Chapter 15

DANGER

It seemed to Hermia that she had hardly closed her eyes before she opened them again and found herself broadly awake. A blue light was filtering softly through the tops of the trees and the birds were already calling. She pushed her cover away and sat up, all her senses acutely alive. The fire was out, but the air was not chill. She glanced at Markham's recumbent figure, at Cleofonte and Luigi, and then stealthily arose. Tomasso, the bear, who of all the vagabond company had alone kept vigil, eyed her whimsically from his small eyes and moved uneasily in his chains.

On tiptoe she made her way to the stream, one of the dogs following her, but she patted him on the head and sent him back to the wagon. As she reached the depths of the forest she relaxed her vigilance and went rapidly down the stream, finding at last at some distance a quiet pool in the deep shadows. Here was her porcelain tub. She quickly undressed and bathed, her teeth chattering with the cold, but before the caravaners were awake was back in camp, gathering wood for the fire.

Her activities, furtive as they were, awakened Markham, who sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"Hello!" he said. "Haven't you been asleep?"

For reply she pointed silently through the tree trunks to the rosy East.

He got to his feet, shaking himself, rubbed his eyes sleepily, and took from her hand the dead branch which she was dragging to the fire. Between them they awoke Cleofonte, who lumbered to his feet and stared about with bleary eyes.

"_Bon giorno, Signora--Signor_. I have slept--oh, what sleep! Luigi! Up with you. _Dio_! It is already day."

Immediately the camp was in commotion. The Signora descended from the wagon, and with Hermia's help prepared the breakfast while Stella held the baby. By sunrise the gray horse was hitched to the shafts of the wagon, the bear hitched to its tail and the travelers were on their way--the contents of one's valise is on one's back in Vagabondia. Cleofonte had invited Hermia to sit with him upon the seat of the wagon, but she had refused and taken her place by Markham's side behind Clarissa, who, quite peacefully, followed in the trail of Tomasso, the bear.

In this order the procession moved forward into the golden wake of the morning. Hermia was in a high humor--joyous, sparkling, satirical by turns. If yesterday she had found a talent for living, to-day it seemed the genius for joy had gotten into her veins. Her mood was infectious, and Markham found himself carried along on its tide, aware that she was drawing him by imperceptible inches from his shell, accepting his aphorisms in one moment that she might the more readily pick them to pieces in the next. He couldn't understand her, of course. She hadn't intended that he should, and this made the game so much the more interesting for them both. He didn't mind her tearing his dignity to taters--and this she did with a thoroughness which surprised him, but he discarded the rags of it with an excellent grace, meeting her humor with a gayety which left nothing to be desired.

"O Philidor!" she cried. "What a delusion you are!"

"Me? Why?"

"Your gravity, your dignity, your wise saws and maxims--your hatred of women."

"Oh, I say."

"All pose!" she continued gaily. "Politic but ineffective. You love us all madly, I know. _Do_ they make love to you, Philidor?"

"Who?"

"Your beautiful sitters."

"No," he growled. "That's not what they're in the studio for."

She smiled inscrutably.

"Olga did."

He gave Clarissa a prod.

"Olga?"

"Yes. She told me so."

"Curious I shouldn't have been aware of it."

"And you weren't aware of it--er--in my perg--"

"Hermia!"

"Or of the face powder on your coat lapel?"

"No."

"It was there, you know. You carried it quite innocently into the glare of the smoking-room. Poor Olga! And she is always so careful to cover her trails! But I warned her. She shall not trifle with your young affections--"

"You warned her?" he said, with a startled air.

"Yes, that unless she intended to marry you she must leave you alone."

Markham flicked a fly from the donkey's ear.

"H--m," he said, and relapsed into silence. She glanced at him sideways before she went on.

"You know you're not really angry with me, Philidor. You couldn't be. It isn't my fault if I stumbled into the climacteric of your interesting romance. I wouldn't willingly have done it for worlds. But I couldn't help seeing, could I? And Olga was _so_ self-possessed! Only a woman terribly disconcerted could be quite so self-possessed as Olga was. And then the next day you went away. Flight is confession, Philidor."

"H--m," said Markham. "If there are any missing details that you'd like me to supply, don't hesitate to mention them."

"I wouldn't--if there _were_ any."

"And you believe--"

"That you're madly in love with the most dangerous woman in New York, and that only time and distance can salve your wounds and her conscience."

He puffed at his pipe and shrugged a shoulder.

"That's why I say you're a fraud, Philidor," she went on, "a delusion--also a snare. Your beetling brows, your air of indifference, your intolerance of the world, they're the defensive armor for your shrinking susceptibilities--you a painter of beautiful women! Every sitter in your studio an enemy in the house--every tube of paint a silent witness of your frailty--every brush stroke a delicious pain--the agony of it!"

She tweaked Clarissa's ear and whispered into its tip. "It's much wiser to be just a donkey, isn't it, Clarissa?"

