_ CHAPTER XV
In Which I Learn that All Abbeys Are Not Churches
And that, now that I really stopped to consider it, began to appear more and more of a task. Paris must be full of churches; to visit each of them in turn would take weeks at least. Hephzy had given me three days. I must join her at Interlaken in three days or there would be trouble. And how was I to make even the most superficial search in three days?
Of course I had realized something of this before. Even in the state of mind which Heathcroft's story had left me, I had realized that my errand in Paris was a difficult one. I realized that I had set out on the wildest of wild goose chases and that, even in the improbable event of the singer's being Frances, my finding her was most unlikely. The chances of success were a hundred to one against me. But I was in the mood to take the hundredth chance. I should have taken it if the odds were higher still. My plan--if it could be called a plan--was first of all to buy a Paris Baedeker and look over the list of churches. This I did, and, back in the hotel room, I consulted that list. It staggered me. There were churches enough--there were far too many. Cathedrals and chapels and churches galore--Catholic and Protestant. But there was no church calling itself an abbey. I closed the Baedeker, lit a cigar, and settled myself for further reflection.
The girl was singing somewhere and she called herself Mademoiselle Juno or Junotte, so Heathcroft had said. So much I knew and that was all. It was very, very little. But Herbert Bayliss had come to Paris, I believed, because of what Heathcroft had told him. Did he know more than I? It was possible. At any rate he had come. I had seen him on the steamer, and I believed he had seen and recognized me. Of course he might not be in Paris now; he might have gone elsewhere. I did not believe it, however. I believed he had crossed the Channel on the same errand as I. There was a possible chance. I might, if the other means proved profitless, discover at which hotel Bayliss was staying and question him. He might tell me nothing, even if he knew, but I could keep him in sight, I could follow him and discover where he went. It would be dishonorable, perhaps, but I was desperate and doggedly regardless of scruples. I was set upon one thing--to find her, to see her and speak with her again.
Shadowing Bayliss, however, I set aside as a last resort. Before that I would search on my own hook. And, tossing aside the useless Baedeker, I tried to think of someone whose advice might be of value. At last, I resolved to question the concierge of the hotel. Concierges, I knew, were the ever present helps of travelers in trouble. They knew everything, spoke all languages, and expected to be asked all sorts of unreasonable questions.
The concierge at my hotel was a transcendant specimen of his talented class. His name and title was Monsieur Louis--at least that is what I had heard the other guests call him. And the questions which he had been called upon to answer, in my hearing, ranged in subject from the hour of closing the Luxemburg galleries to that of opening the Bal Tabarin, with various interruptions during which he settled squabbles over cab fares, took orders for theater and opera tickets, and explained why fruit at the tables of the Cafe des Ambassadeurs was so very expensive.
Monsieur Louis received me politely, listened, with every appearance of interest, to my tale of a young lady, a relative, who was singing at one of the Paris churches and whose name was Juno or Junotte, but, when I had finished, reluctantly shook his head. There were many, many churches in Paris--yes, and, at some of them, young ladies sang; but these were, for the most part, the Protestant churches. At the larger churches, the Catholic churches, most of the singers were men or boys. He could recall none where a lady of that name sang. Monsieur had not been told the name of the church?
"The person who told me referred to it as an abbey," I said.
Louis raised his shoulders. "I am sorry, Monsieur," he said, "but there is no abbey, where ladies sing, in Paris. It is, alas, regrettable, but it is so."
He announced it as he might have broken to me the news of the death of a friend. Incidentally, having heard a few sentences of my French, he spoke in English, very good English.
"I will, however, make inquiries, Monsieur," he went on. "Possibly I may discover something which will be of help to Monsieur in his difficulty." In the meantime there was to be a parade of troops at the Champ de Mars at four, and the evening performance at the Folies Bergeres was unusually good and English and American gentlemen always enjoyed it. It would give him pleasure to book a place for me.
I thanked him but I declined the offer, so far as the Folies were concerned. I did ask him, however, to give me the name of a few churches at which ladies sang. This he did and I set out to find them, in a cab which whizzed through the Paris streets as if the driver was bent upon suicide and manslaughter.
I visited four places of worship that afternoon and two more that evening. Those in charge--for I attended no services--knew nothing of Mademoiselle Junotte or Juno. I retired at ten, somewhat discouraged, but stubbornly determined to keep on, for my three days at least.
