War-time Silhouettes Part 7

"Really, Peter, you try me pretty high. It's give, give, give. You seem to think that I've got a bottomless pocket."

"Not exactly bottomless, Stephen."

"But I say you do. I can't go on like this. Every day there's some new demand. Look at this." He took a type-written letter from the table and handed it to his friend. Peter Knott stuck his eyegla.s.s into his eye and slowly read the letter.

"I say, Stephen, this must be the wrong letter. It's from those wheelworks of yours, telling you they've got so many orders they can't execute them, and that there's a new contract from the Government.

They want to extend the works."

"Well, d.a.m.n it! doesn't that mean more money, and the Government takes pretty nearly all the profit. You seem to forget that money's wanted in business. I shall have to shut up shop if this goes on. D'you think giving employment to hundreds of workmen isn't worth something, too? I'm thinking very seriously of closing Crossways Hall altogether; in fact, I should, only that it would cost me almost as much as keeping it open.

There's no man in the country who has done more in the public interest than I have, but there's a limit to everything."

Ringsmith scowled at Peter, who made no attempt at replying.

"By the way, Ringsmith, did you know Whelan is over here? I met him quite by chance yesterday. Seems he's come over on a large Government contract for sh.e.l.ls. He asked after you. Told me about a Corot you sold him some years ago. He seemed to think he'd paid a big price."

"Well, he didn't." The tone of Ringsmith's reply was irritable. Peter Knott stopped putting on his gloves and looked at Ringsmith inquiringly.

"Not a big price? He told me 7,500."

"Oh, he told you that, did he? Have you any idea what kind of expenses there are in a transaction of that kind?"

"Not the slightest, Stephen."

"You don't seem to realize that there are not many people who have the antipathy to being mixed up in art deals that you have."

"Ah!" Peter Knott moved to the door.

"Good-bye, Stephen," he murmured, and closed it gently behind him.

By the first post in the morning Peter Knott received the following letter--

DEAR PETER,

Thinking it over after you left, I have decided to send you the enclosed for the motor ambulance fund. I never like refusing you, but I should like you to remember that business is one thing and charity another.

Yours ever,

STEPHEN RINGSMITH.

Within the letter was a cheque for 2,500.

"Not so bad," muttered Peter, "but he's got the Mauve and the Daubigny for nothing, and there were no expenses on this deal."

V. "BOBBY"

When War came, Julian Froelich, known to his friends as "Bobby," found himself in a situation which in his wildest dreams he had never contemplated. This is not surprising, considering that his mental activities had been exclusively limited to procuring himself what he called "a good time." In that brief phrase could be summed up Bobby's entire philosophy, and when he suddenly had to face a state of things which from one moment to another swept away the groundwork upon which his life reposed, it is no wonder that he felt himself "knocked out." With incredible velocity his friends were caught up and whirled in every direction like c.o.c.kle-sh.e.l.ls in a hurricane. Their haunts knew them no more, and before he could realize his personal concern with catastrophic events Bobby became a disconsolate wanderer in search of the flotsam and jetsam which were all that remained of his demolished world.

For a time Bobby was unnerved. At first singly, then by twos, by threes, by dozens, those with whom his life had been spent--frequenters of the restaurant, the racecourse, the tavern, and the theatre--followed one another in a headlong race to the unknown. His brain reeled under successive shocks. He was awestruck by the appalling suddenness of death and destruction. Daring no inquiry, avoiding those whose faces he dreaded to read, he forsook his former luxurious resorts and almost slunk into the corners of obscure eating-places and cafes in Soho.

Bobby will not easily forget those first few weeks of the War.

Then gradually he pulled himself together, and unable to escape the influence by which he was surrounded, he tried to take his little part in the common effort. But his training was against him. At forty-five years of age it is no easy task for any man to put the past behind him and begin afresh; for Bobby to have done so would have needed a strength of will and character which he never at any time in his life possessed. He did succeed in getting various jobs, but one after another he threw them up. In each case he found a suitable excuse for himself and an explanation for his friends; there was always some insuperable reason why he was "obliged to chuck it," and he finally resigned himself to a form of existence which differed from his former one, but only in degree.

In the early months of the War, before restrictions were placed upon ordinary travellers, Bobby began going to Paris again, for although he felt if possible even more there than in London the changes brought about by the War, the old habit was too strong to resist; the journey itself provided a reaction against the depression which overshadowed him.

Some time after von Kluck had been hurled back from the gates of Paris--it must have been shortly after the return of the French Government from Bordeaux--Bobby found himself arriving at the Gare du Nord. He had engaged his apartment, as usual, at the Hotel Ritz, and was about to step into the car which even in such times as these was sent to meet him, when a lady approached and asked him if he would mind taking her to her destination, as there was neither cab nor car to be found at the station. Bobby's experienced eye took in the stranger at a glance; she was unquestionably attractive, and with something of the old spirit he placed himself and his car at her disposal. It so happened that there was no inconvenience attached to the favour, which the lady acknowledged with becoming grace, for her destination was the same as his, and by the time Bobby had deposited her and her maid at the hotel they had struck up a quite promising acquaintance.

Several days pa.s.sed, and Bobby's chance meeting ripened into an engrossing adventure.

Many officers in those early days were continually pa.s.sing through Paris on their way to the Front or arriving there on short leave. There were all sorts of other visitors--officials and bearers of dispatches, diplomatists and cosmopolitan adventurers out for gain, not to speak of their wives, sisters, and other female attachments. Some of these Bobby knew, others he met, and not a few of them were well enough pleased to accept his society, if only to profit by his ciceronage as evening advanced. But on this occasion Bobby had no eyes for chance encounters.

