Part 3

"But Monsieur Brierley is half converted already, my dear Monsieur Louis; he told me the last time I was at his bungalow that he would never kill another deer. He was before his fireplace under the head of a doe at the time--one he had shot and had stuffed. Am I not right, Monsieur Brierley?" and Lemois inclined his head toward the hunter.

Brierley nodded in assent.

"Same old game," muttered Louis. "Had his fun first."

"I have been a cook all my life," continued the undaunted Lemois, "and half the time train my own chefs in my kitchen, and yet I say to you that I could feed my whole clientele sumptuously without ever spilling a drop of blood. I live in that way myself as far as I can, and so would you if you had thought about it."

"Skimmed milk and hard-boiled eggs for breakfast, I suppose!" roared Louis in derision, "with a lettuce sandwich and a cold turnip for luncheon."

"No, you upsidedown man! Cheese souffles, omelets in a dozen different ways, stuffed peppers, tomatoes fried, stewed, and fricasseed, oysters, clams----"

"And crabs and lobsters?" added Louis.

"Ah! but crabs and lobsters suffer like any other thing which has the power to move; what I am trying to do is to live so that nothing will suffer because of my appetite."

"And go round looking like a skeleton in a doctor's office! How could you get these up on boiled cabbage?" and he patted Herbert's biceps.

"No, my dear Monsieur Louis," persisted Lemois gravely, still refusing to be side-tracked by the young painter's onslaughts. "If we loved the things we kill for food as Monsieur Brierley loves his dog Peter, there would never be another Chateaubriand cooked in the world. What would you say if I offered you one of that dear fellow's ribs for breakfast? It would be quite easy--the butcher is only around the corner and Pierre would broil it to a turn. But that would not do for you gourmets. You must have liver or sweetbreads cut from an animal you never saw and of which, of course, you know nothing. If the poor animal had been a playmate of Mignon's--and she once had a pet lamb--you could no sooner cut its throat than you could Peter's."

Before Louis could again explode, Brierley, who, at mention of Peter's name had leaned over to stroke the dog's ears, now broke in, a dry smile on his face.

"There's another side of this question which you fellows don't seem to see, and which interests me a lot. You talk about cruelty to animals, but I tell you that most of the cruelty to-day is served out to the man with the gun. The odds are really against him. The birds down my way have got so almighty cunning that they club together and laugh at us. I hear them many a time when Peter and I are dragging ourselves home empty-handed. They know too when I start out and when I give up and make for cover."

"Go slow, Brierley; go slow!"

"Of course they know, Louis!" retorted Brierley in mock dejection. "Doesn't a crow keep a watch out for the flock? Can you get near one of them with a gun unless you are lucky enough to shoot the sentry first? You can call it instinct if you choose--I call it reason--the same kind of mental process that compels you to look out for an automobile before you cross the street, with your eyes both ways at once. When you talk of their helplessness and want of common sense, and inability to look out for themselves, you had better lie under a hedge as I have done, the briars scraping your neck, or scrunched down in a duckblind, with your feet in ice water, and study these simple-minded creatures. Explain this if you can. Some years ago, in America, I spent the autumn on the Housatonic River. The ducks come in from Long Island Sound to feed on the shore stuff, and I could sometimes get five--once I got eleven--between dawn and sunrise. The constant banging away soon made them so shy that if I got five in a week I was lucky. On the first of the month and for the first time in the State a new law came into force making it cost a month's wages for any pot-hunter to kill a duck or even have one in his possession. The law, as is customary, was duly advertised. Not only was it published in the papers but stuck up in bar-rooms and county post-offices, and at last became common gossip around the feeding-ground of the ducks. At first they didn't believe it, for they still kept out of sight, flying high--and few at that. But when they found the law was obeyed and that all firing had ceased, not a gun being heard on the river, they tumbled to the game as quick as did the pot-hunters. When the shooting season opened the following year, hardly a duck showed up. Those that came were evidently stragglers who rested for a day on their long flight south; but the Long Island Sound ducks--the well-posted ducks--stayed away altogether until, with the first of the month, the law for their protection came into force again. Then, so the old farmer, a very truthful man with whom I used to put up, wrote me, they came back by thousands; the shore was black with them."