The next morning I consulted Baedeker again, this time for the list of hotels, a list which I found quite as lengthy as that of the churches. Then I once more sought the help of Monsieur Louis. Could he tell me a few of the hotels where English visitors were most likely to stay.
He could do more than that, apparently. Would I be so good as to inform him if the lady or gentleman--being Parisian he put the lady first--whom I wished to find had recently arrived in Paris. I told him that the gentleman had arrived the same evening as I. Whereupon he produced a list of guests at all the prominent hotels. Herbert Bayliss was registered at the Continental.
To the Continental I went and made inquiries of the concierge there. Mr. Bayliss was there, he was in his room, so the concierge believed. He would be pleased to ascertain. Would I give my name? I declined to give the name, saying that I did not wish to disturb Mr. Bayliss. If he was in his room I would wait until he came down. He was in his room, had not yet breakfasted, although it was nearly ten in the forenoon. I sat down in a chair from which I could command a good view of the elevators, and waited.
The concierge strolled over and chatted. Was I a friend of Mr. Bayliss? Ah, a charming young gentleman, was he not. This was not his first visit to Paris, no indeed; he came frequently--though not as frequently of late--and he invariably stayed at the Continental. He had been out late the evening before, which doubtless explained his non-appearance. Ah, he was breakfasting now; had ordered his "cafe complete." Doubtless he would be down very soon? Would I wish to send up my name now?
Again I declined, to the polite astonishment of the concierge, who evidently considered me a queer sort of a friend. He was called to his desk by a guest, who wished to ask questions, of course, and I waited where I was. At a quarter to eleven Herbert Bayliss emerged from the elevator.
His appearance almost shocked me. Out late the night before! He looked as if he had been out all night for many nights. He was pale and solemn. I stepped forward to greet him and the start he gave when he saw me was evidence of the state of his nerves. I had never thought of him as possessing any nerves.
"Eh? Why, Knowles!" he exclaimed.
"Good morning, Bayliss," said I.
We both were embarrassed, he more than I, for I had expected to see him and he had not expected to see me. I made a move to shake hands but he did not respond. His manner toward me was formal and, I thought, colder than it had been at our meeting the day of the golf tournament.
"I called," I said, "to see you, Bayliss. If you are not engaged I should like to talk with you for a few moments."
His answer was a question.
"How did you know I was here?" he asked.
"I saw your name in the list of recent arrivals at the Continental," I answered.
"I mean how did you know I was in Paris?"
"I didn't know. I thought I caught a glimpse of you on the boat. I was almost sure it was you, but you did not appear to recognize me and I had no opportunity to speak then."
He did not speak at once, he did not even attempt denial of having seen and recognized me during the Channel crossing. He regarded me intently and, I thought, suspiciously.
"Who sent you here?" he asked, suddenly.
"Sent me! No one sent me. I don't understand you."
"Why did you follow me?"
"Follow you?"
"Yes. Why did you follow me to Paris? No one knew I was coming here, not even my own people. They think I am--Well, they don't know that I am here."
His speech and his manner were decidedly irritating. I had made a firm resolve to keep my temper, no matter what the result of this interview might be, but I could not help answering rather sharply.
"I had no intention of following you--here or anywhere else," I said. "Your action and whereabouts, generally speaking, are of no particular interest to me. I did not follow you to Paris, Doctor Bayliss."
He reddened and hesitated. Then he led the way to a divan in a retired corner of the lobby and motioned to me to be seated. There he sat down beside me and waited for me to speak. I, in turn, waited for him to speak.
At last he spoke.
"I'm sorry, Knowles," he said. "I am not myself today. I've had a devil of a night and I feel like a beast this morning. I should probably have insulted my own father, had he appeared suddenly, as you did. Of course I should have known you did not follow me to Paris. But--but why did you come?"
I hesitated now. "I came," I said, "to--to--Well, to be perfectly honest with you, I came because of something I heard concerning--concerning--"
He interrupted me. "Then Heathcroft did tell you!" he exclaimed. "I thought as much."
"He told you, I know. He said he did."
"Yes. He did. My God, man, isn't it awful! Have you seen her?"
His manner convinced me that he had seen her. In my eagerness I forgot to be careful.
"No," I answered, breathlessly; "I have not seen her. Where is she?"
He turned and stared at me.
"Don't you know where she is?" he asked, slowly.
