Part 23 (2/2)
”Then I reckon, sir, I've been making a fool of myself.”
”Every man,” said Andrew, with his disarming smile, ”is bound to do that once in his life. It's best to get it over as soon as possible. That's the way one learns. Especially in the army.”
But the young man's talk had rubbed in his complete civiliandom.
As the train neared Paris, his heart sank lower and lower. The old pre-war life claimed him mercilessly, and he was frozen with a dread which he had never felt on the fire-step in the cold dawn awaiting the lagging hour of zero. On the entrance to the Gare du Nord he went into the corridor and looked through the window. He saw Elodie afar off. Elodie, in a hat over her eyes, a fur round her neck, her skirt cut nearly up to her knees showing fat, white-stockinged calves. She had put on much flesh. The great train stopped and vomited forth its horde of scurrying humans.
Elodie caught sight of him and rushed and threw herself into his arms, and embraced him rapturously.
”Oh, my Andre, it is good to have you back. _O mon pet.i.t homme_--how I have been longing for this moment. Now the war is finished, you will not leave me again ever. _Et te voila General_. You must be proud, eh? But your uniform? I who had made certain I should see you in uniform.”
He smiled at her characteristic pounce on externals.
”I no longer belong to the Army, my little Elodie,” he replied, walking with her, his porter in front, to the barrier.
”_Mais tu es toujours General?_” she asked anxiously.
”I keep the rank,” said Andrew.
”And the uniform? You can wear it? You will put it on sometimes to please me?”
They drove home through twilight Paris, her arm pa.s.sed through his, while she chattered gaily. Was it not good to smell Paris again after London with its fogs and ugliness and raw beefsteaks? To-night she would give him such a dinner as he had never eaten in England--and not for two years. Did he realize that it was two years since he had seen her?
”_Mon Dieu_,” said he, ”so it is.”
”And you are pleased to have me again?”
”Can you doubt it?” he smiled.
”Ah, one never knows. What can't a man do in two years? Especially when he becomes a high personage, a great General full of honours and decorations.”
”The G.o.ds of peace have arrived, my little Elodie,” said he with a touch of bitterness, ”and the little half-G.o.ds of war are eclipsed. If we go to a restaurant there's no reason why the waiter with his napkin under his arm shouldn't be an ex-colonel of Zouaves. All the glory of the war has ended, my dear. A breath. Phew! Out goes the candle.”
But Elodie would have none of this pessimistic philosophy.
”You are a General to the end of your days.”
They mounted to the flat in the Faubourg Saint-Denis. To Andrew, accustomed of late months to the greater s.p.a.ciousness of English homes, it seemed small and confined and close. It smelt of birds--several cages of which occupied a side of the salon. Instinctively he threw open a window.
Instinctively also: ”The _courant d'air!_” cried Elodie.
”Just for a minute,” said Andrew--and added diplomatically, ”I want to see what changes there are in the street.”
”It's always the same,” said Elodie. ”I will go and see about dinner.”
So till she returned he kept the window open and looked about the room. It was neat as a new pin, redded-up against his arrival. His books had been taken from their cases and dusted; the wild displacement of volumes that should have gone in series betrayed the hand of the zealous though inexpert librarian. The old curtains had been cleaned, the antimaca.s.sars over the backs of chairs and sofa had been freshly washed, the floor polished. Not a greasy novel or a straggling garment defiled the spotlessness of the room, which, but for the row of birds and the books, looked as if it subserved no human purpose. A crazy whatnot, imitation lacquer and bamboo, the only piece of decorative furniture, was stacked with photographs of variety artists, male and female, in all kinds of stage costumes, with sprawling signatures across, the collection of years of touring,--all scrupulously dusted and accurately set out. The few cheap prints in maple frames that adorned the walls (always askew, he remembered) had been adjusted to the horizontal. On the chenille-covered table in the middle of the room stood a vase with artificial flowers. The straight-backed chairs upholstered in yellow and brown silk stood close sentry under the prints, in their antimaca.s.sar uniforms. Two yellow and brown arm-chairs guarded the white faience stove. The sofa against the wall frowned sternly at the whatnot on the opposite side. Andrew's orderly soul felt aghast at this mathematical tidiness. Even the old slovenly chaos was better. At least it expressed something human. And then the picture of that other room, so exquisite, so impregnated with the Far-away Princess spirit of its creator, rose up before him, and he sighed and rubbed his fingers through his red stubbly hair, and made a whimsical grimace, and said, ”Oh d.a.m.n!” And Elodie then bursting in, with a proud ”Isn't it pretty, _ton pet.i.t chez-toi!_”
What could he do but smile, and a.s.sure her that no soldier home from the wars could have a more beautifully regulated home?
”And you have looked enough at the street?”
Andrew shut the window.
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