"And you really believe it, Brierley?" Louis' head was shaking in a commiserating way.

"Of course I believe it, and I can show the farmer's letter to back it," he answered, with a wink at me behind his hand; "and so would you if you had been humbugged by them as many times as I have. Ask Peter--he'll tell you the same thing. And I'll tell you something else. On the edge of that same village was a jumble of shanties inhabited by a lot of Italians who had come up from New York to work a quarry near by. On Sundays and holidays these fellows went gunning for the small birds, especially cedar birds and flickers, hiding in the big woods a mile away. After these birds had stood it for a while they put their dear little innocent heads together and thought it all out. Women and children did not shoot, therefore the safest place for nesting and skylarking was among these very women and children. After that the woods were empty; the birds just made fools of the pot-hunters and swarmed to the gardens and yards and village trees. No one had ever seen them before in such quantities, and--would you believe it?--they never went back to the woods again until the Italians had left for New York."

Lemois, having also missed the humor in Brierley's tone, rose from his place beside the coffee-table, leaned over the young writer, and, with a characteristic gesture, patted him on the arm, exclaiming:

"How admirably you have put it, my dear Monsieur Brierley; I have to thank you most sincerely. Ah! you Americans are always clear and to the point. May I add one more word? That which made these birds so cunning was the fact that you were out to _kill_ them." Here he straightened up, his back to the fire, and stood with the light of its blaze tingeing his gray beard. "It's a foolish fancy, I know, but I would have liked to have lived, if only for one day, with the man Adam, just to see how he and Madame Eve and the Noah's ark family got on before they began quarrelling and Cain made a hole in the head of the other monsieur. I have an idea that the lion and the lamb ate out of the same trough, with the birds on their backs for company--all the world at peace. My Coco rubs his beak against my cheek, not because I feed him, but because he trusts me; he would, I am sure, bite a piece out of Monsieur Louis' because he does not trust him--and with reason," and the old man smiled good-naturedly. "But why don't they all trust us?"

Herbert, who had also for some reason entirely missed Brierley's humor, fumbled for an instant with the end of a match he had picked from the cloth, and then, tossing it quickly from him as if he had at last framed the sentence he was about to utter, said in a thoughtful tone:

"I have often wondered what the world would be like if all fear of every kind was abolished--of punishment, of bodily hurt, and of pain? Everything that swims, flies, or walks is afraid of something else--women of men, men of each other. The first thing an infant does is to cry out--not from the pain, but from fright--just as a small dog or the cub of a bear hides under its mother's coat before its eyes are open. It is the ogre, Fear, that begins with the milk and ends with the last breath in terror over the unknown, and it is our fault. Half the children in the world--perhaps three-fourths of them--have been brought up by fear and not by love."

"How about the lambasting your father gave you, Herbert, when you hooked it from school? 'Spare the rod and spoil the--' You know the rest of it. Did you deserve it?"

"Probably I did," laughed Herbert. "But, all the same, Louis, that foolish line has done more harm in the world than any line ever written. Many a brute of a father--not mine, for he did what he thought was right--has found excuse in those half-dozen words for his temper when he beat his boy."

"Oh, come, let us get back to dry ground, gentlemen," broke in Brierley. "We commenced on birds and we've brought up on moral suasion with the help of a birch-rod. Nobody has yet answered my argument: What about the birds and the way they play it on Peter and me?" and again Brierley winked at me.

"It's because you tricked them first, Brierley," returned Herbert in all seriousness and in all sincerity. "They got suspicious and outwitted you, and they will every time. A beast never forgets treachery. I know of a dozen instances to prove it."

