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THE PRETENDER 
 
In deferoruo to the opinion of the publishers the 
 Author hat consontPiJ to certain alterations being 
 niado in his work. 
 
THE PRETENDER 
 
 A Story of the Latin (Quarter 
 
 BY 
 
 ROBERT W. SERVICE 
 
 AUTHOB OK "SoMOi OV A SoLHDOUOll, I'llAU. 
 
 OK 'W," rrc. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODl), MEAD & COMPANY 
 
 1914 
 
115651 
 
 CorvRioirr, ('ami>a, I«I4 
 U\ KOBKKT W. SKKVICK 
 
 V«IL.i«LLOU COMUNy 
 
THE PRETENDER 
 
"Of Rooks nn.I Srril.. <» tli.r.' aiv t.o mil: 
 I'lii- IMaj.Mi. — iiiKl w|,„ ,.;,„ ,j,,„|,, j{., 
 I)i>ina\> in.. ><.. \\,. ,.„||^ |„.„,„.,i 
 ■ liiiithii l)(«)k iildmi it." 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 
 CUAPTKB 
 
 BOOK I— Till. ( HALI.F.NCiE 
 I TiiK ilxpiMKvr Vnrxct Man in .Manhattan 
 
 II Thk SiIEEI' and the (ioATS . 
 Ill (Mdl.IKU KiDNKV AND Ha( ON 
 
 IN' An I'nintentiunal I'iiii-anhkhkm 
 
 V A Sk\m(k Skntimentai.ist 
 
 VI An Involtntahy Fiance . 
 
 VII A Bati i.E OF Ink 
 
 VIII The CiiiiL Wiio Looked Intehestino 
 
 IX The C'iiEwiN(i (iuM of Destiny 
 
 X The YorN(i Man Who Makes (iouu 
 
 I 
 
 II 
 III 
 IV 
 
 y 
 
 VI 
 
 VII 
 
 VIII 
 
 IX 
 
 X 
 
 I 
 II 
 
 I'AI.K 
 
 I 
 10 
 
 '.'0 
 •J 8 
 1(1 
 18 
 (11 
 fi'.» 
 78 
 8'.> 
 
 BOOK II— THE STRLGGI.E 
 
 The Newly-meds 
 
 That Ml'ddle-IIeaded Santa CLAtP 
 The City of Light .... 
 The City of Laughter . 
 
 The City of Love 
 
 Getting Dow.v to Cases . 
 The Merry .^Ionth of May . 
 " To.M, Dick and Harry " . 
 An Cnexpected Develop.ment . 
 The Life and Death of Dorothy 
 
 lUl 
 lU 
 123 
 133 
 U5 
 l.-)6 
 lOfi 
 181 
 IM.i 
 Madden v.'()1 
 
 BOOK ill — THE AWAKENING 
 
 The Stkess of the Struggle 215 
 
 The Darkest Hoir 231 
 
CONTKNTS 
 
 ( H.MTKK 
 
 IFI TlIK Dwvx 
 
 I\' A CiiAi'TKU That liK(ii.vs W'ki.i. 
 Hadly 
 
 V The (illKAT (^IIKTI S 
 
 \'l TiiK Shadow oi- Si( c kss . 
 \'ll 'I'hk I'atk ok 1 amk . 
 
 N'lII 'I'llK MaNM FA* TIIIK OV A X'll.T.AIN 
 
 IX A (hkvik a.no a ('iik<k 
 
 X I'mXt K l.F I)ltKAMI::H!j . 
 
 PA(.K 
 
 A N 1 
 
 KNDS 
 
 15 1 7 
 3'Jii 
 
BOOK I — THE CHALLENGE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE HAPPIEST YOUNG MAN IN MANHATTAN 
 
 To have omnibus tastes and an automobile income — 
 how ironic? 
 
 With this reflexion I let myself collapse into a padded 
 chair of transcendent comfort, lit a cigarette and in- 
 spected once more the amazing bank-book. Since I 
 had seen it last several credit entries had been made — 
 over twenty thousand dollars; and in the meantime, 
 dawdling and dreaming in the woods of Maine, all I 
 had managed to squander was a paltry thousand. 
 Being a man of imagination I sought for a simile. As 
 I sat there by the favourite window of my favourite 
 club I could see great snowflakes falling in the quiet 
 square, and at that moment it seemed to me that I 
 too was standing under a snowfall, a snowfall of dol- 
 lars steadily banking me about. 
 
 For a moment I revelled in the charming vision, then 
 like a flash it changed. Now I could see two figures 
 locked in Homeric combat. Like a serene over-soul I 
 watched them, I, philosopher, life-critic; for was not 
 one of them James H. Madden, a man of affairs, the 
 other, J. Horace Madden, dilettante and dreamer. . . . 
 Look ! from that clutter of stale snow a form springs 
 triumphant. Hurrah! It is the near-poet, the man 
 on the side of the angels.— And so rejoiced was 1 at 
 
2 THE PRETENDER 
 
 this issue tluit I regarded the little bank-book ahnost 
 resentfully. 
 
 "Figures, figures," I sighed, "what do you mean to 
 nic? Crabbed symbols on a smudgy page! can vou 
 buy for me that fresh Spring-morning feeling in the 
 brain, that rapture of a fine thing finely done? Ah 
 no! the luxury you spell means care and worry. In 
 comfort is contentment. And am I not content? ' \ay ! 
 in all Manhattan is there man more happy? Young, 
 famous, free — could life possibly be more charming? 
 And so in my tower of tranquillity let mo work and 
 dream; and every now and then, little book, vour totals 
 will grow absurd, and I will look at you' and say: 
 ' Figures, figures, what do you mean to me? ' " 
 
 " But, after all," I went on to reflect, " Money is not 
 so utterly a nuisance. Pleasant indeed to think that 
 when most are pondering over the problem of the per- 
 manent meal-ticket, you are yourself well settled on the 
 sunny side of Easy Street. Poets have piped of Ar- 
 cady, have chorused of Bohemia, have expressed their 
 enthusiasm for Elysian fields, but who has come to 
 chant the praise of Easy Street? Yet surely it is 
 the kindliest of all? Behind its smiling windows are 
 no maddening constraints, no irking servitudes, no 
 tyranny of time. Just sunshine, laughter, mockery of 
 masters — Oh, a thousand times blessed, golden, glori- 
 ous Easy Street ! " 
 
 Here I lighted a fresh cigarette and settled more 
 snugly in that chair of kingly comfort. 
 
 " Behold in me," I continued lazily, " a being spe- 
 cially favoured of the gods. Born if' not with a silver 
 spoon in my mouth at least with one of a genteel quality 
 of nickel, blest with a boyhood notably cheering and 
 
i 
 
 THE HAPPIEST YOUNG MAN 3 
 
 serene, griintcd while still in my teens success that 
 others figlit for to the grave's edge, untouched by a 
 single sorrow, unthwurted by a solitary defeat — does 
 it not sceni us if my path in life had been ever preceded 
 by an Olympian steam roller macadamising the way? 
 
 '* True, as to appearance, the gods have failed to 
 flatter me. If you, gentle reader, who are as perfect 
 as the Apollo Belvedere, gaze, at your chiselled features 
 in the silver side of your morning tea-pot, you will get 
 a good idea of mine. But there — I refer you to a copy 
 of Wisdom for Women, the well-known feminist Weekly. 
 It contains an illustrated interview, one of that cele- 
 brated series. Lions in their Dens. Harken unto this : 
 
 "A tall, tight-lipped young man, eager, yet abstracted; 
 eyes quizzical, mouth a straight line, brow of a dreamer, 
 chin of a Hirtatious stockbroker. His gleaming glasses 
 suggest the journalist, his prominent nose the tank-town 
 tragedian. Add to that that he has a complexion un«sthet- 
 ieally sanguine, and that his flaxen hair, receding from his 
 forehead, gives him a fictitious look of intellectuality, and 
 you have a combination easier to describe than to im- 
 agine. . . ." 
 
 " What a blessing it is wc cannot sec ourselves as 
 others see us! How it would fill life with intolerable 
 veracities! Dear lady who wrote the above, I can 
 forgive vou for the Roman nose, for the flirtatious 
 chin, nay, even for the fictitious intellectuality of my 
 noble brow, but for one thing I can never think of 
 vou with joy. You wrote of me that I was ' a mould 
 of fashion and a glass of form.' Since then, alas! I 
 have been compelled to live up to your description. 
 Bohemian to the backbone, lover of the flannel suit 
 
4 THE PRETENDER 
 
 of froedom and the silken shirt of case, how I have 
 suffered in such clutch of comme-il-faut no tongue can 
 tell. Yet thanks to a Fifth Avenue tailor even a little 
 sartorial success has fallen to my lot." 
 
 Success! some men seem to have a magic power of 
 attracting it, and I think I must be one. Sitting there 
 in the window of the club, as I watched the shadows 
 steal into the square, and the snow thicken to a flutter- 
 ing curtain I positively purred with satisfaction. Be- 
 hind me the silent library was lit only by a fire of 
 glowing coals. The jocund light gleamed on the carved 
 oak of the book-cases, and each diamond pane winked 
 jovially. Yet cheerful though it was my thoughts 
 were far more rosy. 
 
 But now my reverie was being broken. Two men 
 were approaching, and by their voices I knew them 
 to be Quince the critic and Vaine the poet. The first 
 was a representative of the School of Suds, the second 
 an exponent of the School of Sediment ; but as neither 
 were included in the number of my more intimate ene- 
 mies I did not turn to greet them. 
 
 Goring Quince is a stall-fed man with a purple face, 
 cotton-coloured hair and supercilious eyebrows. He is 
 an incubator of epigrams. His articles are riots of 
 rhetoric, and it is marvellous how completely he can 
 drown a poor little idea in a vat of verbiage. 
 
 Herrick Vaine is a puffy, pimply person, with a 
 mincing manner and an emasculated voice. He might 
 have been a poet of note but for two things: while 
 reading his work you always have a feeling that you 
 have seen something oddly like it before; and after 
 you have read it all you retain is a certain dark-brown 
 taste on the mental palate. Otherwise he is all right. 
 
THE HAPPIEST YOUNG MAN 6 
 
 And now, liaving described the principals, let me 
 record the little dialogue to which I was the unseen 
 listener. 
 
 Vaixe {icith elaborate carelessnesn) : By the way, 
 you haven't read my latest book, I suppose? 
 
 Quince (coaingli/) : Why yes, my boy. I lost no 
 time in reading it. I positively wallowed — I 
 uv'-n revelled in it. Reminds me of Baude- 
 1j. .0 in spots. Without you and a chosen few 
 what would literature be? 
 
 Vaixe (enraptured): How lovely of you to say so. 
 You know I value your opinion more than any 
 in the world. 
 
 QrixcE {waving his gold-rimmed eyeglasses) : Not 
 at all. Merely my duty as a watchdog of 
 letters. Yes, I thought your Songs Saturnalian 
 in a class by itself; but now I can say without 
 being accused of a lapse of literary judgment 
 that your Poems Plutonian marks a distinct 
 epoch in modern poetry. There is an undefin- 
 able something in your work, a je ne sais quoi 
 . . . you know. 
 
 Vaixe: Yes; thank you, thank you. 
 Qi'Ixce: Is it selling, by the way? 
 Vaixe: Thank heaven, no! How banal! Popular 
 success would imply artistic failure. To the 
 public true art must always be inaccessible. 
 If ever I find my work becoming bourgeois, it 
 will be because I have committed artistic 
 suicide. On my bended knees I pray to be 
 delivered from popularity. 
 QrixcE: I see. You prefer the award of posterity 
 
THE pretp:nder 
 
 to the reward of prosperity. Well, no doubt 
 time will bring you your meed of recognition. 
 In the meantime give me a copy of the poems, 
 and I will review it in next week's Compass. 
 
 Vaixe: Will you indeed. That honour alone 
 will repay me for writing it. By the way, I 
 imagine I saw a copy in the library. Ix't me 
 look. 
 
 (As Vaine had put it there himself his doubt 
 seemed a little superfluous. He switched on a 
 light, and from the ranked preciosity of a 
 certain shelf he selected a slim, gilt volume.) 
 
 Vaixk: Poems PhitonUin. 
 
 (^I'lNCK (taking it in his fat, soft Juinds) : How 
 utterly exquisite! What charming generosity 
 of margin ! 
 
 Vaixe : Yes ; you know the great fault of books, 
 to my mind, is that they contain printed matter. 
 Some day I dream of writing a book that shall 
 be nearly all margin, a book from which the 
 crudely obvious shall be eliminated, a book of 
 exquisite intrusion, of supremo suggestion, 
 where magic words like rosaries of pearls shall 
 glimmer down the pages. I really think that 
 books are the curse of literature. If every 
 writer were compelled to grave his works on 
 brass and copper from how much that is vain 
 and vapid would we not be delivered.'' 
 
 QnxcE: Ah, yes! Still books have their advan- 
 tages. Here, for example, am I going to burn 
 the incense of a cigar before the putrescent — I 
 mean the iridescent altar of art. Now if 
 
THE HAPPIEST YOUNG MAN 
 
 Poems Plutonian were inscribed on brass or 
 stont' I confess I should hesitate. What are 
 those things? 
 
 (He pointed to a separate shelf, on which 
 stood nine volumes with somewhat aggressive 
 covers.) 
 
 Vaixe: Well mav you ask. Brazen strumpets who 
 have stumbled into the temple of Apollo. 
 These, my dear sir, arc the so-called novels of 
 Norman Dane. You see, -s a member of the 
 club, he is supposed to give the library a copy 
 of his books. We all hoped he wouldn't, but 
 he came egregiously forward. Of course we 
 couldn't refuse the monstrous things. 
 
 Qiixce: No, I understand. What's this? The 
 Yellow Streak: Two hundred thousand! The 
 Dipsomaniac: Sixth Edition!! Rattlesnake 
 Ranch: Tenth Impression!!! Why, what a 
 disgusting lot of money the man must be 
 making! 
 
 Vaixe: Yes, the Indiana Idol, the Boy Bestseller- 
 monger. A perfect bounder as regards Art. 
 But he knows how to truckle to the mob. His 
 books sell by the ton. They're so bad, they're 
 almost good. 
 
 Qiixce {with surprising feeling) : There! I don't 
 agree with you. He doesn't even know how 
 to please the public. It takes a clever man to 
 do that, and Norman Dane is only a dry- 
 goods clerk spoiled. No, the point is — he is 
 the public, the apotheosis of the vulgar intelli- 
 gence. Don't think for a moment he is writing 
 
8 THE PRETENDER 
 
 down to the level of the mob. He charms the 
 great half-educated because he himself belongs 
 to them. He can't help it. 
 
 Vaine: Yes, but there are so many plebeian novel- 
 ists. How do you account for Dane's spectacu- 
 lar success? 
 
 QriNCE: A fool's luck! He happened to hit the 
 psychological moment. When he leaped into 
 the lists with Th€ Haunted Taxirab taxis had 
 just come out, and at the same moment there 
 was 8 mania for mystery stories. Take two 
 popular motifs, mix recklessly, spice with 
 sentiment and sauce with sensation — there you 
 have the recipe of a bestseller. His book fluked 
 into favour. His publishers put their weight 
 behind it. In a month he found himself famous 
 from Maine to Mexico. But he couldn't do it 
 again ; no, not in a thousand years. What has 
 he done since? Live on his name. Step cun- 
 ningly in his tracks. Bah! I tell you Nor- 
 man Dane's an upstart, a faker; to the very 
 heart of him a shallow, ignorant pretender. . . . 
 
 Whatever else the poor chap might be was lost in 
 the distance as the two men moved away. For a long 
 time after they had gone I did not stir. The fluttering 
 snow-butterflies seemed to have become great moths, 
 that hovered in the radiance of the nearest arc-light 
 and dashed to a watery doom. Pensively I gazed into 
 that greenish glamour, pulling at a burnt-out cigarette. 
 
 At last I rose, and going to the book-case regarded 
 the nine volumes of flamboyant isolation. 
 
THE HAPPIEST YOUNG MAN 9 
 
 "An upstart," I sighed softlj; "ft faker, a pre- 
 tender . . ." 
 
 And to tell the truth I was sorely taken aback ; for 
 you see in my hours of industry I am a maker of books 
 and my pen name is Norman Dane. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THK SHEEP AND THE GOATS 
 
 WiiKTifKii or not a sense of humour is an attribute of 
 the Divine, I am too ignorant of theology to conjec- 
 ture; but I am sure that as a sustaining power amid 
 the tribulations of life it is one of the blessedest of dis- 
 pensations. 
 
 For a moment, I must confess, the words of Quince 
 and Vaine stung me to resentment. Being one of 
 these people who think in moving pictures, I had a 
 gratifying vision in which I was clutching them sav- 
 agely and knocking their heads together. Then the 
 whole thing struck me on the funny side, and a little 
 page boy, entering to turn on the lights, must have 
 been amazed to hear me burst into sudden laughter. 
 
 So that presently, as Mr. Quince, having spilt some 
 cigar ash over the still uncut leaves of Poems Plutonian, 
 was arising to daintily dust the volume, I approached 
 him with a bright and happy smile. 
 
 " Hullo, Quince," I began, cheerily. 
 
 He looked up. His eyes gleamed frosty interroga- 
 tion, and his clipped grey moustache seemed to bristle 
 in his purple face. 
 