Markham grinned a little sheepishly, but like Clarissa refused to be drawn into the discussion. Indeed, his patience, like that of their beast of burden, continued to be excellent. Hermia's impish spirit was not proof against such imperturbably good humor, and at last she subsided. Markham walked in silence for some moments, speaking after a while with a cool assertiveness.

"It's rather curious, Hermia, if I'm the silly sentimental ass you've been picturing me, that you'd care to trust yourself to what you are pleased to call my shrinking susceptibilities."

"But you're in love with another woman," she said taking to cover quickly.

"I'm in love with _all_ other women," he laughed. "All--that is--except yourself. It must be a surprise to one who counts her conquests daily to discover that, of all the women in the world, you are the only female my shrinking susceptibilities are proof against."

Her eyes were turned on him in wide amazement, eyes now quite violent and child-like.

"I never thought of that, Philidor. It _is_ curious that I never thought of that. It isn't very flattering to me, is it?"

"No--especially as the opportunities for indulgence in my favorite pursuit are so very obvious."

She laughed but looked away. He had provided a sauce for the gander which made him seem anything but a goose.

"But, of course, you--you _couldn't_ take advantage of them--under the circumstances," she remarked.

He shook his head, doggedly whimsical. "One never can tell just how long one's defensive armor may hold out. I'm sure my brows are beetling much less than usual. In fact, this morning in spite of severe provocation they don't seem to be beetling at all. And as for my air of indifference--I challenge you to discover it. If these are forbidding symptoms, Hermia, take warning while there's time."

"Oh, I'm not in the least alarmed," she said demurely.

But she let him alone after that. They followed slowly in the trail of the _roulotte_. Whether because of Clarissa's habitual drowsiness or their own interest in other matters, the shaggy horse had gone faster than they, and when presently they came to a long stretch of straight road their hosts of the night had disappeared.

"Do you know where we're going?" asked Hermia then.

"No, I don't. I never know where I'm going. But I'm sure of one thing. We must make some money at once."

"We'll follow Cleofonte to Alençon then," said Hermia resolutely.

So Markham prodded the donkey and they moved forward at a brisker pace.

They had met few people upon the road this morning and these, as on the day before, were farmers or those who worked for them, both men and women. The main line of traffic from Evreux, they had learned, lay some miles to their right, and it was over this road, a much harder one, that the motorists went if southward bound. It was therefore with some surprise that they heard behind them the sound of a motor horn. Markham caught the donkey's bridle and drew to one side, the car came even with them, running slowly, and stopped, its engine humming.

"This is the way to Verneuil?" asked the man at the wheel in French.

"I hope so," said Markham returning their salutation. "For that's the way we're going."

Something in Markham's manner and speech arrested the driver's eye, which passed rapidly to Hermia, who stood silently at the side of the road, suddenly aware of an unusual interest in her appearance. The man at the wheel turned to his companion and said something in a low tone. Markham felt a warm color surge upward to his brows.

"Will you precede us, Monsieur," he said coolly, "we are already late upon the way."

But the Frenchman showed no intention of moving at once and, ignoring Markham, questioned Hermia gaily.

Mademoiselle was a _bohémienne_. Perhaps she would condescend to read their fortunes.

Hermia made a pretty courtesy and laughed.

"Unfortunately--Monsieur is mistaken," she said easily. "I am not a teller of fortunes. But what does it matter since Monsieur's fortune is so plainly written upon his face."

"And what is that?"

"The fortune of the fortunate. _Bien sûr_. The _bon Dieu_ cared well for those who rode in automobiles."

The Frenchman smiled and glanced at Markham, who was busying himself with the donkey's pack.

"Mademoiselle is very blonde for a _tsigane_," he ventured again.

"I come from the North country," said Hermia promptly.

The Frenchman's eyes which had never left her face wore a curious expression.

"It is strange," he said, "but somewhere I have seen your face before."

"That is where I am accustomed to wear it, Monsieur," she said quickly.

He laughed.

"I can only say that it becomes your costume admirably."

Markham straightened, frowning.

"_Allons, Yvonne_," he muttered.

But Hermia only stood smiling and curtsied again.

"_Merci, Monsieur_. You pay a high tribute to the skill of my hands. I did the best I could--and as for the matter of that," pertly, "so did the _bon Dieu_."

He laughed gaily. Her ready tongue delighted him, but his face sobered as he glanced at Markham, who stood with narrowed gazed fixed on the road ahead of them.

"You pass through Verneuil, Mademoiselle?" the motorist went on. "Perhaps Monsieur your companion would not object if we carried you there."

"You are very kind, Monsieur, but riding in such state is not for me."

"_Allons_! You will be doing us the favor of your company."

"I should be frightened at the great speed."

"Oh, I will run very slowly, I promise you."

She seemed to hesitate and Markham's head slowly turned toward her, a wonder growing in his eyes. Could she? Did she really think of going? She looked at the machine and then at Markham and Clarissa.