"Now I think of it, I know of one case, too," remarked Louis gravely, in the voice of a savant uncovering a matter of great weight; "that is, if I may be allowed to tell it in the presence of the big Nimrod of the Congo--he of a hundred pairs of tusks, to say nothing of skins galore."

Herbert nodded assent and with an air of surprise leaned forward to listen. That the jovial painter had ever met the savage beast in any part of the world was news to him.

"A most extraordinary and remarkable instance, gentlemen, showing both the acumen, the mental equipment, and the pure cussedness, if I may be permitted the expression, of the brute beast of the field. The incident, as told to me, made a profound impression on my early life, and was largely instrumental in my abandoning the pursuit and destruction of game of that class. I refer to the well-known case of the boy who gave the elephant a quid of tobacco for a cake, and was buried the following year by his relatives when the circus came again to his town--he unfortunately having occupied a front seat. Yes, you are right, the beast forgives anything but treachery. But go on, Professor Herbert; your treatment of this extremely novel view of animal life is most exhilarating. I shall, at the next meeting of the Academy of Sciences, introduce a----"

Brierley's hand set firmly on Louis' mouth, who sputtered out he would be good, would have ended the discussion had not Lemois moved into an empty chair beside Herbert, and, resting his hand on the sculptor's shoulder, exclaimed in so absorbed a tone as to command every one's attention:

"Please do not stop, Monsieur Herbert, and please do not mind this wild man, who has two mouths in his face--one with which he eats and the other with which he interrupts. I am very much interested. You were speaking of the ogre, Fear. Please go on. One of the things I want to know is whether it existed in the Garden of Eden. Now if you gentlemen will all keep still"--here he fixed his eyes on Louis--"we may hear something worth listening to."

Louis threw up both hands in submission, begging Lemois not to shoot, and Herbert, having made him swear by all that was holy not to open either of his mouths until his story was told to the end, emptied his glass of Burgundy and faced the expectant group.

"We don't need to go back to the Garden of Eden to decide the question, Lemois. As to who is responsible for the existence of this ogre, Fear, I can answer best by telling you what happened only four years ago on a German expedition to the South Pole. It was told me by the commander himself, who had been specially selected by Emperor William as the best man to take charge. When I met him he was captain of one of the great North Atlantic liners--a calm, self-contained man of fifty, with a smile that always gave way to a laugh, and a sincerity, courage, and capacity that made you turn over in your berth for another nap no matter how hard it blew.

"We were in his cabin near the bridge at the time, the walls of which were covered with photographs of the Antarctic, most of which he had taken himself, showing huge icebergs, vast stretches of hummock ice, black, clear-etched shore lines, and wastes of snow that swept up to high mountains, their tops lost in the fog. He was the first human being, so he told me, to land on that coast. He had left the ship in the outside pack and with his first mate and one of the scientists had forced a way through the floating floes, their object being to make the ascent of a range of low rolling mountains seen in one of the photographs. This was pure white from base to summit except for a dark shadow one-third the slope, which he knew must be caused by an overhanging ledge with possibly a cave beneath. If any explorers had ever reached this part of the Antarctic, this cave, he knew, would be the place of all others in which to search for records and remains.

"He had hardly gone a dozen yards toward it when his first mate touched his arm and pointed straight ahead. Advancing over the crest of the snow came the strangest procession he had ever seen. Thirty or more penguins of enormous size, half as high as a man, were marching straight toward them in single file, the leader ahead. When within a few feet of them the penguins stopped, bunched themselves together, looked the invaders over, bending their heads in a curious way--walking round and round as if to get a better view--and then waddled back to a ridge a few rods off, where they evidently discussed their strange guests.

