taken from
him. Do you think he thought of chivalry then?
Where is the man who would. Fate had robbed
him once. It would not rob him a second time —
oh, no ! He would make sure of that.
Instinctively, unconsciously, he took out his snuff-
box. In all moments of extreme emotion he did
that, even if it were only to conceal his emotion
from himself. Tremblingly his fingers pinched the
powder and lifted it to his nostrils; and there he
shook it while he watched them passing out of sight.
Now something must be done.
He said it aloud, snapping the catch of the snuff-
box and putting it back again in his pocket, Not a
day must be wasted now. He must go to Mr.
Somerset. He must ask Mr. Somerset for his per-
mission to speak at once to Rozanne. No matter
if the Marquis de Pontreuse were to live for another
THE RESOLUTION 131
year, he must ask now or it would be too late.
The thought of speaking to Rozanne herself with-
out permission did not enter his consideration. That
was the way these things were done when he was
a boy, and he was not beginning a new youth now,
it was only the old youth over again. That was
why he did things in the old way.
He turned round, straightening his shoulders,
that gesture so characteristic of him when the
world, as he knew it, had to be faced. Just so had
he held himself erect that evening when he had re-
turned to the boarding-house after his first visit to the
restaurant in the Tottenham Court Road. In just
that manner had he followed Julia upstairs with her
enamelled cans of hot water, saying to himself, as
he forced a smile to his lips :
" When the spring comes round again
There will be another bud
For your eyes to see."
Ah, he was brave, was this M. le Vicomte ! He
had the spirit. If it was slow in those days in
driving the blood a-racing through his veins, yet
he had the spirit when the occasion demanded.
He rang the bell. Courtot entered the little hall.
" My hat and stick, Courtot, and my gloves. I
am going out."
What is instinct? There must be something in
it, something almost uncanny, something very
strange. In the tone of M. le Vicomte's voice,
Courtot not only heard the note of determination —
that was but common observation — but he knew
what was about to take place. His master was
going to act. **$ Something was about to be done,
and, as if he knew only too well what that was, he
spent, oh, so much trouble, gave such infinite care
to the brushing of the old silk hat. Never had it
shone so brightly. Even M. le Vicomte noticed it
when he brought it down.
i32 MIRAGE
Standing before a little mirror, he settled it on his
head — the exact angle. Then Courtot handed him
his gloves. When he had put them on he settled
his cravat. Then he took his malacca cane. He
was just going.
" One moment, monsieur."
"What is it, Courtot?"
" A brush, M. le Vicomte."
He ran and got the brush and sedulously brushed
the Vicomte's coat till not a speck was to be seen
on it. Then he opened the door and bowed as the
old gentleman passed out.
The Vicomte walked down the path and out into
the road. Then he turned towards the Red House.
" One would almost think," he said in an under-
tone to himself, " one would almost think that that
good fellow knew what I was going to do, the way
he brushed my coat and my hat; my hat — it never
looked so well. I shouldn't be surprised if he
brushed that too when he was upstairs. I shouldn't
be surprised."
CHAPTER XXIV.
WHO WAS MRS. SIMPKINS?
\
"X^ES, Mr. Somerset was in.
The maid whom Courtot had reproved
showed him into the drawing-room.
He was standing there, looking out into the
garden, where Mr. Somerset's bees were hovering
over the brilliant white borders of Mrs. Simpkins'
pinks, when Rozanne's uncle entered.
Who, by the way, was Mrs. Simpkins?
Unfortunately it has nothing to do with M. le
Vicomte or the issue at stake; but it is such a human
Question that it must be worth while the asking.
WHO WAS MRS. SIMPKINS? 133
Who was Mrs. Simpkins? She must have been a
charming- old dame. You may be sure there were
plenty of lavender sprays in her linen chests. I
guess she was fond of the flavour of cloves, too. If
ever she made puddings, which is just the sort of
thing she would do, you may be bound she reached
up for that little bottle of essence of cloves that lay
hid behind the bottle of cochineal on the top shelf
of the kitchen dresser. And in her apple tarts — ah !
Well — even Mrs. Beeton advises cloves in an apple
tart.
But every summer, we do talk such a lot about
Mrs. Simpkins and her pinks and no one ever takes
the trouble to ask who Mrs. Simpkins was. For
all you know, Mrs. Simpkins may be still. If she is,
you will probably find her living in some thatched
little cottage just off the road that runs through a
quiet Devonshire village. There are sure to be tall
standard roses up the red-tiled path to the front
door, not wonderful roses By any means, but those
huge great blooms of pink and white that seem to
fit in so well with one's memory of the days when
everything- was simple, the days of simple hearts
and cabbage roses, those days which so few of us
ever talk about now.
There will be sweet-williams too, and columbines
in that old garden that belongs to Mrs. Simpkins.
Hollyhocks — oh, yes, there must be hollyhocks as
well. ^ And in the garden behind the cottage, in a
huge round bed like a gleaming sundial of ivory,
the figures on which a sun that is so brilliant has
obliterated, you will find her bed of pinks. And
far away you will taste the scent of cloves in the
air, and far away you will hear the hum of bees as
they hover in the lazy heat over the thousand and
one blossoms of Mrs. Simpkins' garden.
If ever you see a cottage like this in the country,
and someone asks you " Who lives there ? " you must
answer — oh, and with such an air of conviction —
134 MIRAGE
"Who lives there? Why, Mrs. Simpkins." The
chances are you may be right, you never know.
I don't believe anyone will ever know who was Mrs.
Simpkins. Go to-morrow morning and ask a florist
" Who was Mrs. Simpkins ? " No, don't ! You had
better not. He might tell you that she was the wife of
a butcher whose brother was a florist and that she lived
at Brixton, and was the mother of fifteen children. He
might tell you that there never was any Mrs.
Simpkins at all.
No, don't go !
I can understand now why no one ever asks.
They might find out.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE CONSENT.
HAT a digression !
But Mr. Somerset was in. He lurched
awkwardly into the room, cleaning his spectacles
with that coloured silk handkerchief of his which
did duty for everything. Red and green it was —
just the colours, in fact, which you might have
expected.
" Good-morning, good-morning, M. le Vicomte,"
he said, " you've come to see my collection at last,
eh?"
The old gentleman was so very polite. He knew
that unless he was particularly careful, this actually
would be the result of his visit. It was almost taking
a mean advantage of him.
" No, not the collection this morning, Mr. Somer-
set," he replied gently, but with determination. It
was better to be direct, to be firm; far better to nip
that prospect in the bud at once. He used the same
kind of gentle deliberation as when he syringed the
THE CONSENT 135
green-fly on his rose shoots with that penny squirt
of his. Ah, that little penny squirt ! It sounds so
ridiculous an instrument for a gentleman of the
French nobility. But that really is only because it
cost a penny. It could be quite efficacious if you
squeezed it hard enough; for that reason perhaps it
was ridiculous in M. le Vicomte's hands, because he
never did. It would not have been ridiculous, how-
ever used, if it had cost ten shillings.
When then he said, " No, not the collection this
morning, Mr. Somerset," in his firm but gentle tone
of voice, that enthusiastic entomologist was in no
way discouraged. He had often heard these modest
remarks before. People were no doubt considerate.
They thought of the labour they might be giving
him. But it was no trouble, it was no labour; in
fact it was a pleasure.
" Well, anyhow," he said, " come into the dining-
room. This is Rozanne's sanctum. I can't abide
it — all these little knick-knacks that women stick
up. They get it from the Roman times I suppose —
the penates. Upon my soul, I don't blame servants
if they break things in the drawing-room. If I had
to dust in a room like this, I should break every-
thing first as. a precaution against shocks to my
system. Come into the dining-room, M. le
Vicomte."
That must have been where Rozanne got her idea
of the ogre from — that sentence — " Come into the
dining-room." It was always the beginning. It
always is. Witness even that delightful nursery
rhyme about the spider and the fly. Every ogre
invites his victims into his eating room and they sit
down to a huge meal of something — porridge in the
case of the ogre, butterflies it was with Mr. Somer-
set.
Had the Vicomte been warned of this, he would
have refused the invitation. But he knew nothing.
Unwittingly he obeyed and, taking one last look at
136 MIRAGE
the room — Rozanne's room — where every vase filled
with roses was instinct with the gentle touch of her
fingers, he followed Mr. Somerset into the dining-
room.
The door was closed behind him and his host
crossed the room eagerly to four huge piles of cases
standing in an alcove, which the architect of the
house had no doubt thought would conveniently hold
a sideboard.
" Now," he said complacently — now when he had
got his victim safe within his lair — " now, we will
begin, I think, with the beetles. They are not
perhaps so interesting to look at — at least, not
from the non-collector's point of view — which point
of view, I take it, M. le Vicomte, to be yours."
Gripping one of the cases, he turned round with
such a genial smile upon his face. He was not
always as considerate to his visitors as this; but
now in the back of his mind, there was almost con-
sciously a definite thought that this victim was
going to prove rather difficult to deal with. If the
truth were really known, he felt somewhat appre-
hensive of the final result. It seemed quite within
the bounds of possibility, as he caught the look in
M. le Vicomte's eye, that the collection might not
be shown at all that morning. He was not really
surprised then when he heard the old gentleman
say:
" My dear Mr. Somerset, I am sorry, but if it is
the same to you I will see the beetles another time
—I—"
" Oh, but, M. le Vicomte," said he— he could not
let it pass as easily as this. He laid down the
case significantly upon the table — " I am sure you
will be interested, and this is a most excellent op-
portunity. We shall not be disturbed. Rozanne is
away on the river with young Dalziel ; they've taken
their lunch. You'll stay and have lunch with me,
and we can see them properly then."
THE CONSENT 13?
He. is notoriously selfish, is the miser, and com-
passivn is a sentiment of which he knows nothing.
But M, le Vicomte held to his own. As consistent
as was possible under the circumstances with his
idea oi politeness he was obdurate.
" I hive come, Mr. Somerset," he said, " to say
somethiig to you which is to me of great import-
ance. It would be impossible, believe me, for me
to do myself justice if I were engaged in looking
at your 'interesting collection at the same time.
Will you excuse me then and hear what I have to
say?"
Very relictantly Mr. Somerset picked up the case
of beetles again. His face was positively ominous
with disappointment. Snatch a bone away from a
dog and tten study the expression on its face. This
is what happens with the man grown old from habit
when you fcrce him from his groove.
M. le Vicente waited until he was actually putting
the case back upon the pile which stood in the
alcove; then ie coughed a rather nervous little
cough and felt for the snuff-box in his waistcoat
pocket. He die not take it out. The desire was
only to satisfy aimself that it was there. Then he
began :
" The fact," he said, " that Rozanne is not here
suits my purpose just as well. It is about her that
I wanted to speak to you."
" About Rozanne?'1 The case of beetles clattered
down on to the top of the pile with the others, and
Mr. Somerset looked round. "What is it?"
Now he took out the snuff-box. It was of real
service now. The handkerchief fluttered about his
moustache for a moment while he collected the words
and arranged them carefully as he was going to say
them.
" I have come to ask you, Mr. Somerset," he
began, " for the permission to pay my addresses to
i38 MIRAGE
If only be had not waited. If only he had givei Mr.
Somerset no opportunity to show the greatress of
his surprise, saying how much he loved R>zanne,
explaining how much he had loved her nother —
oh, saying anything. 3ut he paused. Anc1 in that
moment, looking into the amazement in Mi- Somer-
set's eyes, came again the cry of the voices " It's a
mirage ! it's a mirage ! Come back ! T's only a
mirage!"
Yet, even then, he paid no heed. Tie sun was
still high above the sand-hills, the paling light of
the evening had not yet quite crept into tte sky. By
this time his little caravan of souls was very far off;
it was such a small company of people, too,
so small, and the voices sounded so fain in the dis-
tance. But hearing then, even then, a shudder,
colder than that cool breeze from the palm shadows
which were playing on his forehead, trembled
through him.
For a moment M. le Vicomte waf afraid. Sup-
posing it really were a mirage. But he shook the
fear bravely from him.
" Of course, I expected you to be surprised," he
said quickly. He had not expected it. Oh, no, he
had not. His request had seemed most natural to
him. But it is a human instinct to take the first
weapons our fingers touch wher we have to fight
that fear which rises within oar own conscience.
The man, the woman, anyone endeavouring to con-
vince themselves against that inner conviction which
is so pitilessly insistent, may be excused if their
hand reaches for the hollow cudgel of untruth. In
that moment, M. le Vicomte was striving to con-
vince himself that it was natural, as well as Mr.
Somerset.
" I expected you to be surprised/' he repeated.
" The — the disparity in our ages — of course — well, I
suppose you would call me an old man."
He said that so pathetically.
THE CONSENT 139
Th«re was no hazard here, as with Rozanne, for
the sympathetic compliment to follow his self-de-
preciation, c " I suppose you would call me an old
man," ke said gently, and he knew that that was
just what Mr. Somerset would have called him.
But thtre are so many circumstances which com-
bine to alter cases; so many events which depend
one upon another that it is hard to get at the truth
in any matter.
To the amazement of M. le Vicomte, Mr. Somerset
replied bluntly :
11 Oh, no, not at all, not at all. Are you in fact
as old as I am? I don't call myself an old man.
Not by any means. Why should I ? No, my dear
M. le Vicomte. An old man ! Not at all ! Though
I admit you do surprise me. I — I had not thought
of this."
There is a reason for everything. The greatest
phenomenon in the world has its definite and simple
reason concealed behind a most incomprehensible
exterior. To M. le Vicomte, the attitude of Mr.
Somerset's mind to his statement was inexplicable,
however readily he accepted it. Yet the reason of
it was definite. It was quite simple.
That morning Rozanne's uncle had received a
letter from Mr. Brabazon of Thurnham House, re-
questing, in terms which had an ugly ring about
them, the return of the money which he had lent
him.
" You must admit I have been patient — " the
letter concluded.
Now a man who is aware that he has been patient,
is in a fair way towards becoming distinctly objection-
able. To become conscious of one's virtues is to lose
them. And some part of the truth of this had
penetrated Mr. Somerset's mind. He was dis-
tinctly anxious. He was in a quandary. And a
man of this nature, finding himself in one of life's
corners, will take the first hand that offers to drag
i4o MIRAGE
him out. Here now was the hand — that of M. le
Vicomte du Guesclin. The surprise which le had
shown to the old gentleman was in reality nothing
to that which he felt. He was quick enough to
realise the wisdom of concealing it.
" I am — I am very pleased to hear it," ie added.
" And I'm sure I hope you'll be very— er— very
happy. Of course, there is no concealing of the
fact that — that it is a great honour for Ro^anne, and
I'm sure she will be sensible of it. Most certainly
you have my permission. I should have thought you
might have taken that for granted. I shall tell
Rozanne myself how much I am in favour of the
match; I shall certainly tell her."
There was a tone of commercialism in all this.
M. le Vicomte tried to close his ears to it. The
honour that it would be to Rozanne — his favouring
of the match — there was something British, some-
thing of the shopkeeper's transaction about it which
grated on his ears.
He would almost sooner have had it said outright,
" M. le Vicomte, you are rather an old man to think
of marrying a girl so young as Rozanne. The
matter rests with her. Let her decide it. She
knows her heart better than I do. Let her decide it."
What honour really was it seeing that he loved
her? None at all. If she gave him her youth, was
it not a far greater gift than any title in the nobility
of France? If she gave him her love — what were
all the kingdoms of the world compared to that?