"I will go--upon one condition," she announced.

"Mademoiselle has but to name it."

"And that is, Monsieur, that you will also carry in your automobile Monsieur Philidor and the donkey."

He looked at her a moment as if he hadn't believed his own ears, while his companion burst into wild laughter.

"_Touché, mon ami_," he cried, clapping the chauffeur on the back. "My faith, but she has a pretty wit--the donkey and Monsieur Philidor--_par exemple_!" And he roared with laughter again.

The man at the wheel flecked his cigarette into the bushes, smiling with as good grace as he could command.

"You have many chaperons, Mademoiselle," he said. "It is too bad. I shall remember your _beaux yeux_, just the same."

He waved a hand, then, opening the cutout, drove the machine forward and in a moment was out of sight in a cloud of dust.

Markham grinned at the departing vehicle and then, turning, met Hermia's gleaming eyes.

"O _mon ami_, it is to laugh!" she cried. "Imagine Clarissa seated in the tonneau of that machine entering the gates of Verneuil! If you have any doubt about getting the better of a Frenchman just set him up to ridicule."

She began laughing again, her eyes on Markham.

"My poor Philidor! Did you think I was about to desert you--and Clarissa? You were really quite angry for a moment."

"He was impertinent," growled Markham.

"To Hermia--but not to Yvonne."

"You're both."

"Oh, this will never do at all! You mustn't fly at the throat of every man who takes a fancy to me."

"I don't--but the man--is what is called a gentleman. There's a difference." And while she hesitated for a reply.

"What did he mean by saying that he had seen you before?" he asked.

"Just that. He _had_. I remembered him perfectly. He's the Marquis de Folligny."

"Pierre de Folligny!" in amazement. "Not _Olga's_ Pierre de Folligny?"

"The same. I knew him instantly. I met him in London, at an evening garden party. That is why I didn't want you to make any trouble."

"De Folligny! I have met him. He used to wear a beard."

"Yes, when _you_ didn't."

"I see." And then after a pause. "I thought he was one of that Trouville crowd."

"He is, I think. How lucky I hadn't seen him there!"

They walked along for some moments in silence, Markham slowly stuffing tobacco into his pipe, his gaze upon the ground.

"Hermia," he said briefly at last, "you'll have to be careful."

"Well--aren't I?" reproachfully.

"I'm not sure it's wise of us to pass through the larger towns."

"Why not?"

"You might be recognized."

"I'll have to take that chance. If you remove the element of danger you take away half the charm of our pilgrimage."

"I'd rather the danger were mine--not yours," he said soberly.

She laughed at his uneasiness. "I've absolved you from all responsibility. You are merely my Oedipus, the _vade mecum_ of my unsentimental journey."

But he didn't laugh.

"I'll warrant you De Folligny doesn't think that," he said.

"Well--suppose he doesn't. Are you and I responsible for the unpleasant cast of other people's thoughts? My conscience is clear. So is yours. _You_ know how unsentimental our journey is. So do I. Why, Philidor, can't you see? It wouldn't be quite right if it _wasn't_ unsentimental."

"And how about my--er--my shrinking susceptibilities?" he asked.

"Oh, that! You are losing your sense of humor," she said promptly. "The worst of your enemies or the best of your friends would hardly call you sentimental. I could not feel safer on that score if I were under the motherly wing of Aunt Harriett Westfield!"

She was a bundle of contradictions and said exactly what came into her head. He examined her again, not sure whether it were better to be annoyed or merely amused, and saw again the wide violet gaze. He looked away but he didn't seem quite happy.

"I suppose that would be the truth," he said slowly. "Unfortunately our vulgar conventions make no such nice distinctions."

"But what is the difference if _we_ make them?"

"None, of course. But I would much prefer it if we gave Verneuil a wide berth."

"Oh, I'm not afraid. Fate is always kind to the utterly irresponsible. That's their compensation for being so. What does it matter to-morrow so long as we are happy to-day?"

His expression softened.

"You are still contented then?"

"Blissfully so. Don't I look it?"

"If you didn't I wouldn't dare to ask you."

By ten o'clock Hermia was hungry again and when they came to a small village she vowed that without food she would walk no more.

"Very well then," said Markham. "We must earn the right to do it."

They found a small _auberge_ before which Hermia unpacked her orchestra and played. A crowd of women and children soon surrounded them, and the sounds of the drum brought the curious from the fields and more distant houses. The _patronne_ came out and Philidor offered to do her portrait for ten sous.

They were lucky. When the hat was passed they found the total returns upon their venture, including the portrait, were one franc and thirty centimes. This paid for their share of the _ragoût_, some cheese, bread and a liter of wine. When they got up to go, such was the immediate fame of Philidor's portrait, that two other persons came with the money in their hands to sit to him. But he shook his head. He would be back this way, perhaps--but now--no--they must be upon their way. And so amid the farewells of their latest friends, the cries of children and the barking of dogs they took to the road again.