"The captain and the first mate, leaving the scientist, walked up among them, patted their heads, caressed their necks--the captain at last slipping his hand under one flipper of the largest penguin, the mate taking the other--the two conducting the bird slowly and with great solemnity and dignity back to the boat, its companions following as a matter of course. None of them exhibited the slightest fear; did not start or crane their heads in suspicion, but were just as friendly as so many tame birds waiting to be fed. The boat seemed to interest them as much as the men had done. One by one, or by twos and threes, they came waddling gravely down to where it lay, examined it all over and as gravely waddled back, looking up into the explorers' faces as if for some explanation of the meaning and purpose of the strange craft. They had, too, a queer way of extending their necks, rubbing their cheeks softly against the men's furs, as if it felt good to them. The only thing they seemed disappointed in were the ship's rations--these they would not touch.

"Leaving the whole flock grouped about the boat, the party pushed on to the dark shadow up the white slope. It was, as he had supposed, an overhanging cliff, its abrupt edge and slant forming a shallow cave protected from the glaciers and endless snows. As he approached nearer he could make out the whirling flight of birds, and when he reached the edge he found it inhabited by thousands upon thousands of sea fowl--a gray and white species common to these latitudes. But there was no commotion nor excitement of any kind--no screams of alarm or running to cover. On the contrary, when the party came to a halt and looked up at the strange sight, two birds stopped in their flight to perch on the mate's shoulder, and one hopped toward the captain with a movement as if politely asking his business. He even lifted the young birds from under their mother's wings without protest of any kind--not even a peck of their beaks--one of the older birds really stepped into his hand and settled herself as unconcerned as if his warm palm was exactly the kind of nest she had been waiting for. He could, he told me, have carried the whole family away without protest of any kind so long as he kept them together.

"The following week he again visited the shore. This time he found not only the friendly penguins, who met him with even more than their former welcome, but a huge seal which had sprawled itself out on the rock and whose only acknowledgment of their presence was a lazy lift of the head followed by a sleepy stare. So perfectly undisturbed was he by their coming, that both the captain and the first mate sat down on his back, the mate remaining long enough to light his pipe. Even then the seal moved only far enough to stretch himself, as if saying, 'Try that and you will find it more comfortable.'

"On this visit, however, something occurred which, he told me, he should never cease to regret as long as he lives. That morning as they pushed off from the ship, one of the dogs had made a clear spring from the deck and had landed in the boat. It was rather difficult to send him back without loss of time, and so he put him in charge of the mate, with orders not to take his eyes off him and, as a further precaution, to chain him to the seat when he went ashore. So fascinated were the penguins by the dog that for some minutes they kept walking round and round him, taking in his every movement. In some way, when the mate was not looking, the dog slipped his chain and disappeared. Whether he had gone back to the vessel or was doing some exploring on his own account nobody knew; anyhow, he must be found.

"It then transpired that one of the penguins had also taken a notion to go on a still hunt of its own, and alone. Whether the dog followed the penguin, or the penguin the dog, he said he never knew; but as soon as both were out of sight the dog pounced upon the bird and strangled it. They found it flat on its back, the black-webbed feet, palms up, as in dumb protest, the plump white body glistening in the snow. From its throat trickled a stream of blood: they had come just in time to save any further mutilation. To hide all traces of the outrage, the captain and his men not only carried the dead penguin and the live dog to the boat, but carefully scraped up every particle of the stained snow, which was also carried to the boat and finally to the ship. What he wanted, he told me, was to save his face with the birds. He knew that not one of them had seen the tragedy, and he was determined that none of them should find it out. So careful was he that no smell of blood would be wafted toward them, that he had the boat brought to windward before he embarked the load; in this way, too, he could avoid bidding both them and the seal good-by.

"The following spring he again landed on the shore. He had completed the survey, and the coast lay on their homeward track. There were doubters in the crew, who had heard the captain's story of the penguins walking arm and arm with him, so he landed some of the ship's company to convince them by ocular demonstration of its truth. But no penguins were in sight, nor did any other living thing put in an appearance. One of his men--there were six this time--caught a glimpse of a row of heads peering at them over a ridge of snow a long way off, but that was all. When he reached the cave the birds flew out in alarm, screaming and circling as if to protect their young."

