Part 3

_Since the Miss June Townshend, to whom you addressed your letter, has never in fact existed outside your imagination, and there is, therefore, no one with whom we can confront the woman, into whose hands that letter has fallen, the only possible move we could make would be to offer to buy the document back._

_As, however, your hands are perfectly clean, I agree that to make such a move would be beneath your dignity and that you can well afford to ignore such petty molestation as that to which this person may resort._

_An action for breach of promise could not possibly succeed._

_As I have already pointed out, her alteration of “June” to “Jane” has, in the absence of “the original,” no bearing upon the case._

_Yours faithfully,_ _F. S. Maple._

This note and its predecessor reached Sarah Vulliamy while she was dressing to dine tête-à-tête with George Fulke.

Beyond that Sarah was unusually pensive, the dinner calls for no remark.

* * * * *

Exactly a month had slipped by.

There had been rain in the night, and Luchon was looking her best.

So was Mrs. Pardoner. She had just had a cold shower.

Seated upon the edge of the breakfast table, one bare leg dangling from the folds of an apricot kimono, her curls in a disorder more lovely than any array, she periodically frowned upon a letter, regarded her new wedding-ring, and gazed at the sunlight upon the mountain-side.

Presently she raised her voice.

“Virgil.”

A lapping noise in the bathroom was suspended.

“Yes, darling.”

“George Fulke says I’ve blighted his life.”

“So you have,” said Virgil.

“By not going to Dinard,” added Sarah.

“Serve him right,” said Virgil.

“He says he quite understood that ours was a marriage of convenience.”

“So it was,” said Virgil. “Great convenience.”

“But what shall I do?” said Sarah. “He says that his heart is ‘aching for a vivid, stimulating personality to fill the emptiness of life.’”

Her husband appeared, swathed in a bath dressing-gown.

“My dear,” he said, “it’s too easy. Take a fresh envelope and pass the letter on.”

“Who to?” said his wife.

Virgil fingered his chin.

“The trouble is,” he murmured, “I’m not quite sure of her address. I think it was Bloughbridge.”

MADELEINE

MADELEINE

It was upon the seventh day of September that Madeleine Peyre, of Ruffec, made a mistake. This was notable; first, because the lady was justly accounted wise, and, secondly, because, as errors go, the mistake was a bad one.

Madeleine was the Silvia of Ruffec. She went faithfully to Mass, and what she believed to be proper, that unobtrusively she endeavoured to do. She spoke ill of no one. Her exquisite pink-and-white complexion, her raven hair, her steady grey eyes, were three great several beauties. Add that her features were regular, her teeth most white, and her figure graceful, when you will understand that the swains of Ruffec commended her with cause. As I have said already, Madeleine’s judgment also was unusually sound. To ram home my comparison, it was, I think, the light in her wonderful eyes which you forgot last of her comeliness, while the flowers she was constantly receiving gave her actual distress. She never would wear them. No other girl in Ruffec received any flowers.

When, therefore, Madeleine Peyre, the Silvia of Ruffec, married the wrong man, the town pulled her down from her pedestal and let her lie.

It is the way of the world.

The announcement of the betrothal aroused consternation. People were amazed—staggered. You could have knocked them down. That Pierre Lacaze was a brute was common knowledge. They said his first wife had been bullied into her grave. . . . The astonishment was succeeded by sickness of heart. Discussion of the tragedy dissolved into sighs and tears. . . . Finally came Anger. Madeleine Peyre was denounced for an ungrateful fool. Where sighs had been heaved, fingers were wagged and snapped. Ruffec told Ruffec that Mademoiselle Peyre would soon find out her error, and that the discovery would serve her right. People began to gloat upon the disillusionment which was awaiting their darling. Upon the wedding day itself leers were exchanged. . . .

It is the way of the world.

Had her parents lived, the mistake would not have been made. But they had been killed together, five years before. Madeleine, aged sixteen, had seen no reason why the little creamery they had been keeping should close its aged hatch. As a result, this had remained open ever since. Out of the profits of the little enterprise its girlish governor and her two young brothers had been lodged and fed and clothed decently. Now the brothers were come to men’s estate, while the goodwill of the business was a legacy worth having. Moreover, Jean and Jacques Peyre were no fools. About their future Madeleine felt easy enough.