"I know nothing. I have been told that she--or someone very like her--is singing in a Paris church. Heathcroft told me that and then we were interrupted. I--What is the matter?"
He was staring at me more oddly than ever. There was the strangest expression on his face.
"In a church!" he repeated. "Heathcroft told you--"
"He told me that he had seen a girl, whose resemblance to Miss Morley was so striking as to be marvelous, singing in a Paris church. He called it an abbey, but of course it couldn't be that. Do you know anything more definite? What did he tell you?"
He did not answer.
"In a church!" he said again. "You thought--Oh, good heavens!"
He began to laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh to hear. Moreover, it angered me.
"This may be very humorous," I said, brusquely. "Perhaps it is--to you. But--Bayliss, you know more of this than I. I am certain now that you do. I want you to tell me what you know. Is that girl Frances Morley? Have you seen her? Where is she?"
He had stopped laughing. Now he seemed to be considering.
"Then you did come over here to find her," he said, more slowly still. "You were following her, why?"
"WHY?"
"Yes, why. She is nothing to you. You told my father that. You told me that she was not your niece. You told Father that you had no claim upon her whatever and that she had asked you not to try to trace her or to learn where she was. You said all that and preached about respecting her wish and all that sort of thing. And yet you are here now trying to find her."
The only answer I could make to this was a rather childish retort.
"And so are you," I said.
His fists clinched.
"I!" he cried, fiercely. "I! Did _I_ ever say she was nothing to me? Did _I_ ever tell anyone I should not try to find her? I told you, only the other day, that I would find her in spite of the devil. I meant it. Knowles, I don't understand you. When I came to you thinking you her uncle and guardian, and asked your permission to ask her to marry me, you gave that permission. You did. You didn't tell me that she was nothing to you. I don't understand you at all. You told my father a lot of rot--"
"I told your father the truth. And, when I told you that she had left no message for you, that was the truth also. I have no reason to believe she cares for you--"
"And none to think that she doesn't. At all events she did not tell ME not to follow her. She did tell you. Why are you following her?"
It was a question I could not answer--to him. That reason no one should know. And yet what excuse could I give, after all my protestations?
"I--I feel that I have the right, everything considered," I stammered. "She is not my niece, but she is Miss Cahoon's."
"And she ran away from both of you, asking, as a last request, that you both make no attempt to learn where she was. The whole affair is beyond understanding. What the truth may be--"
"Are you hinting that I have lied to you?"
"I am not hinting at anything. All I can say is that it is deuced queer, all of it. And I sha'n't say more."
"Will you tell me--"
"I shall tell you nothing. That would be her wish, according to your own statement and I will respect that wish, if you don't."
I rose to my feet. There was little use in an open quarrel between us and I was by far the older man. Yes, and his position was infinitely stronger than mine, as he understood it. But I never was more strongly tempted. He knew where she was. He had seen her. The thought was maddening.
He had risen also and was facing me defiantly.
"Good morning, Doctor Bayliss," said I, and walked away. I turned as I reached the entrance of the hotel and looked back. He was still standing there, staring at me.
That afternoon I spent in my room. There is little use describing my feelings. That she was in Paris I was sure now. That Bayliss had seen her I was equally sure. But why had he spoken and looked as he did when I first spoke of Heathcroft's story? What had he meant by saying something or other was "awful?" And why had he seemed so astonished, why had he laughed in that strange way when I had said she was singing in a church?
That evening I sought Monsieur Louis, the concierge, once more.
"Is there any building here in Paris," I asked, "a building in which people sing, which is called an abbey? One that is not a church or an abbey, but is called that?"
Louis looked at me in an odd way. He seemed a bit embarrassed, an embarrassment I should not have expected from him.
"Monsieur asks the question," he said, smiling. "It was in my mind last night, the thought, but Monsieur asked for a church. There is a place called L'Abbaye and there young women sing, but--" he hesitated, shrugged and then added, "but L'Abbaye is not a church. No, it is not that."
"What is it?" I asked.
"A restaurant, Monsieur. A cafe chantant at Montmartre."
Montmartre at ten that evening was just beginning to awaken. At the hour when respectable Paris, home-loving, domestic Paris, the Paris of which the tourist sees so little, is thinking of retiring, Montmartre--or that section of it in which L'Abbaye is situated--begins to open its eyes. At ten-thirty, as my cab buzzed into the square and pulled up at the curb, the electric signs were blazing, the sidewalks were, if not yet crowded, at least well filled, and the sounds of music from the open windows of The Dead Rat and the other cafes with the cheerful names were mingling with noises of the street.
