The Arm Chair at the Inn Part 21

The marquise laughed gently, but with a puzzled look in her eyes. She was not sure what he was driving at, but she did not interrupt him.

"We will have an old-time wedding," he continued gayly, with a comprehensive wave of his hand as if he were arranging the stage setting--"something quite in keeping with the general sentiment; for certain it is that not since the days when fair ladies let themselves down from castle walls into the arms of their plumed knights, only to dash away into s.p.a.ce on milk-white steeds, will there be anything quite so romantic as this child-wedding!"

"And so you mean to have a rope ladder, do you, and let my----"

"Oh, no, madame la marquise," he interrupted--"nothing so ordinary!

We"--here he began rubbing his hands together quite as if he was ordering a dinner for an epicure--"we will have a revival of all the old customs just as they were in this very place. Our bride will join her lord in a cabriolet, and our groom will come on horseback--all fishermen ride, you know--and so will the other fishermen and maids--each gallant with a fair lady seated behind him on the crupper, her arms about his waist. Then we will have trumpeters and a garter man----"

"A what!" She was still at sea as to his meaning, although she had not missed the tone of irony in his voice.

"A man, madame, whose duty is to secure one of the bride's garters. Oh, you need not start--that is quite simply arranged. The old-time brides always carried an extra pair to save themselves embarra.s.sment. The one for the garter-man will be trimmed with ribbons which he will cut off and distribute to the other would-be brides, who will keep them in their prayer-books."

"Lea, for instance," chimed in Louis, winking at Herbert.

"Lea, for instance, my dear Monsieur Louis. I know of no better mate for a man--and it is a pity you are too young."

The laugh was on Louis this time, but the old man kept straight on, his subtle irony growing more pointed as he continued: "And then, madame, when it is all over and the couple retire for the night--and of course we will give them the best room in our house, they being most distinguished personages--none other than Monsieur Gaston Dupre, Lord of the Lobster Pot, Duke of Buezval, and Grand Marshal of the Deep Sea, and Mademoiselle Mignon, Princess of----"

The marquise drew herself up to her full height. "Stop your nonsense, Lemois. I won't let you say another word; you shan't ridicule my young people. Stop it, I say!"

"Oh, but wait, madame--please hear me out--I have not finished. These pewter dishes must also come into service"--and he caught up the two bowls from the tops of the great andirons behind him--"these we will fill with spices steeped in mulled wine, which, as I tried to say, we will send to their Royal Highnesses' bedroom--after they are tucked away in----"

"No!--no!--we will do nothing of the kind; everything shall be just the other way. There will be no horses, no cabriolet, no trumpeters, no garters except the ones the dear child will wear, and no mulled wine. We will all go on foot, and the only music will be the organ in the old church, and the breakfast will be here, in our beloved Marmouset, and the punch will be mixed by Monsieur Brierley in the Ming bowl I brought, and Monsieur Louis will serve it, and then they will both go to their own home and sleep in their own bed. So there! Not another word, for it is all settled and finished"--and one of her rippling, joyous laughs--a whole dove-cote mingled with any number of silver bells--quivered through the room.

Lemois joined in the merriment, shrugging his inscrutable shoulders, repeating that he, of course, was only a captive, and must therefore do as he was bid, a situation which, he added with another low bow, had its good side since so charming a woman as madame held his chain.

And yet despite his gayety there was under it all a certain reserve which, although lost on the others, convinced me that the old man had not, by any means, made up his mind as to what he would do. While Mignon was not his legal ward, his care of her all these years must count for something. Madame, of course, was a difficult person to make war upon once she had set her heart on a thing--and she certainly had on this marriage, amazing as it was to him--and yet there was still the girl's future to be considered, and with it his own. All this was in his eyes as I watched him resuming his place by the fire after some of the excitement had begun to quiet down.

But none of this--even if she, too, had studied him as I had--would have made any impression on Mignon's champion. She was accustomed to being obeyed--the gang of mechanics who had under her directions performed two days' work in one had found that out. And then, again, her whole purpose in life was to befriend especially those girls who, having no one to stand by them, become broken down by opposition and so marry where their hearts seldom lead. How many had she taken under her wing--how many more would she protect as long as she lived!

