Madcap Part 34

It was clear that she meant to affront him and she succeeded admirably, for Philidor flushed to the brows. Then catching her in his arms without more ado, he kissed her full on the lips.

"I'm no more patient that I should be," he said.

She flung away from him, pale and red by turns, struggling between anger and incomprehension.

"Oh!" she stammered at last. "That you _could_!"

She brushed the back of her hand across her lips and then her eyes blazing at him, turned and walked rigidly on her way. He watched her a moment, his anger cooling quickly, then caught the bridle of Clarissa who had taken advantage of this interlude to browse by the wayside.

Cupid had fled!

Markham drove the beast before him and strode after, his eyes on the small figure which had almost reached the turn in the road. She walked with a quick stride, her head turning neither to the left nor right, but he knew that her gaze, fixed upon the road before her, still blazed with resentment. He goaded the donkey into a more rapid pace, but try as he might he could not come up with her, and so giving up the chase he let Clarissa choose her own gait, lighted a pipe to compose his spirit and followed leisurely in the steps of outraged dignity.

It was not until she came to a cross-roads that she stopped and waited for him. When he arrived with Clarissa, already chastened and even prepared for humility, she surprised him by smiling as though nothing had happened.

"Which way, Philidor?" she asked.

He had already seen the towers of Verneuil from the hilltops behind them and indicated.

"I'm sorry, Hermia," he said softly. "Will you forgive me?"

She shrugged. "Oh, it's of no consequence. I've been kissed before,"

she said.

His gaze was lowered, his jaw set.

"You provoked it--"

"Did I? I know now how you consider me. I did not believe you to be that kind of a man."

"What kind of a man?"

"The man of promiscuous gallantries."

"I'm not--"

She shrugged and turned away.

"Your record is against you."

He found no reply and she laughed at him.

"When I wish to be kissed," she said brazenly, "I usually find a way of letting men know it."

"You are speaking heresies," he said slowly. "That is not true."

"It is the truth, John Markham. But I did not choose your companions.h.i.+p for that purpose."

"No, no, don't!" he pleaded contritely. "I've never thought that of you. We've had a code of our own, Hermia--all our own. Last night you made me happy. I dreamed of you, child, that you cared for me and I--"

She halted suddenly, her slight figure barring the way, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng furiously.

"We'll have no more of that nonsense," she cried. "Do you hear? When I ask for love--uncomplaining--unselfish, I know where to seek it."

She reached up suddenly, s.n.a.t.c.hed Pre Gu?gou's faded blossom from his b.u.t.ton-hole and throwing it in the road, ground it under her heel. "The Order of the Golden Rose is not for you, Monsieur Philidor," she finished. And before he was really awake to the full extent of his disaster was again on her way.

They entered Verneuil in a procession, Hermia in the lead, the donkey following, and Philidor, now thoroughly disillusioned, bringing up the rear. He was thinking deeply, his gaze on the graceful lines of her intolerant back, aware that she had paid him in full for his temerity, and wondering in an aimless way how soon she would be taking the train for Paris. He had done what he could to atone but some instinct warned him against further contrition.

His judgment was excellent. As they entered the street of the town she stopped and waited for him to join her.

"You'll unpack my orchestra if you please," she said acidly. "I'm going through the town alone."

He laid his hand on the strap at which she was already fingering, his manner coolly a.s.sertive.

"No," he said quietly. "You'll not go alone. You're in my charge.

Where you go, I go--unless of course"--and he pointed toward the railroad which pa.s.sed nearby, "I put you on the train for Paris."

She had not expected that. She was powerless and knew it. Wide-eyed she sought his face, but he met her look squarely.

"I mean it," he said evenly. "You shall do what I say."

Her gaze flared angrily and then fell.

"Oh!" she stammered. "You would _dare_!"

"Your remedy--is yonder," he said firmly, pointing to the Gare.

Some loiterers, a few children and a stray dog had gathered about them.

The dog, a puppy, barked at Clarissa and was promptly kicked for its precocity. The crowd laughed. This relaxed the tension of the situation.

"Come," said Markham, his hand on the donkey's halter. "This will never do. We will go on, please."

Hermia stood her ground a moment defiantly, her arms akimbo and then dumbly followed.

Markham led the way toward the market-place, where the crowds were gathered. The glance he stole at Hermia revealed a set expression, a cheek highly flushed and a lambent eye.

"If you would prefer not to perform to-day I will get you a room at an inn," he said gently.

But she raised her chin and looked at him with the narrow eye of contempt.

"You will get me nothing," she replied.

"Nothing but food," he replied. "We are now going to eat."

If scorn could kill, Philidor must have died at once. But she followed him to the H?tel Dieu, and nibbled silently at what he had ordered.

His efforts to relieve the tension were unavailing so he gave it up and at last led the way to the market-place where Clarissa was unpacked and Yvonne donned her orchestra.

Business was good, though Philidor did the lion's share of it. The sound of Yvonne's drum speedily drew a crowd and Philidor got out his sketching block and went to work on the nearest onlooker, a peasant girl of eighteen, in Norman headgear. She demurred at first, but she was pretty and knew it, and Philidor's tongue was persuasive, his nervous crayon eloquent. He was at his best here, and when the sketch was done he gave it to her with his compliments. The girl's lover, a gardener from an estate nearby, showed it jubilantly from group to group, and Philidor's fame was again established.

It could not in any truth be said that Yvonne's orchestra was a symphonic success, for she jangled her mandolin horribly out of tune, and blew her mouth-organ atrociously. But whatever her performance lacked in artistry it made up in noise, her drum and cymbals awaking such a din that existence was unbearable within ten feet of them.