Works of robert w chambe.., p.576
Works of Robert W Chambers, page 576
“Monsieur Van Twillaire, I am come to-day according to the American custom, to beg your permission to pay my addresses to mademoiselle, your daughter.”
I dropped my cigarette into the empty fireplace.
“Which daughter?” I asked, coldly.
“Mademoiselle Dulcima, monsieur.”
After a silence I said:
“I will give you an answer to-morrow at this hour.”
We bowed to each other, solemnly shook hands, and parted.
I was smoking violently in the conservatory of the hotel, when a bellboy brought me a card of my old friend, Gillian Van Dieman.
In due time Van Dieman appeared, radiant, smiling, faultlessly groomed.
“Well,” said I, “it’s about time you came over from Long Island, isn’t it? My daughters expected you last week.”
“I know,” he said, smiling; “I couldn’t get away, Peter. Didn’t Alida explain?”
“Explain what?” I asked.
“About our engagement.”
In my amazement I swallowed some smoke that was not wholesome for me.
“Didn’t she tell you she is engaged to marry me?” he asked, laughing.
After a long silence, in which I thought of many things, including the formal offers of Captains de Barsac and Torchon de Cluny, I said I had not heard of it, and added sarcastically that I hoped both he and Alida would pardon my ignorance on any matters which concerned myself.
“Didn’t you know that Alida came over here to buy her trousseau?” he inquired coolly.
I did not, and I said so.
“Didn’t you know about the little plot that she and I laid to get you to bring her to Paris?” he persisted, much amused.
I glared at him.
“Why, Peter,” he said, “when you declared to me in the clubhouse that nothing could get you to Paris unless, through your own stupidity, something happened to your pig — —”
I turned on him as red as a beet.
“I know you stole that pig, Van!”
“Yes,” he muttered guiltily.
“Then,” said I earnestly, “for God’s sake let it rest where it is, and marry Alida whenever you like!”
“With your blessing, Peter?” asked Van Dieman, solemnly.
“With my blessing — dammit!”
We shook hands in silence.
“Where is Alida?” he asked presently.
“In her room, surrounded by thousands of dressmakers, hatmakers, mantua-makers, furriers, experts in shoes, lingerie, jewelry, and other inexpensive trifles,” said I with satisfaction.
But the infatuated man never winced.
“You will attend to that sort of thing in the future,” I remarked.
The reckless man grinned in unfeigned delight.
“Come,” said I, wearily, “Alida is in for all day with her trousseau. I’ve a cab at the door; come on! I was going out to watch the parade at Longchamps. Now you’ve got to go with me and tell me something about this temperamental French army that seems more numerous in Paris than the civilians.”
“What do you want to see soldiers for?” he objected.
“Because,” said I, “I had some slight experience with the army this morning just before you arrived; and I want to take a bird’s-eye view of the whole affair.”
“But I — —”
“Oh, we’ll return for dinner and then you can see Alida,” I added. “But only in my company. You see we are in France, Van, and she is the jeune fille of romance.”
“Fudge!” he muttered, following me out to the cab.
“We will drive by the Pont Neuf,” he suggested. “You know the proverb?”
“No,” said I; “what proverb?”
“The bridegroom who passes by the Pont Neuf will always meet a priest, a soldier, and a white horse. The priest will bless his marriage, the soldier will defend it, the white horse will bear his burdens through life.”
As a matter of fact, passing the Pont Neuf, we did see a priest, a soldier, and a white horse. But it is a rare thing not to meet this combination on the largest, longest, oldest, and busiest bridge in Paris. All three mascots are as common in Paris as are English sparrows in the Bois de Boulogne.
I bought a book on the quay, then re-entered the taxi and directed the driver to take us to the race-course at Longchamps.
Our way led up the Champs Elysées, and, while we whirled along, Van Dieman very kindly told me as much about the French army as I now write, and for the accuracy of which I refer to my future son-in-law.
