Part 19 (1/2)
”And I maintain,” said Bakkus, ”that this most adorable woman is being sacrificed on the altar of Caesar's Commentaries and the latest French handbook on scientific slaughter.”
”I think,” said Andrew, who had imprudently sketched his course of reading to the cynic, ”that _The Art of War_ by Colonel Foch is the most masterly thing ever written on the subject of warfare.”
”But who is going to war, these days, my good fellow?”
”They're at it now,” said Andrew.
”The Balkans--Turkey--Bulgaria? Barbarians. What's that got to do with civilized England and France?”
”What about Germany?”
”Germany's never going to sacrifice her commercial position by going to war. Among great powers war is a lunatic anachronism.”
”Oh, _mon Dieu_,” cried Elodie, ”now you're talking politics.”
Bakkus took her hand which held a fork on which was prodded a gherkin--they were at lunch--and raised it to his lips.
”_Pardon, chere madame_. It was this maniac of an Andre. He is mad or worse. Years ago I told him he ought to be a sergeant in a barrack square.”
”Just so!” cried Elodie. ”Look at him now. Here he is as soft as two pennyworth of b.u.t.ter. But in the theatre, if things do not go quite as he wants them--oh la la! It is Right turn--Quick march! Brr! And I who speak have to do just the same as the others.”
”I know,” said Bakkus. ”A Prussian without bowels. Ah, my poor Elodie! My heart bleeds for you.”
”Where do you keep it--that organ?” asked Andrew.
”He keeps it,” retorted Elodie, ”where you haven't got it. Horace understands me. You don't. Horace and I are going to talk. You smoke your cigar and think of battles and don't interfere.”
It was said laughingly, so that Andrew had no cause for protest; but beneath the remark ran a streak of significance. She resented the serious tone at which Andrew had led the conversation. He and his military studies and his war of the future! They bored her to extinction. She glanced at him obliquely. A young man of thirty, he behaved himself like the senior of this youthful, flas.h.i.+ng, elderly man who had the gift of laughter and could pluck out for her all that she had of spontaneity in life.
This conversation was typical of many which filled Elodie's head with an illusion of the brilliant genius of Horatio Bakkus. In spite of her peevishness she had a wholesome respect for Andrew--for his honesty, his singleness of purpose, his gentle masterfulness. But, all the same, their common detection of the drill-sergeant in his nature formed a sympathetic bond between Bakkus and herself. In the back of her mind, she set Andrew down as a dull dog. For all his poring over books, Bakkus could defeat him any day in argument. The agreeable villain's mastery of phrase fascinated her. And what he didn't know about the subtle delicacies of women's temperament was not worth knowing. She could tell him any thing and count on sympathy; whereas Andrew knew less about women than about his poodle dog.
There was, I say, this mid-period of their union when they grew almost estranged. Andrew, in spite of his loyalty, began to regret. He remembered the young girl who had rushed to him so tearfully as he was bending over the body of Prepimpin--the flas.h.i.+ng vision of the women of another world.
In such a one would he find the divine companions.h.i.+p. She would stand with him, their souls melting together in awe before the majesty of Chartres, in wors.h.i.+p before the dreaming spires of Rheims, in joy before the smiling beauty of Azay-le-Rideau. They would find a world of things to say of the rugged fairyland of Auvergne or the swooning loveliness of the Cote d'Azur.
They would hear each other's heart beating as they viewed great pictures, their pulses would throb together as they listened to great opera. He would lie at her feet as she read the poets that she loved. She would also take an affectionate interest in military strategy. She would be different, oh, so different from Elodie. To Elodie, save for the comfort of inns, the accommodation of dressing-rooms and the appreciation of audiences, one town was exactly the same as another. She found amus.e.m.e.nt in sitting at a cafe with a gla.s.s of syrup and water in front of her, and listening to a band; otherwise she had no aesthetic sense. She used terms regarding cathedrals and pictures for which boredom is the mildly polite euphemism. A busy street gay with shop windows attracted her far more than any grandeur of natural scenery. She loved displays of cheap millinery and underwear.
Andrew could not imagine the Other One requiring his responsive ecstasy over a fifteen-franc purple hat with a green feather, or a pile of silk stockings at four francs fifty a pair ... The Other One, in a moment of delicious weakness, might stand enraptured before a dream of old lace or exquisite tissue or what not, and it would be his joy to take her by the hand, enter the shop and say ”It is yours.” But Elodie had no such moments.
Her economical habits gave him no chance of divine extravagance. Even when he took her in to buy the fifteen-franc hat, she put him to shame by trying to bargain.
So they lost touch with each other until a bird or two brought them together again. Figuratively it is the history of most unions. In theirs, the birds were corporeal. It was at Montpellier. An old man had a turn with a set of performing birds, canaries, perroquets, love-birds, beauregards.
Elodie came across him rehearsing on the stage. She watched the rehearsal fascinated. Then she approached the cages.
_”Faites attention, Madame,”_ cried the old man in alarm. ”You will scare them. They know no one but me.”
_”Mais non, mais non,”_ said Elodie. _”Voyons, ca me connait.”_
She spoke from idle braggadocio. But when she put her hands on the cages, the birds came to her. They hopped about her fearlessly. She fished in her pockets for chocolate--her only extravagant vice--and bird after bird pecked at the sweet from her mouth. The old man said:
”Truly the birds know you, Madame. It is a gift. No one can tell whence it comes--and it comes to very few. There are also human beings for whom snakes have a natural affinity.”