It took just the edge from the keenness of his de-
light in having won so far. The mind is far from
ever being satisfied. Things never quite happen in
this world as the least fastidious of us would wish.
There is some sprite — an evil sprite no doubt — a
sprite of circumstance, whose dearest joy it is to
have a hand in every moment of pleasure, drawing
the thread of hair across its finished edge and blunt-
ing of its keenest happiness.
THE BACKWATER— SUNNINGHAM 141
Perhaps it is as well — it must be as well. If we
ever knew the perfection of happiness, unspoilt by
the faintest note of disappointment, nothing else
would satisfy us. We should all become like the
princess in the fairy tale — a single pea beneath in-
numerable feather mattresses would bruise our tender
flesh and rob us of our rest.
It is not so enviable a thing after all to be a
prince or a princess in this world, and no doubt it
is unjust to speak of this little sprite of circum-
stance as evil.
The sprite is not evil. No, far from it ! It is a
good sprite.
" Then I have," said M. le Vicomte, " your
consent."
" Most certainly."
The old gentleman bowed.
"I hope I may be as fortunate with Rozanne,"
said he.
" She is coming to see you this afternoon," said
Mr. Somerset. " Did she tell you."
" No."
His heart beat quickly.
" Oh, yes, I heard her say this morning at break-
fast that she must go and have tea with you this
afternoon when she gets back from the river. You
will have the opportunity to ask her then."
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE BACKWATER — SUNNINGHAM.
HpHOSE moments of waking when the mind is
just conscious that the body is still asleep
are worth all the rest of the day put together.
Equally so in life is the value of those moments
when you know that you are falling in love.
A thrilling consciousness that the thing must
i42 MIRAGE
happen, that there is no preventing it, that in a day
or so you will be taking those oaths, the mere utter-
ing of which brings with it so warm a sense of the
annihilation of all time, so close a relation with the
immeasurable greatness of the infinite, makes you
dally with the sensation, linger over it, delight in it,
because you know that, in the conventional order of
things, it may never occur again.
So you lie awake in the early morning watching
yourself asleep, and the sensation of pleasurable
contentment is much the same as when you stand
upon one side and observe yourself drifting into
love.
You will not delay it too long if you are wise, but
if there is any wisdom in you, certainly you will
delay it a little. For these are the moments that
are looked back upon with such wonder and such
awe when the whole secret is out and there is nothing
left to be told. It is therefore just as well to give
some time to the making of them.
In this frame of mind realising every time, as he
watched her, how wonderfully inevitable it all was,
Dalziel took Rozanne out on the river that morn-
ing while M. le Vicomte was on his way to see Mr.
Somerset at the Red House.
As he pushed the punt away from the slip, old
Simmonds, the master of the boat-house, looked
wistfully after them. There was a twinkle, half of
humour, half of sentiment, though he might have
been ashamed to admit it, in his light grey eyes.
As they passed out of hearing he turned round to
one of his men.
" We've a lot to answer for, Dick," he said drily.
M Why?" asked Dick, with limited comprehension.
Old Simmonds nodded his head in the direction of
the departing punt.
" We've a lot to answer for," he repeated, and,
cryptic though the remark may have been, its re-
petition lent it a subtle meaning. Dick grinned,
THE BACKWATER— SUNNINGHAM 143
certainly he grinned, but it is doubtful whether he
really understood. More than probably he supplied
some explanation of the remark to himself out of
the fund of his own sense of humour and grinned at
that. It is commonly our own appreciation of things
which we laugh at.
On a mass of cushions Rozanne lay, her sun-hat
discarded, her hair catching lights through a thin
silk sunshade, all playing their parts in this in-
evitable romance which old Simmonds had taken
upon himself to answer for.
Trailing her hand in the water that lapped up
high over her wrist with every onward motion of the
punt, she leant back upon the cushions, some-
times watching the expression upon DalzieFs face
when his eyes were not in her direction, sometimes
gazing at the fleet of clouds, with their white, wind-
filled sails, which moved so majestically through the
sea of heaven above her.
For a long stretch, until the little cluster of houses
in Sunningham and the boat-house itself was lost
from »ight behind a bend in the stream, they said
nothing. Youth is proud of the strength of its arm;
and at twenty-five one has not quite got over the
belief that a woman is won by prowess rather than
by knowledge. Dalziel, winding up his sleeves high
above the elbow, where the play of that forearm
muscle could be seen to full advantage, was — quite
unconsciously perhaps — obedient to the prompting
of his youth. He certainly was very young.
Nothing would have surprised him more than to
learn that every time he bent upon the punt pole,
gripping it with the full force and ardour of his
desire to increase their speed, and Rozanne saw that
knot of flesh rise in obedience to the strain, that she
felt a shudder at the thought that men were so
strong and ugly.
Had he been told that she Kked him, not for
this display of strength, but in despite of it, he would
144 MIRAGE
scarcely have believed. So, for the first few
minutes, he worked in silence, and their flat-nosed
little craft shot down the stream, the water gushed
in tiny fountains over Rozanne's wrist, the lines of
poplars slipped away behind them and all the world
seemed on a tide, drifting — drifting — drifting down
into the very heart of the sunshine which is the ulti-
mate destination of all true and happy-ending
romance
At last, with a little stream of water dripping down
to his elbows, he stopped, letting the punt pole trail
away in the water behind them.
" Where are we going to have lunch?" he asked.
Rozanne woke from a dream.
" Are you beginning to think of lunch at half -past
eleven?" she asked, with a smile.
He shook his head. He was not so young as that.
" No, oh, no," said he. "I haven't done any
work yet. I only wanted to know how far you in-
tended to go."
She turned her face to the sun and nestled her
head into the cushions.
" Just go on," she said simply. " It doesn't matter
where to."
This paid no tribute to his strength of arm. He
might have noticed that, but it escaped him.
"You're enjoying yourself, eh?"
She nodded sleepily, more sleepily than she felt,
but she wanted to convey how contented she was.
" You look jolly comfortable," he added.
" Yes, I am. Have some of these cushions and
sit down too. We can drift."
" But don't you want to get a bit down stream?"
" No, what's it matter?"
He shipped the punt pole, a little disappointedly
perhaps. If he was not working, the chances were
he would tell her that he was in love. He did not
want to do that — not yet — not just yet. She might
be offended. It was so very soon. He had only
THE BACKWATER— SUNNINGHAM 145
been there four days. It would be foolish, in fact, to
tell her so soon as this. He believed that he knew
something" about the ways of women — the mind of a
girl of twenty was not such an enigma to him as
it was to most fellows whom he knew — and one fact
which he confidently relied upon was that they did
not like these sort of things sprung on them. They
distinctly objected to that.
As he watched her lying back upon the cushions,
he would have been ready to swear that a thought
of love would be the last to enter her head. Girls
of nineteen and twenty, if they had been brought up
properly — as he knew Rozanne must have been from
all he had seen of her in the last few days — never
allowed such ideas to possess their minds. They
were only children, and a rough-and-ready declara-
tion of love from any man was enough to upset
them, to frighten them out of their lives. If he were
to tell her that he loved her then, what would she
do? Ten chances to one, she would stand up with
an imperious gesture and tell him to put the punt
over to the nearest bank so that she might get out
and walk home. Besides, however subconscious it
may have been, he was enjoying those subtle de-
lights of knowing that he was falling deeper and
deeper into love; he was realising that when it did
all come out, as come out it must, he would be able
to hark back to this day when they were on the river
together and say:
" I loved you then, but you didn't know it, did
you? Every time you looked at me, I could have
told you I loved you, but you didn't guess it, you
never saw it even in my eyes — "
That was what he would be telling her soon, prov-
ing how strong, how deep, how lasting his devo-
tion had been, and the fact that soon might quite
easily mean to-morrow had no sense of humour in
it to him. To-morrow seemed a very long way off
just then.
I46 MIRAGE
But she wanted him to stop working, and then he
would have to talk, and what on earth was there in
the world to talk about but this wonderful know-
ledge that he loved every little expression of her
face, every little movement of her body, everything
she said and every word she left unsaid?
There was something he might say. He might
tell her about himself.
So there he sat down on a cushion that she had
thrown to him and told her all his hopes and aspira-
tions. He was going to be called to the Bar. There
was always a fortune to be made at the Bar if one
worked hard enough.
" And are you going to work? " she asked.
He threw his head back. He looked up to the
heavens as well, that direction towards the ideal, the
great, the infinite, which even a bird recognises
after it has quenched its thirst — let the biologist tell
you that it is to give the water an easier passage
down the throat, let him tell you it as vehemently as
he likes, but he has a material soul.
Dalziel threw his head back with a smothered
laugh.
"Work? Rather! I should think I was."
His father was a solicitor. His father would feed
him with briefs. Success was only waiting for him
to take it in his hands.
This is always true. Success is only waiting for
youth. The failures are those who spend their
youth upon other things and then, with withered
hands, try to grasp that which is too heavy for them
to hold.
And Rozanne listened to every word he said, her
heart catching the infection of his enthusiasm, until,
when he had finished, she declared:
" Oh, I'm sure you'll do wonderfully well."
" Do you really think so?" he asked.
11 Yes, really," said she.
Their eyes met. Oh, he was perilously near his
THE BACKWATER— SUNNINGHAM 147
confession then. The very words were dancing on
his lips. He picked up the punt pole.
" Look," he said, " there's a backwater over on
the other side, let's pull in there, tie her up and have
lunch."
She nodded her head. She realised how near he
had been then to that confession. There was even
a wondering in her mind, a faint surprise that he
had not spoken. If he had guessed that ! But
then they never do guess, and it is perhaps a for-
tunate thing that it is so. Idealism in a world as
real as this is nearly everything.
He punted across the stream to the backwater and
there they tied the painter to an old tree's stump. Then
he sat back again on the cushion, reached for his
coat and pulled a pipe from the pocket.
" Do you mind if I have a pipe before lunch? " he
asked.
What it is to be young and not forget one's first
lessons in politeness ! It was quite unnecessary to
ask her permission under such circumstances as
these, but think of the pleasure it must have been
to hear her give it ! She looked into his eyes as
she smiled when she acquiesced, and he tried to look
into hers. But neither of them could manage it for
long. It was only for a moment, then both of them
looked away.
And when he had lit the pipe they sat in silence
again, concealed away there in their backwater,
where passers-by on the other side of the bank could
only see the gleam of her sunshade as it caught a
ray of sunlight falling through the branches.
What, after all, was there to be said but that he
loved her? In looks, he said it over and over again.
In the thousand little attentions that he paid her
he conveyed it with every one. But the actual words,
how would she take them? The fear of losing all
scourged him to silence. And so they sat and
watched the water in the main stream as it hurried
148 MIRAGE
by, eddying round the tangled roots of an old willow
which kept guard like a sentinel at the mouth of
their little harbour of shadows. Their eyes followed
the huge, heavy, white butterflies as they tumbled
by, outside there in the sunshine where the river ran
so blue; they watched the water spiders beating up
against the stream with their angular legs always in
motion, yet making no progress, like people running
on a revolving platform, always moving yet never
getting out of sight. He pointed out to her a
willow wren as it hopped, piping, from one twig to
another. They both held their breath as a water-hen
stole out of the rushes with its brood of young —
young waterchicks, like little toy birds made out of
black angora wool with eyes, the heads of black pins,
that glistened with eager apprehension.
"Oh, aren't they perfectly sweet!" exclaimed
Rozanne, and before the last word was between her
lips they had vanished.
At last Dalziel rose.
" I heard a church clock strike one," he said.
"Where's the basket?"
Then they had lunch. Oh, it is good to be young !
It is a fine thing to be able to consume hard-boiled
eggs and heavy cake, and wash the meal down with
a draught of fresh milk, feeling none the worse for
it. One is so apt to forget as one does it that it is a
feat which very few can perform with impunity and
that one's own ability will not last for ever.
To these two it was nothing. They consumed all
that the basket contained and were ready immediately
afterwards to start again on their journey. Then
they left the backwater, rode out on the main stream
again, and refreshed, as is a giant with wine, Dalziel
drove the punt forward with renewed energy.
Time was absolutely forgotten by both of them.
There is no such thing as Time when one is in love,
yet the clocks strike, and Rozanne heard one of
them, that silvery sound of a church chime that
THE NEW PINK FROCK 149
comes vibrating over water as a swallow flies with
dipping wings.
" What time is that?" she asked quickly, roused
suddenly to the sense of her responsibility.
" Half -past two, I should think," said Dalziel.
" Oh, we must turn at once. I must go and see
M. le Vicomte this afternoon. I haven't been there
for three days. We must get back at once. How
long will it take you?"
4 'Half an hour."
"Could you really do it in that?"
Could he really do it in that ? What was all this
pride of youth for, if not to meet the demands of
such a moment ? Could he really do it in that ? She
should see. That she wanted it was sufficient.
When they pulled up at the slip, and old Simmonds
helped her to step out, she looked up into Dalziel's
face, red and burning with his exertion, but triumph-
ant that he had still a minute to spare.
" I think you're splendid," she said simply. " We
came back from below the marsh* Simmonds, in less
than half an hour."
" Well, my word, that's good going, miss," he said.
Then Dalziel's cup was full. It was worth these
three burning blisters on the palms of his hands, it
was worth that sense of complete exhaustion. He
was out of training, of course, but what did that
matter? He had done it in less than half an hour,
and — well — he was young.
What a wonderful thing youth is.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE NEW PINK FROCK.
l\/f LE VICOMTE had told Courtot that he might
1V1. get tea ready jn the garden that afternoon.
There had been nothing in his voice to convey
the momentous occasion for which it was to be
i5o MIRAGE
served. He had said it in much the same tone,
there had been much the same inflection upon his
words, as when he had told him those three days
ago, and they had both been so unhappy, " I shall
not want tea in the garden this afternoon, Courtot."
But in neither case was this discriminating Cour-
tot deceived. . He had an instinct as sharp as any
woman's, and what is more, he possessed with it the
power of comparatively reliable deduction.
Never had he taken such pains over the cutting of
the bread-and-butter as on that afternoon. It was
so thin — ah ! you should have seen how thin it was —
so thin that he had to hold his breath as he lifted
it from the loaf on to the plate. Even then there was^
many a piece that broke in mid-air and "Peste!"
he exclaimed; but he was just as careful to the very
last slice. The sight of M. le Vicomte himself go-
ing round the garden from one rose bush to another,
picking the best blooms and then placing them in a
vase on the table under the apple tree, convinced
him that he was right. That day was an event in
M. le Vicomte's life. He was perfectly sure of it.
Things were going to happen that day.
It had all begun with M. le Vicomte calling for
his hat and stick in the morning.
The mind that departs suddenly from its groove
must be bent upon some very important errand
indeed.
Very closely, Courtot had watched his master's
face when he had returned from the Red House.
Of course he imagined he saw a lot of things. In-
stinct is so nearly wrapped up with the imagination
that it is hard to tell when one is not working with
the co-operation of the other. Really, he saw nothing
at all. There was nothing to see. M. le Vicomte's
face was quite calm and serene; he betrayed none of
that emotion of exultant hope which was lifting so
high in the heart of him.
But when he ordered tea in the garden, ah ! then
THE NEW PINK FROCK 151
there was knowledge. Courtot knew. All of which
became the reason why the bread-and-butter was cut
so thin that afternoon, why there were fat little sand-
wiches of new-cut cress. And M. le Vicomte grew
no cress in his garden. But Mrs. Bulpitt did. She
cut it herself for Courtot with a nice clean table
knife, and wrapped it up in a spotless white pocket
handkerchief for him, in which he might carry it
back to the cottage.