For the matter of that, up to the very last she had no qualms about her own. _Quos Deus vult perdere prius dementat._ Every one—her brothers included—disliked Lacaze. The man was so obviously a brute. Madeleine clung to him steadfastly. . . .

Then the day came, and the Silvia of Ruffec cast her pearls before swine.

Be sure Lacaze rent her.

* * * * *

Nearly ten months had trailed by, and Madeleine had aged ten years.

The two lived in Paris, where Lacaze plied his trade of steeple-jack and made good money. The work suited him. The hours were short, the pay high. Fearless as a lion, the danger delighted his heart. The respect his prowess inspired tickled his vanity.

So much for his public life.

Lacaze married Madeleine Peyre as other men buy a fine horse. The only difference was that he got her for nothing.

In the Silvia of Ruffec he had seen a fine stamp of animal, intelligent, well-made, good to look upon. He had judged her strong, courageous, and obedient. Her possession would be something to be proud of. Others would covet such a prize. . . .

The fellow was perfectly right.

Physically and mentally Madeleine was all that could be desired. When he took her out and about, everyone stared in admiration. When he showed her off to his friends they made no secret of their envy. His house was always in order, such as he had not dreamed of. There was, however, a fretful fly in the ointment. It was this. Madeleine’s manners were perfect, but they were the manners of Silvia, and not the manners of a show horse.

Within twenty-four hours of her wedding it was all over, and Madeleine had realized her plight. Of course the blow had been frightful . . . stunning . . . too terrible to describe. The first blinding flash of perception had exploded a second: the second, a third. . . . Her poor brain had staggered under this fearful appulse, her spirit fainted, her heart sunk to her shoes. Her love for Lacaze had shrivelled and died then and there. Not so her obedience. . . . So soon as she could think clearly, Madeleine resolved to do her best to dovetail her principles into her husband’s demands.

The result was unsatisfactory—to Madame Lacaze. You cannot make a fair wallet out of a silk purse and a sow’s ear. The ways of Lacaze were not Madeleine’s. The grace the heaven had lent her, meant nothing to him. More—the man had a will. The grace the heaven had lent her, he made her discard.

The result was unsatisfactory—to Monsieur Lacaze. Madeleine bowed to his will, but not to his liking. She discarded her precious loan, if and when she was urged—never unless she was urged. His will had to be expressed—_always_. That was where her manners, as a horse, were so imperfect. Her rider’s heels ached. . . .

Never once did Lacaze lose his temper. Better for his wife if he had. Instead, he smiled a quiet smile, set his strong teeth and—stuck to his spurs. After a month or two his heels developed new muscles and stopped aching. From then on, the blood upon his rowels was never dry.

Her spirit had to be broken. Well, that was easy enough. It had been done before. A pair of aching heels, however, had to be paid for. Lacaze determined to break his wife’s spirit by eighths of an inch.

Fortune favours the brute.

Nine months after their marriage, a pair of spurs of a sharpness he could never have compassed fell into his lap.

* * * * *

A letter arrived for Madeleine while she and Lacaze sat at meat. It came from her brother Jean.

_Dearest Madeleine_,

_I write to say that René Dudoy has taken a job in Paris. It is a good thing for him, but he will be lonely. He has said absolutely that he will not go to see you. I expect you can guess why. But we have told him not to be silly, and that you will be a good friend, if you can be nothing else. We think you would have wished us to do this. It is true, is it not? If so, look him up. His address will be 66 rue Castetnau._

_Jacques and I are well, but still miss our only sister very much. The shop flourishes. We took twenty-six francs more last week than the week before, though a storm on Wednesday robbed us of six good litres._

_Your loving brother,_ _Jean._

Covertly Lacaze watched her read it and lay it down. Something—Heaven knows what—told him that here was matter she did not wish him to see. He went to work delicately.

“Ah!” he cried of a sudden. “The thing had escaped me. My dear, to-morrow put on your very best gown. We are going to the wedding of Robert and José Tuyte.”

Madeleine winced.

“Must we, Pierre? José Tuyte is awfully clever, I know. But she is an actress, and—and I do not go well with the stage. I am too slow for them.”