Monsieur Louis had given me my sailing orders, so to speak. He had told me that arriving at L'Abbaye before ten-thirty was quite useless. Midnight was the accepted hour, he said; prior to that I would find it rather dull, triste. But after that--Ah, Monsieur would, at least, be entertained.
"But of course Monsieur does not expect to find the young lady of whom he is in search there," he said. "A relative is she not?"
Remembering that I had, when I first mentioned the object of my quest to him, referred to her as a relative, I nodded.
He smiled and shrugged.
"A relative of Monsieur's would scarcely be found singing at L'Abbaye," he said. "But it is a most interesting place, entertaining and chic. Many English and American gentlemen sup there after the theater."
I smiled and intimated that the desire to pass a pleasant evening was my sole reason for visiting the place. He was certain I would be pleased.
The doorway of L'Abbaye was not deserted, even at the "triste" hour of ten-thirty. Other cabs were drawn up at the curb and, upon the stairs leading to the upper floors, were several gaily dressed couples bound, as I had proclaimed myself to be, in search of supper and entertainment. I had, acting upon the concierge's hint, arrayed myself in my evening clothes and I handed my silk hat, purchased in London--where, as Hephzy said, "a man without a tall hat is like a rooster without tail feathers"--to a polite and busy attendant. Then a personage with a very straight beard and a very curly mustache, ushered me into the main dining-room.
"Monsieur would wish seats for how many?" he asked, in French.
"For myself only," I answered, also in French. His next remark was in English. I was beginning to notice that when I addressed a Parisian in his native language, he usually answered in mine. This may have been because of a desire to please me, or in self-defence; I am inclined to think the latter.
"Ah, for one only. This way, Monsieur."
I was given a seat at one end of a long table, and in a corner. There were plenty of small tables yet unoccupied, but my guide was apparently reserving these for couples or quartettes; at any rate he did not offer one to me. I took the seat indicated.
"I shall wish to remain here for some time?" I said. "Probably the entire--" I hesitated; considering the hour I scarcely knew whether to say "evening" or "morning." At last I said "night" as a compromise.
The bearded person seemed doubtful.
"There will be a great demand later," he said. "To oblige Monsieur is of course our desire, but.... Ah, merci, Monsieur, I will see that Monsieur is not disturbed."
The reason for his change of heart was the universal one in restaurants. He put the reason in his pocket and summoned a waiter to take my order.
I gave the order, a modest one, which dropped me a mile or two in the waiter's estimation. However, after a glance at my fellow-diners at nearby tables, I achieved a partial uplift by ordering a bottle of extremely expensive wine. I had had the idea that, being in France, the home of champagne, that beverage would be cheap or, at least, moderately priced. But in L'Abbaye the idea seemed to be erroneous.
The wine was brought immediately; the supper was somewhat delayed. I did not care. I had not come there to eat--or to drink, either, for that matter. I had come--I scarcely knew why I had come. That Frances Morley would be singing in a place like this I did not believe. This was the sort of "abbey" that A. Carleton Heathcroft would be most likely to visit, that was true, but that he had seen her here was most improbable. The coincidence of the "abbey" name would not have brought me there, of itself. Herbert Bayliss had given me to understand, although he had not said it, that she was not singing in a church and he had found the idea of her being where she was "awful." It was because of what he had said that I had come, as a sort of last chance, a forlorn hope. Of course she would not be here, a hired singer in a Paris night restaurant; that was impossible.
How impossible it was likely to be I realized more fully during the next hour. There was nothing particularly "awful" about L'Abbaye of itself--at first, nor, perhaps, even later; at least the awfulness was well covered. The program of entertainment was awful enough, if deadly mediocrity is awful. A big darkey, dressed in a suit which reminded me of the "end man" at an old-time minstrel show, sang "My Alabama Coon," accompanying himself, more or less intimately, on the banjo. I could have heard the same thing, better done, at a ten cent theater in the States, where this chap had doubtless served an apprenticeship. However, the audience, which was growing larger every minute, seemed to find the bellowing enjoyable and applauded loudly. Then a feminine person did a Castilian dance between the tables. I was ready to declare a second war with Spain when she had finished. Then there was an orchestral interval, during which the tables filled.