" And you'll swear it's for the Viscount," she said,
just the moment before she put it into his hands.
" Le Ion Dieu Himself sees I do tell the truth,"
he exclaimed.
She believed him. That expression le Ion Dieu,
had a great effect upon her. She knew what it meant.
" Because, if it was for yourself," she said, " I'm
not going to be wasting my cress for you to be
eating it out of my company. If you want cress,
you'll have to come and eat it here."
Then she asked him for a kiss, a thing she had
never done with Mr. Bulpitt in the whole course of
her existence. She asked shyly, half believing then
that it was a forward thing to do. But it was his
own fault. He had taught her to look lightly upon
such matters — well, not exactly lightly, but certainly
as no chapel-woman should. She even wondered at
that moment, when his lips met hers, whatever Mr.
Mathews would think of her.
Well, let him think! He couldn't kiss like her
Courtot did, not in a month of Sundays !
It is an awful fact to contemplate, this ease with
which human nature can drift from stern* northern
respectability into the lax and pleasure-loving habits
of the south. And Mrs. Bulpitt was a good Congre-
gationalist. Mr. Mathews even, with all his senten-
tious knowledge of life, would scarcely have believed
this of her.
Yet there it was. She asked him to kiss her, and
what is more, would have been cruelly disappointed
152 MIRAGE
had he refused. That he did not refuse is hardly
worth while the mentioning.
So there were cress-sandwiches for tea that after-
noon. Courtot laid them unostentatiously on the
table beside the plate of thin bread-and-butter.
Rozanne had not arrived then, and M. le Vicomte was
standing by in the garden to see that everything was
for the best in what then was the best of all possible
worlds for him.
As Courtot laid down the plate his quick eye
noticed it.
" What is that, Courtot?" he asked.
" Some little sandwiches of cress, M. le Vicomte."
" Cest Men c'a."
He just caught, he fancied, a guilty look in Cour-
tot's eye, which made him think the better of ask-
ing where they came from. It was not worth while
to question the gifts which fell from the lap of a
gracious Providence on such a day as that. If you
are really a philosopher to the heart of you, you
never question Providence at all. Life being as it is,
and your Providence more than likely being some
other man's folly, it is the true essence of philosophy
to take all such things as they come and ask no
questions. For if you have a heart at all within you,
your pity for the foolishness of another will steal
somewhat from the pleasure of the good fortune to
yourself.
Therefore ask no questions of Providence. M. le
Vicomte on that occasion, and he was only a philo-
sopher in his way, he asked none. In such a
moment as that, cress sandwiches were very desir-
able things; they added a look of importance to the
table; they carried with them a subtle suggestion
that pains had been taken to please the expected
guest. He just accepted them and said nothing.
Then came Rozanne through the little wicket gate,
so shaky on its drooping hinges, which gave en-
trance from the path round the front of the house
into the garden.
THE NEW PINK FROCK 153
To honour him, she had changed her frock. It
did not escape his notice. He had his subtle know-
ledge of women, too, had M. le Vicomte. He knew,
or rather had it not better be said in this instance,
he thought he knew, the delicate process of change
which takes place in the attitude of a woman's mind
when she changes her dress.
Apart from all reasons of comfort, which in so
fragile a matter as this can readily be put aside,
there is a definite motive towards a definite action in
every little change which a woman makes in her ap-
pearance. She may scarcely be conscious of it her-
self. She would deny it vehemently if accused.
For a woman needs but little to satisfy her conscience
and can quite easily convince herself of an unjust
construction upon her actions if there be but the
shred of another motive in her mind. And such a
shred there usually is, for motives seldom run singly
where a woman is concerned.
Rozanne, hastening to her room directly she re-
turned, was actuated by three separate reasons for
the changing of that frock. Comfort no doubt was
the first. Certainly she would not have denied that.
Oh, no ! why should she ? Then she was going out
to tea with thi.. most chivalrous, that most aristo-
cratic of old gentlemen, M. le Vicomte du Guesclin.
Surely the occasion demanded that she should put
on her best frock ? She would not have denied that
— oh, no, not even that ! But most vehemently she
would have denied that she had changed her dress
to that new pink frock which had been so carefully
selected a week or so ago because Mr. Dalziel had
courageously said how well it became her and be-
cause she would most probably see him for a moment
or two when she went downstairs. With the greatest
vehemence possible, she would have denied that.
Butt* then, you see, in the heart of her that was
the real reason. And the real reason it is which
a woman never admits to.
i54 MIRAGE
She even thrust the opportunity upon him when
she came down into the hall. At first he was not
to be seen. So she called him by name.
"Mr. Dalziel! Mr. Dalziel!" Wondering for the
moment whatever she could say to him when he did
appear. She was about to call once more, to give
him the absolute fulness of opportunity, when he
leant over the head of the stairs.
" Yes, Miss Somerset."
It was so unexpected that foT the moment she
stammered in confusion, unable to conceive of any-
thing to say.
" I shall be back again in about an hour,'* she
said at last.
He nodded his head. His eyes were too full of
her and that new pink frock to think of any suitable
reply. And she walked out of the hall, warm with
that sense of consciousness that his eyes were fol-
lowing her, and that — well, that it was more com-
fortable and more — well, more considerate to M. !e
Vicomte to have changed her dress.
In the garden, before she could finally get away,
her uncle detained her.
"Rozanne! Rozanne!" he called, and he came
stumbling blindly over the borders of Mrs. Simpkins'
pinks — we know now that it is not wise to ask who
Mrs. Simpkins was — waving a letter in his hand. A
huge gauze mask was covering his head, and with
that long, lank body of his, he looked as though
he had just emerged from some mediaeval torture
chamber.
" I want you to read this," he said, out of breath.
" I think my bees are beginning to swarm. I've
told Dalziel to go and shove on a mask and come
and see them — but read this."
He thrust the letter into her hands.
She read it through, then looked up at him with
troubled face. That expression could not last. He
looked so ludicrous in his foolish mask. She laughed
THE NEW PINK FROCK 155
" It's no laughing matter!" he exclaimed.
A sense of humour is a charming thing, but so
rare, so rare.
" There's nothing to laugh at," he repeated sul-
lenly. " I can't get the money, and there's only
one way it's to be had if this confounded idiot Bra-
bazon is to be paid at once."
Now she was serious.
" What way is that?" she asked.
" Your cousin — M. le Vicomte."
Oh, they are cunning, these old men ! Age does
not rob them of that; in fact, it only adds to the
quality.
" Two hundred and fifty pounds is nothing to
him. Where could I find two hundred and fifty
pounds?"
Where, certainly? And he looked so ridiculous in
that mask, as he turned his head about in a vague
gesture as though looking for it, that Rozanne nearly
aughed again. But in the next moment she
•ealised the weight of the situation.
" Ask M. le Vicomte?" she repeated.
" Yes, ask him, I know what I'm talking about.
le'll take it as an honour coming from you. That's
is way. He'll take it as an honour and absolutely
e won't feel the weight of it. He told me he
anks with the Credit Lyonnais — oh, I know he has
eaps of money. Besides, it is only to lend it — only
• lend it. You look as if I were suggesting he should
.ve it."
" But why don't you ask him?"
" I?"
" Yes. It's not the sort of thing for me to do."
He had not thought of that. The knowledge that,
ider the circumstances, the Vicomte would not
sitate to lend Rozanne the money was all that had
pealed to his mind. He had not considered ap-
arances.
" Well, this man has the power to make me bank-
F2
i56 MIRAGE
rupt," he said sulkily, " and I like the prospect of
that no more than you would. How about your
chances of getting married? You don't consider
these things, Rozanne — you don't consider these
things from my point of view. I'm afraid you're
selfish — I really am — I'm afraid you're selfish. I
expect you'd be surprised to hear that I've had a
proposal for you already — "
Seeing her face, he checked himself. He had
never really meant to say it at all. The moment
had been one of impulse. He had spoken about her
possibilities of marriage and that had suggested it;
but he had never meant to say it. She would refuse
to take M. le Vicomte at such a disadvantage and
ask him, if she knew. He railed inwardly against
his folly and turned hurriedly away to avoid the
inevitable question.
" Who was it, uncle? " she whispered.
He started back to his bees. They were swarm-
ing, those bees of his, they must be swarming by
this time.
" Who?" she repeated, and her heart was hammer-
ing out the answer — "who?"
" Oh, I expect you know, I expect you know," he
said over his shoulder as he tumbled against a stan-
dard rose bush.
Rozanne turned slowly away to the garden gate.
Yes, she knew — oh ! she was confident she knew.
The heart of a woman never tells a lie, but then it
only speaks to herself. What she says is another
matter.
Oh, yes, she knew. But why had he spoken to
her uncle first? Why not to her? Hadn't that
spoiled it just a little bit — taken away that fluttering
sense of the subtly inevitable and made it so sure,
so certain, that the keenest edge of it had gone?
Why had he not spoken to her first? There had
been such opportunity in the lazy silence of that
backwater, why, for example, had he not spoken
THE MISTAKE 157
there? She would have understood. He could not
but have seen that she would have understood. Surely
she had shown it in her eyes ?
But she did not feel this complaint against Fate
to be very worthy of her. It was perhaps rather an
ungenerous way of looking at things, because, after
all, she was happy. There seems little that is ab-
stract about the quality of happiness when once it
comes to one. Abstract ? Great heavens ! It is a
most tangible thing.
She looked up into the sun, still high above the
poplar trees, and she smiled with her eyes at the sun
and the sun smiled back again.
There was no doubt that she was happy. The request
her uncle had made of her seemed fraught with but
little difficulty then. She was happy, she was
young, and the world — oh, the world was a wonderful
place !
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE MISTAKE.
"\7" OU would have been surprised to feel how fast
•*• M. le Vicomte's heart was beating as he came
down the little grass path between the dwarf rose
bushes to meet Rozanne.
But then this was the climax of his youth; this
was the moment in the pursuit of the mirage when
it seems that the next mile of sand will be the last.
Another mile and, tired, but at rest, he would be
lying in the cool green shadows of the palm trees;
another hour and he would hear from Rozanne's
lips that all this struggle for existence, this striving
to keep whole upon his back the delicate garment
of self-respect, was as nothing compared to the know-
ledge that he had won out of the very hands of
circumstance the freedom of his heart's desire.
!
i58 MIRAGE
As he came down the garden, and, taking her
hand, bent over it to kiss it, it was to him as if all
Time between the past and present had slipped away
into the dust of forgetfulness and Rozanne de Pon-
treuse were coming to tell him that she was free.
Closing his eyes, he could have imagined that he
heard the splashing of the fountains in the gardens
of Versailles and, when he looked up, the windows
of his little cottage had become high and spacious
like those of the palace at Trianon, the little gravel
walk around the plot of grass was a stately terrace
where marble statues were basking in the sun.
This was a mirage — a mirage indeed !
" And what do you think I have found to do with
myself these four days, Rozanne?" he asked as he
raised his head.
She took his arm as they walked across to the
apple tree. How could she have thought that even
that action would have held its meaning for him?
She did not think. Happiness will have nothing
to do with considered thought. It abhors it as
Nature does a vacuum.
" I know I've been horrid," she said, " b-but you
know I couldn't help it. Uncle Wilfrid asks Mr.
Dalziel to stay, and then when he's shown him all
his collection he expects me to entertain him."
" And so you have been forced into the onerous
position of a busy hostess?"
" Yes, I suppose I have."
That then explained it all. The Vicomte was quite
satisfied. She had found her absence no more de-
sirable than he had. She would sooner have been
with him every afternoon. That was really all he
wanted to hear. She had not said so in actual words,
certainly, but that must have been how it was. And
he could not see that in his readiness to accept it as
such, he was really but expressing the fear that it
was not so at all.
In the nearing glamour of the mirage everything
THE MISTAKE 159
is inverted, everything is upside down. A glaring
truth becomes the most amazing fallacy, the most
patent falsehood wears the semblance of a compel-
ling truth. And it is here that there lies the danger
in the phantom oasis; it is for this that the others
cry to you "Come back! come back!" But by
that time their voices are well-nigh out of hearing.
All that reaches you is the faint, distant cry like
the call of a bird as it speeds its way back to its
mate.
Then they sat down under the apple tree, and
while she drew off her gloves, the Vicomte watched
her. He, too, was playing with the sensation, sip-
ping the thought of all that was yet to come, before
he lifted the cup of divine reality, threw back his
head and drained it to the last.
" It is good to have you back again, little cousin,"
he said presently. " These afternoons have been
like long winter days, and yet the sun has been shin-
ing. I think there must be some quality in the mind
to make sunshine really shine, because a grey day
can be brighter than the brightest day in summer
when ' God's in His heaven ' as your Mr. Browning
says it. I don't know where le bon Dieu could have
been these last three days. He certainly was not
in His heaven, though there was scarcely a cloud in
the sky."
This was all so true. She knew how true it was,
though she could never have expressed it as he did.
Just for his way of saying things, she almost loved him.
Many and many a time in that garden, under that
very apple tree, he had given expression to thoughts
of hers which had been too subtle for her to materialise
into words. And now — the real quality of sunshine
was in the mind. How well she could understand
that now !
" I know just what you mean," she said quickly.
" I've felt that, just that, so often."
He leant forward with his elbows on his knees.
160 MIRAGE
" And you are glad to be back here under the
apple tree again?"
" Oh, yes, but of course I am. Why should I
be anything else?"
Why indeed ? But he did not see it in that sense.
He leant back again in his chair, gazing up through
the branches above his head.
"Ah, then God is in His heaven again! I re-
member it was just such a day — such a day as this,
and as yesterday, and as the day before when your
mother and I said farewell to each other in the
gardens of the Tuileries the morning after the ball
at the Russian Embassy. The sun was shining,
there was a band playing somewhere near; the chil-
dren were romping about the walks and the flower-
beds were brilliant with tulips. But there were no
colours in anything to my eyes then. The voices
of the children were pitched upon a shrill, discordant
1 note. The music of the band seemed the irony of
discord too, and that glaring sunshine was such a
blazoned imitation of what sunshine can really be
when it comes from the heart as well as from the
heavens."
" But why did you say good-bye if it made you
so unhappy ? '' asked Rozanne, wondering. Not really
wondering — pretending to— pretending to herself as
well as to him. In that one afternoon she had
learnt the secret of all things.
M. le Vicomte looked at her with gentle eyes.
" I loved her, little cousin," he said, " and I loved
her too late. That is why I have never married.
That is why I have chosen to live quite alone. But
here is tea; I have more to tell you presently. Oh,
yes, I have a lot more to tell you."
If you could but have seen Courtot's face as he
carried the tea across the little lawn to the table
under the apple tree. Conversation was suspended.
If only they would have talked, but they sat still and
watched him. And he thought he knew so well
THE MISTAKE roi
what they must have been saying the moment before
and would continue to say the moment he had left.
He had always conceived M. le Vicomte saying the
most wonderful things when he made love. Was he
not a Vicomte of the nobility of France ? Did he not
say everything beautifully, this good master of his ?
Besides, had he not once heard him say to Rozanne
de Pontreuse in the days in Paris long ago :
" Rozanne, whenever my heart beats you will feel
it, because you hold it in the hollow of your hand."