 "What is it? "he grunted. 
 
 " It's about that matter we spoke of this morning. 
 Vou know I've been thinking it over, and I've decided 
 to go on that note of yours." 
 
 Quince was astonished. He was also overjoyed; but 
 his manner was elaborately off-hand. 
 
THE SHEEP AND THE GOATS 
 
 11 
 
 "Ah! Thanks awfully, Madden. Only a matter of 
 renewal, you know. Old endorser went off to Europe, 
 and the bank got after me. Well, you'll go on the 
 note, then?" 
 
 " Yes, on one condition." 
 
 "Hum! Condition! What?" he demanded anx- 
 iously. 
 
 " Well," I said. " I believe one good turn deserves 
 another. Now I was down at the bank this morning, 
 and I know you're in rather h hole about that renewal. 
 Backers for thousand dollar notes aren't picked up so 
 easily. However, I'm willing to go on it if you'll " — 
 here I paused deliberately, " give my last book a good 
 write up in your next Compass causerie." 
 
 His face fell. " I'm afraid — you see, I've promised 
 Vuine — " 
 
 " Oh, hang Vainc ! Sidetrack him." 
 " But — there's the policy of the paper — " 
 " Oh, well, I'll buy a controlling interest, and rlter 
 your policy. But, as a matter of fact, you know '11 
 print anything over your name." 
 
 « Yes — well, there are my own standards, the ideals 
 I have fought for — " 
 
 " Rot ! Look here. Quince, let's be honest. We're 
 both in the writing game for wliat we can get out of 
 it. We may strut and brag; but we know in our hearts 
 there's none of us of much account. Why, man, show 
 me half a dozen writers of to-day who'll be remembered 
 twenty years after they're dead? " 
 "I* protest—" 
 
 " You know it's true. We're bagmen in a negligible 
 day. Now, I don't want you to alter your standards ; 
 all I want of you is to adjust them. You know that 
 
1« 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 as soon as you see a book of mine coming along you 
 get your knife out. You've flayed me from the start. 
 You do it on principle. You've got regular formulas 
 of abuse. My characters are sticks, my plots chaotic, 
 my incidents melodramatic. You judge my work by 
 your academic standards. Don't do that. Don't 
 judge it us art — judge it as entertainment. Does it 
 entertain? " 
 
 " Possibly it does — the average, unthinking man." 
 
 " Precisely. He's my audience. My business is to 
 amuse him, to take him outside of himself for an hour 
 or two." 
 
 *' It's our duty to elevate his taste." 
 
 '* Fiddlesticks ! my dear chap. I don't take myself 
 so seriously as that. And, anyway, it's hopeless. If 
 you don't give him the stuff he wants, he won't take 
 any. You'll never educate the masses to anything 
 higher than the satisfaction of their appetites. They 
 want frenzied Action, plot, action. The men want a 
 good yarn, the women sentiment, and we writers want 
 — the money." 
 
 '* It's a sad state of affairs, I admit." 
 
 "Well, then, admit that my books fill the bill. 
 They're good yarns, they're exciting, they're healthy. 
 Surely they don't deserve wholesale condemnation. So 
 go home, my dear Quince, and begin a little screed like 
 this : 
 
 In the past we have frequently found occasion to deal 
 severely with tlie novels of Norman Dane, and to regret 
 that he refuses to use those high gifts he undoubtedly 
 possesses; but on opening his latest novel, The House of a 
 Hundred Scandals, we are agreeably surprised to note a 
 decided awakening of artistic conscience. 
 
THE SHEEP AND THE GOATS 
 
 IS 
 
 And so on. No one knows how to do it better than 
 you. Bring to the bank to-morrow a proof of the 
 jirticle, and I'll put my name on the back of your 
 note." 
 
 "I — I don't know. I'll think it over. Perhaps 
 I've been a little too dogmatic. Let me see — Literary 
 Criticism and the Point of View — yes, I'll see what I 
 can do.'* 
 
 As I left him ruefully brooding over the idea I felt 
 suddenly ashamed of myself. 
 
 " Poor old chap ! " I thought ; " I've certainly taken 
 a mean advantage of him. Perhaps, after all, he may 
 be right and I wrong. I begin to wonder: Have I 
 earned success, o** only achieved it? It seems to me 
 this literary camp is divided into two bands, the sheep 
 and the goats, and, sooner or later, a man must ask 
 himself which he belongs to. Am I a sheep or am I a 
 goat.?" 
 
 But I quickly steeled myself. Why should I ha%'e 
 compunction.? Was I not ir a land where money was 
 the standard of success? Here then was the virtue of 
 my bloated bank-book — Power. Let them sneer at 
 me, these aesthetic apes, these flabby degenerates. 
 There by the door was a group of them, and I ventured 
 to bet that they were all in debt to their tailors. Yet 
 they regarded me as an outsider, a barbarian. Look- 
 ing around for some object to soothe my ruffled feel- 
 ings, I espied the red, beefsteak-and-beer face of Por- 
 kinson, the broker. Here was a philistine, an un- 
 abashed disciple of the money god. I hailed him. 
 
 Over our second whiskey I told Porkinson of the 
 affair in the library. He laughed a ruddy, rolling 
 laugh. 
 
14 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 " What do you care? " he roared raucously. " You 
 put the stuff over and grab the coin — that's the game, 
 isn't it? Let tliose liighbrow freaks knock you all 
 they want — you've got away with the goods. And, 
 anyway, they've got the wrong dope. Why, I guess 
 I'm just as level-headed as the next man, and I wouldn't 
 give a cent for the piffle they turn out. When I'm 
 running to catch a train I grab one of your books 
 every time. I know if there's none of the boys on 
 board to have a card game with I've got something 
 to keep nie from being tired between drinks. What I 
 like about your yarns, old man, is that they keep me 
 guessing all the time, and the fellow never gets the 
 girl till the last page. I always skip a whole lot, I 
 get so darned interested. I once read a book of yours 
 clean through between breakfast and lunch." 
 
 Thanking Porkinson for his enthusiasm, which some- 
 how failed to elate me, I took the elevator up to my 
 apartment on the tenth story of the club, Trivers, 
 the artist, had a studio adjoining me, and, seeing a light 
 under his door, I knocked. 
 
 " Enter," called Travers. 
 
 He was a little frail old man, with a peaked, grey 
 face framed in a plenitude of iron-grey hair, and end- 
 ing in a white Vandyke beard. A nervous trouble made 
 him twitch his right eye continually, sometimes em- 
 phasising his statements with curious effect. He be- 
 lieved he was one of the greatest painters in the world ; 
 yet that very day three of his best pictures had been 
 refused by the Academy. 
 
 " I knew it," he cried excitedly ; " I knew when I 
 xent them they'd come back. It's happened for the 
 last ten years. They know if they hung me I'd kill 
 
THE SHEEP AND THE GOATS 15 
 
 every cne else in the room. They're afraid of my 
 mountains." (A wink.) "Their little souls can't 
 conceive of any scenery beyond Connecticut. But it's 
 the last time I'll send." (A wink.) "I'll get recog- 
 nition elsewhere, London, Paris; then when they want 
 my pictures for their walls they'll have to come and 
 beg, yes, beg for them." (A portentous wink.) 
 
 Every year he vowed the same thing; every year 
 he canvassed the members of the hanging committee; 
 every year his pictures came cruelly back ; yet his faith' 
 in himself was invincible. 
 
 " I tell you what," I said ; " you might be one of 
 the popular painters of the day if you only looked 
 at it right. Here you go painting straight scenery as 
 it was in the days before Adam. You object to the 
 least hint of humanity — a hut, a bridge, a boat. My 
 dear sir, what the General Public wants is the human, 
 the dramatic. There's that River Rapids picture you 
 did two years ago, and it's still on your hands. Now 
 that's good. That water's alive, it boils; as I look 
 at it I can hear it roar, and feel t}ie sting of the spray. 
 But — it's straight water, and che G.P. won't take its 
 water straight. Now just paint two men in a birch- 
 bark canoe going down these rapids. Paint in a big 
 rock, call it A Close Shave, and you'll sell that picture 
 like winking." 
 
 "Oh, I couldn't do that. You're talking like a 
 tradesman." 
 
 " There's that sunset," I went on. " It's splendid. 
 That colour seems to burn a hole in the canvas. But 
 just you paint in a black cross against that smoulder- 
 ing sky, and see how it gives significance, aye, and 
 poetry to the picture. Call it Tfu? lone Grave?' 
 
 I 
 
16 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 " But don't you sec/' said Travers, with some irri- 
 tation, " Tuj trying to express a mood of Nature. 
 Surely there's enough poetry in Nature without trying 
 to drag in lone graves ? " 
 
 " Not for the G.P. You've got to give it sentiment. 
 Did that millionaire brewer buy anything? " 
 
 Travers sighed rather wofully. 
 
 " No, he kept on asking me where my pictures vaere, 
 and I kept on telling him they weren't anywhere, they 
 were everywhere ; they were in his own heart if he only 
 looked deep enough. They were just moods of nature. 
 He couldn't see it. I believe he bought an eight by ten 
 canvas at Rosenheimer's Department Store: Moses 
 Smiting the Hock." 
 
 '* There 3'ou are. Ho was getting more for his 
 money. He wanted action, interest. Daresay he had 
 the gush of water coloured to look like beer. But PH 
 tell you what I'll do — I'll give you five hundred for 
 that thing you call Morning Mist in the Valley." 
 
 " Sorry," said Travers, with a look of miserable hesi- 
 tation : " I don't want to sell that. It's the best thing 
 I've done. I want to leave it to the nation." 
 
 " All right. You know best. Good-night." 
 
 I knew I had offered more than the market value of 
 the picture ; I knew that Travers had not sold a can- 
 vas for months ; I knew that he often ate only one meal 
 a day, and that if he chose, he could paint commercial 
 pictures ; so I could not but admire the little man who, 
 in the face of scorn, neglect, 8tar\'ation even, clung to 
 his ideals and refused to prostitute his art. But this 
 knowledge did not tend to restore my self-esteem, and 
 it wft? in a mood of singular sclf-crititism I entered my 
 room. 
 
THE SHEEP AND THE GOATS 17 
 
 As I switched on the light the first thing I saw was 
 my reflection in a large mirror. Long and grimly I 
 gazed, hands in pockets, legs widespread, head droop- 
 ing. I have often thought of that moment. It 
 seemed as ' th'' reflection I saw was otiier than myself, 
 was, indeed, almost a stranger to me. 
 
 " Ha ! " I cried, grimacing at the man in the mirror ; 
 "you're getting found out, are you? Tell me, now, 
 beneath your wrappings of selfishness and sham is there 
 anything honest and essential? Is there a real You, 
 such as might stand naked in the wind-swept spaces of 
 eternity? Or are you, down to your very soul's depths 
 a player of parts? " 
 
 Then my mood changed, and I savagely paced the 
 room. 
 
 "Oh, the fools! The hypocrites! Can't they see 
 that I am cleverer than they? Can't they see that I 
 could write their futile sonnets, their fatuous odes? 
 But if I did, wouldn't I starve? Am I to be blamed 
 if I refuse? It's all right to starve if one's doing im- 
 mortal work ; but not six men in the world to-day are 
 doing that. We're ephcnera. Our stufl^ ser>'es the 
 moment. Then take the cash, and let the credit go." 
 
 I :ook off" my boots, and threw them viciously into a 
 corner. 
 
 " How Quince upset me to-night ! So I made a 
 chance hit with my first book? Well, it's true the pub- 
 lic were up on their toes for it. But then I would have 
 succeeded anyvay. As to catering to the mass — I 
 admit it. I'm between the devil and the deep sea. The 
 publishers keep rushing me for the sort of thing that 
 will sell, and the million Porkinsons keep clamouring 
 for the sort of thing they can read without having to 
 
 A 
 
18 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 think. For the sake of liis theoretical wife and six 
 children, what can a poor devil do but comniercialiso his 
 ideals?" 
 
 Here I paused thoughtfully, with one arm out of 
 my coat. 
 
 "After all, is a book of fiction not entertainment 
 just as much as a play? There's your audience, the 
 public. You've got to try and please them, to be en- 
 tertaining from cover to cover. Better be immoral 
 than be dull. And when it comes to audiences, give 
 me a big one of just plain ' folks,' to a small one of 
 highbrows." 
 
 With knitted brows and lips pursed doubtfully, I 
 proceeded to wind up my watch. 
 
 *' Anyway, I haven't written for money ; I've written 
 for popularity. It's nice to think you can get on . 
 train and find some one reading your books — even i 
 it's only the nigger porter. True, my popularity has 
 meant about twenty-five thousand a year to me; but 
 it's not my fault if my publishers insist on paying me 
 such big royalties. And I've not spent the money. 
 I've gone on living on my private income. Then the 
 writing itself has been such a distraction. Lord ! how 
 I have enjoyed it! Granted that my notion of Hades 
 would be to be condenmed to read my own books, yet, 
 such as they are, I've done my best with them. I've 
 lived them as I wrote. I've laughed with joy at their 
 humour. I've shed real tears (with just as much joy) 
 at their pathos." 
 
 I gave a wrench at my collar, expressive of savage 
 perplexity; on which the stud shot out, and cheerfully 
 proceeded to roll under the wardrobe. 
 
 "Perhaps I've done things I shouldn't? I've made 
 
THE SHEEP AND THE GOATS 19 
 
 coincidence work overtime; I've grafted on love scenes 
 sc that the artist could get in one or two * clinch pic- 
 tures.' On my last pajje you'll find the heroine clutched 
 to the hero's waistcoat; but — they all do it. One's 
 got to, or get out of the game." 
 
 Here I disappeared for a moment; and when I re- 
 entered, clad in pale blue pyjamas, I was calm and 
 cheerful again. 
 
 " So old Quince said I'd succeeded by a fluke. Well, 
 I'd just like to bet my year's income against his that I 
 could make a fresh start and do the same thing all over 
 again. By Jove! What an idea! Why not? Go 
 away to London, :ut adrift from friends and funds, 
 fight my way up the ladder from the very bottom. 
 After all, I've had the devil's own luck, everything in 
 my favour. It's hardly been a fair test. Perhaps I 
 really am a four-fiusher. Even now I begin to doubt 
 myself. It seems like a challenge." 
 
 Switching off the light I jumped into bed. 
 
 " Life's too appallingly prosy. Here for seven years 
 I've been imagining romance; it's time I tried to live 
 it a little. Yes, I'll go to-morrow. . . . London . . . 
 garret . . . poverty . . . struggle . . . triumph . . ." 
 
 And at this point any one caring to listen at my door 
 might have heard issuing from those soft blankets a 
 sound resembling the intermittent harshness cf a buzz- 
 saw going through cordwood. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 GRILLED KIDNEY AND BACON 
 
 I WAS awakened at eight o'clock by the alarm in my 
 watch, and lay a few minutes debating whether or not 
 I should rise. I have always rebelled against the con- 
 vention that makes us go to bed at night and get up in 
 the morning. How much less primitive to go to bed in 
 the morning and get up at night ! But in cither case 
 we should abhor crude and violent awakenings. We 
 should awake rhythmically, on pulsing ripples of con- 
 sciousness. Personally, I should like to be awakened 
 by gentle music, viols and harps playing soft strains 
 of half-forgotten melodies. I should like to be roused 
 by the breath of violets, to open my eyes to a vista of 
 still lake on which float swans whiter than ivory. 
 
 What I did open my eyes to was a vista of shivery 
 sunshine, steely blue sky, and snow on the roofs of the 
 neighbouring sky-scrapers. I was indeed comfortable. 
 Outside the heat-zone of my body the sheets were of 
 a delectable coolness, and from head to heel I felt as if 
 I were dissolving in some exquisite oil of ease. 
 
 Lying there enjoying that ineffable tranquillity, I 
 subjected myself to my morning diagnosis. My soul 
 is, I consider, a dark continent which it is my life's 
 business to explore. This morning, then, in my ca- 
 pacity of explorer, I started even as Crusoe nmst have 
 done when he saw the naked footprint in the sand. 
 Extraordinary phenomenon! I had actually awak- 
 
 20 
 
GRILLED KIDNEY AND BACON 
 
 21 
 
 cned of the same mind as that in which I fell asleep. 
 
 Propping myself up I lit a cigarette. 
 
 " Well, young fellow," I greeted my face in the mir- 
 ror, " so we're still doubtful of ourself ? Want to make 
 fresh start, go to London and starve in garret as per 
 romantic formula? What foolishness! But let's be 
 thankful for folly. Some day we'll be wise, and life 
 will seem so worn and stale and grey. So here's for 
 London." 
 
 With that I sprang up and disappeared into the 
 bath-room from which you might have heard a series 
 of grunts and groans as of some one violently dumb- 
 belling; then a scries of snorts and splutters as of some 
 one splashing in icy water; then the hissing noise one 
 usually associates with the rubbing down of horses. 
 After all of which, in a pink glow and a Turkish bath- 
 robe, appeared a radiant young man. 
 
 Taking down the receiver of my telephone I listened 
 for a moment. 
 