The impossibility of Frances singing in a place like this became more certain each minute, to my mind. I called the waiter.
"Does Mademoiselle Juno sing here this evening?" I asked, in my lame French.
He shook his head. "Non, Monsieur," he answered, absently, and hastened on with the bottle he was carrying.
Apparently that settled it. I might as well go. Then I decided to remain a little longer. After all, I was there, and I, or Heathcroft, might have misunderstood the name. I would stay for a while.
The long table at which I sat was now occupied from end to end. There were several couples, male and female, and a number of unattached young ladies, well-dressed, pretty for the most part, and vivacious and inclined to be companionable. They chatted with their neighbors and would have chatted with me if I had been in the mood. For the matter of that everyone talked with everyone else, in French or English, good, bad and indifferent, and there was much laughter and gaiety. L'Abbaye was wide awake by this time.
The bearded personage who had shown me to my seat, appeared, followed by a dozen attendants bearing paper parasols and bags containing little celluloid balls, red, white, and blue. They were distributed among the feminine guests. The parasols, it developed, were to be waved and the balls to be thrown. You were supposed to catch as many as were thrown at you and throw them back. It was wonderful fun--or would have been for children--and very, very amusing--after the second bottle.
For my part I found it very stupid. As I have said at least once in this history I am not what is called a "good mixer" and in an assemblage like this I was as out of place as a piece of ice on a hot stove. Worse than that, for the ice would have melted and I congealed the more. My bottle of champagne remained almost untouched and when a celluloid ball bounced on the top of my head I did not scream "Whoopee! Bullseye!" as my American neighbors did or "Voila! Touche!" like the French. There were plenty of Americans and English there, and they seemed to be having a good time, but their good time was incomprehensible to me. This was "gay Paris," of course, but somehow the gaiety seemed forced and artificial and silly, except to the proprietors of L'Abbaye. If I had been getting the price for food and liquids which they received I might, perhaps, have been gay.
The young Frenchman at my right was gay enough. He had early discovered my nationality and did his best to be entertaining. When a performer from the Olympia, the music hall on the Boulevard des Italiens, sang a distressing love ballad in a series of shrieks like those of a circular saw in a lumber mill, this person shouted his "Bravos" with the rest and then, waving his hands before my face, called for, "De cheer Americain! One, two, tree--Heep! Heep! Heep! Oo--ray-y-y!" I did not join in "the cheer Americain," but I did burst out laughing, a proceeding which caused the young lady at my left to pat my arm and nod delighted approval. She evidently thought I was becoming gay and lighthearted at last. She was never more mistaken.
It was nearly two o'clock and I had had quite enough of L'Abbaye. I had not enjoyed myself--had not expected to, so far as that went. I hope I am not a prig, and, whatever I am or am not, priggishness had no part in my feelings then. Under ordinary circumstances I should not have enjoyed myself in a place like that. Mine is not the temperament--I shouldn't know how. I must have appeared the most solemn ass in creation, and if I had come there with the idea of amusement, I should have felt like one. As it was, my feeling was not disgust, but unreasonable disappointment. Certainly I did not wish--now that I had seen L'Abbaye--to find Frances Morley there; but just as certainly I was disappointed.
I called for my bill, paid it, and stood up. I gave one look about the crowded, noisy place, and then I started violently and sat down again. I had seen Herbert Bayliss. He had, apparently, just entered and a waiter was finding a seat for him at a table some distance away and on the opposite side of the great room.
There was no doubt about it; it was he. My heart gave a bound that almost choked me and all sorts of possibilities surged through my brain. He had come to Paris to find her, he had found her--in our conversation he had intimated as much. And now, he was here at the "Abbey." Why? Was it here that he had found her? Was she singing here after all?
Bayliss glanced in my direction and I sank lower in my chair. I did not wish him to see me. Fortunately the lady opposite waved her paper parasol just then and I went into eclipse, so far as he was concerned. When the eclipse was over he was looking elsewhere.
The black-bearded Frenchman, who seemed to be, if not one of the proprietors, at least one of the managers of L'Abbaye, appeared in the clear space at the center of the room between the tables and waved his hands. He was either much excited or wished to seem so. He shouted something in French which I could not understand. There was a buzz of interest all about me; then the place grew still--or stiller. Something was going to happen, that was evident. I leaned toward my voluble neighbor, the French gentleman who had called for "de cheer Americain."