His time was fully occupied, and he had come to the conclusion that his new acquaintance was the most tempting and fascinating creature Fate had ever cast across his path. He had, in fact, const.i.tuted himself her permanent escort.

Her chief occupation seemed to consist in visiting people who lived in various parts of Paris, where Bobby invariably accompanied her in the car he had engaged chiefly for her benefit, and he observed that she had a considerable acquaintance among people whom she came across at the hotel or in the various restaurants and theatres they frequented. But she never seemed to do more than bow to them, and though it was evident that her appearance aroused flattering notice, she discouraged attentions and was smilingly evasive when approached. Nevertheless, she was full of engagements. One day she would have an appointment at eleven in the morning near the Arc de Triomphe, in the afternoon in the Boulevard Malesherbes; the next day it would be near the Odeon in the morning and at a turning out of the Place Pigalle in the afternoon. On such occasions she would sweetly ask him to drop her at a certain place and to fetch her at a certain time; then she would disappear and Bobby would be left to spend the interval kicking his heels.

She dressed modestly in a taste that was quiet and restrained. Without being beautiful, her features were clear-cut, almost strong, and there was a radiancy about her smile and a gaiety in her brown eyes that Bobby found perfectly entrancing. She was no longer quite young; she might have been thirty; indeed, her hair, which was dark brown, was ever so slightly touched with silver, but this seemed to add to her attractiveness, which resided perhaps more in her complete naturalness than in any other quality. Bobby noticed that, unlike nearly all the women he knew, she used no colour on her lips, and only lightly dusted her face with powder, but her cheeks seemed always to have a bloom upon them as on grapes from a hothouse.

He found her a most delightful companion, always ready to talk about the things that interested him most and to go anywhere he liked, provided that it did not clash with any of her private engagements.

But never in his experience had Bobby been so puzzled. He simply could not make out who or what she really was. This mystery, if anything, deepened her attraction for him. Her name was Madame de Corantin, and in answer to his inquiry she told him her Christian name was Francine, but he had not so far dared to call her by it. She had an extraordinary power of quietly checking any attempt on his part to make tender advances. He could not himself have explained how it was done, but she contrived to make him feel that any suggestion of familiarity would put an end to their intercourse, and for nothing in the world would he have risked it. Indeed, in his loose-endedness, he looked upon the whole adventure as a special dispensation of Providence in his favour. Madame de Corantin was to him like a beacon to a lonely wayfarer who has lost his way in the night. To act as her escort and protector was, quite apart from the deeper feeling she inspired, a new object in life for him.

Ever since their first meeting his depression had left him; his existence had once more regained its savour.

She had frequently asked him to post letters for her, and sometimes to call at the hotel for them; her correspondence seemed to be large, and the envelopes bore the stamps of various countries, chiefly Russia. She spoke English and French equally well, with a slight foreign accent, which she explained by saying that she was Russian by birth, but had married a French diplomatist, who died in Brazil; she said, too, that she had travelled a great deal, and had spent much of her time in South America, where she had been in the habit of speaking Spanish. Perhaps, had Bobby's companion been less attractive, he might have been more interested in these matters, but he was absorbed by her personality and troubled little about anything else.

Ever bright, vivacious, and in good spirits, she awakened Bobby to a new interest in life. The philosophy with which she regarded tumultuous events, the easy cynicism with which she dismissed a discussion which bordered upon the serious, seemed to deprive him of any means of enlightening himself as to her real sympathies.

Several times he had suggested that some friend should join them at dinner or at the theatre, but she opposed it with a velvety firmness. "We are so well like this," she would say. "Why should we spoil it?" And Bobby was delighted beyond measure.

The days pa.s.sed. Bobby's original intention had been to remain in Paris only a week, but he was fully determined to stop on as long as Madame de Corantin accepted his companions.h.i.+p. If he stayed there until the end of the War, he did not care, provided he could be with her.

About this time Bobby, waiting one evening in the hall of the hotel for Madame de Corantin to come down to dinner, observed a familiar figure in Staff uniform. It was Alistair Ramsey. They exchanged salutations, but Ramsey's manner was marked by a hauteur which even Bobby, good-natured as he was, could not fail to notice. At that moment Madame de Corantin stepped out of the lift, and with a "See you later," to which the other responded by a curt nod, Bobby went to meet her. As she greeted him she stood still an instant, apparently looking at some one behind him, and Bobby turned sharply to follow her eyes. They were fixed on Alistair Ramsey, who was staring back at her with a look of astonishment.

The restaurant was fuller than usual, but their table was always reserved, and Bobby (who prides himself on his taste in such matters) looked forward to the little compliment he regularly received for the appropriateness of his menu. But on this occasion Madame de Corantin seemed to be oblivious of menu and of Bobby alike. She sat apparently lost in thought, and, eating mechanically what was placed before her, replied with monosyllables to Bobby's attempts at conversation. Then, of a sudden, her face cleared like the sky on an April day.

"Pardon me, my friend, I fear I have been very ill-mannered. I have received an annoying letter, and was thinking about it."

Bobby was full of concern. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked.

She looked at him with a half-smile. "Who knows? Perhaps!"

"Do tell me. You know I long to be of use to you, and there is so little that I can do."

"But who could do more? No lonely woman could ask for a more devoted cavalier." Her appreciative glance was nectar to Bobby. So susceptible was he to the expression of her eyes, he would have been powerless to resist anything they asked of him. But he had never been put to the test; on the contrary, she had accepted with demur even the comparatively trifling services he had been able to render her. She was most punctilious in regard to any expense to which he was put, and insisted, to his discomfiture, on paying her share of everything. At first they had little quarrels about it, but Bobby had been compelled to give way to her firm but gracious insistence.