 " Yes, it's me. Miss Devereux. Give me the dining- 
 room, please. . . . Dining-room? . . . Yes, it's Mr. 
 Madden speaking. I want to order breakfast. . . . 
 No, not grape-fruit, I said breakfast — Grilled kidney 
 and bacon, toast and Ceylon tea. That's all, thank 
 
 you 
 
 »» 
 
 In parenthesis I may say I do my best work on kid- 
 ney and bacon. There is, I find, a remarkable affinity 
 between what I eat and what I write. Before tackling 
 a scene of blood I indulge in a slab of beef-steak, extra 
 rare; for tender sentiment I find there is nothing like 
 a previous debauch on angel cake and orange pekoe; 
 while if I have to kill any one I usually prime myself 
 with coffee and caviare sandwiches. But as far as 
 
ss 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 ordinary narrative is concerned I find kidney and bacon 
 an excellent stimulus. 
 
 "How extremely agreeable this life is," I reflected 
 OS I resumed dressing. "No care, no responsibility, 
 neither jolt nor jar in the machinery. It's almost too 
 pleasant to be natural. Now, if I had a house, serv- 
 ants, a wife, the trouble would just be beginning at this 
 time. As it is everything conspires to save me from 
 friction. But it'll soon be all over. I never quite 
 realised that. My last day of gilded ease. To-day 
 a young man of fashion in a Now York club, to-morrow 
 a skulking tramp in the steerage of an ocean liner. 
 Yes, I'll go in the steerage." 
 
 Perhaps it was to heighten the contrast that I dressed 
 with unusual care. From a score of lounging suits 
 I selected a soft one of slatey grey; shirt, tie and socks 
 to match; cuff-links of antique silver, and a scarf-pin 
 of a pearl clutch'?d in a silver claw; a hat of grey 
 velour, and shoes with grey cloth uppers. Thus pano- 
 plied I sallied forth, a very symphony in grey. 
 
 At this early hour the dining-room was empty, and 
 three girls flew to wait on me. p^or the first time it 
 struck me as being odd. Surely, I thought, if things 
 were as they should be, woman would not be waiting 
 on man. Here am I, a strong, healthy brute of a male, 
 lolling back like a lord, while these frail females fly 
 like slaves to fulfil my desires. Yet I work three hours 
 a day, they ten. I am rich, they painfully poor. 
 There's something all wrong with the world ; but we're 
 so used to looking at wrong we've come to think it 
 right. 
 
 A strange spirit of dissatisfaction was stirring in me, 
 of desire to see life from the other side. As I took my 
 
GRILLED KIDNEY AND BACON 23 
 
 breakfast I studied the girls, trying to imagine what 
 they thought, how they lived. Although there were 
 no other members in the dining-room at that moment, 
 each waitress was obliged to remain at her post. How 
 deadly monotonous, standing there at attention ! How 
 tired they must be by the end of the day! Then I 
 noticed that one of them, under cover of her apron, 
 was taking surreptitious peeps at a yellow-covered book. 
 At that moment the lynx-eyed lady superintendent en- 
 tered, caught her in the act, and proceeded to rate her 
 soundly. I hate scenes of any kind, and this particu- 
 larly pained me, for I saw that the all-too-tempting 
 vohmie was a cheap edition of The Haunted Taxi- 
 cab. 
 
 Then that moving picture imagination of mine began 
 to flicker. The girl had gone from the room with tears 
 in her eyes. Surely, thought I, she has been dismissed. 
 A blur came between me and my plate and the film un- 
 reeled. . . . 
 
 Ah ! I see her trying to get other employment, failing 
 again and again, sinking deeper into the mire of misery 
 and despair. Then at last the time comes when the 
 brave, proud heart is broken; the proud, sweet eyes 
 flinch at another day of bitterness and failure. They 
 recognise, they accent the end. 
 
 It is a freezing night of mid-winter, and I am walk- 
 ing down Broadway. Suddenly I am accosted by a 
 girl with a hard, painted face, a girl who smiles the 
 forced smile of fallen womanhood. 
 
 "Silvia!" I gasp. 
 
 She shrinks from me. " You ! " she cries. *' The 
 author of my ruin; you, whose book : was dismissed 
 for reading, unable to resist peering into the pages 
 
 
84 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 invested with such fatally fascinating 
 
 you had 
 charm. . . 
 
 As the scene came up before me tears filled my eyes, 
 and fearful that they might drop on my kidney and 
 bacon I averted my head. At the same moment the 
 waitress came back with a saucy giggle and resumed 
 her post. I was somewhat dashed, nevertheless I de- 
 cided it would do for a short story, and taking out my 
 idea book I noted it down. 
 
 Now," I said, " let's see the morning paper. . . . 
 How lucky! The Garguantuan sails to-morrow. I'll 
 just catch her. Splendid ! " 
 
 That histrionic temperament of mine began to thrill. 
 Had not my whole life been dominated by my dramatic 
 conception of myself? Student, actor, cowboy, I had 
 played half a dozen parts, and into each I had put my 
 whole heart. Here, then, was a new one: let me re- 
 alise it quickly. So taken was I with the idea that I, 
 who had never in my life known what it was to want 
 a hundred dollars, retired to the reading-room, and, 
 inspired by the kidney and bacon, took out a little gold 
 pencil, and with it dinted in my idea book the following 
 sonnet : 
 
 TO LITEHATIRE 
 
 " I, a poor, passion-goaded garreteer, 
 A pensive enervate of l»ook and pen, 
 Who, in the bannered triumph-march of men 
 Lag like a sorry starveling in the rear — 
 Shall I not curse thee, mistress mine? I peer 
 I'p from life's saturnalia, and then 
 Shrink hack a-shudder to my garret den, 
 Seeing no prospect of a glass of beer. 
 
GRILLED KIDNEY AND BACON «5 
 
 "What hnre I suffered. Siren, for thy sake! 
 What scorn endured, what happiness foregone! 
 What weariness and woe ! What cruel ache 
 Of failure 'mid a thousand vigils wan! 
 Yet do I shrine thee as each day I wake. 
 Wishing I had another shirt to pawn." 
 
 I smoked two large cigars over my sonnet before I 
 finally got it straight. This in spite of the fact that 
 I had a hundred and one other things to do. If the 
 house had been burning I believe the firemen would have 
 dragged me out muttering and puzzling over my son- 
 net. My rhymes bucked on me; and, though I had 
 rounded up a likely bunch of words, I just couldn't get 
 them into the corral. Finally, with more of perspira- 
 tion than inspiration, the thing was done. 
 
 "Hullo, Madden!" said some one as I wrote the 
 last line, and looking up I saw young Hadslev, a breezy 
 cotilhon leader, who had recently been admitted into 
 his father's law firm. 
 
 " Rotien nuisance, this early snow," went on Hads- 
 ley. " Mucks things up so. 'Fraid it'll spoil the game 
 on Saturday." 
 
 " I hope not," I replied fervently. The game was 
 the Yale-Princeton football match, and I was terribly 
 eager to see my old college win. 
 
 " By the way," suggested Hadslev, " if you care to 
 go I'll run you down on my car." 
 
 " Of course, I'd like it," I exclaimed enthusiastically. 
 " I'll be simply delighted." Then like a flash I remein- 
 bered. 
 
 "Oh, no! After all, I'm sorry, I can't. I expect 
 to be in mid-ocean by Saturday." 
 
26 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 "Ah, indeed! That sounds interesting. Going to 
 Europe! Wish I was. When do you start?" 
 
 " To-morrow on the Garguantuan." 
 
 "You don't say! Why, the Chumley Graces are 
 going on her. Of course, you remember the three girls 
 — awfully jolly, play golf divinely, used to be called 
 the Three Graces? They're so peeved they're missing 
 the game, but the old man won't stay for it. They're 
 taking their car and going to tour Europe. How nice 
 for you! You'll have no end of a good time going 
 over." 
 
 Malediction! Could I never out-pace prosperity? 
 Could I never throw off the yoke of fortune? 
 
 " Oh, well, it's not settled yet," I went on quickly. 
 " I may not be able to make it for to-morrow. I tnav 
 have to take a later boat. So don't say anything 
 about it, there's a good fellow." 
 
 " Oh, all right. The surprise will be all the jollier 
 wlien they see you. Well, good-bye, old man, and good 
 luck. You'll get the news of the game by wireless. 
 Gee! I wish I was in your shoes." 
 
 Hadsley was off, leaving me gnawing at an imaginary 
 moustache. " The Chumley Graces going on the Gar- 
 guantuan. That means I can never go steei..gc, and 
 I have set my heart on going steerage. Let's see the 
 paper again. Hurrah! There's an Italian steamer 
 sailing to-morrow morning. Well, that'll do." 
 
 I was now in a whirlwind of energy, packing and 
 making final arrangements. At the steamship office, 
 when I asked for a ticket, the clerk beamed on me. 
 
 " Yes, sir, we can give you a nice suite on the main 
 deck, the best we have on the boat. Lucky it's not 
 taken." 
 
GHILLED KIDNEY AND BACON 
 
 27 
 
 My moral courage almost failed me. " No, no ! " I 
 said hastily. "It's not for me. It's for one of my 
 servants whose way I'm paying back to Italy. Give 
 me a steerage ticket." 
 
 "Coward! Coward!" hissed Conscience in my ear. 
 "You're making a bad beginning." 
 
 Just before lunch I remembered my business with 
 Quince, and, jumping into a taxi, whisked down lo the 
 Hank. The manager received me effusively. The note 
 was prepared — only wanted a satisfactory endorser. 
 I scratched my name on the back of it, then, speaking 
 into the telephone on the manager's desk, I got Quince 
 on the line. 
 
 " Hullo ! This is Madden speaking. I say. Quince, 
 I have fixed up that note for you." 
 
 (A confused murmur that might be construed as 
 thanks. ) 
 
 " And about that article, never mind. I find I won't 
 need it." 
 
 (Another confused murmur that might be construed 
 as relief.) 
 
 " No, I've come to the conclusion you're right. The 
 book's not the right stuff. If you praised it you'd 
 probably have a hard time getting t4uare with your 
 conscience. So we'll let it go at that. Good-bye." 
 
 Then I slammed the receiver on the hook, feeling that 
 I had gained more than I had lost. 
 
 By three o'clock everything had been done that could 
 be done. I was on the point of giving a sigh of relief, 
 when all at once I remembered two farewell calls I 
 really ought to make. 
 
 " I'd almost forgotten them," I said. " I must say 
 good-bye to Mrs. Fitz and Miss Tevandale." 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 AN' UN'IXTEXTIOXAL PHILANDERER 
 
 To believe a woman who tells you her age is twenty- 
 nine is to show a naive confidence in her veracit}-. 
 Twenty-nine is an almost impossible age. \o woman 
 is twenty-nine for more than one year, yet by a process 
 of elasticity it is often made to extend over half a dozen. 
 True, the following years are insolent, unworthy of 
 acknowledgment, best punished by being haughtily ig- 
 nored. For to rest on twenty-nine as long as she dare 
 is every woman's right. 
 
 Mrs. Fitzbarrington had been twenty-nine for four 
 or five years, but if she had said thirty-nine, no one 
 would have expressed particular surprise. However, 
 there were reasons. Captain Fitzbarrington, who was 
 in receipt of a monthly allowance, had been engaged for 
 some years in a book entitled Th^ Beers of America, 
 the experimental investigations for which absorbed the 
 greater part of his income. Mrs. Fitz, then, had a 
 hard time of it, and it was wonderful how she managed 
 to dress so well and keep on smiling. 
 
 She received me in the rather faded drawing-room 
 of the house in Harlem. She herself was rather faded, 
 with pale, sentimental eyes, and a complex complexion. 
 How pathetic is the woman of thirty, who, feeling youth 
 with all that it means slipping away from her, makes 
 a last frantic fight to retain it! Mrs. Fitz, on this oc- 
 casion, was just a little more faded, a little more rc- 
 
 98 
 
AN UNINTENTIONAL PHILANDERER 29 
 
 
 stored, a little more thirty-ninish than usual; and she 
 welcomed me with a little more than her usual warmth. 
 
 " I'm so glad to see you," she said, giving me both 
 hands. " You know, I was just thinking of you." 
 
 This clearly called for a gallant reply, so I answered, 
 " Ah ! that must be telepathy, for you know I'm always 
 thinking of you." 
 
 Yet I could have bitten my tongue as soon as I heard 
 the last phrase slip from my mouth. There was a sud- 
 den catch in her breath; a soft light beaconed in her 
 eyes. Confound the thing ! why do the women we don't 
 want to always take us seriously, and those we are seri- 
 ous with always persist in regarding us as a joke.'' I 
 hastened to change the subject. 
 
 " Ah, how are the kiddies? " 
 
 The kiddies were Ronnie and Lonnie, two twin boys, 
 v ry sticky and strenuous, whom in my heart I de- 
 tested. 
 
 " The darlings ! They're always so well. Heaven 
 knows what I should do without them." 
 
 « And he? " 
 
 "Oh, he! I haven't seen him for three days, not 
 since the remittance arrived, and then you can guess 
 the state he was in." 
 
 "My poor friend! I'm so sorry." (How I hated 
 my voice for vibrating as I said this, but for the life of 
 me I could not help it. At such a moment tricks I had 
 learnt in my short stage career came to me almost un- 
 consciously.) 
 
 " Oh, don't pity me," she said ; " you know a 
 woman hates any one who pities her." 
 
 "Then I mustn't make you hate me." (Again that 
 infernal fighting-with-repressed feeling note.) "Well, 
 
30 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 jou know you have my deepest sympathy," I added 
 hastily. 
 
 Slio certainly had. My Irish heart melts at a tale 
 of woe, or is roused to fiery wrath at the recital of a 
 wrong. I feel far more keenly than the person con- 
 cerned. Yet, alas! the moment after I am ready to 
 laugh heartily with the next one. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I know it," she spoke quickly. « It 
 almost makes it worth while to suffer for that. You 
 know how much it means to me, how much it helps, 
 don't you ? " 
 
 There was an awkward pause. She was waiting for 
 me to take my cue, and I was staring at a mental sign- 
 board, " Dangerous Ground." I tried to sav, " Well, 
 I'm glad," in a friendly way, but, to my infinite dis- 
 gust, my voice broke. She caught the note, as of sup- 
 pressed emotion. With wide eyes she looked at me as 
 if she would read my soul; her flat bosom heaved, 
 then suddenly she leaned forward and her voice was 
 tense. 
 
 " Horace," she breathed, " do you love me? " 
 Now, when a female asks an unprotected male if he 
 loves her there can be only two answers : Yes or No. 
 If No, a scene follows in which he feels like a brute.' 
 If Yes, he saves her feelings and gives Time a chancJ 
 to straighten things out. The situation is embarrass- 
 ing and calls for delicate handling. I am sadly lacking 
 in moral courage, and kindness of heart has always 
 been my weakness. To say " No '» would be to deal a 
 deathblow to this woman's hope, to leave her crushed 
 and broken, to drive her to despair, perhaps even to 
 suicide. Besides — it would be awfully impolite. 
 " Perhaps I'd better humour her," I thought. So I 
 
AX UNINTENTIONAL PHILANDERER 31 
 
 too leaned forward, and in the same husky voice I 
 answered, " Stella, how can you ask? " 
 
 " Cor. ." she corrected gently. J was rather taken 
 almck. iet I am not the first man who has called the 
 lady of the moment by the name of her predecessor. It 
 IS one of life's embarrassing situations. However, I 
 went on: 
 
 '* Cora, how could you guess ? " 
 
 "How does a woman know these things?" she an- 
 swered passionately. « Could I not read it in your 
 eyes alone? " 
 
 Ah! my eyes — yes, my eyes 
 
 Inwardly I 
 
 added, "Damn my eyes!" Then, after a pause in 
 which I was conscious of her wide, bright, expectant 
 regard I repeated lamely, " Ye-es, my eyes." 
 
 But she was evidently waiting for liie to rise to the 
 occasion. She leaned still further forward; then sud 
 dcnly she laid her hands on mine. 
 
 " You mustn't kiss me," she said. 
 
 " Oh, no, I mustn't," I agreed hastily. I hadn't the 
 slightest intention of doing it. 
 
 " No, no, that would ruin us. We must control our- 
 selves. If Charley were to discover our secret he would 
 kill me. Oh. I've known for long, so long that you 
 loved me; but you were too fine, too honourable to show 
 It. Now, what are we going to do? The situation is 
 full of danger." 
 
 " Do ! " I said glum'y, « I don't know. It's beastly 
 awkward." Then with an effort I cheered up. I tried 
 to look at her with sad, stern eyes. I let my voice go 
 down an octave. 
 
 " There's only one thing to do, Nora — I mean, Cora, 
 only one thing : I — must — go -- away." 
 
32 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 " No, no, not that," she cried. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I must ; I must put the world between us. 
 We must never meet again." 
 
 I could feel fresh courage in my heart, also ..e steer- 
 age ticket in rny pocket. In a near-by mirror I had a 
 glimpse of my face, and was pleased to see how it was 
 stern and set. I was pleased to see also that shs: was 
 looking at me as if I were a hero. 
 
 "Brave! Noble!" she whispered. "I knew it. 
 Oh, I understand so well! It's for me you're doing 
 this. How proud I am of you ! " 
 
 Then, with my returning sense of safety, the dramatic 
 instinct begun to seethe in me. Apparently I had got 
 out of the difficulty easily enough. Now to end things 
 gracefully. 
 