Before she bade us good-night all the wedding details were sketched out, our landlord listening and nodding his head whenever appeal was made to him, but committing himself by no further speech. The ceremony, she declared gayly--and it must be the most beautiful and brilliant of ceremonies--would take place in the old twelfth-century church, at the end of the street, from which the great knights of old had sallied forth and where a new knight, one Monsieur Gaston, would follow in their footsteps--not for war, but for love--a much better career--this, with an additional toss of her head at the silent Lemois. There would be flowers and perhaps music--she would see about that--but no trumpeters--and again she looked at Lemois--and everybody from Buezval would be invited--all the fishermen, of course, and their white-capped mothers and sisters and aunts, and cousins for that matter--everybody who would come; and Pierre and her own chef from Rouen would prepare the wedding breakfast if dear Lemois would consent--and if he didn't consent, it would be cooked anyhow, and brought in ready to be eaten--and in this very room with every one of us present.

"And now, Monsieur Louis, please get me my cloak, and will one of you be good enough to tell my chauffeur I am ready?--and one thing more, and this I insist on: please don't any of you move--and, whatever you do, don't bid me good-by. I want to carry away with me just the picture I am looking at: Monsieur Herbert there in his chair between the two live heads--yes, I believe it now--and Messieurs Louis and Brierley and Le Blanc, and our delightful host, and dear tantalizing Lemois, by the hearth--and the queer figures looking down at us through the smoke of our cigarettes--and the glow of the candles, and the light of the lovely fire to which you have welcomed me. Au revoir, messieurs--you have made me over new and I am very happy, and I thank you all from the bottom of my heart!"

And she was gone.

When the door was shut behind her, Herbert strolled to the fire and stood with his face to the flickering blaze. We all remained standing, paying unconscious homage to her memory. For some seconds no one spoke.

Then, turning and facing the group, Herbert said, half aloud, as if communing with himself:

"A real woman--human and big, half a dozen such would revolutionize France. And she knows--that is the best part of it"--and his voice grew stronger--"she _knows_! You may think you've reached the bottom of things--thought them all out, convinced you are right, even steer your course by your deductions--and here comes along a woman who lifts a lid uncovering a well in your soul you never dreamed of, and your conclusions go sky-high. And she does it so cleverly, and she is so sane about it all. If she were where I could get at her now and then I'd do something worth while. I've made up my mind to one thing, anyhow--I'm going to pull to pieces the thing I set up before I came down here and start something new. I've got another idea in my head--something a little more human."

"Isn't 'The Savage' human, Herbert?" I asked, filling his gla.s.s as I spoke, to give him time for reply.

"No; it's only African--one phase of a race."

"How about your 'group,' 'They Have Eyes and They See Not'?" asked Brierley, who had drawn up a chair and stood leaning over its back, gazing into the fire.

"A little better, but not much. The Great Art is along other lines--bigger, higher, stronger--more universal lines, one that has nothing racial about it, one that expresses the human heart no matter what the period or nationality. The 'Prodigal Son' is a drama which has been understood and is still understood by the whole earth irrespective of creed or locality. It appeals to the savage and the savant alike and always will to the end of time. So with the Milo. She is Greek, English, or Slav at your option, but she will live forever because she expresses the divine essence of maternity which is eternal. It is this, and only this, which compels. I have had glimmerings of it all my life. Madame cleared out the cobwebs for me in a flash. A great woman--real human."

Then noticing that no one had either interrupted his outburst or moved his position, he glanced around the group and, as if in doubt as to the way his outburst had been received, said simply:

"Well, speak up; am I right or wrong? You don't seem to see it as I do.

How did she appeal to you, Brierley?"

The young fellow stepped in front of his chair and dropped into its depths.

"You are dead right, Herbert; you are, anyhow, about the Milo. I never go into her presence without lifting my hat, and I have kept it up for years. But you don't do yourself justice, old man. Some of your things will live as long as they hold together. However"--and he laughed knowingly--"that's for posterity to settle. How does madame appeal to me? you ask. Well, being a many-sided woman--no frills, no coquetry, nor sham--she appeals to me more as a comrade than in any other way--just plain comrade. Half the women one meets of her age and cla.s.s have something of themselves to conceal, giving you a side which they are not, or trying to give it for you to read at first sight. She gave us her worst side first--or what we thought was her worst side--and her best last."

