Part 23 (1/2)

”When did they go?”

”Early this morning.”

”Didn't they leave any address?”

”None. Why should they? Mademoiselle never received letters.”

Cartaret could bear no more. Even the man that hauled away the furniture had only taken it to the shop from which it had been leased.

Refrogne had seen the two women get into a cab with their scanty luggage and had heard them order themselves driven to the Gare d'Orsay. That was the end of the trail....

Cartaret climbed to his own room. Thrust under the door, where he had missed it in the rush of his hopeful exit that morning, was an envelope. It did not hold the expected note of explanation. It held only a pressed rose, yellow now, and dry and odorless.

CHAPTER XII

NARRATING HOW CARTARET BEGAN HIS QUEST OF THE ROSE

The power of herbs can other harms remove, And find a cure for every ill, but love.

--Gray: _Elegy I_.

For a great while Cartaret remained as a man stunned. It was only very slowly that there came to him the full realization of his loss, and then it came with all the agony with which a return to life is said to come to one narrowly saved from death by drowning.

Blindly his brain bashed itself against the mysterious wall of Vitoria's flight. Why had she gone? Where had she gone? Why had she left no word? A thousand times that day these unanswerable questions whirled through his dizzy consciousness. Had he offended her? He had explained his one offense, and she had given no sign of having taken any other hurt. Was she indeed a revolutionist from some strange country, summoned away, without a moment's warning, by the inner council of her party? Revolutionist conspirators did not go to art-cla.s.ses and do not walk only under the chaperonage of an ancient duenna. Was she, then, that claimant to power that he had once imagined her, now gone to seize her rights? Things of that sort did not, Cartaret knew, occur in these prosy days. Then why had she gone, and where, and why had she left no word for him? Again these dreary questions began their circle.

Less than twenty-four hours ago, he had thought that money would resolve all his troubles. Money! Fervently he wished himself poor again--poor again, as yesterday, with Her across the landing in the Room Opposite.

Somehow, he did not forget his friends and the dinner he had promised them. He went to the Deux Colombes and ordered the dinner.

”Say to them, Pasbeaucoup,” he gave instructions, ”that I am indisposed and shall not be able to dine with them. Say that we shall all dine together some other night--very soon I hope. Say that I am sorry.”

He was bitter now against all the world. ”What will they care, as long as they have the dinner?” he reflected.

Pasbeaucoup cared. He expressed great concern for monsieur's health.

”That,” thought Cartaret, ”is because I'm rich. A month or two ago and they wouldn't trust me: they'd have let me starve.”

He went back to his desolate room and to his dreary questioning. He was there, with his head in his hands, when Seraphin found him.

Seraphin's suit was still new, and it was evident that he had dressed carefully his twin wisps of whisker in honor of Cartaret's celebration. The Frenchman's face was grave.

”Why aren't you dining?” sneered Cartaret.

Seraphin pa.s.sed by the sneer.

”They told me that you were ill,” he said, simply.

”And you came to see if it was true?”