 "Oh, what an irony life is!" I breathed. «* How 
 happy we could have been, just we two in some garden 
 of roses. Oh, if we were only free, free to fly to the 
 ends of the earth together, to the heart of the desert, 
 to the shadow of the pole — only together ! Why did 
 we meet like this, too late, too late? " 
 
 "Is it too late?" she panted, catching fire at my 
 words. "Why should we let life cheat us of our joy? 
 Take me away, darling, to some far, far land where no 
 one will know us, where we can live, love, di*eam. What 
 does it matter? There will be a ten days' scandal; he 
 will get a divorce ; all will soon be forgotten. Oh, take 
 me away, sweetheart ; take me away ! " 
 
 By this time I was quite under the spell of my his- 
 trionic imagination. Here was a dramatic situation, 
 and, though the heavens fall, I must work it out artis- 
 tically. I threw caution to the winds and my arms 
 around the lady. 
 
AX UNINTENTIONAL PHILANDERER 33 
 
 : 
 
 " Yes," I cried. " Come with me. Come now, let us 
 fly together. I want you; I need you; I cannot live 
 without you. Make me the happiest man in the world. 
 Let me live for you, just to adore you, to make your 
 life one long, sweet dream of bliss." 
 
 These were phrases from one of my novels, and they 
 slipped out almost unconsciously. Again in that con- 
 venient mirror I saw myself with parted lips and eyes 
 agleam. " How well I'm doing this ! " the artist in 
 me applauded. " Ass ! Ass ! " hissed the critical 
 overself. My attitude was a picture of passionate sup- 
 plication, yet my whole heart was a prayer to the 
 guardian that watches over fools. 
 
 " Oh, don't tempt me," she cried ; " it's terrible. Yes, 
 yes, I'll go now. Let's lose no time in case I 
 weaken ... at once. . . . I'll just get my hat and 
 cloak. Wait a moment — " 
 
 She was gone. Horror of horrors! What had I 
 done? Here I was eloping with a woman for whom 
 I did not care two pins. What mad folly had got into 
 me? As I stared blankly at the door through which 
 she had passed it seemed to be suddenly invested with 
 all the properties of tragedy. Soon she would emerge 
 from it clad for the flight, and — I must accompany 
 her. Could I not escape? The window? But no, it 
 was six stories high. By heaven, I must go through 
 with it ! Let my hfe be ruined, I must play the game. 
 As I sat there, waiting for her ♦o reappear, never in 
 the history of eloping humanity was there man more 
 miserable. 
 
 Then at last she came — Oh, merciful gods, without 
 her hat ! 
 
 " How can I tell you," she moaned. " My courage 
 
34 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 failed me. I couldn't bear to leave my children There 
 were their little photographs staring at me so reproach- 
 fully from the dressing-table. For their sakes I must 
 stay and bear with him. After all, he is their father." 
 
 " Is he." I mean, of course he is." How mv brain 
 was reehng with joy ! At that moment I loved the ter- 
 rible twins with a great and lasting love. 
 
 "Forgive you, Flora," I said nobly. "There is 
 nothing to forgive. I can only love >ou the more. 
 \ ou are right. Never must they think oi their mother 
 with the blush of shame. No, for their dear sakes we 
 must each do our duty, though our hearts mnv break. 
 I will go away, never to return. Vet, my de'arest, 1 
 will always think of you as the noblest woman in the 
 world." 
 
 " And I you too, dearest. You shall be my hero, 
 and I shall adore you to the last day of my life Now 
 go, go quickly lest I weaken; and don't" (here she 
 leaned closely to me), "don't kiss me — not even 
 once. . . ." 
 
 " No I won't. It's hard, hard - but I won't. And 
 listen, darling - if ever anything should happen to him. 
 If at any time we should both find ourselves free, prom- 
 ise, promise me you'll write to me. Vll coine to yon 
 though the xchole world lies between us. By mv life 
 by my honour I swear it." 
 
 "I promise," she said fervently. She looked as if 
 she was going to weaken again, and I thought I had 
 better get away quickly. A phrase from one of my 
 novels came into my mind: "Here the brave voice 
 broke." 
 
 " Good-bye." I cried. " Good-bye for ever. I shall 
 never blame you, darling. Perhaps in another land 
 
AN rMNTENTIOXAL PHILANDERER 35 
 
 I'll find my happiness again. Then some day, when 
 we both are bent and grey, and sentiment lies buried 
 under the frosts of time, we'll meet again, and, clasping 
 liiiiids, confess that all was for the best. And now, 
 God bless you, Dora ... for the last, last time, good- 
 bye." 
 
 Here "the brave voice broke" beautifully; then 
 slowly and with drooping head I made my exit from tho 
 room. On D in the street I drew a deep breath. 
 
 " To be over-sympathetic is to be misunderstood," 
 I sighed. "Well, I've given her a precious memory. 
 Poor Mrs. Fitz ! " 
 
 And, come to think of it, I had never kissed her, not 
 even once. 
 
 ***♦«♦♦ 
 
 Fifteen minutes later I had reached Riverside Drive, 
 and was being shown into the luxurious apartment of 
 Miss Boadicia Tevandale. 
 
 She was an orphan and an heiress, only child of 
 Tevandale the big corporation lawyer, himself an au- 
 thor, whose Tevandale on Torts had almost as big a 
 circulation as my Haunted Taxicab. Socially she 
 moved in a more exalted sphere than I, but we had met 
 at some of the less exclusive functions, and she had 
 majestically annexed me. 
 
 Though her dearest enemy could not have called her 
 " fat," there was just a suggestion of a suggestion that 
 at sometime in the future she might possibly develop 
 what might be described as an adipose approximation. 
 At present she was merely " big." 
 
 I rather resent bigness in a woman. A female's first 
 duty is to be feminine — to be small, dainty, helpless. 
 I genuinely dislike holding a hand if it is larger than 
 
36 
 
 THK PRKTENDER 
 
 my own, and I can understand the feelings of Wain- 
 wr^ht who poisoned his sister-in-law because her thick 
 ankles annoyed him. However, Boadicia had really 
 been yery n,ce to me. It would have been terribly rude 
 on my part to have ignored her overtures of friend- 
 Tl >'°"^;^f "*'3^ «^ J'«d been seen much together, 
 and had drifted mto what the world regarded as a senti- 
 mental attachment. With my faculty, then, for en- 
 enng mto such situations, I was sometimes convinced 
 that my feehngs for her were those of real warmth. 
 Indeed, once or twice, in moments of great enthusiasm, 
 I almost suspected myself of being mildly in love with 
 her. 
 
 She received me radiantly, and she, too, gave me both 
 hands On the third finger of the left one I noted the 
 sparkle of a new diamond. 
 
 " Hello, stranger," she said, gaily. "Just in time 
 for tea. It seems ages since I've seen you. Why 
 haven t you been near me for a wliole fortnight? » " 
 
 I was going to make the usual excuses, when sud- 
 denly that devil of sentiment entered into me. So try- 
 mg to give my face a pinched look, I answered in a hol- 
 low voice: 
 
 "Can you ask that?" 
 
 She looked at me in surprise. « V^^ly, Horace, 
 what's the matter? " 
 
 !! ^l ^°'i '^°"'^"' ^'°" ''°"'*=" • " ^ g'-oaned bitterly. 
 What do you mean?" she demanded, with some 
 amazement. 
 
 " What do I mean? Are jou blind? Have you no 
 eyes as well as no heart? Can you not see how I have 
 loved you this long, long while; loved you with a pas- 
 sion no tongue can tell? And now — »» 
 
A\ rXINTEXTIOXAL PHILANDERER HI 
 
 I pointed dramatically to the new ring. 
 
 '* Oh, that! Why, you don't mean to sav — " 
 
 " I njoan to say that after I read of vour engage- 
 ment m this morning's Toum Tattle I went straight off 
 urn! took a passage for Europe. I leave to-morrow. 
 Pve just come to say good-bye." 
 
 " Oh, I'm sorry, so sorry you feel that wav about it. 
 I never dreamed — " 
 
 " Xo, I have uttered no word, given no sign. How 
 could I, knowing the difference in our social positions.? 
 Break, break my heart, but I must hold mv tongue, 
 ho It seems I have kept my secret better even than I 
 knew. But it does not matter now. I have no word 
 of reproach. To-morrow I go, never to return. I pray 
 you .nay be happy, very happy. And so, good'- 
 oye. ..." 
 
 " Wait a moment ! Good gracious ! " 
 
 She laid a detaining hand on my arm, but I shook it 
 off quite roughly, and strode to the window. My face 
 was stern and set; my shoulders heaved with emotion. 
 I had seen the leading man in our Cruel Chicago Com- 
 pany (m which I doubled the parts of the waiter 
 and the policeman) use the same gesture with great 
 effect. 
 
 "Why did I ever meet you.?" I said harshly to a 
 passmg taxicab. 
 
 And strange as it may seem, at that moment I had 
 really worked myself into the spirit of the scene. I 
 actually felt a blighted being, the victim of a woman's 
 wiles. Then she was there at my side, pale, agitated. 
 
 " I m so grieved. WTiy didn't you speak? If I'd 
 only known you cared. But then, you know, nobody 
 takes you seriously. Perhaps, though, it's not too late. 
 
38 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 If }'ou really, really care so much I'll try to break off 
 my iiigagcment with Bunny." 
 
 (Runny was Mr. Jarraway Tope, an elderly Pitts- 
 burg manufacturer of suspenders — Tope's " Never- 
 tear Ever-wear Suspenders.") 
 
 "No, no, it's too late now," I interrupted eagerly. 
 "Things could never be the same. Besides, he loves 
 you. He's a good old fellow. He will make you happv, 
 far happier tlian I could. He is rich; I am poor, it 
 is better so." 
 
 " Riches are not everything," she pouted miserably. 
 
 "No, but they're the best imitation of it I know. 
 Oh, you hothouse flowers! You creatures of lace nnd 
 luxury ! You don't know what it is to be poor, to live 
 from hand to mouth. How could you be happy in a 
 cottage — I mean a Brooklyn flat? No, no, Boadicia, 
 we must not let sentiment blind us. Never will I drag 
 you down." 
 
 " But there's no question of poverty. You make 
 lots of money.'' " 
 
 " A mere pittance," I cried bitterly. « It's my pub- 
 lishers who make the money. I'm no man of business. 
 On a few beggarly royalties how can I hold up my end? 
 No, I must put the world between us. Oh, it will be all 
 right. Some day when we are both old and grey, and 
 sentitnent lies buried under the frost of time, we will 
 perhaps meet again, and, clasping hands, confess that 
 all was for the best." 
 
 " Oh, I hate to let you go away like that. If you 
 have no money, I have." 
 
 " As if I could ever touch a penny of yours," I in- 
 terrupted her sternly. 
 
AN UNINTENTIONAL PHILANDERER 39 
 
 " Hornce," she pleaded, " you cut me to tlie lieart. 
 Don't go." 
 
 " Yes, yes. Believe me it's best. Why prolong this 
 painful scene? I'll pray for your happiness, for both 
 of your happinesses, yours and Bunny's. Perhaps my 
 lie.irt's not so badly broken after all." (I smiled a 
 brave, twisted smile.) " For the last time, good-bye, 
 good-bye." 
 
 With that I rushed blindly from the room. When 
 I reached the street, I wiped away a few beads of 
 perspiration. 
 
 " Oh, you everlasting, sentimental humbug! " I cried. 
 " One of these days you'll get nicely nailed to the cross 
 of your folly. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 A SKASICK SFA'TIMEXTALIST 
 
 If ever I sliould come to write my autobio^'rapliy (as 
 I fondly hope in the fulness of time my recognition as 
 the American Dumas will justify me in doing) it will 
 fall easily into chapters. For, so far, my life has con- 
 sisted of distinct periods, each inspired by a dramatic 
 conception of myself. Let me then try to forecast its 
 probable divisions. 
 
 Chapter /.—Boyhood. Violently imaginative period. 
 —Devouring ambition to become pirate chief.— Organ- 
 ised the "Band of Blood."— Antipathy to study.— 
 Favourite literature: Jack Harkawav. 
 
 Chapter //.—Youth. Violently 'athletic period.— 
 Devouring ambition to become great first baseman.— 
 Organised the Angoras. Continued antipathy to study. 
 — Favourite literature: The sporting rags. 
 
 Chapter ///.— Cubhood. \'iolently red blood period. 
 —Devouring ambition to become champion broncho 
 buster.— Went to Wyoming, and became the most cow- 
 boyish cowboy in seven counties.— Favourite literature: 
 The yellow rags. 
 
 Chapter /»'.— Undergraduate days. Violently intel- 
 lectual period.— Devouring ambition to become fiterary 
 mandarin.— Gave up games and became a bookworm.— 
 Commenced to write, but disdained anything less than 
 an epic— Favourite literature: The French decadents. 
 
 Chapter T.— Adolescence. Violently histrionic pe- 
 
 40 '^ 
 
A SFASK K SFATIMF.NTAI.IST 
 
 41 
 
 ricxl. — Devouring anihition to beconn' a s«oonil Miins- 
 fithK— .foinod tlu- Cruel ChUmjo Conipaiiy as general 
 utility.— Chief literature: The theatr: .Irags. 
 
 Chapttr VI. — Manhood. At age of twenty-one 
 wrote The Haunted Taxicab, and scored iinmedi.ite suc- 
 cess.— Devouring ambition to write the Great American 
 Novel. — Published nine more books in next five years, 
 ami managed to hold my own. 
 
 There you are — down to the time of which the pres- 
 ent record tells. And now, in accordance with the plot, 
 let me continue. 
 
 On a certain muggy morning of late .\oveml)er. a 
 young man of conspicuously furtive bearing might have 
 l)een seen climbing aboard the steamer bound for Naples. 
 He wore the brim of his /elour hat turned down, with 
 the air of one who entirely wishes to avoid observation. 
 
 Over one arm hung a mackintosh, and at the end of 
 the other dangled an alligator-skin suitcase. An in- 
 ventory of its contents would have resulted as follows: 
 A silk-lined, blue serge suit ; three silk neglige shirts ; 
 three suits silk pyjamas; three suits silk underwear; 
 three pairs silk socks ; several silk ties, and sundry toilet 
 articles. 
 
 If, in the above list, an insistence on the princely 
 fabric is to be remarked, I must confess that I shrink 
 from the contact of baser material. It was then with 
 some dismay that I descended into the bowels of the 
 ship, and was piloted to my berth by a squinting stew- 
 ard in shirt-sleeves. I gazed with distaste at the thread- 
 bare cotton blanket that was to replace the cambric 
 sheets of the mighty. Then I looked at the oblique- 
 eyed one, and observed that nonchaLmtly over his arm 
 
42 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 was huii^r another blanket of more sympathetic texture, 
 and tluit his pahn protruded in a mercenary curve. 
 So into that venial hollow I dropped half a dollar, and 
 took the extra blanket. Then throwing my suitcase on 
 the berth, I went on deck. 
 
 Shades of Ca-sar! Garibaldi! C'arusa! What had I 
 "gone up against"? One and all my fellow passen- 
 gers seemed to be of the race of garlic eaters. Not a 
 stodgy Saxon face among them. Verily I was ma- 
 rooned in a sea of dagos. Here wc were, caged like 
 cattle; above us, a tier of curious faces, the superior 
 second class; still higher, looking down with disdain, 
 the fastidious firsts. And here, herded with these de- 
 generate Latins, under these derisive eyes, must I re- 
 main many days. What a wretched prospect! What 
 rotten luck! And all the fault of these gad-about 
 Chumley Graces, confound them ! 
 
 But I did not lament for long. If ever there is an 
 opening for the sentimentalist it is on leaving for the 
 first time his native land. Could it be expected, then, 
 that I, a professional purveyor of sentiment, would be 
 silent.'' Nay! as I watched the Statue of Liberty di- 
 minish to an interrogation mark, I delivered myself 
 somewhat as follows: 
 
 " Grey sea, prey sky, and grey, so grey 
 The ragged roof-line of my home; 
 Yet greyer far my mood than they. 
 As liere nmid this spawn of Rome 
 With tenderness undreamt before 
 I sigh: 'Adieu, my native shore!' 
 
 "To thee my wistful eyes I strain; 
 To thee, brave burg, I wave my hand; 
 (lOrtd-hyp, oh giddy Tungsten I.anc ! 
 
A SEASICK SENTIMFATALIST 43 
 
 (i(X)d-byc, oh great Skyscraper Land! 
 Good-bye, Fifth Avenue so splendid . . . . ! ! " 
 
 And here my doggerel I ended. . . . Horrors on hor- 
 rors! Could I believe my eyes? There, looking down 
 from the promenade deck, in long ulsters and jaunty 
 velour hats, were the three Misses Chuniley Grace. 
 They were laughing happily, and looking right at me. 
 Could anything, I wonder, have equalled the rapidity of 
 my retreat." As rabbit dives into its burrow, as otter 
 into its pool, so dived I, down, down to the dark hole 
 tliey called my cabin, where I collapsed disgustedly on 
 my bunk. 
 
 And there for five days I remained. 
 