"What is it?" I asked. "What is the matter?"
He ignored, or did not hear, my question. The bearded person was still waving his hands. The orchestra burst into a sort of triumphal march and then into the open space between the tables came--Frances Morley.
She was dressed in a simple evening gown, she was not painted or powdered to the extent that women who had sung before her had been, her hair was simply dressed. She looked thinner than she had when I last saw her, but otherwise she was unchanged. In that place, amid the lights and the riot of color, the silks and satins and jewels, the flushed faces of the crowd, she stood and bowed, a white rose in a bed of tiger lilies, and the crowd rose and shouted at her.
The orchestra broke off its triumphal march and the leader stood up, his violin at his shoulder. He played a bar or two and she began to sing.
She sang a simple, almost childish, love song in French. There was nothing sensational about it, nothing risque, certainly nothing which should have appealed to the frequenters of L'Abbaye. And her voice, although sweet and clear and pure, was not extraordinary. And yet, when she had finished, there was a perfect storm of "Bravos." Parasols waved, flowers were thrown, and a roar of applause lasted for minutes. Why this should have been is a puzzle to me even now. Perhaps it was because of her clean, girlish beauty; perhaps because it was so unexpected and so different; perhaps because of the mystery concerning her. I don't know. Then I did not ask. I sat in my chair at the table, trembling from head to foot, and looking at her. I had never expected to see her again and now she was before my eyes--here in this place.
She sang again; this time a jolly little ballad of soldiers and glory and the victory of the Tri-Color. And again she swept them off their feet. She bowed and smiled in answer to their applause and, motioning to the orchestra leader, began without accompaniment, "Loch Lomond," in English. It was one of the songs I had asked her to sing at the rectory, one I had found in the music cabinet, one that her mother and mine had sung years before.
"Ye'll take the high road
And I'll take the low road,
And I'll be in Scotland afore ye--"
I was on my feet. I have no remembrance of having risen, but I was standing, leaning across the table, looking at her. There were cries of "Sit down" in English and other cries in French. There were tugs at my coat tails.
"But me and my true love
Shall never meet again,
By the bonny, bonny banks
Of Loch--"
She saw me. The song stopped. I saw her turn white, so white that the rouge on her cheeks looked like fever spots. She looked at me and I at her. Then she raised her hand to her throat, turned and almost ran from the room.
I should have followed her, then and there, I think. I was on my way around the end of the table, regardless of masculine boots and feminine skirts. But a stout Englishman got in my way and detained me and the crowd was so dense that I could not push through it. It was an excited crowd, too. For a moment there had been a surprised silence, but now everyone was exclaiming and talking in his or her native language.
"Oh, I say! What happened? What made her do that?" demanded the stout Englishman. Then he politely requested me to get off his foot.
The bearded manager--or proprietor--was waving his hands once more and begging attention and silence. He got both, in a measure. Then he made his announcement.
He begged ten thousand pardons, but Mademoiselle Guinot--That was it, Guinot, not Juno or Junotte--had been seized with a most regrettable illness. She had been unable to continue her performance. It was not serious, but she could sing no more that evening. To-morrow evening--ah, yes. Most certainly. But to-night--no. Monsieur Hairee Opkins, the most famous Engleesh comedy artiste would now entertain the patrons of L'Abbaye. He begged, he entreated attention for Monsieur Opkins.
I did not wait for "Monsieur Hairee." I forced my way to the door. As I passed out I cast a glance in the direction of young Bayliss. He was on his feet, loudly shouting for a waiter and his bill. I had so much start, at all events.
Through the waiters and uniformed attendants I elbowed. Another man with a beard--he looked enough like the other to be his brother, and perhaps he was--got in my way at last. A million or more pardons, but Monsieur could not go in that direction. The exit was there, pointing.
As patiently and carefully as I could, considering my agitation, I explained that I did not wish to find the exit. I was a friend, a--yes, a--er--relative of the young lady who had just sung and who had been taken ill. I wanted to go to her.
Another million pardons, but that was impossible. I did not understand, Mademoiselle was--well, she did not see gentlemen. She was--with the most expressive of shrugs--peculiar. She desired no friends. It was--ah--quite impossible.
I found my pocketbook and pressed my card into his hand. Would he give Mademoiselle my card? Would he tell her that I must see her, if only for a minute? Just give her the card and tell her that.