Herbert paused, moved his cup nearer the arm of his chair, and for a moment stirred it gently.

Lemois, whose grave eyes had never wandered from Herbert, broke the silence.

"I should have learned their language and have stayed on until they did understand," he murmured softly. "It wouldn't have taken very long."

"The captain did try, Lemois," returned Herbert, "first by signs and gentle approaches, and then by keeping perfectly still, to pacify them; but it was of no use. They had lost all confidence in human kind. The peace of the everlasting ages had come to an end. Fear had entered into their world!"

IV

THE ARRIVAL OF A LADY OF QUALITY

One of the delights of dressing by our open windows at this season is to catch the aroma of Mignon's roasting coffee. This morning it is particularly delicious. The dry smell of the soil that gave it birth is fast merging into that marvellous perfume which makes it immortal. The psychological moment is arriving; in common parlance it is just on the "burn"--another turn and the fire will have its revenge. But Mignon's vigil has never ceased--into the air it goes, the soft breeze catching and cooling it, and then there pours out, flooding the garden, the flowers, and the roofs, its new aroma and with it its new life.

And the memories it calls up--this pungent, fragrant, spicy perfume: memories of the cup I drank in that old posada outside the gate of Valencia and the girl who served it, and the matador who stood by the window and scowled; memories of my own toy copper coffee-pot, with its tiny blue cup and saucer which Luigi, my gondolier, brings and pours himself; memories of the thimblefuls in shallow china cups hardly bigger than an acorn shell, that Yusef, my dragoman, laid beside my easel in the patio of the Pigeon Mosque in Stamboul, when the priests forbade me to paint.

Yes!--a wonderful aroma this which our pretty, joyous Mignon is scattering broadcast over the court-yard, hastening every man's toilette that he may get down the earlier where Leà is waiting for him with the big cups, the crescents, the pats of freshly churned butter, and the pitcher of milk boiling-hot from Pierre's fire.

Another of the pleasures of the open window is being able to hear what goes on in the court-yard. To-day the ever-spontaneous and delightful Louis, as usual, is monopolizing all the talk, with Lemois and Mignon for audience, he having insisted on the open garden for his early cup, which the good Leà has brought, her scuffling sabots marking a track across the well-raked gravel. The conversation is at long range--Louis sitting immediately under my window and Lemois, within reach of the kitchen door at the other side of the court, busying himself with his larder spread out on a table.

"Monsieur Lemois! Oh, Monsieur Lemois!" Louis called; "will you be good enough to pay attention! What about eggs?--can I have a couple of soft-boiled?"

"Why, of course you can have eggs! Leà, tell Pierre to----"

"Yes, I know, but will it endanger the life of the chickens inside? After your sermon last night, and Herbert's penguin yarn, I don't intend that any living thing shall suffer because of my appetite--not if I can help it."

Lemois shrugged his shoulders in laughter, and kept on with his work, painting a still-life picture on his table-top--a string of silver onions for high lights and a brace of pheasants with a background of green turnip-tops for darks. To see Lemois spread his marketing thus deliberately on his canvas of a kitchen table is a lesson in color and composition. You get, too, some idea as to why he was able to reproduce in real paint the "Bayeux" tapestry on the walls of the "Gallerie" and arrange the Marmouset as he has done.

My ear next became aware of a certain silence in the direction of the coffee-roaster which had ceased its rhythm--the coffee is roasted fresh every morning. I glanced out and discovered our Mignon standing erect beside her roaster with flushed cheeks and dancing eyes. Next I caught sight of young Gaston, his bronze, weather-beaten face turned toward the girl, his eyes roaming around the court-yard. In his sunburned hand he clutched a letter. He was evidently inquiring of Mignon as to whom he should give it.