 It may be assumed (so much are we the creatures of 
 an artificial environment) ♦hat it is only in the more 
 acute phases of life we realise our truer selves. As a 
 woman in the dental chair, as a fat man coaxing a bed 
 down a narrow stairway, as both sexes in the clutches 
 of mal-de-mer, are for the moment stripped of all pal- 
 tering pretence, so in the days that followed I had many 
 illuminating glimpses of my inner nature. Never was a 
 man more rent, racked, ravaged by the torments of sea- 
 sickness. But lit me read you an extract from my 
 diary : 
 
 " Eight hnndred Italians on bonrd, and we are packed 
 like sardines in a keg. Our wedge-shaped cabin is in- 
 nocent of ventilation. The bunks are three tiers high and 
 three abreast; so that, as I have an outer one, a bulky 
 Dago ascends and descends me a hundred times a day. 
 Also I am on the lower row, and as both the men above 
 me are violently sick, my situation may be imagined. Tlie 
 sourly stinking floors are swilled out every rooming. .My 
 
44 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 only comfort is that I am too calloused with misery to care 
 about anything, 
 
 "It's the awful, brutal sinking that fixes me; as if I 
 were suddenly being let down the elevator shaft of th." 
 Singer Building at full speed, ten thousand times a day, 
 tJitn as suddenly yanked up again. By the dim light I ca'n 
 see hundreds of cockroaches crawling everywhere around 
 me, elongated, coffee-coloured cockroaches, big ones, mid- 
 dle-sized ones, tiny baby ones. They wander to and fro, 
 fearless and apparently aimless. But perhaps I am wrong 
 about this. Perhajjs they are moved by a purpose; per- 
 haps they are even in tlie midst of a celebration — follow- 
 ing the mazes of a cockroach cotillion. As I lie watching 
 them I speculate on this. What they live on may be 
 guessed at. And as if to mock me on my bed of woe nil 
 the rollicking, frolicking sea-songs I have ever heard keep 
 up a devilish concert in my head, singing the praises of this 
 fiendish and insatiable sea." 
 
 For nine-tenths of his time the artist lives the lives 
 of other men more vividly than his own ; for the other 
 tenth, his own ten tinies more vividly than other men. 
 Of such transcendent tenths creation comes. It was 
 then from the very poignancy of njy sufferings that I 
 began to evolve a paper on the pangs of mal-de-mer. 
 It was to be the final expression of the psychology of 
 sea-sickness. Even as I lay squirming in that sour, 
 viscid gloom I rejoiced in the rapture of creation. It 
 seemed, I thought, the best thing I had ever done. 
 Though I had not put pen to paper, there it was, clearly 
 written in my brain, every word sure of its election, 
 every sentence ringing true. I longed to sec it staring 
 me from the printed page. 
 
 And on the morning of the sixth day I arose and 
 regarded my shaving nurror. My face had peaked and 
 
A SEASICK SENTIMENTALIST 45 
 
 paled, and was covered with fluffy hair, so that I looked 
 like a pre-Raphaelite Christ. Indeed, so jpsthetic was 
 iny appearance I had to restrain myself from speaking 
 in blank verse. 
 
 How glorious was the clear, sweet air again ! [ With 
 every breath of it I felt new life. | The sea was very 
 nmiable now, | and playing children paved the sunlit 
 deck. I A score of babies punctuated the picturesque 
 confusion. On the decks above the plebeian seconds 
 and th" patrician firsts presented two tiers of amused 
 faces. They were like curious spectators looking down 
 into a bear pit. 
 
 Then suddenly did I realise my severance from my 
 class, and, strange to say, it aroused in me a kind of 
 defiant rage. For the first time democracy inspired 
 mc. For five days I had starved and suffered — or 
 was it five years? Anyway, the life of luxury and 
 ease seemed far away. Goaded by the gay shouts of 
 the shuffle-boarder on the upper deck, I felt to the full 
 the resentment of the under-dog, yea, ready to raise 
 the red flag of revolt behind blood-boltered barricades 
 of hate. 
 
 But all at once I became conscious of another sensa- 
 tion equally exorbitant. It was the first pang of a 
 hungt;r such as never in my life had I endured. In 
 imagination I saw myself at Sherry's, conning the bill 
 of fare. With what an undreamt-of gusto I made a 
 selection! How I revelled in a dazzling vision of 
 delicate dishes served with sympathy! It was a 
 gourmet's dream, the exquisite conception of a modern 
 LucuKus. I almost drooled as I dictated it to a 
 reverent head-waiter. Yea, I was half hunger-mad. 
 WTien, oh when, would lunch-time come? 
 
(6 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 It came. It was the first meal I had seen served 
 in the steerage, and it was served in buckets. You 
 dipped into one, spiked a slab of beef floating in greasy 
 swill, shovelled a wad of macaroni from a tin wash- 
 basin to your tin plate, grabbed a chunk of stale bread 
 from a clothes basket: there you were, set up for an- 
 other five hours. 
 
 Too ravenous to demur, I seized my tin plate and 
 rushed the ration-slingers. The messy meat I could not 
 stomach, but I pried loose a little mountain of macaroni. 
 I was busy wolfing it when on looking up I saw the 
 youngest IVIiss Chumley Grace regarding me curiously. 
 With many others she had come to see the animals 
 fed. 
 
 " It's dollars to doughnuts," I thought, " she'll never 
 know me in this beard. But all the same I'll keep my 
 face concealid." 
 
 I had finished feeding, and was washing my plate 
 at a running tap, when all at once I dropped it as if it 
 had been red-hot. Brushing every one asid^ I made 
 a leap for my cabin, and reached it, I will swear, in 
 record time. Frantically I felt under the pillow nf my 
 bunk. Too late! Too late! The wallet in which I 
 kept my money was gone. 
 
 "Alas!" I sighed. "My faith in Roman honesty 
 has received a nasty knock." 
 
 I did not report my loss. I was afraid the inevit- 
 able fuss would betray me to the Chumley Graces. I 
 seemed to spend my whole time dodging them now. 
 Once or t'-ice I found the spectacled gaze of poppa 
 fixed upon me. Many times I sneaked away under the 
 scrutiny of the girls. All this added to my other 
 
A SEASICK SENTIMENTALIST 
 
 47 
 
 miseries, which in themselves might have served Dante 
 for another canto of his Inferno. 
 
 But at last it was over. There was the blue bay of 
 Naples. Now we were manoeuvring into the seething 
 harbour. Now we wt-re keeping off with streams of 
 water boatmen who retaliated by hurling billets of 
 wood. Now we were throwing dimes to the diving 
 boys. Now there ran through the ship the thrill of 
 first contact with the dock. Hurrah ! In a few more 
 moments I should be free, free to follow the Trail of 
 Beautiful Adventure. True, I was broke; but what 
 a fine, clean feeling that was ! 
 
 Clutching my alligator-skin suitcase I reconnoitered, 
 with conspiratorial wariness. Cautiously i crept out. 
 Soft!;. I sneaked over to the nearest gangway. My 
 foot was on it; in another moment I would have made 
 my escape. I could have laughed with joy when — 
 a little hand was laid on my arm, and turning quickly 
 I found myself face to face with the youngest Miss 
 ("humley Grace. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Madden," she chirped, " we knew you all 
 along, but it's been such fun watching you. Do tell 
 me, now, aren't you just doing it for a bet? " 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 AN INVOLUNTARY FIANCE 
 
 Alas and alas ! I am engaged — an engagement 
 according to Hoyle, sanctioned by poppa and sealed 
 with a solitaire — irrevocably, overwhelmingly, engaged. 
 
 Who would have dreamed it? But in the groat 
 round-up of matrimony, isn't 't always the unexpected 
 that happens? I was run down, roped, thrown, before 
 I knew what was happening to me. And the brand on 
 me is " Guinivere Chumley Grace." 
 
 She is the youngest, the open-airiest, the most super- 
 strenuous of the sporting sisters. She slays foxes, 
 slaughters pheasants, has even made an air-flight. I 
 have no doubt she despises poor, ordinary women who 
 cook steaks, darn socks and take an intelligent interest 
 in babies. 
 
 And this is the girl I am going to marry, I who hate 
 horse-flesh, would not slay a blue-bottle promenading 
 on my nose, admire the domestic virtues, and hope that 
 a woman will never cease to scream at the sight of a 
 mouse. Can it be wondered at that I am in the depths 
 of despair? 
 
 And it is all the fault of Italy? 
 
 Naples sprang at me, and, as we say, " put it all 
 over me." Such welters of colourful life ! Such visions 
 of jcy and dirt ! Such ^ ot-beds of rank-growing hu- 
 manity! Diving boys and piratical longshoremen; 
 plumed guardians of the police and ragged lazzaroni; 
 
 whooping donkey drivers and pestiferous guides; 
 
 48 
 
AN INVOLUNTARY FIANCfi 
 
 49 
 
 rlaniour, colour, confusion, all to bewilder my prim 
 .\runlmttan mind. 
 
 What a disappointment that had been ; to stand there 
 one exultant moment with the Trail of Beautiful Adven- 
 ture glimmering before ; the next, to be hemmed in by 
 the jubilant Chumley Graces, and hurried to the 
 haughtiest of hotels, where poppa insisted on cashing 
 my cheque for five hundred dollars. 
 
 But resignation to one's fate is comparatively easy 
 in Naples. There, where villa and vineyard dream by 
 an amethystine sea where purple Capri and violet Vesu- 
 vius shimmer and change with every mood of sun and 
 breeze, the line of least resistance seems alluringly ap- 
 propriate. 
 
 There were days in which (accompanied by Miss 
 Guinivere Chumley Grace) I roamed the Via Roma, 
 stimulated by the vivid life that seethed around me; 
 when I watched the bronze fishermen pull in their long, 
 sea-curving nets ; when the laziness of the lazzartmi fell 
 upon me. 
 
 There were evenings in which (accompanied by 
 Guinivere Chumley Grace) I sat on the terrace of the 
 hotel, caressed by the balmy breeze, listening to the 
 far-borne melody of mandolins, and gazing at the topaz 
 lights that fringed the throbbing vast of foam and 
 starlight. 
 
 There were nights when (accompanied by Guinivere) 
 I watched the dull reflection of fiery-bowled Vesuvius, 
 dreaming of the richly storied past, and feeling my 
 heart stir with a thousand sweet wonderings of romance. 
 
 Can it be wondered, then, that some of this rapture 
 and romance found an echo in my heart? Here was 
 the time, the place, and — Guinivere. Only by a vio- 
 
50 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 onteffort could I have saved myself, and violent efforts 
 
 Z^r."^ \rr^.°^''^^'- ^'°' '•very thing seemed to 
 happen w.th relentless logic; and so one afternoon, look- 
 ing down on the sweeping glory of the bay the follow- 
 ing conversation took place : 
 She: Isn't it ripping? 
 
 I: Yes it's too lovely for words. Why cannot we 
 make our lives a harvest of such golden 
 memories? 
 She: Yes, it would be awfully jolly, wouldn't it? 
 l: If we cannot make the moment eternal, let us at 
 
 least live eternal in the moment. 
 She: But how can we? 
 
 I wasn't sure how we could, nor was I sure what I 
 meant; but the freckled face was looking up at me so 
 inquiringly, and the crisp-lipped mouth was pouted so 
 invitingly that I sought the solution there. She, on 
 her part, evidently found it so satisfactory that I laid 
 considerable emphasis on it, and I was still further 
 accentuating the emphasis when on looking up I found 
 myself confronted by the stony, spectacled stare of 
 poppa. 
 
 Anathema! Miseracordia ! After that there was 
 nothing to do but ask for his blessing. I could not 
 plead poverty, for he is a director in most of the rail- 
 ways m which I hold shares. The god of fools, who 
 had so often moved to save me, had this time left me 
 on the lurch. So it came about that I spent three 
 hMr.Jred dollars out of my five in the purchase of a 
 diamond ring; and there matters stand. 
 
 Well, I shall have to go through with it. If there 
 IS one idea more than another I hold up to mv^elf 
 It IS that of The Man who Makes Good. I have never 
 
AN INVOLUNTARY FIANCft 
 
 51 
 
 i 
 
 bciii untrue to iiiv promises; and now I have promised 
 (iuioivere a cottage at Newport and a flat in town. 
 Life looms before me a grey vista of conventional 
 inonctony and Riverside Drive. 
 
 If only she cared for any of the things I do! But 
 no! She is one of the useless daughters of the rich, 
 who expect to be petted, pampered and provided for 
 in the way they have been accustomed, forgetting that 
 the old man struggled a lifetime to give them that 
 limousine and the house on Fifth Avenue. She is one 
 of the great army of women who think men should 
 sweat that women may spend. I have always main- 
 tained that it was a woman's place to do her share of 
 the work; and here I was, marrying a pleasure-seeker, 
 an idler. 
 
 Better, I thought, some daughter of democracy ; yea, 
 even such a one as but a little ago tidied my apartment, 
 that dark-haired damsel with the melancholy mouth and 
 the eyes of an odalisque. 
 
 As I pretended to work I had often watched my 
 charming chambermaid ; but my interest was purely pro- 
 fessional, till one day it was stimulated by an unusual 
 incident. There was a villainous-looking valet-dc- 
 chambre who brought me my coffee and rolls in the 
 morning, and who presided over a little pantry from 
 which they seemed to emanate. Passing this pantry, I 
 witnessed a brisk scuffle between the chambermaid and 
 the valet. He made an effort to kiss her, and she re- 
 pulsed him with evident disgust. From then on I could 
 see the two were at daggers drawn, and that the man 
 only waited a chance to take his revenge. 
 
 After that, it may not be deemed strange that I 
 should have taken a more personal interest in my hand- 
 
52 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 maid; that I should have practised my Italian on her 
 on every opportunity; that I should have found her 
 name to be Lucrezia Poppolini, and that of her tor- 
 mentor, Victor. A spirit of protection glowed in me; 
 I half hoped for dramatic developments, pitied her in 
 her evident unhappiness, and vowed that if she were 
 persecuted any more I would take a hand in the game. 
 
 In a rhapsodic veil. I had begun an article on Naples, 
 and ranged far and wide in search of impressions. It 
 was one evening I had pleaded work to escape from 
 Gumivere (who was getting on my nerves), and I had 
 sought the quarter of the town down by the fish-market. 
 Frequently had I been moved to remark that in Naples 
 there seemed to be no d nger of depopulation, and the 
 appearance of a good woman approaching strengthened 
 my conviction. Then as she came close I saw that she 
 was only a girl, very poor, and intensely miserable. 
 But something else made me start and stare: she was 
 the exact counterpart of my interesting chambermaid. 
 
 " Perhaps they are twin sisters," thought I. «* This 
 girl's trouble would account for the worry and sadness 
 on the face of Lucrezia. Here is material for drama." 
 
 So taken was I by my twin-sister theory, that I ended 
 by half-convincing myself I was right. Then, by a 
 little play of fancy, I allowed for the following dramatis 
 personte : 
 
 " Victor, the Villainous \alet. 
 Lucreeia, the Chaste Chambermaid. 
 Twin Sister in trouble. 
 False Lover of Twin Sister. 
 Aged Parent" 
 
 Thus you will see how my little drama was interesting 
 me. On her daily visits to my room, I watched my poor 
 
AN INVOLUNTARY FIANC6 
 
 0S 
 
 heroiiu' with sympathetic heart. What was going to 
 happtn? Probably Aged Parent would stab False 
 Lover, and Villainous Valet, who happened to witness 
 the deed, would demand as the price of his silence the 
 honour of Chaste Chambermaid. How I began to hate 
 the man as he roused me at eight o'clock with my steam- 
 ing Mocha ! H w I began to pity the girl as dreary 
 and distraught she changed my towels! Surely the 
 dhioiiement was close at hand. 
 
 Poppa and I shared a parlour from which opened out 
 respective bedrooms. It had outlook on the bay, and 
 often the girls would sit there with their father instead 
 of in their own aalon. I waj» not surprised, then, on 
 my return from a copy-hunting expedition to hear the 
 sound of many voices coming from within. 
 
 But I was decidedly surprised, on opening the door, 
 to find quite a dramatic scene being enacted. The backs 
 of the actors were to me, and they did not see me enter. 
 In the centre of the stage, as it were, were Victor 
 and Lucrezia. Behind them the fat little manager of 
 the hotel. To the right poppa and Guinivere. To the 
 left Edythe and Gladys, the elder sisters. 
 
 Lucrezia looked pale as death, and cowered as if 
 some one had struck her. Facing her, with flashing eyes 
 and accusive digit was the vengeful Victor. The little 
 manager was trying to control the situation, while 
 poppa and offspring, staring blankly, vere endeavour- 
 ing to follow the Italian of it. 
 
 "Baggage! Thief!" Victor was cry'ng. «I saw 
 her. I stole after her ! I watched her enter the signor's 
 room. There on the dressing table it was, the little 
 purse he had so carekssly left. She draws near, she 
 examines it . . . quick! She pushes it into her blouse 
 
.'i^ 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 — so. Oh, I saw it all through the chink of the 
 door." 
 
 " No, no," the girl protested, in accents of terror and 
 distress ; " I took nothing, I swear by the Virgin, noth- 
 ing. He lies. He would make for me trouble. I am 
 innocent, innocent." 
 
 '* I am no liar," snarled the man. " If you do not 
 believe me, see — she has it now. Search her. Look 
 in the bosom of her dress. Ah ! I will . . ." 
 
 He caught her roughly. There was a scuffle in which 
 she screamed, and from her corsage he tore forth a 
 small flat object. 
 
