Part 3 (1/2)
”A guest of Mademoiselle Ward at Quesnay. In fact, she is in charge of the chateau, since Mademoiselle Ward is, for the time, away.”
”Is she a Frenchwoman?”
”It seems not. In fact, she is an American, though she dresses with so much of taste. Ah, Madame Brossard admits it, and Madame Brossard knows the art of dressing, for she spends a week of every winter in Rouen--and besides there is Trouville itself only some kilometres distant. Madame Brossard says that Mademoiselle Ward dresses with richness and splendour and Madame d'Armand with economy, but beauty.
Those were the words used by Madame Brossard. Truly.”
”Madame d'Armand's name is French,” I observed.
”Yes, that is true,” said Amedee thoughtfully. ”No one can deny it; it is a French name.” He rested the tray upon a stump near by and scratched his head. ”I do not understand how that can be,” he continued slowly. ”Jean Ferret, who is chief gardener at the chateau, is an acquaintance of mine. We sometimes have a cup of cider at Pere Baudry's, a kilometre down the road from here; and Jean Ferret has told me that she is an American. And yet, as you say, monsieur, the name is French. Perhaps she is French after all.”
”I believe,” said I, ”that if I struggled a few days over this puzzle, I might come to the conclusion that Madame d'Armand is an American lady who has married a Frenchman.”
The old man uttered an exclamation of triumph.
”Ha! without doubt! Truly she must be an American lady who has married a Frenchman. Monsieur has already solved the puzzle. Truly, truly!” And he trulied himself across the darkness, to emerge in the light of the open door of the kitchen with the word still rumbling in his throat.
Now for a time there came the clinking of dishes, sounds as of pans and kettles being scoured, the rolling gutturals of old Gaston, the cook, and the treble pipings of young ”Glouglou,” his grandchild and scullion. After a while the oblong of light from the kitchen door disappeared; the voices departed; the stillness of the dark descended, and with it that unreasonable sense of pathos which night in the country brings to the heart of a wanderer. Then, out of the lonely silence, there issued a strange, incongruous sound as an execrable voice essayed to produce the semblance of an air odiously familiar about the streets of Paris some three years past, and I became aware of a smell of some dreadful thing burning. Beneath the arbour I perceived a glowing spark which seemed to bear a certain relation to an oval whitish patch suggesting the front of a s.h.i.+rt. It was Amedee, at ease, smoking his cigarette after the day's work and convinced that he was singing.
”Pour qu'j'finisse Mon service Au Tonkin je suis parti-- Ah! quel beau pays, mesdames!
C'est l'paradis des p't.i.tes femmes!”
I rose from the chair on my little porch, to go to bed; but I was reminded of something, and called to him.
”Monsieur?” his voice came briskly.
”How often do you see your friend, Jean Ferret, the gardener of Quesnay?”
”Frequently, monsieur. To-morrow morning I could easily carry a message if--”
”That is precisely what I do not wish. And you may as well not mention me at all when you meet him.”
”It is understood. Perfectly.”
”If it is well understood, there will be a beautiful present for a good maitre d'hotel some day.”
”Thank you, monsieur.”
”Good night, Amedee.”
”Good night, monsieur.”
Falling to sleep has always been an intricate matter with me: I liken it to a nightly adventure in an enchanted palace. Weary-limbed and with burning eyelids, after long waiting in the outer court of wakefulness, I enter a dim, cool antechamber where the heavy garment of the body is left behind and where, perhaps, some acquaintance or friend greets me with a familiar speech or a bit of nonsense--or an unseen orchestra may play music that I know. From here I go into a s.p.a.cious apartment where the air and light are of a fine clarity, for it is the hall of revelations, and in it the secrets of secrets are told, mysteries are resolved, perplexities cleared up, and sometimes I learn what to do about a picture that has bothered me. This is where I would linger, for beyond it I walk among crowding fantasies, delusions, terrors and shame, to a curtain of darkness where they take my memory from me, and I know nothing of my own adventures until I am pushed out of a secret door into the morning sunlight. Amedee was the acquaintance who met me in the antechamber to-night. He remarked that Madame d'Armand was the most beautiful woman in the world, and vanished. And in the hall of revelations I thought that I found a statue of her--but it was veiled.
I wished to remove the veil, but a pa.s.sing stranger stopped and told me laughingly that the veil was all that would ever be revealed of her to me--of her, or any other woman!
CHAPTER IV
I was up with the birds in the morning; had my breakfast with them--a very drowsy-eyed Amedee a.s.sisting--and made off for the forest to get the sunrise through the branches, a pack on my back and three sandwiches for lunch in my pocket. I returned only with the failing light of evening, cheerfully tired and ready for a fine dinner and an early bed, both of which the good inn supplied. It was my daily programme; a healthy life ”far from the world,” as Amedee said, and I was sorry when the serpent entered and disturbed it, though he was my own. He is a pet of mine; has been with me since my childhood. He leaves me when I live alone, for he loves company, but returns whenever my kind are about me. There are many names for snakes of his breed, but, to deal charitably with myself, I call mine Interest-In-Other-People's-Affairs.