That was a wonderful thing to have said. Courtot
himself could never have thought of it. So he
imagined when his master made love, it must be dif-
ferent to anyone else in the world. He would have
been surprised to learn what very little difference
there is. He would have been amazed to find that
his wooing of Mrs. Bulpitt was much the same as is
the wooing of the highest in the land.
There are no two ways about making love. One
man has the trick of it and another not, that is
all.
But Courtot was not aware of this. He imagined
he was interrupting his master in the most poetic
of declarations, and to himself it seemed that he
could never place the teapot on the table in time
to get away before he had spoilt everything.
" Courtot's in a hurry," said Rozanne when he
had departed.
The Vicomte smiled.
" I expect he is anxious to get away to have tea
with his Mrs. Bulpitt," he said.
Oh, they were so wise, they did know such a lot
about each other, this M. le Vicomte du Guesclin
and his servant, Courtot. There was not a thought
that passed across the mind of one of them but what
the other, with such charming inaccuracy, could
guess what it was.
" But who is his Mrs. Bulpitt ? " asked Rozanne.
" She is," said M. le Vicomte, " a good woman
i6* MIRAGE
with a heart of gold and a face, oh I so plain. But
Courtot has found that a heart of gold is worth all
the beautiful faces in the world. He says himself,
and he repeats it so many times, ' She is good — it
may not be that she is beautiful, but she is good.'
And so they are going to be married."
Rozanne clapped her hands together and laughed.
" Oh, I'm sure he'll make her so happy!" she ex-
claimed. "What a romance! How lovely!"
They laughed together then over the thought of
it, and Courtot, just peeping out of the kitchen
window, smiled too when he heard their laughter.
" M. le Vicomte, he will make her so happy," he
thought. And if he had known then that it was at
his expense they laughed he would not have grudged
it.
But now the laughter ceased. Rozanne had come
to that moment when she felt it her opportunity to
do what her uncle had requested.
It may have seemed easy before, easy when she
had just heard the news he had given her; but now,
faced with the reality of it, yet knowing that if she
neglected to ask, her uncle would surely let the
matter slide in his dilatory way, she hesitated — and
simply because M. le Vicomte was so kind. Be-
cause, in fact, it was so easy, she found it so hard.
" Do you remember my telling you something
about my uncle?" she asked at last. "About an
investment he had made, and the money he had bor-
rowed from Mr. Brabazon up at Thurnham house ? "
She handed him his cup of tea as she broke
through the first fence. It made her sentence
sound more conventional.
M. le Vicomte nodded gravely. He handed her
the plate of cress sandwiches.
" I have not forgotten," he said.
" Well, Mr. Brabazon has now written to Uncle
Wilfrid demanding immediate payment."
Ah, now she felt it keenly. The fear that she was
THE MISTAKE 163
about to lower herself in the eyes of M. le Vicomte,
whose opinion — yes, without a doubt of it — she
valued more than any other in the world, brought
the tears to her eyes. They were tears of confu-
sion, tears perhaps of a sense of shame; not the
tears when one cries about things — not those tears.
It seemed then a most despicable thing to have to
do, and tears will come easily to the eyes of a girl
of twenty. She wanted him to think the best of
her. He had thought the best, the very best of her
mother. And would her mother ever have con-
sented to do a thing like this ? She doubted it.
There is in the mind of the least and the greatest
of us an inordinate desire to be thought well of, to
be approved of, and by certain people. Some there
are whose good opinion we count as not worth
having, others for whose praise we will strain to the
uttermost. Instinct, instinct alone, if the feeling be
a true one — guides our choice in such matters. It
is not, unless we are sycophants in the hearts of us,
because a man holds precedence in the world that
we shall wish to win his favour. No, the matter
lies deeper than that. It is by what we see in the
personality of him that we are led to our choice,
that we are moved to desire so importunately his
good opinion.
Such a man, with all whom he came in contact,
was M. le Vicomte du Guesclin. Rozanne felt it.
Even that pedantic entomologist, Wilfrid Somerset,
was aware of it as well. To earn the unfavourable
opinion of this courteous old nobleman was a state
of things which everyone who knew him would
strive consciously to avoid.
And now she felt that she was on the threshold of
incurring his grievous disapproval. So rich as he
was — he would find it a sordid business, this bor-
rowing of money to gamble with. Speculation is
always gambling when one loses.
In another moment she would have lost courage,
164 MIRAGE
turned the matter aside, found the whole affair im-
possible; but when he saw the glint of the tears in
her eyes — well, what could he do but take her hand,
murmuring, " My little cousin, my little Rozanne."
What after all was there for him to do?
Then she told him. Took no false responsibility
of it on to her own shoulders. Why should she?
Her uncle had asked her to speak. It was incumbent
upon her to tell him that. And she told the whole
miserable little story so quaintly, so much as you
might expect a girl of twenty to talk about business
entanglements, with phrases that would have meant
nothing to you if you were not listening with your
heart.
" And he wants you to lend him the money," she
concluded in a sad little voice, pathetic, if M. le
Vicomte had but been able at that moment to realise
anything save the incredible impossibility of it.
" Two hundred and fifty pounds ? " he repeated
slowly.
Ah, it was all very well to be thought rich. He
appreciated that part of it. But it had its drawbacks.
" Two hundred and fifty pounds ? " he said again.
" Yes." She looked up and tried to nibble at one
of those fat little cress sandwiches. " I know it
sounds a heap of money to me."
" But not to me, eh ? "
" Oh, well, do you think I should ask if I thought
you were poor? You would tell me, wouldn't you,
if it meant a lot to you too, because of course I
shouldn't think — Uncle Wilfrid wouldn't dream —
oh, you do understand, don't you? "
He looked up at her. He smiled. She made him
almost forget how poor he was. That voice of hers,
the plaintiveness of it, oh ! he felt rich when he
heard it. He might have been rich, it moved him,
it urged him so much to do what she desired. Yet
how could it be done? Thirteen pounds at the
Credit Lyonnais bank ! Oh, ridiculous ! Out of the
THE MISTAKE 165
question ! She must find out, she must know how
poor he was. That was all there was about it. She
must know. And then, what would happen then?
Would Mr. Somerset withdraw his consent to their
union? He might. One could never rely upon any-
thing in this world, still less without money. Money
v/as the key to so many things. But what would
Rozanne think herself? How could she think less
of him? It was not that he imagined it. But it
went against the grain — oh, surely, it went against
the grain to fall from, to alter even, his position in
her eyes.
"Supposing you were to find out that I was very
poor," he said gently, leaning forward and looking
up into her eyes. " Supposing you were to find that
I had not two hundred and fifty pounds in the
world—?"
"Do you think it would make any difference?"
she said. She stretched out her hand to him.
" Surely you don't think that ? If I'd thought that
possible, of course I shouldn't have dreamed of
coming, of saying this at all. But, when it isn't,
when it couldn't be so. Don't you remember you
told me that you lived in a house off Russell
Square?"
He smiled.
" Yes, I lived in a house off Russell Square."
" Well, the rents of those must be nearly as much
as that, perhaps more. Oh, please don't think I
should have come if I'd thought the leading of it
would have put the slightest strain on you ! I
couldn't have!"
Well, of course, how could he tell her? It is
very well for your honest men, your men of strong
minds, who have no sentiments for anything, not
even for the blunted truth which they are so fond of
expressing. It is all very well for them. They take
a pride in being what they are, because they can
never hope to be anything else. But supposing one
1 66 MIRAGE
has been something other than what one is, it needs
courage far greater than theirs to undeceive those
who think of you as more. It needs giant courage
to admit to the truth then, and if the sentiments
of these things have weight with you at all, well, it
is well-nigh impossible.
So M. le Vicomte found it. Yet the money must
be lent or the truth must be told — and which ? Which
was it to be? He knew it was impossible to obtain
money from M. Courvoisier before his uncle was
dead and the will had been made public. Ah ! But
there was one way. If he should ever require
money, the notary had told him, he could realise a
substantial amount on those little historical treasures
of his. Bourgeois, he had called it to himself —
bourgeois! Yet there was something practical in it
after all.
He took the snuff-box out of his pocket, gazing at
it thoughtfully, rubbing a finger over the diamond
letters on the lid. There was something practical
in it after all.
Oh, but it would be a wrench ! To part with them
even for a moment brought him a sense of pain.
He always fidgeted a little from one foot to the
other when some other person, examining the snuff-
box, held it in their hands. And to let it out of his
sight for months — months — until that will was read
and probate was granted ! He looked up at Rozanne.
It was for her sake. That made it worth while, oh,
distinctly that made it worth while.
" What are you thinking of, little cousin ?" he
asked.
She hesitated. Should she tell him what she had
heard? Perhaps he would understand still better if
she did.
" I was thinking what Uncle Wilfrid said."
"And what did he say?"
" He said that if he went bankrupt there would be
very little chance for me to be married."
THE MISTAKE 167
"Did he say that? Did he say that?" M. le
Vicomte was incensed. That was not a chivalrous
thing to have said ! " Oh, but it is not true. It is
not true!" he exclaimed.
" You think really it isn't true? Because he told
me that he had had a well — " She blushed —
cheeks go crimson so easily at twenty — apples redden
so easily too on a summer's day — " He said someone
had spoken to him about me."
Was this true? Could it really be true? Had he
told her so soon?
" And did he say who it was?" he asked quietly.
" No."
" But you guess?"
That smile of hers then ! Of course, he thought
it was for him. She would not have smiled so at a
younger man. But then he thought he was young.
Never was the mirage so close, so easily within
reach as then. He thought he was young, that he
had reached the very zenith of his youth. And
when she smiled, as he found only those eyes of hers
could smile, and when she whispered, " Yes, I think
I can guess," surely it was no conceit, no insuffer-
able pride in his own virtue of loving that led him
to believe ?
He leant so quickly forward, he took her hand so
reverently, he raised it so wonderfully to his lips.
" My— my Rozanne," he said emotionally, " I
have waited all my life to meet this moment when
it came. Oh, mon Dieu!" He lifted his head — it
was not theatrical. That raising of his eyes was
so real — there was nothing dramatic about it.
" Oh, mon Dieu / Do you think if I had known
this, I should have complained one moment out of
all these years ? "
Then, bending over her hand again, he mur-
mured :
" My Rozanne — my — my Rozanne."
168 MIRAGE
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE TRUE SENSE OF COMEDY.
T F you suppose that pity be one of the strongest
•*• attributes of a woman's nature you are not far
from the truth. It is pity which robs her of that
judicial faculty whereby, if she did but possess it,
a man might sit with hands in lap till the judgment
day and rest assured that the justice of this world
had not been mismanaged or abused.
But there must be no psychological aspect to this
romance of the mirage. Experience teaches one that
psychology coupled with Romance is not as yet under-
stood.
Yet pity, nevertheless, if once you wake it in a
woman's heart, will conjure more wonderfully for
you than all the strenuous appeals to her intellect
and her affection. And that word conjure is used
advisedly, for it is a trick, and only a trick, that
pity plays on a woman's mind.
In just those brief sentences of his, M. le Vicomte
had wrung the pity from Rozanne's heart.
" I have waited all my life to meet this moment
when it came," and "Oh, mon Dieu ! Do you
think if I had known this, I should have complained
one moment out of all these years ? "
What but pity could she feel for him then?
Oh, but pity for herself, too, pity for herself first
of all. As he bent over her hand, as he raised his
eyes above him, and as he bent over her hand again,
there was a look almost of horror in her face with
the realisation of the mistake she had made.
Then Dalziel had said nothing? It had been on
her lips to say, " Ah, but you do not understand.
It is all a horrible mistake!" It had been on her
lips to say that, when first he had spoken, when first
THE TRUE SENSE OF COMEDY i6g
he had shown her what had taken place. The
words were balancing- there, ready to fall when he
had added, "Do you think if I had known this I should
have complained one moment out of all these years ?
The words had frozen then, just like drops of
water that trickle down an icicle and freeze before
they can reach the point to fall. She could not utter
them. Pity deprives a woman also of the power
to chastise — strength niters out of her. Her arm
holding- the rod falls limp. That proverb regard-
ing- the spoiling of a child was made for a wojnan.
A father can thrash his son because he feels sorry
for him, an argument which never appeals to sons
until they are fathers themselves.
But apart from pity, apart from that dread of
hurting so sensitive a nature as that of M. le
Vicomte, Dalziel had not spoken. It was not so diffi-
cult a conclusion for her to arrive at then that Dalziel
did not love.
Few women can draw a straight line. None can
argue in it. Rozanne was torn in an agony of
doubt. She scarcely knew which way to turn, yet she
kept silence. She had neither the courage nor the
want of heart to deceive him.
There are many women like this. Nature never
intended them to be brought to such an impasse
where judgment and decision have to be swift and
direct Theirs should be a path where the only
choice needed is to guide their steps from crushing-
the roses beneath their feet.
A thousand reasons swayed her here. That is
why the determination to a straight line is so im-
possible to a woman — a thousand reasons sway them.
The sum of it all was that she could not tell him.
The sudden one moment of opportunity had passed.
She watched it floating away like a feather lifting on
the breeze, rising now, then falling, but ever being
borne further and further away until the moment
was a mere speck of time in the infinite.
1 70 MIRAGE
And when he raised his head from her hand the
look of overwhelming surprise had passed. She
was able to force herself to act for his deception.
" I spoke to your uncle this morning," he said.
" I had not thought he would mention it to you
so soon. In fact, as I understood him, I, myself,
was to speak to you first. He said he was very glad.
He wished me every happiness and success. But
I have been trembling, do you know? I have been
very uncertain of what my success would be. Be-
cause, Rozanne, you are young. You are younger
even than you know, and though I hold all this
happiness in the hollow of my hand now, still, I
dare not close my fingers upon it. I dare not
quite count it mine even yet. I am young no
longer my little child; do you think you fully realise
that ? I cannot bring myself to take you so readily
at your word " — she had said no word at all; but
then he imagined it — " without reminding you that
really, I suppose, I am an old man. The best part
of my life has gone — your mother took that with her
and keeps it in Pere-la-Chaise. And yet you make
me feel, oh, so young again — do you know that?
And that is perhaps what you see when you insist
that I may not call myself old. But I bid you once
more, once more while you can full well understand,
look at this white hair — mind you it was white long
before its time. Your uncle, for instance, his hair
is scarcely grey, and there are not so many years
between us — oh ! no, only a very few. Yet I bid
you take notice of it, and these lines too, and this
white moustache. My eyes, they are young still —
think what burns in them, but you must not look
at my eyes."
He knew that his eyes were as young and as clear
as they had ever been. That was why he told her
not to look at them. He was trying so hard to be
honest, to be straight about the matter. His heart
was set in the right place. He knew what honour
THE TRUE SENSE OF COMEDY 171
meant, did this noble old gentleman. But we are
human beings, every single one of us, which is a
very simple-sounding accusation, though it touches
the whole gamut of human weakness and strength.
" And i now," he concluded, " tell me quite
honestly; you need not mind. I have seen the
world go by, and I know that a man can wait too
long for happiness; he can find it as near his
fingers as I do now and lose it at a touch. Tell me
quite honestly if it seems to you that I am too old?"
He let her hand fall. He would take no unfair
advantage. That was not his way. He knew,
moreover, that a touch of a hand is coercion in such
matters as these. And he looked into her eyes,
waiting for the answer.
She tried to speak the truth. She tried to say,
" Yes, you are too old," and by that imply, " You
have waited too long for your happiness — the touch
of your fingers and you have lost it. This moment
that you have waited all your life to meet is a
mirage. I just say ' You are too old,' and it must
vanish before your eyes. There is no need for you
to thank God — you are too old — youth is the only
time in which to thank God, and all the complaints
you have made in all these years, they are quite jus-
tified. Don't regret them, because it is too late.