There are, in permanent garrison in Paris, about thirty thousand troops stationed. This does not include the famous Republican Guard corps, which is in reality a sort of municipal gendarmerie, composed of several battalions of infantry, several squadrons of gorgeous cavalry, and a world-famous band, which corresponds in functions to our own Marine Band at Washington.
The barracks of the regular troops are scattered about the city, and occupy strategic positions as the armouries of our National Guard are supposed to do. All palaces, museums of importance, and government buildings are guarded day and night by infantry. The cavalry guard only their own barracks; the marines, engineers, and artillery the same.
At night the infantry and cavalry of the Republican Guard post sentinels at all theatres, balls, and public functions. In front of the Opera only are the cavalry mounted on their horses, except when public functions occur at the Elysées or the Hôtel de Ville.
In the dozen great fortresses that surround the walls of Paris, thousands of fortress artillery are stationed. In the suburbs and outlying villages artillery and regiments of heavy and light cavalry have their permanent barracks — dragoons, cuirassiers, chasseurs-à-cheval, field batteries, and mounted batteries. At Saint Cloud are dragoons and remount troopers; at Versailles the engineers and cuirassiers rule the region; and the entire Department of the Seine is patrolled by gendarmes, mounted and on foot.
When we reached the beautiful meadow of Longchamps, with its grand-stand covered with waving flags and the sunshine glowing on thousands of brilliant parasols, we left the taxi, and found a place on what a New Yorker would call “the bleachers.” The bleachers were covered with pretty women, so we were not in bad company. As for the great central stand, where the President of the Republic sat surrounded by shoals of brilliant officers, it was a mass of colour from flagstaff to pelouse.
The band of the Republican Guards was thundering out one of Sousa’s marches; the vast green plain glittered with masses of troops. Suddenly three cannon-shots followed one another in quick order; the band ended its march with a long double roll of drums; the Minister of War had arrived.
“They’re coming,” said Van Dieman. “Look! Here come the Saint-Cyrians. They lead the march one year, and the Polytechnic leads it the next. But I wish they could see West Point — just once.”
The cadets from Saint-Cyr came marching past, solid ranks of scarlet, blue, and silver. They marched pretty well; they ride better, I am told. After them came the Polytechnic, in black and red and gold, the queer cocked hats of the cadets forming a quaint contrast to the toy soldier headgear of the Saint-Cyr soldiers. Following came battalion after battalion of engineers in sombre uniforms of red and dark blue, then a bizarre battalion of Turcos or Algerian Riflemen in turbans and pale blue Turkish uniforms, then a company of Zouaves in scarlet and white and blue, then some special corps which was not very remarkable for anything except the bad fit of its clothing.
After them marched solid columns of line infantry, great endless masses of dull red and blue, passing steadily until the eye wearied of the monotony.
Trumpets were sounding now; and suddenly, the superb French artillery passed at a trot, battery after battery, the six guns and six caissons of each in mathematically perfect alignment, all the gunners mounted, and not a man sitting on limber or caisson.
In my excitement I rose and joined the roar of cheers which greeted the artillerymen as battery after battery passed, six guns abreast.
“Sit down,” said Van Dieman, laughing. “Look! Here come the cavalry!”
In two long double ranks, ten thousand horsemen were galloping diagonally across the plain — Hussars in pale robin’s-egg blue and black and scarlet, Chasseurs-à-cheval in light blue and silver tunics, Dragoons armed with long lances from which fluttered a forest of red-and-white pennons, Cuirassiers cased in steel helmets and corselets — all coming at a gallop, sweeping on with the earth shaking under the thunder of forty thousand horses’ hoofs, faster, faster, while in the excitement the vast throng of spectators leaped up on the benches to see.
There was a rumble, a rolling shock, a blast from a hundred trumpets. “Halt!”
Then, with the sound of the rushing of an ocean, ten thousand swords swept from their steel scabbards, and a thundering cheer shook the very sky: “Vive la Républic!”