He shook his head, smiling but firm. I could have punched him for the smile, but instead I took other measures. I reached into my pocket, found some gold pieces--I have no idea how many or of what denomination--and squeezed them in the hand with the card. He still smiled and shook his head, but his firmness was shaken.
"I will give the card," he said, "but I warn Monsieur it is quite useless. She will not see him."
The waiter with whom I had seen Herbert Bayliss in altercation was hurrying by me. I caught his arm.
"Pardon, Monsieur," he protested, "but I must go. The gentleman yonder desires his bill."
"Don't give it to him," I whispered, trying hard to think of the French words. "Don't give it to him yet. Keep him where he is for a time."
I backed the demand with another gold piece, the last in my pocket. The waiter seemed surprised.
"Not give the bill?" he repeated.
"No, not yet." I did my best to look wicked and knowing--"He and I wish to meet the same young lady and I prefer to be first."
That was sufficient--in Paris. The waiter bowed low.
"Rest in peace, Monsieur," he said. "The gentleman shall wait."
I waited also, for what seemed a long time. Then the bearded one reappeared. He looked surprised but pleased.
"Bon, Monsieur," he whispered, patting my arm. "She will see you. You are to wait at the private door. I will conduct you there. It is most unusual. Monsieur is a most fortunate gentleman."
At the door, at the foot of a narrow staircase--decidedly lacking in the white and gold of the other, the public one--I waited, for another age. The staircase was lighted by one sickly gas jet and the street outside was dark and dirty. I waited on the narrow sidewalk, listening to the roar of nocturnal Montmartre around the corner, to the beating of my own heart, and for her footstep on the stairs.
At last I heard it. The door opened and she came out. She wore a cloak over her street costume and her hat was one that she had bought in London with my money. She wore a veil and I could not see her face.
I seized her hands with both of mine.
"Frances!" I cried, chokingly. "Oh, Frances!"
She withdrew her hands. When she spoke her tone was quiet but very firm.
"Why did you come here?" she asked.
"Why did I come? Why--"
"Yes. Why did you come? Was it to find me? Did you know I was here?"
"I did not know. I had heard--"
"Did Doctor Bayliss tell you?"
I hesitated. So she HAD seen Bayliss and spoken with him.
"No," I answered, after a moment, "he did not tell me, exactly. But I had heard that someone who resembled you was singing here in Paris."
"And you followed me. In spite of my letter begging you, for my sake, not to try to find me. Did you get that letter?"
"Yes, I got it."
"Then why did you do it? Oh, WHY did you?"
For the first time there was a break in her voice. We were standing before the door. The street, it was little more than an alley, was almost deserted, but I felt it was not the place for explanations. I wanted to get her away from there, as far from that dreadful "Abbey" as possible. I took her arm.
"Come," I said, "I will tell you as we go. Come with me now."
She freed her arm.
"I am not coming with you," she said. "Why did you come here?"
"I came--I came--Why did YOU come? Why did you leave us as you did? Without a word!"
She turned and faced me.
"You know why I left you," she said. "You know. You knew all the time. And yet you let me believe--You let me think--I lived upon your money--I--I--Oh, don't speak of it! Go away! please go away and leave me."
"I am not going away--without you. I came to get you to go back with me. You don't understand. Your aunt and I want you to come with us. We want you to come and live with us again. We--"
She interrupted. I doubt if she had comprehended more than the first few words of what I was saying.
"Please go away," she begged. "I know I owe you money, so much money. I shall pay it. I mean to pay it all. At first I could not. I could not earn it. I tried. Oh, I tried SO hard! In London I tried and tried, but all the companies were filled, it was late in the season and I--no one would have me. Then I got this chance through an agency. I am succeeding here. I am earning the money at last. I am saving--I have saved--And now you come to--Oh, PLEASE go and leave me!"
Her firmness had gone. She was on the verge of tears. I tried to take her hands again, but she would not permit it.
"I shall not go," I persisted, as gently as I could. "Or when I go you must go with me. You don't understand."
"But I do understand. My aunt--Miss Cahoon told me. I understand it all. Oh, if I had only understood at first."
"But you don't understand--now. Your aunt and I knew the truth from the beginning. That made no difference. We were glad to have you with us. We want you to come back. You are our relative--"
"I am not. I am not really related to you in any way. You know I am not."