(If to appear nightly in the costume of a child of seven at _The Dead Rat_, there to accept cigarettes and encourage the purchase of champagne, is to be an actress, Madeleine was perfectly right. That she was too slow for such a ‘stage’ was unarguable.)

“My dear, what would you? Robert is a good friend, and I knew José before I knew you. They would be most hurt. Besides, marriage is like a wet sponge. It wipes clean the slate. You need not, you know, dance all the time.”

“Dance?”

“Have I forgotten again? We are to have supper that night at _Le Parapluie_. The big room has been engaged. I tell you, it will be festive. A little below us, perhaps, but we must descend, my dear. It behoves us to descend. Their feelings must not be hurt.”

Madeleine paled.

Once before she had subscribed to festivity under the shelter of _Le Parapluie_. The revels had haunted her ever since. . . .

She was about to protest—beg to be excused—when she remembered her letter. Mercifully, this seemed to have escaped notice—so far. It occurred to her that pleasant, bright conversation might save it inviolate. Desperately she strove to keep the ball rolling. . . .

Lacaze saw her anxiety, and let her strive.

When the meal was over, he pushed back his chair. For the next five minutes he debated audibly whether he should go forth to buy tobacco, or send the servant. Madeleine wanted him to go—terribly, but dared not put in her oar. She was, of course, quite satisfied that he had forgotten her letter. Her only fear was that he would catch sight of it again.

At last Lacaze decided to go himself. He rose, sought for his hat, chucked her under the chin and left the room.

Madeleine thrust the letter into her dress and thanked God.

Then the door opened and her husband put in his head.

“I quite forgot,” he said, smiling. “What does young Jean have to say?”

His wife took the letter from her bosom and gave it into his hand.

He read it deliberately. At length—

“Poor René,” he said gaily. “So I put a spoke in his wheel. Dear, dear. We must try to make up for it. I seem to remember him faintly—a calf with curly fair hair. ‘66 rue Castetnau.’ Good.” He handed the letter back. “We’ll call there next Sunday morning. The better the day, sweeting, the better the deed. ‘Lonely.’ Poor clod, what a shame! But for Lacaze, the steeple-jack, he might have been watching your pink little hands ladle cream into pots, while he counted the takings and gave out the change. Certainly we must make up for it—so far as we can. . . .”

He sighed and went out.

As he closed the door, his eyes lighted. He walked down the passage thoughtfully, licking his lips. . . .

Madeleine sat staring at the disordered cloth.

Long ago Misery had repaired to her eyes. Now Despair had come also. She was really frightened.

Lacaze was perfectly right. But for him, she would have married René. Ever since her disastrous wedding she had tried not to think about the past—the old days. As for what might have been, this she had shut most rigidly out of her thoughts. As if to mock her pains, here was Fate flaunting it under her very nose. . . .

Again, God knows she was patient—to a fault. But her husband’s derision of René had set her cheeks flaming. That it had made her heart warm towards her old swain, she did not realize. _That it had been intended so to do_, only another Lacaze could have guessed. The man was evil.

Finally, Madeleine knew in her heart that she had always loved René, and never Lacaze . . . that she had loved René very much . . . that at the present moment she loved him more than ever.

All things considered, then, that Silvia was thoroughly frightened is not surprising. There were breakers ahead.

* * * * *

Lacaze knew that he could trust his wife. He knew that she was loyal, incorruptible, holy. Trading upon this holiness, he fairly thrust the lovers into each other’s arms. Before his dominant will the two poor wretches were helpless. . . .

The climax came one beautiful July evening.

Dudoy had been bidden to call for Madeleine and take her to the Café de la Forêt Noire. There the two were to wait till the steeple-jack joined them.

“You know my corner,” he had said. “Take it and sip your syrup until I arrive. I shall not be long, but Notre Dame is ailing. She has a crack, poor lady, in one of her horns. To be frank, it is an awkward business. I hope I shan’t slip. If I did—well, you two would take care of each other, would you not?” He pinched his wife’s ear. “Still, we will hope and pray my poor life may be spared.”

At a quarter to seven, therefore, honest curly-haired René strode down the Rue de Tocqueville, to fold sweet sorrow in his arms. Madame Lacaze was ready, and the two left at once.