 " What did I tell you ! " he cried vindictively. " Wh(» 
 is the liar now.? Oh, thief! thief ! I, Victor, have un- 
 masked thee — " 
 
 Here he turned round and suddenly beheld me. His 
 manner grew more exultant. " Ha ! It is the signor 
 himself." 
 
 Then I saw that what he held out so triumphantly 
 was my little gold purse, and in the breathless pause 
 that followed, cinema pictures were flashing and flicker- 
 ing in my brain. How vivid they were! Twin sister 
 imploring aid — girl distracted — no money to give her 
 
 — What's to be done.? — Suddenly sees gold purse — 
 Temptation: " I'll just borrow one little piece. The 
 signor will never miss it. Some day I'll pay it back." 
 
 How she struggles, gazes at it like one fascinated, 
 puts out a hand, shrinks back, looks round fearfully! 
 Then at last she takes it in her hand; — a sudden 
 noise, — impulsively she pushes it in the bosom of her 
 dress. Then Victor's high pitched voice of denuncia- 
 tion, bringing every one on the scene. 
 
 All this I saw in a luminous moment, but — where 
 
AN INVOLUNTARY FIANCf. 
 
 55 
 
 did I come in? My heart bled for the poor girl so tried, 
 HO tempted. A quixotic flame leapt in me. There was 
 the vindictive valet; there was the frail Lucrezia; there 
 was the centre of the stage waiting for what? — me. 
 Ah ! could I ever resist the centre of the stage? 
 
 So I stepped quietly forward, and, to complete the 
 (istic effect, the girl, who had been gazing at me with 
 growing terror, swayed as if to faint. Deftly I caught 
 her over my left arm; then with the other hand I 
 snatched the purse from the astonished Victor, and de- 
 liberately pushed it back into the blouse of Lucrezia. 
 
 " The girl is innocent," I said calmly ; " the money 
 is her own. I, myself, gave it to her, — this morning." 
 •••••♦• 
 
 Of the scene that followed I have no vivid recollection. 
 I was conscious that poppa herded his flock hurriedly 
 from the room; that Lucrezia disappeared with sur- 
 prising suddenness; that the dumbfounded Victor was 
 ordered to " begone " by an indignant maitre cThotel, 
 who, while extremely polite, seemed to regard me with 
 something of reproach. 
 
 I was, in fact, rather dazed by my sudden action, so 
 hastily packing the alligator-skin suitcase I paid my 
 bill and ordered a carriage. Telling the man to drive 
 in the direction of Possillipo, I there selected a hotel of 
 a more diffident type, and, in view of ray reduced 
 finances, engaged a single room. 
 
 The day following was memorable for two interviews. 
 The first, in the forenoon, was with poppa. He had no 
 doubt found my address from the coachman, and had 
 come to have it out with me. In his most puritanical 
 manner he wanted to know why I gave the girl the 
 money. 
 
riG 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 " I refuse to explain," I said sour' v 
 
 " Then, sir, I must refuse to consiiier you worthy of 
 my daughter's hand." 
 
 My heart leapt. Escape from Guinivere ! It seenjed 
 too good to be true. Lucrezia, I thank thee ! Nor do 
 I grudge thee twice the gold thy purse contains. Con- 
 cealing my joy I answered: 
 
 " It shall be as you please, sir." 
 
 His church-deacon face relaxed a little. He had evi- 
 dently expected more trouble. 
 
 " And I must ask you, sir, not to communicate with 
 her in any way." 
 
 I summoned a look of sadness worthy of a lover whose 
 heart is broken. 
 
 " As her father," I observed submissively, " your 
 wishes must be respected." 
 
 He laid a small box on the table. " Guinivere re- 
 turns you your ring." Then he hesitated a little. 
 "Have you notliing at all to say for yourself? I too 
 have been young ; I can make some allowance, but there 
 are limits. I don't like to think that you are an abso- 
 lute scoundrel." 
 
 " If I were to tell you," I said, " that I gave the girl 
 the money out of pure philanthropy, gave it to help a 
 wretched twin-sister with an unborn babe, — what would 
 you say ? " 
 
 '* I would say you were trying to bolster up your 
 intrigue with a fiction. Bah! Young men don't give 
 purses of gold to pretty girls out of philanthropy. 
 Besides, we have discovered that your precious friend 
 is nothing more or less than a hotel thief. A detective 
 arrived just after you left and identified her." 
 
A\ INVOLUNTARY FIANCE 
 
 67 
 
 "I tlon't believe it," I said indignantly. "These 
 Italian women all look alike. Where's the poor girl 
 now?" 
 
 He grinned sarcastically. "Probably it is I who 
 should ask you that." 
 
 His meaning was so obvious I rose and smilingly 
 opened the door. Off he went with a snort, and that 
 was the last I ever saw of poppa. 
 
 But my second interview! It took place at ten in 
 the evening. I was reading the Italian paper in bed 
 when there came a soft knock at my door. 
 
 " Come m," I said, thinking it was the valet with my 
 nightcap. Then, as if moved by a spring I sat bolt 
 upright. With one hand I tried to fasten the neck 
 button of my pyjamas, with the other to smooth down 
 my disordered locks. I verily believe I blushed all over, 
 for who should my late visitor be but — Lucrezia. 
 
 She was dressed astonishingly well, and looked alto- 
 gether differi from the slim, trim domestic I had 
 known. Indeed, being all in black, she might have well 
 passed for a charming young widow. Of course I was 
 embarrassed beyond all words, but if she shared my feel- 
 ing she did not show it. 
 
 '*0h, signor, how can I thank you?" she cried, ad- 
 vancing swiftly. 
 
 " Not at all," I stammered ; " pray calm yourself. 
 Kxcuse me n i civing you in this deshabille. Please take 
 a scat." 
 
 I indicated a chair some distance away, but to my 
 confusion she seated herself near me. I reached for 
 my jacket and wriggled into it; after which I felt more 
 at ease. 
 
58 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 " I have just found out where you were," she began. 
 " I could not wait until to-morrow to thank you. 
 You'll forgive me, won't you ? " 
 
 Really she spoke remarkably well. Really she looked 
 remarkably stunning. Her complexion had the tone of 
 old ivory, and her eyes of an odalisque seemed to refract 
 all the light of the room. I could feel them fixed on 
 me in a distracting, magnetising way. 
 
 " Don't mention it," I answered ; " there's nothing 
 to forgive. It's very good of you to think of thanking 
 me." 
 
 She begun to fumble with a glove button. " Tell 
 me," she almost whispered, " tell me, why did you do 
 it?" 
 
 " Oh, I — I dpn't quite know.? " 
 
 She threw out her hands with an impulsive gesture. 
 Her black eyes glowed fiercely, then grew soft. 
 
 " Was it because you — you loved me ? " 
 
 I stared. This was too much. Was the girl mad? 
 I replied with some asperity: 
 
 " No, it was because I thought you must be in some 
 desperate trouble. I was sorry for you. I wanted to 
 save you." 
 
 " Ah ! you were right. I was in great trouble, and 
 you alone understood. You are noble, signer, noble; 
 Ijut you are cold. We women of the South, we are so 
 different. When we love, we love with all the heart. 
 We do not conceal it ; we do not deny it. Know, then, 
 signer, fronj the moment you came so bravely to my aid 
 like some hero of romance I loved you, loved you with 
 a passion that makes me forget all else. And you, you 
 do not care. It is nothing to you. Oh, unhappy me! 
 Tell me, signor, do you not think you can love me? " 
 
AN INVOLUNTARY FIANCE 
 
 .-59 
 
 I shrank back to the furthest limit of the bed-post. 
 Again I thought : " Surely the girl is mad, perhaps 
 dangerous as well. I've heard that these Neapolitan 
 girls all carry daggers. I hope this young lady 
 doesn't follow the fashion. I think I'd better humour 
 her." 
 
 Aloud I said: "I don't know. This is so sudden 
 I haven't had time to analyse my feelings yet. Perhaps 
 I do. Give me to-night to think of it. Come to-mor- 
 row. But anyway, why should I let myself love you? 
 I am a bird of passage. I have business. I must go 
 away in a few days." 
 
 " Where is the signor going? " 
 " To Paris," I said cautiously. 
 Her strange eyes gleamed with tragic fire. ** If you 
 go to Paris without me," she cried passionately, " I will 
 follow you." 
 
 "Well, well," I said soothingly, "we'll see. But 
 now please leave me to think of all this. Don't you 
 see I'm agitated? You've taken me by surprise. 
 Please give me till to-morrow." 
 
 Her brows knit with jealous suspicion. I half 
 thought she was going to reach for that dagger, but 
 instead she rose abruptly. 
 
 " Oh, you are cold, you men of the North. I shall 
 leave you at once." 
 
 " Yes," I answered eagerly ; " go quickly, before any 
 one finds you here." 
 
 " Bah ! " she exploded with fierce cortempt ; " what 
 does it matter? But, signor, will you let me kiss 
 you?" 
 
 " Certainly, if you wish." I extended one cheek. 
 She gave me a quick, smothering embrace from which 
 
60 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 I had dIfRculty in detaching myself. " To-morrow, 
 then, without fail. But where and when ? " 
 
 " I'll meet you at the Aquarium at eleven o'clock," 
 I said. 
 
 " At the Aquarium, then. And you'll think of me? 
 And you'll try to love me? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I will. Please go out very quietly. Au 
 revoir till eleven to-morrow." 
 
 But by eleven o'clock next morning I was exultantly 
 on my way to London. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 A BOTTLE OF INK 
 
 The disadvantage of persistent globe-trotting is that 
 it makes the world so deplorably provincial. With 
 familiarity the glamour of the far and strange is swept 
 away, till a€ last there b nothing left to startle and 
 delight. Better, indeed, to leave shrines unvisited 
 and shores unsought; then may we still hold them 
 fondly under the domination of dream. 
 
 Much had I read of the lure of London, of its hold 
 upon the heart; but to the end I entirely failed to 
 realise its charm. To me in those grim December 
 days it always remained the City of Grime and Gloom, 
 so that I ultimately left it the poorer by a score of 
 lost illusions. 
 
 Drawing near the Great Grey City — how I had 
 looked forward to this moment as, alert to every im- 
 pression, I stared from the window of the train! Yet 
 at its very threshold I shrank appalled. Could I be- 
 lieve my eyes? There confronting me was street after 
 street of tiny houses all built in the same way. Nay, 
 I do not exaggerate. They were as alike as ninepins, 
 dirty, drab cubes, each with the same oblong of sordid 
 back-yard, the same fringe of abortive front garden. 
 Oh what a welter of architectural crime! Could it 
 be wondered at that the bricks of which they were 
 composed seemed to blush with shame? 
 
 Then the roofs closed in till they fonncd a veritable 
 plain, on which regiments of chimneys seemed to stand 
 
 61 
 
an 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 at attention amid saffron fog. Then great, gloomy cor- 
 rugations, down which 1 could see ant-like armies mov- 
 ing hither and thither: then an arrest in a place of 
 steam and smoke and skurrying and shouting: Char- 
 ing Cross Station. 
 
 How it was spitefully cold! Autos squattered 
 throagh the tar-black mud. A fine drizzle of rain 
 was falling, }et save myself no one seemed to mind 
 it — so cheery and comfortable seemed those red-faced 
 Islanders in their City of Soot. Soot, at that moment, 
 was to me all-dominant. Eagerly it overlaid the 
 buildings of brick; joyfully it grimed those of stone. 
 It swathed the monuments, and it achieved on the 
 churches daring effects in black and grey. After all, 
 it had undoubted artistic value. Then a smudge of 
 it settled on my nose, and with every breath I seemed 
 to inhale it. Finally a skittish motor bus bespattered 
 me with that tar-like mud and I felt dirtier than ever. 
 
 But what amount of drizzle could damp my romantic 
 ardour as suitcase in hand I stood in Trafalgar Square? 
 Here was another occasion for that sentimental reverie 
 which WAS my specialty, so I began: 
 
 " Alone in London, in the seething centre of its 
 canorous immensity. Around me swirl the swift, 
 incurious crowds. Oh, City of a million sorrows! 
 here do I come to thee poor, friendless, unknown, 
 yet oh! so rich in hope. Shall I then knock at thy 
 countless doors in vain? Shall I then — " 
 
 A sneeze interrupted me at this point. It is hard 
 to sneeze and be sentimental; besides, I recognised 
 in the words I had just spoken those I had put into 
 the mouth of Harold Cleaveshaw, hero of my novel. 
 The Hondkap. But then Harold had posed in the 
 
A BOTTLE OF INK 
 
 63 
 
 centre of Madison Square and addressed his rcinnrks 
 to the Flatiron Building, while I was addressing the 
 Nelson Monument and a fountain whose water seemed 
 saturated with soot. 
 
 Do not think the moment was wasted, however. 
 Far from it. The likeness suggested an article com- 
 paring the two cities. For instance: New York, a 
 concretion; London, an accretion; New York, an up- 
 lift ; London, an outspread ; New York, blatant ; Lon- 
 don, smug; New York, a city on tiptoe, raw, bright, 
 wind-besomed ; London, the nightmare of a dyspeptic 
 chimney-sweep; New York, a city bom, organic, spon- 
 taneous; London, an accident, a patchwork, a piecing 
 on; and so on. 
 
 Pondering these and other points of contrast, I 
 wandered up Charing Cross Road into Oxford Street. 
 In a bookshop I saw, with a curious feeling of detach- 
 ment, a sixpenny edition of my novel. The Red Cor- 
 puscle. Somehow at that moment I could scarcely as- 
 sociate myself with it. So absorbed was I becoming in 
 my new part that the previous one was already unreal 
 to me. I took up the book with positive dislike, and 
 was turning it over when an officious shop-boy sug- 
 gested: 
 
 " Don't you want to read it, mister? " 
 "Heaven forbid!" I replied; "I wrote it." 
 He sniffed, as much as to say, " Think you're smart, 
 don't you?" 
 
 Up Southampton Row I chanced, and in a little 
 street off Tavistock Square I found a temporary home. 
 A cat sleeping on a window-sill suggested Peace, and 
 a donkey-cart piled high with cabbages pointed to 
 Plenty. But as cabbages do not find favour in the 
 
64 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 tyrannical laboratory of my digestion, I vetoed Mrs. 
 Switcher's proposal that I take dinner in the house. 
 However, I ordered ham and eggs every morning, with 
 an alternative of haddock or sausage and bacon. 
 
 These matters settled, I found myself the tenant of 
 a fourth-floor front in a flat brick building of trium- 
 phant ugliness. I could see a melancholy angle of the 
 square, some soot-smeared trees stretching in inky ten- 
 tacles to a sullen sky, a soggy garden that seemed 
 steeped in despairing contemplation of its own un- 
 worthiness. 
 
 For Mrs. Switcher, my landlady, I conceived an en- 
 thusiastic dislike. A sour, grinding woman who re- 
 minded me of a meat-axe, I christened her Rain-in-the- 
 Facc in further resemblance of a celebrated Indian 
 Chief. But if I found in her no source of a sympathetic 
 inspiration, in the near-by Reading-room of the Brit- 
 ish Museum there certainly was. In that studious calm, 
 under battalions of books secure in their circles of im- 
 mortality, I was profoundly happy. Often I would 
 pause to study those about me, the spectacled men, the 
 literary hack with the shiny coat-sleeve of the Reading- 
 room habitu^, the women whose bilious complexions and 
 poky skirts suggested the league of desperate spinster- 
 hood. 
 
 A thousand ghosts haunted that great dome. It 
 was a mosaic of faces of dead and gone authors, wist- 
 fully watching to see if you would read their books. 
 And if you did, how they hovered down from the 
 greynoss and smiled sweetly on you ; other ghosts there 
 were too, ghosts of the famous ones who had bent over 
 these very benches, who had delved into that mine of 
 thought just as I was delving. Here they had toiled 
 
A BOTTLE OF INK 
 
 65 
 
 and triumphed, even as I ivould toil and triumph. 
 Spurred and exalted, under that great dome where the 
 onlv sound seemed to be the whirr of busy brains, I 
 spent hours of rarest rapture. 
 
 To the solitary the spirits whisper. Ideas came to 
 uie at this time in a bewildering swarm, and often I 
 regretted some fancy lost, some subtlety unset to 
 words. So by book-browsing, by curious roaming, by 
 l)rooding thought, my mental life extend'?d its horizons. 
 Yet knowing no one, speaking to no one, living so 
 much within myself, each day became more dreamlike 
 and unreal. There were times when 1 almost doubted 
 my own identity, times when, if you had assured mc 
 I was John Smith, I would have been inclined to agree 
 with you. 
 
 With positive joy I watched my money filter away. 
 " Good ! " I reflected. " I shall soon be penniless, re- 
 duced to eating stale crusts and sleeping on the iron 
 benches of the Embankment. Who can divine the daz- 
 zling possibilities of vicissitude? All my life I have 
 battled with prosperity; now, at last, I shall achieve 
 adversity. I will descend the ladder of success. I will 
 rub shoulders with Destitution. I may even be intro- 
 duced to Brother Despair." 
 
 Enthusiasm glowed in me at the thought, and ab- 
 sorbed in those ambitious dreams I cried: "Thank 
 God for life's depths, that we may have the glory of 
 outclimbing them." 
 