"You are related to Miss Cahoon. You are her sister's daughter. She wants you to come. She wants you to live with us again, just as you did before."
"She wants that! She--But it was your money that paid for the very clothes I wore. Your money--not hers; she said so."
"That doesn't make any difference. She wants you and--"
I was about to add "and so do I," but she did not permit me to finish the sentence. She interrupted again, and there was a change in her tone.
"Stop! Oh, stop!" she cried. "She wanted me and--and so you--Did you think I would consent? To live upon your charity?"
"There is no charity about it."
"There is. You know there is. And you believed that I--knowing what I know--that my father--my own father--"
"Hush! hush! That is all past and done with."
"It may be for you, but not for me. Mr. Knowles, your opinion of me must be a very poor one. Or your desire to please your aunt as great as your--your charity to me. I thank you both, but I shall stay here. You must go and you must not try to see me again."
There was firmness enough in this speech; altogether too much. But I was as firm as she was.
"I shall not go," I reiterated. "I shall not leave you--in a place like this. It isn't a fit place for you to be in. You know it is not. Good heavens! you MUST know it?"
"I know what the place is," she said quietly.
"You know! And yet you stay here! Why? You can't like it!"
It was a foolish speech, and I blurted it without thought. She did not answer. Instead she began to walk toward the corner. I followed her.
"I beg your pardon," I stammered, contritely. "I did not mean that, of course. But I cannot think of your singing night after night in such a place--before those men and women. It isn't right; it isn't--you shall not do it."
She answered without halting in her walk.
"I shall do it," she said. "They pay me well, very well, and I--I need the money. When I have earned and saved what I need I shall give it up, of course. As for liking the work--Like it! Oh, how can you!"
"I beg your pardon. Forgive me. I ought to be shot for saying that. I know you can't like it. But you must not stay here. You must come with me."
"No, Mr. Knowles, I am not coming with you. And you must leave me and never come back. My sole reason for seeing you to-night was to tell you that. But--" she hesitated and then said, with quiet emphasis, "you may tell my aunt not to worry about me. In spite of my singing in a cafe chantant I shall keep my self-respect. I shall not be--like those others. And when I have paid my debt--I can't pay my father's; I wish I could--I shall send you the money. When I do that you will know that I have resigned my present position and am trying to find a more respectable one. Good-by."
We had reached the corner. Beyond was the square, with its lights and its crowds of people and vehicles. I seized her arm.
"It shall not be good-by," I cried, desperately. "I shall not let you go."
"You must."
"I sha'n't. I shall come here night after night until you consent to come back to Mayberry."
She stopped then. But when she spoke her tone was firmer than ever.
"Then you will force me to give it up," she said. "Before I came here I was very close to--There were days when I had little or nothing to eat, and, with no prospects, no hope, I--if you don't leave me, Mr. Knowles, if you do come here night after night, as you say, you may force me to that again. You can, of course, if you choose; I can't prevent you. But I shall NOT go back to Mayberry. Now, will you say good-by?"
She meant it. If I persisted in my determination she would do as she said; I was sure of it.
"I am sure my aunt would not wish you to continue to see me, against my will," she went on. "If she cares for me at all she would not wish that. You have done your best to please her. I--I thank you both. Good-by."
What could I do, or say?
"Good-by," I faltered.
She turned and started across the square. A flying cab shut her from my view. And then I realized what was happening, realized it and realized, too, what it meant. She should not go; I would not let her leave me nor would I leave her. I sprang after her.
The square was thronged with cabs and motor cars. The Abbey and The Dead Rat and all the rest were emptying their patrons into the street. Paris traffic regulations are lax and uncertain. I dodged between a limousine and a hansom and caught a glimpse of her just as she reached the opposite sidewalk.
"Frances!" I called. "Frances!"
She turned and saw me. Then I heard my own name shouted from the sidewalk I had just left.
"Knowles! Knowles!"
I looked over my shoulder. Herbert Bayliss was at the curb. He was shaking a hand, it may have been a fist, in my direction.
"Knowles!" he shouted. "Stop! I want to see you."
I did not reply. Instead I ran on. I saw her face among the crowd and upon it was a curious expression, of fear, of frantic entreaty.
"Kent! Kent!" she cried. "Oh, be careful! KENT!"
There was a roar, a shout; I have a jumbled recollection of being thrown into the air, and rolling over and over upon the stones of the street. And there my recollections end, for the time. _