On their way through the bustling streets they spoke very little. Matter-of-fact conversation was difficult enough to come by. They kept what reserve they had for the table without the window at the Café de la Forêt Noire.

This appeared soon enough.

René saw Madeleine settled, and called for drink. Then they began to talk—artificially. Madeleine laboured hard and met with success. After a little, Dudoy began to dance to her piping. . . .

Then a laughing-eyed rogue of a child came and snapped the poor pipe in two.

What happened exactly was this. The tot had escaped from its parents three tables away. Liking the look of the lovers, it came to them straight, showed them its sixpenny watch, made them both free of its lips and, finally, desired them to draw a castle forthwith. Lack of a pencil and paper made it impossible to comply. Madeleine pointed this out gently enough. Pharaoh-like, the child waved aside the objection, demanding a castle tearfully. The two sought to distract him for all they were worth. . . . Here the parents suspended a bubbling colloquy to look for their offspring. Madeleine and René were rescued in the nick of time. . . .

The radiant father and mother were full of apologies.

“I pray you, forgive us. We were talking, and for a moment, we forgot. It is at this age that they must be watched all the time. _When you have a fine fat boy, you will understand._”

Hats were raised, smiles and bows were exchanged, and the incident closed.

Madeleine and René Dudoy sat ready to burst into tears.

At length—

“_Mon Dieu!_” said René hoarsely. “_Mon Dieu_, it is not to be borne! I am a man, am I not? With blood in my veins? I am not a stock or a stone. I have a heart, Madeleine, a broken heart—that cries and cries and cries. All the time we are making our small talk my heart is crying. All the time——”

“René, René,” wailed Madeleine, “why do you come? Why did you come to-day? Why yesterday? Why the day before that?”

“He makes me!” cried René. “You know it. I have no choice. Besides, the hours he offers me are of pure gold. I cannot throw them away. That evening I did not come, I nearly died. I sat and drank absinthe and wept till they asked me to go. The proprietor was very kind. He understood perfectly. But it was bad for the house.”

“It was very bad for you,” said Madeleine gravely. “But listen, René. You are wrong. The hours my husband offers you are not of gold at all. They are of cold, sharp steel, that——”

“Gold or steel,” breathed René, “I do not care. They are spent in your company. There is a fence between us, I know—a hell of a fence—but we can peer through the bars. It is permitted to touch you . . . watch your mouth move . . . hear the music of your voice—and, when you are gone to embrace a memory.”

“Hush, René, hush! _Mon Dieu_, will you have me faint?”

“Madeleine, Madeleine, why did you marry Pierre? A-a-ah, I do not blame you! Do not think that. It was your own affair. Only . . . we could have been happy, I think, and . . . and I can draw quite good castles, such as that little one desired. . . .” His voice broke, and a bright tear rolled down Madeleine’s cheek. She swept it away swiftly. Dudoy pulled himself together. “Bah! The milk is spilled. I watched you spill it at Ruffec that autumn day. Now, alas, you go thirsty! I feared you would. And I am thirsty too, sweet; for I would have drunk of that milk. Consider, then. Since we both thirst, it is better to share our misfortune. Besides, if the past is dead, there is always the future. The good God, perhaps, will give us another pitcher.” He paused and looked down at his feet. “A steeple-jack’s work,” he muttered, “is very dangerous.” Madeleine shivered. “One day, perhaps—perhaps this very evening—he will not come back.”

The girl shook her head.

“Yes, he will,” she said dully. “Pierre will never slip.” She started violently. “_Mon Dieu_, what have I said? Ah, René, believe me, I have been dreaming. The heat, perhaps. . . .” She laughed hysterically. “‘The past is dead,’ you were saying. ‘The past is dead.’”

The man had no ears to hear. His eyes were burning with hope.

“I love you,” he said uncertainly. “I love your beautiful hands. I love your soft dark hair. I cannot play with it now, because of the bars. But one day the bars will be broken, and then I shall come and fill these arms with its glory. Be sure, my heart, I shall wait and wait always . . . until the bars fall. Ah, see how the good God has given light to our darkness. He has shown us the way to go. Now, when we are together, we shall never be sad. We will remember always that we are waiting . . . just waiting . . . until the bars fall. . . .”