"And you, Le Blanc?" resumed Herbert. "She's your countrywoman; let's have it."

"Oh, I don't know, Herbert. I, of course, have heard of her for years, and she was therefore not so much of a surprise to me as she was to you all. If, however, you want me to get down to something fundamental, I'll tell you that she confirms a theory I have always had that--But I won't go into that. It's our last night together and we----"

"No; go on. This interests me enormously, especially her personality.

We'll have our nightcap later on."

"Well, all right," and he squared himself toward Herbert. "She confirms, as I said, a theory of mine--one I have always had, that the Great Art--that for which the world is waiting--is not so much the creation of statues, if you will pardon me, as the creation of a better understanding of women by men. Not of their personalities, but of their impersonalities. Most women are afraid to let themselves go, not knowing how we will take them, and because of this fear we lose the best part of a woman's nature. She dares not do a great many generous things--sane, kindly, human things--because she is in dread of being misunderstood.

She is even afraid to love some of us as intensely as she would. Madame dares everything and could never be misunderstood. All doubts of her were swept out in her opening sentence the night she arrived. She ought to found a school and teach women to be themselves, then we'd all be that much happier."

"And now, Louis," persisted Herbert, "come, we're waiting. No s.h.i.+rking, and no nonsense. Just the plain truth. How does she appeal to you?"

"As a dead game sport, Herbert, and the best ever! Every man on his feet and I'll give you a toast that is as short and sweet as her adorable self.

"Here's to our friend, Madame la Marquise de la Caux--THE WOMAN."

XV

APPLE-BLOSSOMS AND WHITE MUSLIN

Coco, the snow-white c.o.c.katoo, on his perch high up in the roof dormer overlooking the court, is having the time of his life. To see and hear the better, he wobbles back and forth to the end of his wooden peg, steadying himself by his black beak, and then, straightening up, unfurls his yellow celery top of a crest and, with a quick toss of his head, shrieks out his delight.

He wants to know what it is all about, and I don't blame him. No such hurrying and scurrying has been seen in the court-yard below since the morning the players came down from Paris and turned the sixteenth-century quadrangle into a stage-setting for an old-time comedy: new gravel is being raked and sifted over the open s.p.a.ce; men on step-ladders are tr.i.m.m.i.n.g up the vines and setting out plants on top of the kiosks; others are giving last touches to the tulip-beds and the fresh sod along the borders, while two women are scrubbing the chairs and tables under the arbors.

As for the Inn's inhabitants, everybody seems to have lost their wits: Pierre has gone entirely mad. When b.u.t.ter, or eggs, or milk, or a pint of sherry--or something he needs, or thinks he needs--is wanted, he does not wait until his under-chef can bring it from the storage-cave where they are kept--he rushes out himself, grabbing up a basket, or pitcher, or cup as he goes, and comes back on the double-quick to begin again his stirring, chopping, and basting--the roasting-spit turning merrily all the while.

Lea is even more restless. Her activities, however, are confined to clattering along the upstairs corridors, her arms full of freshly ironed clothes--skirts and things--and to the banging of chamber doors--one especially, behind which sits an old fishwoman, yellow as a dried mackerel and as stiff, helping a young girl dress.

The only one who seems to have kept his head is Lemois. His nervousness is none the less in evidence, but he gets rid of his pent-up steam in a different way. He lets the others hustle, while he stands still just inside the gate giving orders to hurrying market boys with baskets of fish; signing receipts for cases filled with poultry and early vegetables just in by the morning train from Caen; or firing instructions to his gardeners and workmen--self-contained as a ball governor on a horizontal engine and seemingly as inert, yet an index of both pressure and speed.

All this time Coco keeps up his hullabaloo, n.o.body paying the slightest attention. Suddenly there comes an answering cry and the c.o.c.katoo snaps his beak tight with a click and listens intently, his head on one side.

It is the shriek of a siren--a long-drawn, agonizing wail that strikes the bird dumb with envy. Nearer it comes--nearer--now at the turn of the street; now just outside the gate, and in whirls Herbert's motor, the painter beside him.

"Ah!--Lemois--the top of the morning to you and yours!" Louis'

stentorian voice rings out. "Never saw a better one come out of the skies. Out with you, Herbert. Are we the first to arrive? Here, give me that basket of grapes and box of bonbons. A magnificent run, Lemois.