You are too old."
She tried to say it, but it was impossible. It
seemed too cruel, too heartlees a thing to do. She
did try, but so utterly she failed. The tears rushed to
her eyes. But he could not learn from them — no
man ever does.
It is a certain thing to say that a man always
reads a woman's tears to please himself. He can do
no otherwise.
And when she said:
" " No, no, I don't think that. How could I think
that? I've always said you're not old, haven't I?"
Well, then — then he tried the matter no further.
i72 MIRAGE
He had done his duty. Is there anything more in
life that a man can do, when he risks his happiness
in the fulfilment of it ?
Then he took both her hands in his.
" I shall do all that there is in me," he said
gently, " to make you happy, to make you never
regret."
She knew he would, but even then it was too late.
The regret was planted already and the seed of it
was too deep for him to ever unearth.
Possibly in time she might be reconciled. Not
that she believed it then, oh, no ! But she saw all
the nobility of his nature. He had offered her free-
dom, and knowing at what cost, she could not but
admire him for it. That, though, was all — admira-
tion, the deepest pleasure in his company, but not
love. Admiration is won from you — love is another
matter entirely. You give love.
" And now," he said, " this other business, this
very, very ugly business. What am I to say to
that?"
Rozanne shook her head.
" By what time is the money wanted?"
" In a week's time Mr. Brabazon said in his
letter."
" Oh, that means at once."
"Well, very nearly."
" Oh, it means at once, if one is to be dignified.
Well then, I think I could let you have the money
the day after to-morrow. Will that do?"
" Will that do? Why, of course, if it is convenient
for you to lend it to us by then."
" Lend?" he echoed. " I never borrow, and I
never lend. There are only two forms of exchange
in this world, only two — giving and receiving. I
will not hear of any others. I will not hear of being
paid back. It is you who need it far more than
your uncle. If he were to be made bankrupt, the
greatest pain of it would fall upon your slender
THE BELIEF IN WOMAN 173
shoulders. I give it to you, Rozanne, if there is to
be any such thing as exchange between you and me."
She tried to smile with her thanks. It was a
pitiful little effort, yet it served. No one possesses
a great deal of discrimination when they are happy.
He did not see Behind the smile. ^
" I knew you would be as good as this," she said.
" That was why I think I must have hated asking
you so much. And now," she rose to her feet,
" will you forgive me if I go ? I promised I would
be back in about an hour's time and it is long after
that."
" She wants to be alone now," he thought, " it is
so reasonable; I can understand it quite. She wants
to be alone." And silently he walked with her down
to the little wicket gate, kissed her hands again, and
stood there watching her as she walked down the
road towards the Red House.
" I think I shall make her happy," he whispered
aloud to himself. "Oh, I think I shall. She is
so like Rozanne — and Rozanne would have been
happy — so shall this child too."
Happy ! Had he but known it, the tears were
raining down her cheeks as she walked, and her
heart was whispering too, " Oh, I am so unhappy !
so terribly unhappy."
Which all borders on that true sense of comedy of
which life is so dexterously composed.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE BELIEF IN WOMAN.
O HE had been away more than an hour, but Dalziel
& was there, waiting, in the vicinity of the hall.
The moment the door opened, he stepped out of the
dining-room.
If young men had tact they would really be most
174 MIRAGE
estimable beings. But tact is a matured accom-
plishment learnt through a multitude of most un-
pleasant experiences. Dalziel had none of it. He
saw Rozanne had been crying. He remarked upon
it.
"What's the matter, Miss Somerset?" he asked.
" You've been crying."
There is no doubt he argued that if he did not
draw attention to the fact she would presume he
had not noticed it. It were better to be tactless
than that. But then he saw no want of tact; not
even when she threw her head back and walked by
him up the stairs to her room, saying :
" Oh, no, it's only the dust in my eyes makes
them smart a bit. A motor passed me on the road.
I couldn't see for a minute after it had gone by."
He looked up the stairs after her.
Then why did she seem so cross, so little pleased
to find that he had been waiting for her? The dust
of that beastly motor had annoyed her, perhaps.
She had got on a new dress, that was it ! The dust
of the motor had annoyed her. It was really not a
bad thing after all to be able to understand women.
It helped a good deal. Another fellow would have
gone away worrying his life out, wondering whether
he had said anything, done anything to displease
her. Dalziel turned on his heel towards the garden.
A smile was twitching his lips.
" Quaint little things," he thought sententiously.
" Quaint little things. She'll be as cross as blazes
till she finds out that the dust hasn't spoilt her
dress. Look at the way she scudded upstairs, dying
to find out. Quaint little things."
Now is one to call a man a fool because he believes
when he is in love ? Hardly ! Belief is essential
to ninety-nine out of the hundred. The important
attitude of men towards women after all is to love
them, not to understand them. And they are bound
to make their ideal in the process. Now in a man's
THE BELIEF IN WOMAN 175
ideal is the firm belief that women tell the truth.
They don't, you know. Why should they ?
The truth is not half so pretty on a woman's lips
as the dainty conceit of a lie. If he were not so
obsessed by his admiration for that abstract ideal of
the truth, a man would be quite ready to admit it.
He admits it already in other men's wives and other
men's mistresses. Never, unfortunately, in his own,
but then he is in love.
Had Dalziel been told the truth, that Rozanne
was crying- because she was going to be married to
M. le Vicomte du Guesclin, would he ever have said
" Quaint little things, quaint little things " ? Not
a bit of it ! He would never have seen that she was
crying because she could not marry him. She was
going to marry someone else. That would have
been quite sufficient for him.
And was it not infinitely better that he should
have said " Quaint little things " ? Oh, most de-
cidedly ! There is nothing but praise due to the
ingenuity of Rozanne that she conceived the decep-
tion and drove a motor car with clouds of dust out of
nowhere into the urgent necessity of the moment.
Until it was dinner-time, she concealed herself in
her room. Dalziel waited in vain for those few
moments before the meal, those delightfully stolen
moments after the gong had been struck, and before
Mr. Somerset came tumbling late into the dining-
room, assuring everyone that the clocks in the kitchen
must be wrong.
They were seated at the table before Rozanne made
her appearance.
" Late again, my dear," said her uncle, forbear-
ingly.
She took her place without comment.
Dalziel watched her expectantly. Something
must have happened to the dress or surely she would
resent the injustice of that remark. She said
nothing. Then something had happened to the dress.
i76 MIRAGE
That meal was a dreary one. The conversation
dealt entirely with the habits of bees in the swarm-
ing season. Dalziel listened while he ate food that
was utterly tasteless. Something- had happened to
that pink frock. What on earth did it matter what
sort of trees the bees chose to swarm upon if Rozanne
was unhappy? He found the old gentleman intoler-
ably inconsiderate. It was obvious that he did not
understand women, quite obvious.
As soon as dinner was over, he found the oppor-
tunity to ask Rozanne to come and sing to him in
the drawing-room.
Oh, why did he ask her? How little he under-
stood. If he really loved would he not have said so
long ago? He was only amusing himself, passing
the time away, that was all. She set her lips. She
would not care. Why should she care? She would
go and sing with perfect indifference. It was only
exposing a weakness to refuse.
" This piano was my mother's," she said as she
seated herself before it. " It came from Paris. Of
course it's very old. What shall I sing?"
Her fingers touched the keys. She must be in-
different. What did it matter what she sang?
" Vous avez beau faire et beau dire
L/oubli me serait odieux
Et je vois toujours sans sourire
Des adieux — des adieux."
She thought she was so indifferent. He did not
love her. Would he not have told her so if he had ?
And so what did anything matter?
" Vous aurez beau dire et beau faire
Seule elle peut mon malguerir
Et j'aime mieux si persevere
En mourir — en mourir."
The courage to act went with that last verse. En
mourir — she quivered on the first; at the repetition of
THE BARGAIN 177
it her voice broke. A little sob choked her, the
tears rushed to her eyes, and she fled from the room.
Dalziel jumped to his feet amazed.
"Well, I'm hanged!" he exclaimed. "I'd never
have thought that a woman would have taken it as
seriously as all that!"
And he meant the dress. He was still thinking
it was the dress.
When a man once gets an idea about a woman
into his head, and when, moreover, that idea flatters
the vanity of his understanding, the whole army of
king's horses and king's men cannot drag it away
from him. He cherishes it to the last.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE BARGAIN.
HpHAT evening the Vicomte sent a letter to the
post. Courtot carried it, wondering. It had
something to do with Mademoiselle Rozanne. The
very touch of it told him so. Besides, the cir-
cumstance was an unusual one. M. le Vicomte did
not often write letters, and with the most natural im-
pulse in the world, Courtot connected it with the
stirring events of that day.
For a moment, under the light of the lamp outside
the Crooked Billet, he was tempted to read the ad-
dress. But conscience pricked him. He felt
ashamed of himself and hurried on down the road
where it was dark.
The next morning, M. le Vicomte put on his gar-
dening gloves after breakfast, called out to Courtot
to bring him the little dish of soap and water, and
took his squirt down from the kitchen dresser. He
was going to do his roses. Then everything was all
right. How much that meant Courtot dared not
i78 MIRAGE
guess. There was still that young gentleman of
the Red House to be considered. Courtot held him
in very doubtful regard. He had not been happy in
his heart since that afternoon when he had seen
old Howard drive him up to the gate of the Red
House, and he would not be happy or contented until
he had seen him driven away again.
Still there was the letter he had posted the even-
ing before. Surely that meant something. As he
washed up the breakfast things and watched M. le
Vicomte out in the garden, squirting away with his
soap and water so gently but so conscientiously, he
tried to imagine what it could be.
Could it ever be possible that he was sending for
a ring? Oh, no, that was too good. That was too
good to be true. Oh ! it was no use. In good time
he would know everything. It was just like that
morning in the restaurant when M. le Vicomte had
come in to lunch. He had had to wait then. He
would have to wait now. Not for long perhaps.
He blew vigorously down the spout of the coffee-
pot and prayed le bon Dieu it would not be for
long.
Then the bell rang. He hastened to the front
door. Everything that happened had its inner mean-
ing just then. A ring at the front door at that time
of the morning must surely mean something. He
had to curb his inclination to run.
" I have called to see M. le Vicomte du Guesclin
by appointment."
Oh, how mysterious it all was! This strange
foreign-looking man, so well dressed — better dressed
than M. le Vicomte himself — Courtot had not the
faintest idea whom he could be. And by appoint-
ment ? Perhaps that was the letter last night ! Hs
carried a little bag. Perhaps it contained rings for
M. le Vicomte to choose from ! But while all these
thoughts whirled in his mind, Courtot's face was
quite impassive.
THE BARGAIN 179
" I will tell M. le Vicomte," he said slowly.
" Will you step inside?"
And how would the Vicomte take it? Would he
be surprised, or, knowing perhaps, all about it
would he be delighted? Surely he must show some
sign — express something ?
But not at all. He was quite calm. It even
seemed as if it were disagreeable news to him.
" Tell him I will come in a moment," he said
quietly. " I will just finish with this soap and
water. The green-fly have got so thick these last
few days. Tell him I will be in in a moment."
Then it was not a ring. Could the green-fly pos-
sibly have mattered if it were ? Courtot walked back
disappointedly to the house.
Five minutes later M. le Vicomte followed him.
The foreign-looking gentleman was waiting in the
square-roomed hall. The Vicomte bowed to him
as he entered. The foreign-looking gentleman
washed his hands and bowed as well.
" My name is Lasson, sir, Mr. Lasson. I repre-
sent Messrs. Reitz of New Bond Street. You wrote
to us last night saying that you had some articles
of value that "
" Historical value, Mr. Lasson."
" Quite so. And you want us to purchase "
" Pardon — not purchase. I made that clear in
my letter — not purchase." He raised his head; he
looked straightly in Mr. Lasson's eyes. All this
was more hurtful to his pride than living in a
Bloomsbury boarding-house, and the more his pride
suffered, the higher his head was held.
" I am," he went on, " inconvenienced by a little
temporary embarrassment, and in my letter, I said
that I required some money advanced upon these two
or three things which I am prepared to part with
for a short time."
Mr. Lasson's lip curled to a smile.
" We're not money-lenders you know, sir. Ours
i8o MIRAGE
is a goldsmith's business. We are diamond
merchants, of course, too; but the business is
principally concerned with the goldsmiths. I should
like to see these things you have, but — er " he
smiled again — "I think you must have made some
mistake. We are not money-lenders."
When you are not accustomed to doing business
with trade, when you are sensitive, moreover, about
the particular business you are about to transact,
they know just how to bully you, these merchants.
The pawnbroker, for instance, knows very well by
that furtive manner of yours that it is your first visit
to such a very objectionable, but very necessary,
place. He bullies you, oh ! you know he does. He
asks you, in a very loud and inconsequent voice,
how much you want on this, and you whisper back
so that the woman with a bundle of clothes in the
next compartment shall not hear you, " I don't mind
— anything."
" Well, you must name a sum," he says as though
you were wasting his time.
Oh, certainly he has you at his mercy. He knows
it too. You whisper the first sum that comes into
your head. It is perhaps half of what you want,
but you are anxious to get away.
He smiles sublimely and says he will give you half
of that. You try to show surprise; but your spirit is
broken. You take it. You would take anything to
get away.
This Mr. Lasson — a Jew you may be sure — coming
down into the country upon the order of a vicomte of
the French nobility, and finding this little five-roomed
cottage to be his residence, was armed at once with
all those weapons which a tradesman needs to bully
a customer into a bargain. The old gentleman
must want the money very badly or he would never
have sent to Messrs. Reitz; he must* want it
very badly indeed or he would never part with his-
torical treasures, valuables which, if you are in the
THE BARGAIN 181
trade, experience will teach you a man parts with
last of all.
There was all the atmosphere here for an excellent
bargain. Only the disreputable surroundings of
the pawnshop were needed to make coercion
complete.
M. le Vicomte was being driven already. He
wanted to ask, if they were not money-lenders, then
why had they sent anyone down to see him, or taken
any notice of his letter at all ? But he was afraid
of breaking off negotiations and he wanted the
money so much. Had he not promised it to
Rozanne ?
He tried, oh ! he did try to make a stand against
it.
"Is it any good my showing you the things
then?" he asked. But he said it so hesitatingly
that this Shylock of the trade had nothing to fear.
" Oh, I'd like to look at them, and we'll see what
we can do, now I've come down all this way. Yes,
I may as well have a look at them. Possibly they
won't be of any value to us at all, but we — er — we
understood that you were the Vicomte du
Guesclin— "
His eye wandered round the walls of the little
room.
" That is my title," said the old gentleman.
" Well, I shall be very pleased to see these
treasures of yours, M. le Vicomte. As I say, we'll
see what we can do."
" Then if you will wait a moment," said the
Vicomte, and he hurried out of the room. He dared
not trust the fetching of them to Courtot. Courtot
would understand, and he would misunderstand, too,
Courtot must never hear of this. He had often
looked at these treasures in wonder. They stood as
relics in his mind of that ancien regime which he was
so fond of speaking of. No, Courtot must never
know what had happened. He took them out of
182 MIRAGE
the drawer where they were kept under lock and
key. No one must ever hear of it, and then one
day — he unwrapped them tenderly from their bind-
ing's— one day they would come back again — one day
when that forty thousand pounds was his. They
should return then, back to his safe keeping once
more, and nobody should ever know of the terrible
journey they had made.