 And here be it said, we make a mistake when we 
 pity the poor. It is the rich we should pity, those 
 who have never known the joy of poverty, the ecstasy 
 of squeezing the dollar to the last cent. How good 
 the plain fare looks to our hunger! How sweet the 
 
66 
 
 THE pret?:nder 
 
 rest after toil! How exciting the uncertainty of the 
 next day's supper ! How glorious the unexpected wind- 
 fall of a few coppers! Was ever nectar so exquisite 
 as that cup of coffee quaffed at the stall on the Embank- 
 ment after a night spent on those excruciating benches* 
 Never to have been desperately poor — ah ! that is 
 never to have lived. 
 
 My shibboleth at this time was a large bottle of ink 
 which I bought and placed on my mantelpiece. 
 Ihrough a haze of cigarette smoke I would address 
 it whimsically: 
 
 . 1?^' ^,'^q"i«it^ fluid, what magic words are hidden 
 m thine ebon heart! What lover's raptures and what 
 gems of thought! Let others turn to dusty ledgers 
 your celestial stream, to bills of lading and to dull 
 notorial deeds; to me you are the poet's dream, the 
 freaksome fancy of the essayist, the stuff that shapes 
 itself ,n precious prose. In you, oh most divine elixir, 
 fame and fortune are dissolved. In you, enchanted 
 liquid, strange stories simmer, and bright humour bub- 
 bles up Oh, magical bottle, of whom I will make 
 life and l.ght, gold and jewels, laughter and tears, 
 thrill to your dusky heart with the sense of immor- 
 tality ! " 
 
 It was while suneying the garbr.ge heap in the rear 
 of Mrs. Switcher's premises that there came to me the 
 Idea of a short story, to be called The Microbe. 
 
 Through reading an article in a magazine Mr Per- 
 kins, a middle-aged clerk in a dry-salter»8 warehouse, 
 becomes interested in the Germ Theory. Half-con- 
 temptuous at first, he begins to make a study of it, and 
 «oon ,s quite fascinated. Being of a high-strung, im- 
 aginative nature, the thing gets on his nenes, and he 
 
A BOTTLE OF INK 
 
 l)pgin!« to think germs, to dream germs, to dread germs 
 every moment of his life. He 'ears them in the air he 
 breathes, in the food he eats, even on the library books 
 that tell him all about them. 
 
 Mr. Perkins becomes obsessed. Ho refuses to kiss 
 the somewhat overblown rose of his affections, to enter 
 a train, an omnibus, a theatre. He analyses his food, 
 sU'riiises his water, disinfects his room daily, till his 
 landlady gives him notice. Finally he can no longer 
 breathe the air of a microbo-infected office, and he re- 
 signs the situation he has .leld for twenty years to 
 become a tramp. Yet even here, in the wind on the 
 heath, on the hill's top, by the yeasty sea, there is no 
 peace for him. He Lioods, he fasts, he becomes a mono- 
 maniac. Then he thLks of the germs in his own body, 
 of the good microbes and the naughty microbes fight- 
 ing their vendetta from birth to death, his very blood 
 their battleground. 
 
 No longer can he bear it. He realises the impossi- 
 bility of escape. He himself is a little world, a civil 
 war of microbes. How he hates them! Yet there re- 
 mains to him his revenge. Ha ! Ha ! He has the power 
 to destroy that world. So beggared, broken, des- 
 perate, he returns to London, and with a wild shriek of 
 joy he throws himself from the Tower Bridge. 
 
 Yea, even in the end he has been destroyed by a 
 microbe, the most deadly of all, the terrible Microbe 
 called Fear. 
 
 One morning, dreamily incubating my story, I hap- 
 pened to glance out of my window. I was gazing ab- 
 sently on my comer of the lugubrious square when 
 a little figure of a girl came into view. She wore a 
 grey mantle, and her face was like a splash of white. 
 
(JS 
 
 TlIK I'KETENDER 
 
 Walking with a quick, dctcnnincd step, in a moment 
 slit' hud di.suppcHri'd. 
 
 In about five minutes I happened to look up again. 
 There was the same slim figure rounding the corner, 
 to again disappear. 
 
 "Something automatic about this,'* I said; "it's 
 getting interesting." So, taking out my watch, I 
 judged the time, and in another five minutes I looked 
 up. Yes, there was my girl in grey walking with the 
 same purposeful stride. 
 
 "This is getting monotonous," I obsened, after I 
 had seen her appear antl disappear a few more times. 
 " Such p'-rsistent pedestrianism destroys my powers 
 of concentration. Let me then sally forth and see 
 what this mysterious young female is celebrating. 
 Perhaps if I stare at her hard enough she will choose 
 either Russell or Uloomsbury Square for her consti- 
 tutional, and not distract a poor, hard-working story- 
 grinder at his labours." 
 
 But when I got outside I found she had gone, so I 
 decided to seek my lielovod Reading Room and look 
 up some articles on microbes. 
 
( HAPTKU Mil 
 
 TUF, C.IUL WHO I.OOKKD INTKRESTIN'G 
 
 Aftkr a hnrd skirmish with the cntalogiie of the Read- 
 ing Kooni, which, with reference and counter-reference, 
 (ItHed me stubbornly, yet finally yielded to my assault, 
 I found myself, three hours later, seated in an A.B.C. 
 restaurant in Southampton Row. 
 
 From motives of economy I had given up eating din- 
 ners. Breakfast and a meat luncli were now my sole 
 fortifying occasions, and of the latter this A.B.C. was 
 oftenest the scene. I liked its friendly fires, its red 
 plush chairs, its air of thrift and cheer. Behold me, 
 then, a studiously shabby young man, eating a shilling 
 lunch and wearing as a s^nnbol of my ser\-itudc a cel- 
 luloid collar. Little would you have dreamed that but 
 two short months before I had been toying with terra- 
 pin in the gold room of Delmonico's. 
 
 But such dramatic contrasts charm me, and I was 
 placidly engaged in the excavation of a Melton Mow- 
 bray pie, when a girl in grey took a place at the next 
 table. Her long mantle was rather the worse for wear, 
 her hat a cheap straw. Her small hands were encased 
 in cotton gloves, and lier feet in foreign-looking shoes. 
 
 "Painfully poor," I thought, "yet evidently a 
 worshipper of the goddess Comme-U-faut." Then — 
 "^^Tiy. surely I know her." Surely it is my myste- 
 rious female of the matutinal Marathon." 
 
 With timid hesitation she ordered a bun and milk. 
 How interesting her voice wos! It had a bell-like qual- 
 
 69 
 
70 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 ity the more marked because the spoke with a strong 
 inflection, nnd un odd precision of accent. A voice 
 with colour, I thought ; violet ; ^es, she had a violet 
 voice. 
 
 But I had not seen her face, only beneath her Mw 
 straw hat her hair of a gloamy brown, very finj of 
 texture and so thick as to seem almost black. It was 
 brought round in a coiled braid over each ear, and, 
 where it parted at the back, showed a neck of ivory 
 whiteness. Somewhat curiously I wished she would 
 turn her head. 
 
 Then, as if to please me, she did so, and what I saw 
 was almost the face of a child, so small and delicate of 
 feature was it. It was almost colourless, of a pure 
 pallor that contrasted with the rich darkness of her 
 hair. The mouth was small and wistfully sweet, the 
 chin rather long and fine, the cheeks faintly hollowed. 
 Her brow, I noted, was broad and full, her eyebrows 
 frank and well-defined. But it was the eyes themselves 
 that arrested me. They were set far apart nnd of a 
 rare and faultless sea-blue. Such eyes in a woman of 
 real beauty would have been pools of love for many a 
 fool to drown in, and even in this fragile, shrinking girl 
 they were haunting, thrilling eyes. For the rest, she 
 was small, slender, sad-looking, and tired, yes, tired, as 
 if she wanted to rest and rest and rest. 
 
 *' A consumptive type," I thought irritably. " Seems 
 quite worn out. Why does she persist in that pedes- 
 trian foolishness — that's what I want to know.**'* 
 
 I watched her as she ate her bun, and when she rose 
 I ruse too. She payed out of a worn little purse, a 
 plethoric purse, but, alas ! its fulness was of copper. 
 Down \Vol)urn Street she disappeared, and I looked 
 
THE GIRL WHO LOOKED INTERESTING 71 
 
 after her with snnie concern. A gentle, shrinking 
 crtature, puthet 'iy afraid of life. 
 
 " (lod help li I said, ** in this ruthless city, if 
 
 she has neither 1 ..i,ds nor money." I decided I would 
 write a story arounu her, a story of struggle and temp- 
 tation. Yes, I would call it The Girl Who Looked In- 
 teresiing. 
 
 That night I thought a good deal about my girl 
 and my story, hut next morning u distraction occurred. 
 London revealed itself in the glory of a fog. At last I 
 was exultant. Here was the city I had come so far 
 to see. For the squat buildings seemed to take on 
 dignity and height. Through the mellow haze they 
 loomed as vaguely as the domiciles of a dream. The 
 streets were corridors of mystery, and alone, abysmally 
 alone, I seemed to be in some city of fantasy and fear. 
 
 But the river — there the fog achieved its ghostliest 
 effects. As I wandered down the clammy embank- 
 ment, cloud-built bridges emerged ethereally, and the 
 flat barges were masses of mysterious shadow. St. 
 Stephen's was a spectral suggestion, and Whitehall a 
 delicate silver-point etching. I thanked the gods for 
 this evasive and intangible London, half-hidden, half- 
 revealed in its vesture of all-mystifying fog. 
 
 Well, I was tired at last, and I turned to go home. 
 But I must have missed my w-ay, for I found myself in 
 a long dim street, which I judged by its furniture- 
 fringed pavement to be Tottenham Court Road. Filled 
 with a pleasant sense of adventure, I kept on till I 
 came to what must have been Hampstead Road. 
 There my eyes were drawn to a large flamboyant paint- 
 ing above the window of a shop in a side-street. Draw- 
 ing near, I read in flaring letters the following: 
 
72 
 
 THK PRETENDER 
 
 EXHiniTIOX 
 
 Amazikg ! Am i.-sino ! T'NiQrE ! 
 
 O'FLATIIER'S EDUCATED FLEAS 
 
 As ptrformed with tremendous success before 
 nil the Crowned Heads of Europe and the 
 Potentates of Asia. For a limited 
 time Professor O'tlather will 
 give the people of London 
 the opportunity of see- 
 ing this extraordin- 
 ary exhibition. 
 Entertaining! 
 Instructive ! 
 Original ! 
 Come 
 ■ind 
 See 
 
 THE SCIENTIFIC MARVEL OF THE CENTURY! 
 
 Tlie marvellous insects that have all the 
 Intelligence of human beings. 
 
 Admission, Sixpence. Children Half-price, 
 
 A large canvas showed a number of insects, viva- 
 ciously engaged in duelling, dancing, drawing water 
 from wells, and so on. Watching thenj with beaming 
 rapture was a distinguished audience, including the 
 Czar of Russia, the Emperor William, Li Hung Chang, 
 the Shah of Persia, and I\Ir. Roosevelt. 
 
 I was turning away when a big, ugly individual ap- 
 
TIIF, (JIHL WHO I.OOKKI) I\TERF.STI\(i 7JJ 
 
 pi .lied in the doorway. Ho was a liea\ y-broathing 
 man with a mouth like a rodfish, and hlomisliot eyes 
 that pteied througli pouchy ^lits. He had a hlotched, 
 {iVi-nsy face that hung ddwn in dewlaps. From unrier 
 a Stetson hat his stringy, hrindled hair streamed over 
 file collar of his fur-lined coat. On his gruhhv hand 
 in oft'-colour diamond, hig as a pea, tried to out- 
 sparkle another in the dirty bosom of his shirt. He 
 riik((I of pomatinn, and his teeth looked as if thcv 
 had been cleaned with a towel. No mistaking the born 
 -howman of the Bowery breed. Moved by a sudden 
 idea, I gracefully addressed him: 
 
 " Professor OTIather, I presume .* " 
 
 The impresario looked at mo with lack-lustre eye 
 He transferred a chew of tobacco from one check to 
 the other: then he spat with nmrvellous precision on a 
 jjassing dog. Finallv he admitted roluetantlv: 
 
 "Yep! That's me." 
 
 " Panlon me, Professor, but Tm a newspaper man. 
 I represent the Dailtf Dredyer, with which, of course, 
 you are familiar. I have been specially commissioned 
 hv my journal to write up your exhibition. Can you 
 favour me with a brief interview? " 
 
 .\t the magic word " newspaper " his manner changed. 
 He extended a hand like a small ham. 
 
 '• Right you are, mister. Always glad to see the 
 iioospaper boys." 
 
 He ushered me into the shop, and, switching on a 
 liffht. bellowed in a voice of brass, "Jinny!" From 
 hihind a crinuion curtain appeared a little Jap girl 
 in a green k-mono. 
 
 "Faithful little devil!" said the Professor. "Met 
 \.- in a Yokerhammer joint, and fetched *er along for 
 
74 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 IS 
 
 the sake of thf kIjow. Jinny, uncover tlje stock. Th 
 gcn'lman's a hintervooer." 
 
 With eager pride the girl oIh yed. From a glass 
 case in the centre of the room sl»e removed a coverinfj. 
 The case was divided into sections, in which were a 
 number of suggestive shapes, supinely quiescent. 
 
 " We turn 'em over," O'Flather explained, '* when 
 they ain't working, so's they won't use up all their force. 
 We need it in the husiness." 
 
 Then Jinny, with the delicacy of a lover, procenK-d 
 to put each through its performance. 
 
 " That there's Barthsheber at tin- will," said the Pro- 
 fessor, pointing with a fat forefinger to a black speck 
 that was frantically raising and lowering a string of 
 1' jckets on an endless chain. 
 
 *' Tliem's the dooelists," he went on, indicating two 
 who, rearing on their hind legs, clashed tiny swords 
 with all the fire and fury of Macbeth and Macduff. 
 
 " Here we have the original Tango Team," he con- 
 tinued, showing a pair who went through the motions 
 of the dance in time to a tiny musical box. 
 
 Then, with pardonable pride, he drew my attention 
 to a separate case containing a well-made model of a 
 little farm. " Tliere ! " he said, extending his grubby 
 hand, " all run by the little critters." And, sure 
 enough, there were active little insects drawing ploughs 
 up and down green furrows ; others were hoeing with 
 tremendous energy; others mowing with equal enthu- 
 siasm. Here, too, was a miniature threshing machine, 
 turned by four black specks lying on their backs, 
 with other frantic black specks feeding it, and an extra 
 strenuous one forking away tlu' straw. 
 
 As I expressed my admiration of their intlustrv, the 
 
THE GIRL WHO LOOKED INTERESTLNG 75 
 
 Professor, with growing guato, dilated on tl»e clever- 
 ness of his pets, and put them through their paces. 
 There was a funeral, a chariot race, a merry-go-round, 
 and some other contrivances no less ingenious. Lastly 
 he showed me a glass case containing many black 
 specks. 
 
 '* Raw material. Them's the wild ones I keep to 
 take the place of the tame ones that dies. At first I 
 have to put 'em in a bit of a glass box like a pill box, 
 and turning on an axis same's a little treadmill. That's 
 to break 'em of the jumping habit. Every time they 
 jump — biiig! they hit the glass hard, so by and by 
 they quit. But they have to keep a-moving, because 
 the box keeps going round. In a few days they're 
 Ijroke into walk all right." 
 
 " Most ingenious ! " 
 
 " All my own notion. Since I started in the business, 
 many's the hundred I've broke in. I guess I know 
 more about the little critters than any man living." 
 
 It was with a view to tap a little of this knowledge 
 ihat I invited the Professor to a near-by pub., and 
 there, under the influence of sympathetic admiration 
 and hot gin, he expanded confidentially. 
 
 " All of them insects you saw," he informed me, 
 " comes from Japan. They grow bigger over there, 
 and more intelligent. I've experimented with nigh 
 every kind, but them Jap ones is the best. And here 
 I want to say that it's only the females is any good. 
 The males is mulish. Besides they're smaller and 
 weaker, and not so intelligent. Funny that, ain't it ? 
 That's an argyment for Woman's Suffrage. No, the 
 males is no good." 
 
 " And how do you train them. Professor? " I queried. 
 
;« 
 
 THK i»ri:ti:ni)er 
 
 " Well, first of all vou'm- got to hitch %in up, got 
 to g«''c a silk thread round thrir waists. That's a 
 mighty ticklish oppyrution, hut Jinny's good at it. 
 Vou see, they're so slick ctniint won't stick to 'em, 
 and if you was to use wax it kills 'em in a day or two. 
 So we've got to get a silk loop round their middle, 
 and cement a fine hristle to it. Once we have 'cm 
 harnessed up we hegin to train 'em. That's just a 
 matter of patience. Some's aptcr than others. Karth- 
 shether there was very quick. In a few days she was 
 on to her job." 
 
 "And how long do they live.^*' 
 
 "Oh, about a year, but I've had 'em for nigh two. 
 They got mighty weak towards the last though. You 
 know, a female in prime condition can draw twelve 
 hundred tinies her own weight." 
 
 "Wonderful! And what do they eat.>" 
 
 "Well," said O'Flathcr, thoughtfully, "a performer 
 can go about four days without eating, but we feed 'em 
 every day. Jinny used to do it. She loves 'em. But 
 it's hard on a person. I've got a young woman en- 
 gaged just now." 
 