That evening we dined together at the Hôtel — Alida, Dulcima, Van Dieman, and I.
Alida wore a new ring set with a brilliant that matched her shining, happy eyes. I hoped Van Dieman might appear foolish and ill at ease, but he did not.
“There is,” said he, “a certain rare brand of champagne in the secret cellars of this famous café. It is pink as a rose in colour, and drier than a British cigar. It is the only wine, except the Czar’s Tokay, fit to drink to the happiness of the only perfect woman in the world.”
“And her equally perfect sister, father and fiancé,” said I. “So pray order this wonderful wine, Van, and let me note the brand; for I very much fear that we shall need another bottle at no distant date.”
“Why?” asked Dulcima, colouring to her hair.
“Because,” said I, “the French army is expected to encamp to-morrow before this hotel.”
“Cavalry or artillery?” she asked faintly.
“Both,” said I; “so let us thank Heaven that we escape the infantry, at least. Alida, my dear, your health, happiness, and long, long life!”
We drank the toast standing.
BLUE-BIRD WEATHER
CONTENTS
OF NEEDWOOD FOREST
I
II
III
IV
TO
JOSEPH LEE
OF NEEDWOOD FOREST
I
It was now almost too dark to distinguish objects; duskier and vaguer became the flat world of marshes, set here and there with cypress and bounded only by far horizons; and at last land and water disappeared behind the gathered curtains of the night. There was no sound from the waste except the wind among the withered reeds and the furrowing splash of wheel and hoof over the submerged causeway.
The boy who was driving had scarcely spoken since he strapped Marche’s gun cases and valise to the rear of the rickety wagon at the railroad station. Marche, too, remained silent, preoccupied with his own reflections. Wrapped in his fur-lined coat, arms folded, he sat doubled forward, feeling the Southern swamp-chill busy with his bones. Now and then he was obliged to relight his pipe, but the cold bit at his fingers, and he hurried to protect himself again with heavy gloves.
The small, rough hands of the boy who was driving were naked, and finally Marche mentioned it, asking the child if he were not cold.
“No, sir,” he said, with a colorless brevity that might have been shyness or merely the dull indifference of the very poor, accustomed to discomfort.
“Don’t you feel cold at all?” persisted Marche kindly.
“No, sir.”
“I suppose you are hardened to this sort of weather?”
“Yes, sir.”
By the light of a flaming match, Marche glanced sideways at him as he drew his pipe into a glow once more, and for an instant the boy’s gray eyes flickered toward his in the flaring light. Then darkness masked them both again.
“Are you Mr. Herold’s son?” inquired the young man.
“Yes, sir,” almost sullenly.
“How old are you?”
“Eleven.”
“You’re a big boy, all right. I have never seen your father. He is at the clubhouse, no doubt.”
“Yes, sir,” scarcely audible.
“And you and he live there all alone, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.” A moment later the boy added jerkily, “And my sister,” as though truth had given him a sudden nudge.
“Oh, you have a sister, too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That makes it very jolly for you, I fancy,” said Marche pleasantly. There was no reply to the indirect question.
His pipe had gone out again, and he knocked the ashes from it and pocketed it. For a while they drove on in silence, then Marche peered impatiently through the darkness, right and left, in an effort to see; and gave it up.
“You must know this road pretty well to be able to keep it,” he said. “As for me, I can’t see anything except a dirty little gray star up aloft.”
“The horse knows the road.”
“I’m glad of that. Have you any idea how near we are to the house?”
“Half a mile. That’s Rattler Creek, yonder.”
“How the dickens can you tell?” asked Marche curiously. “You can’t see anything in the dark, can you?”
“I don’t know how I can tell,” said the boy indifferently.
Marche smiled. “A sixth sense, probably. What did you say your name is?”
“Jim.”
“And you’re eleven? You’ll be old enough to have a gun very soon, Jim. How would you like to shoot a real, live wild duck?”
“I have shot plenty.”
Marche laughed. “Good for you, Jimmy. What did the gun do to you? Kick you flat on your back?”
