Part 35 (1/2)

Philidor went on with his portraits and was so absorbed that for at least twenty minutes he neither saw nor heard what was going on about him. He had been aware of his companion's execrable performance a while ago, and now realized with a suddenness which surprised him that she played no more. He rose and peered about over the shoulders of his rustic admirers. Somebody directed his glance. There she was across the square, her orchestra dangling, talking to a gentleman. It was true; and plainly to be seen that the gentleman was Pierre de Folligny.

Philidor watched them uncertainly. A joke pa.s.sed, they both laughed and the Frenchman indicated his quivering machine hard by. Then it was that Philidor went forth across the square, his brow a thundercloud.

The girl cast a glance over her shoulder in his direction and then followed the Frenchman to his machine. Philidor's long stride made the distance quickly, and before the pair were seated, he stood beside them.

”Where are you going, Yvonne?” he asked quietly.

”Who knows?” she laughed. ”To Paris, perhaps.”

”Mademoiselle has consented to ride with me,” said De Folligny coolly.

”I trust we do not interfere with your plans.”

Philidor's eyes sought only hers.

”You insist?” he asked of her.

She laughed at him.

”_Naturellement_.”

The car had begun to move.

”One moment, Monsieur--”

De Folligny only smiled, put on the power and in a moment was speeding down the cobbled street, leaving Philidor staring after them, his head full of wild thoughts of pursuit, the most conspicuous dolt in all Verneuil.

But he did not care. He thrust his bony fists deep in his pockets and slowly made his way though the piles of vegetables back to Clarissa.

He bundled his materials into his knapsack and quickly disappeared from the interested gaze of the bystanders, who had not scrupled to offer him both questions and advice.

He was quite helpless with the alternatives of sitting at the H?tel Dieu to await developments or of hiring a car at the garage nearby and going on a wild-goose chase which, whether successful or unsuccessful, must end unprofitably. Hermia had paid him in strange coin. Could she afford it? He knew something of Pierre de Folligny. What did Hermia know? She was mad, of course. He had thought her mad before when she had volunteered with him for Vagabondia, but now-- What could he think of her now? There was a difference.

Even his pipe failed to advise him. He knocked it out and wandered forth, his footsteps taking him down the street through which the pair had fled. He followed it to its end, emerging presently on a country road which took the line of the railroad to the South. He did not know where he was going, and did not much care so long as he was doing something. His stride lengthened, his jaw was set, his gaze riveted on the spot where his road entered the forest. It would have fared ill with De Folligny if they had met at that moment. Persons who met him on the road turned to look at him and pa.s.sed on. Lunatics were scarce along the Avre.

After a while his fury pa.s.sed and he brought what reason he still possessed to bear upon his topic. It was Hermia, not De Folligny who was to blame--Hermia, the mad, the irrepressible, whom he had roused from her idyl in their happy valley and driven forth, _tte baiss?e_, upon this fool's errand--Hermia the tender, the tempestuous, the gentle, the precipitate, because of whose wild pranks he, John Markham, Dean of the College of Celibates, now stalked the highroads of France, the victim of his own philosophy.

Fool that he was! Thrice a fool for having stumbled to his fate, open-eyed. Last night she had laughed at him. To-day she mocked him still--with De Folligny.

His responsibilities oppressed him. He must find her and bring this mad pilgrimage to an end. To-morrow--to-night, perhaps he would put her on a train which would take her back to the people of her own kind.

For he would go upon his way--his own way, which he was not sure could no longer be hers.

Emerging from the forest the road took a sharp turn away from the railroad tracks down hill and across a level plain. From the slight eminence upon which he stood, his road lay straight as a string before him, its length visible for almost a mile. Near its end he saw a dark object at the side of the road. A wagon? Or was it a motor? This was the way De Folligny had come, for there had been no turnings. He hurried on, his gaze on the distant object which grew nearer at every step. He was sure of one thing now, that the object had not moved--of two things--that it was not a motor. And yet there was something familiar about it. A wagon it was--a wagon with a roof, its end showing a window which caught the reflection of the sky--a house wagon, and near it, phantom-like against the dim foliage, a s.h.a.ggy gray horse; to the right, the white smoke of a newly made fire rising among the trees. It was the _roulotte_ of the Fabiani family and there in the woods was his friend of a night, Cleofonte, the incomparable.

He had almost made out the bulk of figures near the fire when from the hedge beside the road there came sounds of tinkling bells and a small wraith in red and blue rose like a Phoenix from the dust and confronted him with outstretched hands.

”You are late, Philidor. I've been waiting at least half an hour.”

”You've been--_what?_”

”Waiting for you,” coolly. ”What kept you so long?”

He looked at her as though sure that one of them must have lost his sense.