One by one he laid them tenderly in the palm of
his hand. When at the boarding-house he used to
say, " There is no France — there are only a few
French people." That was true, ah! very true.
There was no France left then, or what there was
he held there in the palm of his open hand. That
was all that was left of France now — a few gems, a
few jewels — things to be found in museums and in
art galleries, and just those few French people —
that was all. But there was nothing left which now
formed an active part in the life of the country it-
self— nothing — nothing. France was lying sleeping
under the glass cases of the galleries of Europe, and
here was he, about to part with those few remaining
possessions of his which held in the little space they
occupied upon the palm of his hand all the grandeur,
all the nobility, all the wonder of that great country
he loved so well.
He closed his fingers tightly over them; the little
ring which Marie Antoinette had worn, with its dia-
monds set about that frail lock of her hair — diamonds
that still sparkled as though her eyes were in the
heart of them; that little brooch which she had un-
fastened from her white throat as she stood on the
scaffold listening to the cries of her murderers
clamouring to see her blood — how could he part with
them? They meant so much — they meant all — yet
did they mean all to him? Would he be parting
with them if they meant all?
His fingers felt for the little snuff-box. Actually
the tears were in his eyes and his lips were quivering-
THE BARGAIN 183
as he took that out of his pocket. How could he
part with that? How? There was only one force
that drove him. It was for Rozanne.
Then, in all solemnity, a tear or two pressing from
his eyes and tumbling down his cheeks, he opened
the lid of the snuff-box. He pinched a little of the
powder between his fingers and raised it with the
characteristic action to his nostrils. There was
emotion indeed to hide now; but he was quite alone;
there was no need to hide it. It was not for that
purpose that he took a last pinch of snuff. This
was the last he would take for perhaps some months
— some months. He closed the box gently, brushed
his moustache with his silk handkerchief and tried to
conceal from himself the fact that he had wiped a
tear from his cheek at the same time.
Then he descended the stairs into the hall again.
" These are the three little things, Mr. Lasson,"
he said with a steady voice, and he laid them gently
on the table. " I want two hundred and seventy-five
pounds for them, with an option of repurchasing
them before the expiration of eighteen months."
He did say it so bravely. You could never have
told from his voice of that little tragedy of parting
which had taken place upstairs.
"Two hundred and seventy-five pounds!" The
dealer's eyebrows lifted. He smiled with sublime
benevolence. You could see him coming to the con-
clusion that the old gentleman wanted humouring.
" Two hundred and seventy-five pounds for these
three little things." He took them up, one by one,
fixing a magnifying monocle to his eye and examin-
ing them in a coldly technical way. " Why, they
are not worth fifty pounds between them." He
looked at the snuff-box last of all, examining the
diamonds in which the name was set upon the lid.
" You know these diamonds are very small," he
continued, " very small indeed; they're good, per-
haps, but — and who was this Louis anyway? Have
184 MIRAGE
you any idea? Some relation of yours, I suppose;
I see it's about one hundred and twenty years
old."
" I have not that great honour or good fortune,"
said M. le Vicomte, simply, "to be related to the
throne of France. This Louis — as you sp»ak of him
—was Louis XVI."
This answer would have crushed any man but an
English Jew. He looked up imperturbably.
" Oh," he said, " have you got an authentic
guarantee for this?"
The fingers of M. le Vicomte clutched against his
palm.
" No further guarantee than that His Majesty
gave it into the hands of my grandfather as he
started on his way to the scaffold."
There is no such thing as pride about a fact like
this. It lifts above pride. Pride, in fact, only takes
from its value. You state it — that is all. There wr
no other note than the mere expression of the truth
in M. le Vicomte's voice as he said it. He did not
even watch the overwhelming effect it had upon this
tradesman with whom he was stooping to bargain.
But Mr. Lasson could not conceal his surprise.
That this old gentleman, living in this cramped
cottage — a workman's cottage, no doubt — while he
himself paid the rent for a substantial flat out Clap-
ham way which could swallow this place in its cap-
acious dimensions, swallow it rent and all, that he
should belong to a family which had been the friends
of kings; it was more than he could understand all
at once. He became more respectful. He became
more amenable. He came, in fact, to terms.
The money was paid. Certain documents, which
he had brought with him, showing how much he
had been prepared, were signed. They compelled
M. le Vicomte to buy back the articles — ah ! but not
at the price that he had received for them, oh, no !
It compelled him to pay them back within eighteen
DUBILLON ET CIE., PARIS 185
months, failing which they passed into the possess-
ion of Messrs. Reitz.
lie delayed one moment with the pen in his hand
ere he signed. Suppose M. Courvoisier had been
mistaken about what his uncle had said? But he
had promised; he could not forget that. He had
promised and this was the only way.
His pen lowered to the paper. It moved slowly
across the line which Mr. Lasson pointed out with a
finger none too clean.
Then, in that spidery writing, so typical, so
French, you could have seen his signature:
" Phillippe, Raoul du Guesclin."
That was all.
For many a month to come now he would have no
snuff-box wherewith to help him to conceal his
emotions. Well, he lifted his head high, it was
bourgeois to be despondent.
CHAPTER XXXII.
DUBILLON ET CIE., PARIS.
"VTEVER was the -sun so bright, never had the
bees so much business to transact with Mrs.
Simpkins' pinks in Mr. Somerset's garden as on
that morning when, after Mr. Lasson's departure,
M. le Vicomte walked up to the Red House and was
shown into the long, cool drawing-room — cool be-
cause the sun-blinds cast their shadows, and by con-
trast made the world outside seem so overpowered
with heat.
In his pocket were the two hundred and fifty
pounds. Perhaps he might be excused if he were a
little proud of that. He was a day earlier than he
tiad said he would be. They would think him so
expeditious, and Rozanne, she would be so pleased.
Q
186 MIRAGE
The wrench of parting with his treasures was be-
ginning to be lessened in its pain by the approach-
ing pleasure of giving the money quite quietly and
without comment a day before his promise.
Their thinking him very rich had never made him
seem so to himself. The essence of the sensation of
poverty it is to be thought of ample means when
those few coppers are jingling in the pocket. But
now, with this two hundred and fifty pounds in his
possession, he felt ready to believe anyone who would
tell him he was a wealthy man.
It was a delightful experience while it lasted. In
another five minutes it would be all over; but while
it lasted he enjoyed it to the full.
He had asked for Miss Rozanne.
" I'll go," said the maid, " and find her if she's
in the house. But I believe she's gone out into the
garden. Will you come into the drawing-room, sir ?''
This was the room from which Mr. Somerset had
dragged him only the day before, dragged him from
it because it belonged to Rozanne. The very reason
why he would have wished to stay in it. All these
little ornaments, those few books on a hanging shelf,
the flowers, the roses that permeated the whole
room with a perfume which made him feel that the
spirit of her clung to the place when she had departed
from it — all of these were hers.
And there was her little upright piano, proud of
its cunning draperies of Chinese embroidered silks,
turning its back in a corner of the room and show-
ing its finery to everyone who entered. He smiled
as he looked at it. It was very like a woman, that
little upright piano.
" It's like Rozanne herself; it's like them all," he
thought. No doubt it had a timid, tinkly little
note. And sometimes, perhaps, she played on it. The
fingers he had kissed so many times under the apple
tree ran thoughtlessly over its keys, and the little
tinkly notes were delighted to be made to sing
DUBILLON ET CIE., PARIS 187
again after possibly quite a long period of silence.
Thinking all these foolish, sentimental things, he
walked across to the corner where it stood. There
he seated himself on the piano stool, opening the
little instrument, exposing the well-worn keys.
Dubillon et Cie., Paris!
This was the piano he had given Rozanne de Pon-
treuse, the piano which she had played upon and
sang to him with in the rooms in the Avenue Kleber !
The little rosewood piano which she had taken a
fancy to, and which he had sent her almost before
she could return home I This child probably never
knew who had given it to her mother or she would
surely have told him.
Dubillon et Cie., Paris.
Oh, the memories that came back with that name
as he stared at it ! He struck one note gently with
a trembling finger, fearful of the sounds it would
awaken in his heart. It was, as he had thought, a
very tinkly little note now, but there came an echo
with it, vibrating through hollow chambers and
empty recesses of his mind, painful — oh, full of pain
— as when the blood flows back again through un-
accustomed veins.
The tears started to his eyes. He leant forward on
the stained ivory keys, covering that memorable
name of the maker, bending his head forward till it
touched his hands.
" Rozanne," he whispered, " Rozanne, shall I
ever hear you sing again? Will she — will she sing
like you too? Not quite — not quite "
At the sound of approaching voices, he lifted his
head. It was Rozanne. She was talking to some-
one in the garden. They passed slowly by the
French window. The maid had not found her yet.
Who was she talking to? He could see nothing
from where he sat.
Just near the window they stopped.
"God, if I'd known!"
G2
188 MIRAGE
That was Mr. Dalziel. He had never heard his
voice, but he knew. There is no surer guide than
instinct in these matters. If he had known what?
There was the note of utter despair in the words.
It never entered M. le Vicomte's mind that he was
eavesdropping. That sentence had arrested him.
He held his breath.
" Can't you tell me," the voice continued, " if I'd
been sooner — only yesterday morning, for instance —
can't you tell me what you would have said then?"
" Oh, it's not fair, it's not right," he heard
Rozanne reply. " You ought not to say any more to
me. I've given my word. I'm engaged."
" Yes, I know that. I know that. I wouldn't ask
you to break your word. But I'll wait. I can wait
years. What's twenty years ? Heavens ! I can
wait that. And perhaps then. I can wait if you'll
only say what, upon my soul, I do believe is in the
bottom of your heart."
Oh, the youth of that ! Twenty years was
nothing to him I He could wait twenty 3'ears. And
what was twenty years? M. le Vicomte looked on
twenty years before him.
Out across the desert — this desert of a world, he
looked, and it was twilight now ; the sun was dipping
down behind the hills of sand, the grey coldness
crept into his blood. And he strained his eyes to
see, but the mirage was gone. Nothing more was to
be seen of that phantom oasis. It had vanished.
He was an old man.
There were no twenty years left for him to wait.
Were there ten? He doubted it. And yet that was
what he was offering this child. Thirty years ago
he could have said perhaps just what this young
man was saying then; but not now, not now. And
was it fair? Was it right? Was it a just exchange?
He listened for her answer to DalziePs question.
She gave it in a whisper. He could not hear it.
But with Dalziel's reply he understood it all.
DUBILLOND ET CIE., PARIS 189
" My God I I'll wait then. I'll wait. I won't stay here
any longer now. I couldn't. I daren't. I'll get a tele-
gram sent me and get away this evening. But you'll
know I'm waiting, won't you ? I shall wait. But
there's one thing I can't understand. You say your
uncle told you, and yet you cared for me.. Then
why did you ?"
" Uncle Wilfrid didn't tell me who it was.1'
" And you thought it was mel"
No answer.
But was any answer needed ? M. le Vicomte closed
the piano gently. They moved on down the pathway
out of hearing. Was any answer needed? He rose
slowly to his feet.
The night was fast about him, now. The mirage
had vanished. Oh, he felt a very old man — a very
old man now. That which he had listened to a
moment ago, that was youth. There was no youth
left in him. He had imagined it. That was what
must have happened. He had imagined he was
young again; and really, what he used to say to the
people in the boarding-house in Torrington Square
was quite true.
" My dear madame," he used to say, " I am not
interesting, I am merely old."
He was merely old, that was all.
Slowly he crossed the room and stood by the
mantelpiece. How could he face her now? How
was it possible? It seemed a thing then to him to
be ashamed of—this age of his — Sixty-two! How
could he face her now?
The door opened. His heart beat in his throat.
It was the maid.
" I have looked in the garden, sir, and all through
the house, but I can't find Miss Rozanne nowhere. "
He breathed with conscious relief. He would not
tell her where to find them.
Then he drew a bulky envelope from the pocket
of his coat.
igo MIRAGE
" Will you please then give her this," he said
quietly, " and say it is from M. le Vicomte du
Guesclin. I am much obliged."
She watched him as he walked down the path to
the front gate. Then she closed the door and went
down to the kitchen.
" He carries himself wonderful straight for an old
man," she said to the cook. " He holds his head
like that," she perked her chin up in the air.
But the cook took no notice. She was cutting new
pastry into shapes, and that, as you know, cannot
be done with a wandering eye.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE RENUNCIATION.
A BOUT an hour later M; le Vicomte was seated
^ at lunch. Couxtot had said lunch was served.
They called it lunch. I wish you might have
seen it. Three thin little rounds of toast nodding
together in a toast rack. Beneath a cover to keep it
hot, on a plate before him, a herring, fried, and a
glass of cold, spring water.
Frugal? Oh, yes, but not so sumptuous as you
might expect for a vicomte. There was not even any
melted butter. Perhaps that was a mistake, because
Courtot apologised for it.
" I am sorry, M. le Vicomte, there is no butter
in the house," he said.
The old gentleman had not noticed the want of
it. He looked up quite satisfied.
" It does not matter," he replied. " It is quite
nice as it is. You know you are improving in your
cooking, Courtot. Is that due to Mrs. Bulpitt?"
You would never have thought, listening to the
note of unselfish interest in the Vicomte's voice, how
wounded and broken was the brave spirit within
THE RENUNCIATION IQI
him then. All the world it seemed was to know of
happiness but he. In place of it he must just realise
hovv old and how poor a man he was, how much he
had fallen from his high estate, and endeavour
through all this beating stress of circumstance to
keep his head unbowed.
" She is good, monsieur. She tells me many little
hints. If you notice, monsieur, I do not burn the
things now."
" Yes, I have noticed that, Courtot, I've noticed it."
" I always ask her— I take the things in to her
before I bring them home. I show them to her and
I say, ' How long for this?' I say. ' M. le Vicomte,'
I say, ' he likes it well done.' And she weighs it
on a little scale, and she say, ' So long or so long.'
Voila! So it is I do not burn as I used to do."
" And is the day fixed for the marriage, Courtot?"
" Yes, M. le Vicomte. It will be the week after
the week after the next, on a Thursday." Courtot
smiled.
"And I suppose you will want a little holiday?"
he continued thoughtfully.
" Oh, no, monsieur. I have said to her, * Shall I
ask M. le Vicomte for a day or two of holiday?' I
say it just to try, monsieur, because I know myself
that it could not be. I could not leave you alone.
And she say, ' A holiday!' she say. ' Is it not a
holiday getting married ?' she say. ' And what
would M. le Vicomte do for himself ? ' Ah, mon-
sieur, she is good. She is so good — I sometimes
now think she is beautiful."
The old gentleman laid a herring bone carefully
on the side of his plate.
" I wonder if you know how true that is?" he said
musingly* " It is very true, you know. Every good
woman is beautiful. You may pass her by a
thousand times in the street; but when once you
know how good she is, your eyes are bound to follow
her. There is something about the beauty of
IQ2 MIRAGE
goodness which makes every man's eyes look
He stopped abruptly. The little gate had
open. It made such a plaintive noise, that little
wicket gate, and always seemed so glad to swing
to again. He lifted a little in his chair. It was
Rozanne! She smiled. She had seen he was at
lunch. He looked down at the meal before him;
the half-consumed herring, the glass of water, the
one thin little piece of toast that was left in the rack.
Then her knock fell. Courtot began to move
towards the door.