The boy said gravely: “Father’s gun is too big for me. I have to rest it on the edge of the blind when I fire.”
“Do you shoot from the blinds?”
“Yes, sir.”
Marche relapsed into smiling silence. In a few moments he was thinking of other things — of this muddy island which had once been the property of a club consisting of five carefully selected and wealthy members, and which, through death and resignation, had now reverted to him. Why he had ever bought in the shares, as one by one the other members either died or dropped out, he did not exactly know. He didn’t care very much for duck shooting. In five years he had not visited the club; and why he had come here this year for a week’s sport he scarcely knew, except that he had either to go somewhere for a rest or ultimately be carried, kicking, into what his slangy doctor called the “funny house.”
So here he was, on a cold February night, and already nearly at his destination; for now he could make out a light across the marsh, and from dark and infinite distances the east wind bore the solemn rumor of the sea, muttering of wrecks and death along the Atlantic sands beyond the inland sounds.
“Well, Jim,” he said, “I never thought I’d survive this drive, but here we are, and still alive. Are you frozen solid, you poor boy?”
The boy smiled, shyly, in negation, as they drove into the bar of light from the kitchen window and stopped. Marche got down very stiffly. The kitchen door opened at the same moment, and a woman’s figure appeared in the lamplight — a young girl, slender, bare armed, drying her fingers as she came down the steps to offer a small, weather-roughened hand to Marche.
“My brother will show you to your room,” she said. “Supper will be ready in a few minutes.”
So he thanked her and went away with Jim, relieving the boy of the valise and one gun-case, and presently came to the quarters prepared for him. The room was rough, with its unceiled walls of yellow pine, a chair, washstand, bed, and a nail or two for his wardrobe. It had been the affectation of the wealthy men composing the Foam Island Duck Club to exist almost primitively when on the business of duck shooting, in contradistinction to the overfed luxury of other millionaires inhabiting other more luxuriously appointed shooting-boxes along the Chesapeake.
The Foam Island Club went in heavily for simplicity, as far as the two-story shanty of a clubhouse was concerned; but their island was one of the most desirable in the entire region, and their live decoys the most perfectly trained and cared for.
Marche, washing his tingling fingers and visage in icy water, rather wished, for a moment, that the club had installed modern plumbing; but delectable odors from the kitchen put him into better humor, and presently he went off down the creaking and unpainted stairs to warm himself at a big stove until summoned to the table.
He was summoned in a few moments by the same girl who had greeted him; and she also waited on him at table,placing before him in turn his steaming soup, a platter of fried bass and smoking sweet potatoes, then the inevitable broiled canvas-back duck with rice, and finally home-made preserves — wild grapes, exquisitely fragrant in their thin, golden syrup.
Marche was that kind of a friendly young man who is naturally gay-hearted and also a little curious — sometimes to the verge of indiscretion. For his curiosity and inquiring interest in his fellow-men was easily aroused — particularly when they were less fortunately situated than he in a world where it is a favorite fiction that all are created equal. He was, in fact, that particular species of human nuisance known as a humanitarian; but he never dreamed he was a nuisance, and certainly never meant to be.
Warmth and food and the prospects of to-morrow’s shooting, and a slender, low-voiced young girl, made cheerful his recently frost-nipped soul, and he was inclined to expand and become talkative there in the lamplight.
“Has the shooting been pretty good?” he asked pleasantly, plying knife and fork in the service of a raging appetite.
“It has been.”
“What do you think of the prospects for to-morrow?”
She said gravely: “I am afraid it will be blue-bird weather.”
“She said gravely: ‘I am afraid it will be blue-bird weather.’”
It was a new, but graphic, expression to him; and he often remembered it afterward, and how quaintly it fell from her lips as she stood there in the light of the kerosene lamp, slim, self-possessed, in her faded gingham gown and apron, the shapely middle finger of one little weather-tanned hand resting on the edge of the cloth.