Head up, rigid, white-faced, Madeleine sat staring and seeing nothing. Her ears, however, were hearing perfectly. After a moment she braced herself, drawing a deep breath. Holy, fair and wise, her resolve was taken.

“I do not see,” she said slowly, “that we have anything to share—you and I. A year ago, perhaps, there might have been something. But, as you said just now, the past is dead. And since we have nothing to share, René, it would be so much better if . . . if . . .”

She hesitated and passed a hand across her eyes.

René Dudoy stared.

“But what are you saying?” he cried. “You go back to where we began. We have thrashed all this out. You said our hours were not golden. I have shown you——”

“You have shown me that it is better, René, that we two should not meet any more.”

“Not alone, perhaps. I think you are right, sweetheart. I will arrange that somehow. Now that we have our understanding——”

“I wish,” said Madeleine steadily, “that you would leave Paris.”

The other recoiled.

“What!” he screamed. “What! Leave Paris? _Mon Dieu!_ This is more than I can stand.” He leaned back in his chair and wiped the sweat from his face. “I think you are ill,” he said. “To hear you, anyone would think that you did not care,” he added desperately.

“I do not care,” said Madeleine.

The young man started as though she had stabbed him with a knife. Then he went very white.

“I do not care,” she repeated. “I do not want to hurt you, but you have made a mistake. Jean wrote to me, you know, and said you were very sad. He said you would not come to see me because—because you could not forget. I showed the letter to Pierre, and we agreed that we must be kind to you. We thought, perhaps, when you saw how—how happy we were, you would join in our happiness, and so become cured. Instead, you have grown worse. More—you have involved me terribly. I have tried to be kind, and you have mistaken my kindness for something else. It is really very difficult, René, but, you see, we are not at all in the same boat. I ought, of course, I see now, to have told you at once. But I didn’t, I didn’t want to hurt you, and—it was doing no harm. It is an awkward thing, you know, to tell any man—let alone an old friend. But now it is getting beyond . . . beyond a joke. . . .”

René winced at the word piteously. With white lips and a bleeding heart, Madeleine struggled on.

“You see, I have not told Pierre. . . . And I do not want Pierre, my husband, to make the same mistake. I do not think that he would, but you never know. And if he did, it would be very awkward for me. I do not know how I should show him that he was wrong. . . .

“And so, you see, my friend, that when I said that the hours we spend together are of sharp steel, I was perfectly right. They pierce your heart, I fear, and they—they—embarrass me. . . . Don’t look like that, René! I tell you, I hoped——”

“Hope?” cried René, with a wild laugh. “Hope? I do not know what you mean. What is hope?”

Here Lacaze appeared, smiling and nodding good will.

“Did you think I was dead?” he crowed. “I think that you must have. As a matter of fact, I’ve never been off the ground. Notre Dame was not ready for me. Instead, to tell you the truth, I have been talking business.” He jerked his head at the window directly behind them. “Sitting in there. I became so absorbed that I forgot our engagement. Then I heard your voices, you know, and that reminded me.” He took his seat between them and looked benignantly round. “And now about supper. . . . I think a nice little _ragoût_, with potatoes _en robe de chambre_.”

The party was not a success.

René Dudoy pleaded night-work and left at once.

As for Madeleine, she fainted before the _ragoût_ was served.

* * * * *

All things considered, I am inclined to think that when Madame Lacaze deceived the man she loved, because he was not her husband, she made another mistake. But then I am of the earth, earthy. What cannot possibly be denied is that it was a most splendid action. ‘So shines a good deed in a naughty world.’ Probably the trouble was that she did not trust herself. René’s desire to make the word ‘wait’ their watchword was dangerous, because it was sweet. It would have been the thin edge of the wedge. Madeleine was determined to play the game. It was not Lacaze she stood by, but the office he filled. It was not Dudoy she sent packing, but the devil himself. That her lover did not stand in her husband’s shoes was her misfortune. As such, however, it did not affect the case. She was a good girl.

* * * * *

Ten days after that dreadful evening at the Café de la Forêt Noire, the War came with a crash.