"Courtot!" M. le Vicomte called him back.
" Take these things away before you open the door.
Quickly, quickly! Take them away. I — I have
finished. Just bring in the cup of coffee!"
Can you picture how the British domestic would
have stood amazed, mouth gaping, at such an order ?
But Courtot understood. A herring, one herring for
lunch! Of course it was impossible. The plates
vanished in the twinkling of an eye. The table was
cleared, the cup of coffee brought in. M, le Vicomte
had just finished his lunch, all in the twinkling of
an eye. Rozanne might judge for herself, having
once dined with him, what a charming little lunch
it must have been.
In another moment, Courtot had opened the door.
She came hurriedly into the room. In that quick
moment, M. le Vicomte could see how her eyes were
red with crying, but behind the shadow of the tears,
there was a smile of thankfulness.
"Oh, what can I say!" she exclaimed. The
envelope which he had left for her she held in her
hand. " How can I possibly thank you? You don't
know what a relief it means, and you have been so
quick. I thought you had said to-morrow, and now
this morning I find you have left it for me."
Impulsively she shook his hand.
He bent over it.
THE RENUNCIATION 103
" I have only done what I could do," he said
gently, " that is all."
" But it has meant so much. Uncle Wilfrid is
coming to thank you after lunch. I couldn't wait.
You understand, of course, that he will pay it back
as soon as possible. But he is going to talk to you
about that."
M. le Vicomte shook his head.
" Have you forgotten what I said yesterday?" he
asked. " I never borrow and I never lend. I have
given that to you. Don't let me hear you talk any
more about repayment. I have that to ask of you
which, if you grant it, will prove more noble of you
than any return of my money, which only affords me
pleasure to give. Shall we come out into the garden ?
I don't feel I can talk here, and oh ! I've got such a
lot to say — things, too, that I'm not very proud of,
but they must be said." He took her arm. "We've
talked under that apple tree before now," he added
with a smile. " Do you mind?"
Mind ? Why should she mind ? Gratitude was
very full in the heart of her just then, hiding, if only
for the moment, the bitterness that lay beneath.
" Now," he said, when she was seated on the
chair which he placed for her in the shadow. " Now,
I have something to say of which, you must believe
me, I am so utterly ashamed."
She looked up at him, wondering, but saying
nothing. He — ashamed? It seemed so im-
possible— it seemed ludicrous even. She, perhaps
— there might be some shame in her heart that she
had permitted Dalziel to say even as much as he had
said. She might be ashamed that she had admitted
to him her mistake. There was nothing so very
honourable to M. le Vicomte in that. She might be
ashamed, but what was there in his life, so generous,
so noble as he was, of which he could be ashamed?
There was wonder in her eyes, but she did not give it
speech.
IQ4 MIRAGE
She waited He was fumbling with his fingers in
his waistcoat pocket. She recognised, she remem-
bered the action. He was going to take his little
pinch of snuff before he began. She waited. But
still his fingers groped. He could not find it. He
had left it in a pocket of some other suit. Ah, yes,
he recollected where he had left it. There was just
the least sign of a sigh, annoyance perhaps. Would
he go and fetch it? No, he continued without it.
" Did your mother ever tell you the saying that
finds its way so often into the annals of the Du
Guesclins? I don't suppose she would have done
so. You would have been too young. There is a
saying, nevertheless. It has been found often
engraved upon various things — snuff-boxes, patch-
boxes, once a watch had it that had been in the family
possession. It says, ' A woman is a gift — be grate-
ful.' No one knows who first said it. No one
knows where it comes from. It has never been found
in any literature; yet there it has clung to our family
— like a motto almost — ' La femme viens du
del — soyez content ' — ' A woman is a gift — be grate-
ful.' And I am to be the first, it seems, to disobey.
There is scarcely one record I believe in the family
history where a Du Guesclin has been unchivalrous
to a woman. It is bred in the blood of us, to be
grateful for such a gift and to treat it well. Bred
in the blood— but there is little of that breeding left
in France now, and I suppose I am to prove how
true that is. You wonder what I am going to say?"
" Yes."
" It is the little breeding left in me which, I
suppose, makes me hedge it round, wrap it up in
this soft tissue of words. I asked you to be my wife,
Rozanne."
She bent her head.
" I pledged my word to take your life and make
it just so happy as I could."
She looked up quickly, the instinct of what he was
THE RENUNCIATION 195
about to say had trembled to her mind and she could
not check that sudden lifting of the head. He saw
it. He knew what it meant, but it seemed that he
saw nothing at all.
" I want your leave to take back that word," he
said quietly. " I know it is most despicable. The
shame I feel, alone, would tell me that. But I
want you, Rozanne, little cousin, I want you to set
me free of my word."
It is possible that one hope might have been left
him even then. It is possible that he thought she
might say, "No! I cannot let you free!" For one
moment the expectancy of it was there, eager, in his
eyes; the next, it flickered out. For a space she said
nothing and the moment passed.
" Oh, but why?" she asked. " Why should you
ask that?"
Because, do you know, in a short time from now
it will be my sixty-third birthday. Sixty-three 1
Can you imagine it? How old — how far away it
seems to you, just twenty-one. And while I have
been here, in Sunningham, you have been making
me forget that I was old. But I am old. We're not
going to quarrel about that any more. It is you who
are young when you say I am not old. It is your
youth you have been seeing, not mine. I am not
young, and what I have been offering and desiring
to do was quite, quite wrong. If you were to live
with me, you would be old, too. I should sap your
youth from you. You would give it, that I might
seem young, and then, there would come a day when
I should crumble suddenly into dust, and you would
look round to find your youth again, but it would
be gone — gone. I should have taken it with me. I
have been thinking all this since — since yesterday,
and I believe I am right. I shall go back to Paris
again. I shall be happier there. And you will let
me free—"
She tried to meet his eyes. She strove to tell him
iQ6 MIRAGE
that it was all untrue. But the words were not
natural; they would not come. She could not force
them from her; and, torn because she could not say
them, she buried her face in her arm and her
shoulders shook to the sobs that broke from her.
He took her hand, pressing it in his own.
"Your tears only make me more ashamed," he
said. " I never thought that I should treat a woman
as I have treated you now. One day perhaps you
will find it in the heart of you to forgive me — one
day when you realise that I was right. Keep your
youth, little cousin, don't let any man steal it from
you. Let him give you youth for youth. That is
the only fair exchange for the most wonderful
possession that you have."
He lifted her face and looked into her weeping eyes.
" Tell me I am free," he said again, " free to go
back to Paris; and just remember, perhaps, that I
loved your mother, and that in my old-fashioned
way I love you, too. The fruit upon the apple tree
does come too late, my little cousin. And the Fate that
brings it so, well, we may question it, but that is all.
Tell me, let me hear you say that I am free."
Her lips moved. There was no sound. What
could she say ? How could she say it ? He bent down
his head to catch her words.
" You've done so much for me," she whispered.
11 I would do anything for you."
" Then you will set me free?"
" Or marry you," she replied firmly, meaning it,
unwilling even now to take the greater happiness of
what he offered.
For one moment he wavered. For one moment
the subtle voice of Chance whispered cunningly in
his ear, but the breeding in the blood was there,
that very breeding which he had told her he was
about to blemish with a stain.
" Then let me go,"^ he said, " let me go. L came
too late.1'
THE WILL 197
CHAPTER XXXIV,
THE WILL.
'"PHE days toil, or they run, they move in chains or
A they are as free as air. It is all a matter of
the mind. We have clocks upon our mantel-pieces
which measure out Time; but there is a pendulum
swinging in the mind which marks out Eternity.
It was a wonderful morning and seven days had
gone by. All the roses in the garden were warm,
right to the heart of them, even their perfume was
heavy with the heat of the sun. It was a day that
peaches begin to ripen on a southern wall.
M. le Vicomte was at work in his garden. There
are always weeds to destroy. To those who love it,
a garden never sleeps.
Since that morning when he had made his appeal
to Rozanne he had tried to find so much work to do
in that little garden of his. Now he was pruning his
roses. It was far too late in the year, but what did
that matter? He was not aware of it. The bene-
ficial results of his energies lay in his imagination.
The fruits of his labour would be sure to ripen in his
fancy. In a world where the seeming of things is of
so vast account, even this is more than most of us
hope for.
But never had be been so industrious before. It is
the only refuge, the only sanctuary. The mind
centres, settling into an eddy of despair when once it
is left to drift upon a current of regret. M. le
Vicomte would show no despair. His life was over.
He was an old man. It was just that he did not
count any longer — that was all. But he made the
admission only in the silence of his own conscience.
Even the Fate that commanded the ordering of such
igfc MIRAGE
destinies as this should learn nothing of the bitterness
he suffered.
He would go to Paris. As soon as he was rich
again he would go to Paris. If his caravan of souls
were to be found again in this empty desert of exist-
ence it was surely there of all places. There were his
friends, whom, in his poverty, he had been too proud
to meet. There were memories, enough to last so
short a lifetime as was left to him. Yes, he would go,
as he had said to Rozanne, he would go to Paris.
And he clipped and cut away at his rose trees as he
whispered all these resolutions to himself.
Then Courtot came out into the garden bearing a
letter. The old gentleman stood up to rest his back.
" What is it, Courtot?"
" A letter, M. le Vicomte."
It was from Paris. He waited until Courtot had
returned to the house; but he could wait no longer.
This was the first time in his life that he had given
way to eagerness. His fingers trembled as he tore
open the envelope. It was from M. Courvoisier. Had
he not known the writing, instinct alone would have
told him that.
His eyes ran hurriedly over the lines ; then the
letter fluttered slowly to the ground. His eyes fol-
lowed it, but he made no effort to stoop and pick it up.
" Your uncle, the Marquis de Pontreuse, died the
day before yesterday," this was what he had read.
11 His will was made public to-day, and how am' I
to tell you, because I feel that I did you an irreparable
wrong in letting you know those few weeks ago what
he had said to me, for you are not mentioned in it.
My eagerness to give you the news while I was in
England outweighed my better judgment. ' I can only
hope you will overlook it. Your doubts of the truth
of what I had been told were only too well founded. I
am more sorry, more grieved than I can possibly
THE WILL igg
There the letter had fallen to the ground.
Things were no different. Nothing really had
changed at all. It was only a dream — a mirage — all
of it. This little cottage, the garden, the apple tree,
Rozanne, the hopes he had cherished, the visions he
had seen, they were all moments only in a wonderful
dream.
Now he was awake. Now life was going on once
more as it had been, as he had almost grown accus-
tomed to it before ever he came down to this little
village of Sunningham. He had thought he had been
overwhelmed with gifts — the gift of youth, the gift of
love, the gift of fortune. But really he had been given
nothing. It was only his imagination. Fate had not
robbed him of anything. Fate had taken nothing
away. There had been nothing to take. Some-
thing had been mislaid — that was all. In the dream, he
had mislaid those three little treasures of his. He
could never recover those now. But they were the
only things which had been taken from him. Other-
wise, he was just as rich, just as poor, just the same
as he had been.
He stooped and picked up the letter. His mind
was numbed. He realised but could not appreciate.
He knew that it was impossible to live on any longer
in the cottage. He owed wages to Courtot as it was.
He could not live there without a servant; Courtot
must be paid to the last penny and dismissed again.
Finally dismissed this time. He would never permit
himself to dream any more. The cottage must be
left; he must let it, and then— well it did not quite
matter what then. For the present it was sufficient to
realise that he must leave Sunningham.
There were twenty-five pounds left over from the
sale of his little treasures. That would be very useful
now. For a moment he stopped in his thoughts, won-
dering why he did not rail against the Fate that had
brought him to this. But what was the benefit to be
gained? He knew that Fate so well. It had driven
200 MIRAGE
him from Paris in just the same way as it was driving
him now from Sunningham. Raillery would only
appease its insatiable demands the more.
Carrying the letter in his hand, he walked back
slowly to the house and mounted the stairs to his bed-
room. From the drawer where he had kept his trea-
sures, he took out the remainder of the money they
had brought. Then he descended into the hall and
rang the bell.
It seemed almost as if he were eager to fulfil the
duty that lay before him and be done with it.
Courtot made his appearance.
" I think I owe you for your wages, Courtot," he
said quietly.
Courtot shrugged his shoulders. What did that
matter ? It was not that he despised money, but con-
tentment is more valuable. He was content.
" It is only a little, M. le Vicomt-e. We have not
been here so very long. I can wait."
" But why should you wait, Courtot ? They are
overdue. Besides, you will want some when you get
married."
" Oh, monsieur, no ! Mrs. Bulpitt, she say, ' When
an old woman like me gets married for the second
time,' she say, ' it is extravagant to spend money.'
She will make a cake, monsieur, with almonds and
white sugar on the top, but that is all. And she ask
me if you would accept a piece, monsieur, because
she say it will be very good. ' You do not guess how
good it will be,' she say."
The old gentleman looked up at Courtoi. There
was even a smile in his eyes. It could not be said of
these two that they were dreaming. There was some-
thing very real, something very substantial about that
cake with the almonds and white sugar on the top.
" Oh, I shall be very pleased," he said. Then his
expression altered. Now was his humiliation. " But
I have something which I very much regret to say,
Courtot," he continued. "I am going to leave the
THE WILL! 201
cottage here. I shall let it perhaps. But I shall not
live here any more, and where I am going now, I
shall not require your services."
"M. le Vicomte! "
" Yes, I am very sorry, but it is so."
11 But where do you go, monsieur? "
" Probably back to London."
" Then I come also, M. le Vicomte. I can be some-
where near, where I may be of some service as I was
before. I come also, monsieur."
The Vicomte smiled and shook his head.
" You have other responsibilities now, my good
Courtot," he said. " There is Mrs. Bulpitt. What
you were earning in London might have been enough
to keep your body and soul together— it is not a
generous offer to any woman. You will find better
work here if you stay in Sunningham. I am going to
recommend you to Mr. Somerset. Then you will be
quite comfortable."
Courtot threw out his hands in gesticulation.
" Then I will not be married, monsieur. 1 come to
London by myself. Do you think, M. le Vicomte,
that I who serve you all these years will be content
to go myself now into another family? Oh, mon
Dieu! Cest impossible — dbsolument / I will not be
married, monsieur. I do not know what has happened
that you should say all this — it seems to me terrible,
but if you go to London, Monsieur le Vicomte, then
I come too. Voila ! "-
The old gentleman laid his hand on Courtot's
shoulder.
" This will not do," he said gently. " This will not
do at all. It was all very well when you had no one
but yourself to consider, but now, my good fellow, it
is different. There is a good woman in the case, and
a woman is a gift — a good woman is a fortune — be
grateful. Besides, until I pay you this money and
finally discharge you, you are my servant. You owe
me obedience, and I tell you I will not have it so. I
will not have it so. Voila! c'est tout] "
202 MIRAGE
CHAPTER XXXV.
THE BULL-DOG SPIRIT.
T1[THEN you have something unpleasant to tell a
* * woman, go to her at once and get the matter
over as quickly as possible. It is bound to be
a nasty business, and the pain you will suffer in
anticipation will never be compensated for by th«
measures of diplomacy which you are able to prepare
in your delay.
Diplomacy, of course, is of very little value where
a woman is concerned. She draws her own inferences,
she gets her own impressions, and no deep-laid scheme
of yours will ever alter them ; not one of your most
cunning observations Will ever penetrate to the root of
their existence.
The only consolation, when you consider these in-
tricacies of the feminine mind, is the fact that a
woman is as much a mystery to herself as she is to
you.
Courtot, fearful no doubt of what Mrs. Bulpitt
would say, was yet too dismayed by that which M. le
Vicomte had told him to stop and think of diplomatic
measures There was no hesitation in his mind as to
what he intended to do. Wherever his master went,
there would he follow. A relationship such as theirs
is not to be broken in a moment. If the advantages
of life had been his foremost consideration, he would
never have left Paris. The letters of recommendation
which M. le Vicomte had given him then had been far
more valuable than any situation he might be offered
at the Red House. He had not hesitated to put them
aside and follow his master to London, and now, ro-
mance or no romance, chivalrous or not, he was quite
prepared to obey his first instincts again.
Accordingly, without waiting to adjust his mind to
THE BULL-DOG SPIRIT 203
the difficulties of the situation, he set off for the little
cottage, three doors from the sweet shop, to place
himself at the mercy of Mrs. Bulpitt. She might say
what she liked, and there was little doubt in his mind
that she would like to say a good deal, but his mind
was made up. By an incomprehensible method of
reasoning, M. le Vicomte stood in his mind for all the
noblest ideals of his country, and though patriotism
be a false sentiment at the heart of it, it is at least
self-sacrificing. 'Mrs. Bulpitt was not the only
woman who has been made to suffer at its expense.
She opened the door quickly, as quickly as possible,
in answer to his hurried knock. Soap-suds were
dripping in big watery bubbles from her bare elbows.
She was in the midst of doing her washing at the back
of the house.
"What's the matter? "she asked when he had
entered the parlour and she had closed the door be-
hind him.
He sank down into a chair and looked up at her.
Oh, it was not an easy job. Now that he came face to
face with it he realised how difficult it was. She
would be so cross. But what was the good of it? She
could not marry a poor man, not a man as poor as he
was going to be when he got back to London. Ten
shillings a week ! He had told M. le Vicomte that it
was enough, but he would forget none too quickly the
discomforts of a waiter's life in that great gloomy
city.
When she asked again what it was, he settled him-
self down to tell her the whole truth, hiding nothing.
That much at least he felt was demanded of him.
" It is very sad," he said. " I wish I could make
you understand how sad it is."
She sat down by the side of him, took his hand.
The soapy water dripped down from the tips of her
fingers on to his coat; but what did that matter? A
human hand in such moments of life as this, however
wrinkled, however dripping with soap-suds, however
204 MIRAGE
ill-shaped it may be, is worth all the conventional
expressions of sympathy in the language.
" Tell me," she said simply, " tell me."
He rubbed his eyes. Could it be possible that it
was some cruel mistake? He had learnt it all so
suddenly, with no warning, no preparation. As yet
he understood no more of its meaning than that his
master was poorer still ; but why ? That was beyond
him. And did it mean that he would never marry
Mademoiselle Rozanne? He certainly would never
take her to live with him in Torrington Square.
Courtot knew only too well his chivalrous opinion of
women. No, there was no mistake. He could still
hear the words in his ears, " I will not have it so.
VoilaJ Cesttout!"
" It is M. le Vicomte," he began.
" Dead? " she asked quickly.
" Ah, no ! Mon Dieu ! It is what I have to tell
you about him. I have told you always he was rich.
It is a lie. Voilal It is not the truth. He is poor.
Oh, so poor ! " He lifted his hands and shook them
in the air. " Ever since he left Paris two years and
a half ago he has been so poor. It is always the way,
the ones who deserve to be rich, del! they are as poor
as the mouse in the church. I follow him from Paris
to London because — because I know how poor he was.
I was a waiter— a waiter in the Tottenham Court
Road — I walk all day that the other people may sit
down, and I starve in order that other people may eat
and fill themselves. That is what a waiter have to do
in London. But I do it because I know he is poor
and I have been his servant. I was born his servant—
you understand. That is what I was born. We are
nothing else but that. Le Ion Dieu, He knows why.
I do not. But then why should I leave him when he
is poor? Sacre! Pas 'du tout!"
His eyes flashed. His hands spread out in vivid
gesticulation. He knew he was right. It was the
THE BULL-DOG SPIRIT 205
thing to do. All the logic in the world would pot
have convinced him otherwise.
" You understand now why I come to London. He
come because he is so poor. He five by himself in — in
a boarding-house they call it. Oh, la, la! And he
is Monsieur le Vicomte I But he does not say ; he
will not have them know. They call him M. du
Guesclin. He is so proud. Then M. de Lempriere, he
leave him the cottage here, and M. le Vicomte come
to live in it. Now, to-day, something happens. I
bring him a letter — it is from Paris. He reads it in
the garden ; I see him drop it. Then slowly he comes
into the house and he calls me presently. I come to
him and he say ' Courtot,' and he talks in, oh I such
a quiet voice, and I always know when something
happen, because M. le Vicomte, then he talks very
quiet. ' Courtot/ he says, ' I am going to leave the
cottage ; I am going back to live in London and I
shall require your services no longer.' It was just
the way he said it to me in Paris, and I know that it
is very sad but he does not show that he is sad. It is
bourgeois to be despondent is what he always say, and
he would not for the world show how sad it is. And
so now I ask you," he raised that damp, wrinkled
hand to his lips and kissed it, " what am I to do ? He
offers to recommend me to Mr. Somerset at the Red
House, but I ask you, what am I to do ? Am I to
leave him — to let him go back alone and be buried in
that terrible, black city, or am I to go as I did before
from Paris, and leave better situations than it will
even be at the Red House ? I ask you what I am to do ? "
Mrs. Bulpitt rose and walked to the little window,
where, for some moments, she stood looking out over
the heads of the three geranium plants. She had not
been slow to realise what this question implied. She
knew only too well why it had been put to her.
Thoughts of what all the chapel people would say, if
they heard she was not going to be married, crowded
into her mind. She guessed just what Mrs. Cargill
206 MIRAGE
that bosom friend of hers — she guessed just what she
would have to say about it. She could see quite
plainly the superior smile under the walrus moustache
of Mr. Mathews when she told him that the banns
need not be published the next Sunday. But did they
really make any difference ? Did they make as much
difference to her as the love of " that good fellow,
Courtot " — so she remembered the old gentleman
calling him — would make to M. le Vicomte? How
could they? Yet she dreaded the thought of them.
But the remembrance of his kindness to her, the way
he had so nearly made her cry when he had told her
what a good woman he knew she must be, this over-
rode all the dreadful thoughts of the chapel people.
She turned round.
" You mean as how you can't marry me if you go,
isn't that it? " she asked.
Oh, but why had she come to that point so quickly ?
He had wanted to avoid it at first, to lead up to it
slowly, breaking the ice with a gentle and considerate
hand. Now she had robbed him of all his defence —
now she was going to be so cross. He looked at her
appealingly.
" How could I marry you, ma cherie, if I was so
poor as well? Where I was a waiter, in the Totten-
ham Court Road, I get ten shillings a week, and
sometimes a little extra when I was fortunate. But
that is not enough ! Oh, no ! If I have a wife, she
must be happy ! You would not be happy if I give
you only ten shillings a week. It would not do. You
cannot love when you are hungry. I know, I have
tried. It is impossible. So I come and ask you what
I am to do?"
She stood before him, hands on hips — a washer-
woman to the world at large, a washerwoman, but
with a great heart beating beneath that ample bosom
of hers.
" Well, shall I tell you what you've got to da? " she
began.
THE BULL-DOG SPIRIT 207
He nodded. What was she going to say? He
trembled to hear it.
" You go with the Vicomte to London ; you don't
leave him for me nor anyone. Every man in this
world has his master somewhere — he's yours. That's
what you do. You go with him.*'
Courtot lifted slowly to his feet. He put his hands
on her shoulders and looked into the little round grey
eyes.
" And I leave behind me as good a woman as I
shall ever find. I never did think, when first I opened
the door of the cottage to you that evening, when you
asked might you see M. le Vicomte, I did never think
I should find it so hard to *say good-bye."
" But there ain't going to be no good-bye," she said
quickly. " No ! I've got my pension ; it's only five
shillings a week, but I've got it. And it'll be a qeeer
thing if I can't do my share of the work as well. I
won't stay here to be laughed at by the chapel people.
That ain't 'Mrs. Bulpitt! "
She said that with all the true British spirit — the
bull-dog spirit ready to attack on the slightest provo-
cation. But there were tears behind it. After a great
effort there is always a reaction. Tears are very con-
soling then. She laid her head on his shoulder and
sobbed, but that wa<s because she was happy — happy
in her foolish, sentimental way. The mirage had not
vanished for her. She still had her vision of it just
as clearly as before.
Courtot lifted her head and looked into her face.
It was wrinkled and contorted with crying. Can you
imagine anything more ugly than a washerwoman,
aged forty-nine, in a paroxysm of weeping?
But he told her he thought she was beautiful, and
this from no motive of gallantry. He really thought
she was.
There are some holding the theory that Cupid is
blind ; whilst another school of philosophers support
the belief that the defect in his sight is scarcely worth
208 MIRAGE
while taking into account, that in fact it is entirely
remedied by the use of rose-coloured glasses.
What is philosophy anyway?
But the latter theory would seem to be more worthy
of consideration.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE BOARDING-HOUSE— BLOOMSBURY.
TV/f LE VICOMTE DU GUESCLIN had formally
said good-bye. The formality of it had been
of his own choosing. These matters are more
easy of accomplishment when others are looking on.
Pride urges you to a show of seemingly cheerful re-
signation which hurries the odious business through
and so contrives it, that you have said good-bye and
taken your leave before you are actually aware of it.
He had gone up to the Red House on the morning
of his departure from Sunningham and, asking for
Mr. Somerset, had managed to keep that insistent old
gentleman present during the whole of the interview.
Had he known that during all that time Rozanne had
been wishing for her uncle's absence rather than for
his company, it is possible that he might not have ad-
dressed so many of his remarks to him. But he did
it for her sake as much as for his own.
" It would only make her feel uncomfortable if we
were left alone,'1 he thought unselfishly, and so, when-
ever the old gentleman showed impatient signs of de-
parture, he called him back with a remark that caught
his wandering interest.
No mention was made of Dalziel. He was not
even aware if the young man were still staying in the
house.
When he shook hands with Rozanne at the gate, he
just smiled and said :
" You must be very happy one of these days, little
THE BOARDING-HOUSE 209
cousin, you were meant to be happy. You have the
eyes — all happiness is in the eyas."
Then he set off down the road to the cottage to make
his final preparations for departure. She watched
m«», tears rising, ready and burning, to her eyes
until he turned o«t of sight.
And he thought that that w^ thP last he would see
of her, the final setting of the sun behind tne hill* of
sand, that sun by whose conjuring light he had beheld
the phantom mirage of his youth.
It had come even to the moment when the old
station fly had drawn up to the door. They were
hoisting his luggage on to the seat beside the driver
and he was looking back at the1 door of the little square-
roomed hall where first he had seen Rozanne, when
the sound of running footsteps and the swish of skirts
made him turn to find her hurrying down the road.
" I was afraid you might have gone already," she
said breathlessly, " and then I hoped you would be
going by the evening train, and that I might get the
opportunity of saying good-bye to you alone, I couldn't
say all I wanted to say while Uncle Wilfrid was there.
Couldn't we go into the garden just once more? I
suppose other people will come to live here and I
shall never see the apple tree again."
He followed her. All this showed him how young
she was. In youth one plays with sensations, regard-
less of the pain they may bring, but as the years go
by, one knows that they are much better left alone.
He had tried so hard to avoid them, had endeavoured
to make his farewell so formal and empty of all dis-
turbing sentiment, and now, here was Rozanne bring-
ing him to the very spot where all their memories
congregated, just to say good-bye in the approved-of
fashion by all romantics. But oh 1 who could blame
her? He certainly did not. It was only her youth,
the youth that he had refused to steal from her. She
did not realise that it would have been kinder to let
him go alone,
210 MIRAGE
" Would you tell me," she said, " if you were very
unhappy? Would you tell me, because I believe you
are."
He set his lips to a smile. It would be pitiable to
fail now.
" What have I to make me unhappy ? " &e asked,
" so long as I know th*t ky tne breaking of my word
to v^u I heive not done you any wrong that is irre-
parable."
She wanted then to tell him how great a service he
had done her, that now, in secret, she and Dalziel
were engaged to be married, but some inner con-
sciousness held back the words. There seemed a
want of necessity for them which kept her silent.
" And when you get back to Paris you will be quite
happy again, just like you were when you came down
first of all to live in Sunningham ? "
When he went back to Paris ! It were as well to let
her continue to think that.
" Yes, I shall be perfectly happy then."
"And when you see the children on the Champs
Elyse"es will you think of me and the little picture
over my bed? "
He took her hand, bent over it and kissed it.
" I shall think of you always," he replied. " Don't
be afraid that I shall want the children or the bonnes
on the Champs Elysees to remember you by." He
smiled and tapped his open hand upon his breast.
" You will always be in my heart," he said. " It will
need only the beating of that to remember you."
He meant as long as he lived. She realised then,
as Courtot had done, how wonderfully he said things.
But he dared not trust himself any longer. Pulling
out his watch, he declared that it was time to be off.
She stood in the roadway, waving ner little handker-
chief to him as the fly rumbled slowly down the road,
misted, half lost in the white cloud of dust that rose
behind it.
They were going to the station now; they were
THE BOARDING-HOUSE 211
going jto catch a train. The coachman whipped up the
old white horse and they turned the road out of sight.
The sun had dropped behind the huddled masses of
houses in Torrington Square, and a blue smoky even-
ing tinged to purple and mauve in the distance —
where distance was to be seen — was creeping up the
narrow passages between the buildings and findicg its
way in deep shadows into the doorways. A lamp-
lighter had just begun his rounds. When there was
no great noise of traffic you could hear his footsteps
as he hurried round the square. One by one he lit
those little yellow beacons — in that blue light of even-
ing like candle flames in the deepening light of a vast
church. Then he departed into the unknown where
the houses hid him from view.
For a time after he had gone, the square was quite
empty. A few sparrows chirped, a cat prowled forth
into the dingy garden in the Square's centre in the
hope of prey.
Then a four-wheeled cab turned round from one of
the corners and drew up before a house, indlistinguish-
able from all the rest except by the number in tarn-
ished brass figures upon the panel of the door.
The driver sat there waiting till his fare should get
out. The face of a human being peered through the
lace curtains of the front room of the house, then
vanished.
After a moment the door of the cab opened, and an
old gentleman, his silk hat placed in an exact angle
on his head, a white muffler round his neck, and a
malacca cane with its blue silk tassel in his hand,
stepped out on to the pavement.
Then he mounted the steps to the door, rang the
bell and waited. After a long pause it was opened
by a foreign-looking waiter, his shirt-front creased
and dirty, a little black bone stud barely holding
itself in the well-worn stud-hole which kept the body
and soul of the shirt together.
2ii MIRAGE
" Have you any vacant rooms ? " asked the old
gentleman.
The foreign waiter shook his head. There was as
yet only one sentence he knew in English — he said it
then quickly as he held open the door :
"Will you come inside, plees."
The old gentleman stepped inside, the door closed
behind him, and some three minutes later they re-
moved his luggage from the somnolent four-wheeler
— that was taken into the house as well — the door
closed once more, and everything was silent except the
jerky twittering of the sparrows and the rumbling of
the four-wheeled cab as it drove away in the direction
of the lamplighter— into the unknown.
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