 " A young woman ! " 
 
 " Yep, but she's a poor weak bit of a thing. I don't 
 think as she'll stick it much longer. You see, there's 
 lots of folks the little devils won't take to — me, for 
 instance. Blood's too bitter, I guess. They seem to 
 pnfer the women, too. Then again, they feed better 
 if the body's hot, specially if the skin's perspiring." 
 
 "How very interesting!" I said absently. Then 
 suddenly the reason of it came to me. The insects had 
 no intelligence, no consciously directed power. The 
 njotive that inspired them was — Fear. Their ex- 
 
THE GIHL WHO LOOKED INTERESTINCi 
 
 « t 
 
 traordinary demonstrations were caused hy their des- 
 perate efforts to escape. It was fear that drew the 
 coaches and tlie gun-carriages; fear that made those 
 kicking on their backs turn the threshing mills; fear in 
 the fight to free themselves from the stakes to which 
 Miey Wire chained that made the duellists clash their 
 .'.ihres, und the Uathshebas work at their wells. It was 
 even fear that made those two lashed side by side, and 
 head to tail, run round in opposite directions to gi-t 
 away from each other, till they gave the illusion of a 
 waltz. Fear as a niotivi.- power I This exhibition, out- 
 wardly so amusing, was really all suffering and despair, 
 struggle born of fear, pleasure gained at the cost of 
 pain. Exquisitely ludicrous ; yet how like life, how 
 like life! 
 
 " Professor O'Flather," I said gravely, " you have 
 taught me a lesson I will never forget." 
 
 " Naw," said the Professor modestly, " it ain't 
 nuthin'. Hope you get a few dollars out of it. Mind 
 you give the show a boost." 
 
 We were standing by the doorway of the exhibition 
 when a slim figure in grey brushed past us and entered. 
 I started, I could not be mistaken — it was the heroine 
 of my story The Girl UVio Looked Interesting. 
 
 "Who's that, Professor — the girl who's just gone 
 
 ui." 
 
 ? '♦ 
 
 *' That," said O'Flather, with a shrug, " why, that's 
 the young woman wot feeds the fleas." 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 THE CHEWING Gl'M OF DF.STIN'Y 
 
 ALLrBEi) by a sign: "A Cut off the Joint for Six- 
 penct'," I lunched in a little euting-hou.sc off Totten- 
 ham Court Road. I was at the tapioca pudding stag(> 
 of the repast, and in a moot! of singular complacency. 
 
 " Six weeks have gone," I pondered. *' I have spent 
 nearly a third of the sum I realised from the sale of 
 Guinivere's engagement ring. In my ambition to fail 
 in the world, already I have accomplished much. Be- 
 hold ! my boots arc cracked across the uppers. Re- 
 gard ! the suggestive glossiness of my coat-sleeves. 
 Observe ! the bluey brilliancy of my celluloid collar. Oh, 
 mighty Mammon, chain me to thine oar! Grind me, 
 Oppression, 'neath thy ruthless heel ! Minions of Mo- 
 nopoly, hound me to despair ! — not all your powers 
 combined in fell intent can so inspire me with the spirit 
 of Democracy as can the sticky feel of this celluloid col- 
 lar around my neck ! " 
 
 With which sentiment I lit a cigarette, and took from 
 mv pocket a copy of the Gotham Gazette. I had seen 
 it looking very foreign and forlorn in a news-agents, 
 and had bought it out of pity for its loneliness. I was 
 glancing through it when a name seemed to leap at 
 me, and I felt my heart stand still. I read: 
 
 " Yesterday afternoon patrician Fifth Avenue was the 
 scene of a saddening incident. It was almost opposite 
 Tiffanv's, and the autos were passing in • continuous 
 
 78 
 
THE CHEWING GUM OF DESTINY 79 
 
 strrnm. At this time and this place it is almost as difficult 
 to cross the Rubicon as to cross the Avenue; yet, taking 
 advantage of a lull in the traffic, a well-dressed man — 
 who has since been identified as Charles Fitxbarrington, 
 an cx-army officer resident in flarlcm — was observed 
 to make the daring attempt. Half way over he was seen 
 t«» stumble, and come to the ground. Those who saw the 
 r.ish act held their breaths, and when the nearest specta- 
 tors could reach him to rescue him from his perilous posi- 
 tion, they found to their surprise that the man was 
 dead. . . ." 
 
 I dropped the paper with a groan. Captain Fitz- 
 Imrrington dead! Mrs. Fitz free! My promise to 
 marry her! The terrible twins! Oh, God. . . . 
 
 "Alas!" I cried, "I am undone! — betrayed by an 
 incurably romantic disposition; asphyxiated in the cf- 
 fenesccnce of my own folly ; ignominiously undone ! " 
 
 As if it were yesterday, I remembered the faded 
 apartment in Harlem, my protests of undying devo- 
 tion, the words that now seemed written in remorse- 
 less flame: 
 
 " // anything should happen to him, if by any chance 
 Kr should find oursehes free, send for me, and I'll come 
 to you, exen though the vcoHd lie between us. By my 
 life, by my honour, I steear it" 
 
 Had I really uttered that awful rot? Oh, what a 
 fool I'd been ! But it was too late now. I must make 
 the best of it. Never yet have I gone back on my 
 «-ord (though I have put some very poetic construc- 
 tions on it). But here there was no chance of evasion. 
 She would certainly expect me to marry her. Fare- 
 well, ambitious dreams of struggle and privation! 
 
 ^ 
 
80 
 
 Tin: I'HKTKNUKU 
 
 Farewell, O glorious iiukpciuient poverty! Farewell, 
 my scheims aiul dreams! Bulieniiu, adventure, all! — 
 and for what.' For an elderly woman for whom I did 
 not fare a rap, a faded woman with a ready-made fam- 
 ily to boot. Truly life is one confounded scrape after 
 another. 
 
 That nifjht I dreamed of the terrible twins. I was a 
 pirate ship, Ronnie, the captain, stood on my chest, 
 while Lonnie, a naval lieutenant, tried to board me. 
 Then they invented a new ganje, based on the Mi<l- 
 ni^ht Hide of Paul Hevere. It was tremendously ex- 
 citing. They both got quite worked up over it. So 
 did I — only more so. I was the horse. I awoke, 
 bathed in perspiration, and liissing through n>v clenched 
 teeth: "Never! Never!" 
 
 But really it seemed as if I must do something: 
 so next day I began three different letters to Mrs. 
 Fitz. I was sorely distracted. My work was suffering. 
 There was the unfinislud manuscript of The Microbe 
 staring reproachfully at me. Then to crown all, just 
 as I was sitting down in the early evening with grim 
 determination to finish the letter, suddenly I was as- 
 sailed by a Craving. 
 
 Indulgent Reader, up till now I have concealed it, 
 but I must confess at last. I have one besetting weak- 
 ness, a weakness that amounts to a vice. I am ashamed 
 of it. Often I have tried to wean myself of it; often 
 cursed the heredity that imposed it on mc. Opium? 
 Morphine.' Cocaine.' Nothing so fashionable. Ab- 
 sinthe? Brandy? Gin? Nothing so normal. Alas! 
 let me wliispcr it in your ear: I am a Chewing Gum 
 Fiend ! 
 
 So feeling in my pocket for the stuff, and finding 
 
TlIK tHKWING GL'M OF DESTINY 81 
 
 mg 
 
 none, I straightway began to crave it as never before. 
 Thin, knowing there would be no peace for roe, I left 
 mv letter and started desperately forth into that fog 
 stifled city. 
 
 And that fog was now a FOG. It irked the lung:*, 
 and made the eye-balls tingle. Each street lamp was 
 a sulphurous blur, each radiant shop-window a furtive 
 lilotch of light. It seemed something solid, something 
 \ t)u could cut into slices, and 8er>-c between bread — a 
 vtry Canienibert cheese of a fog. 
 
 So into this woolly obscurity I plunged, and like a 
 Mackinaw blanket it entangled me about. Bleary 
 l)()xt s of light the tramways crawled along. There were 
 toolings of taxis, curses of cabbies, clanging of bells, 
 'llie streets were lanes of mystery, the passers weird 
 shadows; the shop-windows seemed to be made of horn 
 instead of glass. Then the green and red lights of a 
 chemist's semaphored me, seemingly from a great dis- 
 tance, but really from just a few feet away. So there 
 I bought six packets of chewing gum, and started home. 
 
 But at this point 1 found the fog fuzzier than ever. 
 I stumbled and fumbled, and wondered and blundered, 
 till presently I found myself standing before the great 
 doors of a theatre. For the moment I was too dis- 
 couraged to go further, and the performance was about 
 to begin. Ha! that v:a$ an idea! I would enter. 
 Then I groaned in spirit, for I saw that the theatre 
 was Drury Lane. Sensational melodrama! Ah, no! 
 Better the cold and cruel street. But the fog was in- 
 exorable. Three times did I try to break through it : 
 three times did it hurl me back on the melodramatic 
 mercies of Drury Lane. 
 
 Hanging over the front of the gallery, I asked my- 
 
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82 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 self: "Who arc those hundreds of well-dressed people 
 who fill this great pla3hou>e? To all appearance they 
 are intelligent beings, jet I cannot imagine intelligent 
 beings taking this kind of thing seriously. .\ , burlesque 
 it's funny, and the more thrilling it gets the funnier 
 it is. Yet, except mysdf, no one seems to laugh. 
 How the author nmst have chuckled over his fabrica- 
 tion! However, let me credit him with one haunting 
 line, one memorable sentiment, delivered by the heroine 
 to a roar of applause : 
 
 " A woman's most precious Jowel is licr pixxl naiiif, 
 And her brightest crown the lovt- of her luislmnd ! " 
 
 Then suddenly a light flashed on me. It was the>c 
 people who bought my books; it was this sort of 
 thing 1 had been peddling to them .so long. And the\ 
 liked it. How they howled for more! "O ye god^ 
 of High Endeavour!" I groaned, "heap not my sins 
 of melodrama on my head." 
 
 Conscience-stricken I did not wait for the climax 
 where two airships grapple in the sky, under the guns 
 of a " Dreadnought," while at a crossing an auto 
 dashes into a night express. I sneaked out between 
 the acts, and sought the .solitude of the Thames Em- 
 bankment. 
 
 The fog had cleared now, and the clock of St. 
 Stephen's pealed till I counted the stroke of midnight. 
 The wall of the Embankment was a barrier of grime, 
 the river a thing of mystery and nmd. It was a grue- 
 some night. Even the huge electrically-limned High- 
 landman on the opposite shore, who drinks whiskey 
 witii such enviable capacity, had ceased for the nonce 
 his luminous libation^. 
 
THE CHEWING GUM OF DESTINY 
 
 8J3 
 
 A few human waifs shuffled past iiic, middle-aged 
 men with faces pale as dough, and discouraged mous- 
 taches drooping over negligible chins. Their clothes, 
 green with age and corroded with mud, seemed to flap 
 iniptilv on their meagre frames. A woman separated 
 herself from a mass of sliadow, a miry-skirted scare- 
 crow crowned with a broken bonnet. With one red 
 claw she clutched a precious box of matches. 
 
 " For Gord's syke buy it orf me, mister. I ain't 
 niyde tupp'nce oipney orl dye." 
 
 I left her staring at a silver coin and testing it with 
 her teeth. 
 
 Yes, it was a bad night to be out in, a bad night to 
 cower on these bitter benches waiting for the dawn. 
 Yet I myself was conscious of the chauffage central of 
 peripatetic philanthropy. Greedily I panted for other 
 opportunities to enjoy the glow of giving. Then, as I 
 was passing Cleopatra's Needle, I heard the sound of a 
 woman's sob. 
 
 It came from the gloomy gruesomeness between the 
 Needle and the Thames. I peered and listened. Below 
 me the hideous river chuckled, and the lamplight fell 
 lividly on the whiteness of a lifebuo}' bound to the wall. 
 Again I was sure I heard that sound of piteous sobbing. 
 
 Bravery is often a lack of imagination ; I have imagi- 
 nation plus, so I hesitated. I had heard of men being 
 lured into traps. Vividly enough I saw myself a ca- 
 daver drifting on the tide, and I liked not the picture. 
 Yet after all it takes tremendous courage to be a cow- 
 ard, so I drew nearer. Strange! the sobbing, so low, 
 so pitiful, had ceased. It was followed bj' a silence far 
 more sinister. There was a vibrating agony in that 
 ^ilence, a hoiiiljle, hewrt-clutching su.'-ponst. What if 
 
84 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 I were to go down tlicre and find — no one? Yet 
 some one had been, I would swear ; some one had sobbed, 
 and now — silence. 
 
 Slowly, slowly I descended the steps. There in the 
 black shadow of the Needle I made little noise, yet — 
 suddenly I began to wonder if all the world could not 
 hear the beating of my heart. . . . 
 
 Heart be still! hand be steady! foot be swift! 
 There, crouching on the top of the wall, gazing down- 
 ward, ready for the leap, I see the figure of a woman. 
 Will she jump before I can reach her.'' I hold my 
 breath. Nearer I steal, nearer, nearer. Then — one 
 swift rush — ah ! I have her. 
 
 Even as I clutched I felt her weight sag towards the 
 river. Another moment and I had dragged her back 
 into safety. Tense and panting, I stared at her; then, 
 as the lamplight fell on her ghastly face I uttered a 
 cry of amazement. Heavens above ! it was the girl of 
 the entomological meal-ticket, the persistent pedestrian 
 of Tavistock Square. 
 
 There she cowered, looking at me with great, terror 
 dilated eyes. There I glowered, regarding her grimly 
 enough. At last I broke the silence. 
 
 "Child! Child! why did you do it." You've gone 
 and spoilt my story. I should never have met you like 
 this. It's coincidence. Coincidence, you know, can't 
 happen in fiction, only in real life. You can't be fic- 
 tion now. You'll have to be real life." 
 
 She gazed at me blankly. Against the green of the 
 wall her face was a vague splash of white. 
 
 '* But that is a matter with which I can scarcely 
 reproach you. What I would like to know is why were 
 \nu on the top of that wall? Having severely strained 
 
THE CHEWING GUM OF DESTINY 85 
 
 my right ami, I conceive I am entitled to an explnnn- 
 tion." 
 
 She did not make an effort to supply one, so after 
 n pause I continued: 
 
 " No doubt you will say it was because you were 
 tired, hungry, homeless. Because you thought the 
 river kinder than the cruel world. Because you said: 
 * Death is better than dishonour!'" 
 
 The girl nodded vaguely. 
 
 " Ah no ! " I said sadly ; " you must not say these 
 things, for if you do you will be quoting word for word 
 the heroine of my novel A Shirtmaker's Romance. You 
 will be guilty of plagiarism, my child; and what's 
 worse, a thousand times worse, you will be guilty of 
 melodrama." 
 
 She looked at me as if she thought me mad, then a 
 shudder convulsed her, and breaking away, she dashed 
 down the steps to that black water. Just in time I 
 caught her and dragged her back. She shrank against 
 the wall, hiding her face, sobbing violently. 
 
 " Please don't," I entreated. " If you want to give 
 me a chance of doing the rescuing hero business choose 
 a less repellent evening, and water not so like an ani- 
 mated cesspool. Now, listen to me." 
 
 Her sobbing ceased. She was a silent huddle of black 
 against the wall. 
 
 " I am," I said, " a waif like yourself, homeless, 
 hungry, desperate. I came to this city to win fame 
 and fortune. Poor dreaming fool ! Little did I know 
 that where one wins a thousand fail. Well, I've 
 struggled, starved even as you've done; but I've made 
 up my mind to suffer no more. And so to-night I've 
 come down here, even as you've done, to end it all." 
 
86 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 I liad lier listening now. From the white mask of 
 lier face her big e^es devoured nie. 
 
 " Yes, my poor girl," 1 went on wearily, " you're 
 right. Life for such as us is better ended. Defeated, 
 desperate, what is there left for us but death? Let 
 us then die together ; but not your way — no, that's 
 too primitive. I have another, more fascinating, more 
 original. Ah! even in self-destruction, behold in me 
 the artist. And I am going to allow you to share my 
 doom. Na}- ! do not trouble to express j'our gratitude. 
 I understand ; it's too deep for words. And now, just 
 excuse me one moment : I will prepare." 
 
 With that I went over to the base of the Needle 
 and taking from my pocket the five remaining packets 
 of chewing gum, I tore the paper from them. Then 
 with the large piece I had been masticating, I welded 
 them into a solid stick about six inches long. Eagerly 
 I returned to her. 
 
 "There!" I cried triumphantly. "Do you know 
 what this grey stick is? But why should you? Well, 
 let me tell you. This dull, sugary-looking stuff is dyna- 
 mite, dynamite in its most concentrated form. This is 
 a stick of the terrific Pepsixite. It has moved more 
 than any explosive known. Now do you understand? " 
 
 Her eyes were rivettcd on the little grey stick. 
 
 *' Ah, well ma}' you shudder, girl ! There's enough 
 in this tiny piece to blow a score of us to atoms, to 
 bring this mighty monument careening down, to make 
 the embankment look like an excavation for the under- 
 ground railway. Oh, is it not glorious? Pepsinite!" 
 
 Still looking at it as if fascinated, she made a move- 
 ment of utter alarm. 
 
 " Just think of it," I whispered gloatingly ; " in two 
 
THE CHEWING GUM OF DESTINY 87 
 
 more minutes we shall be launched into ctornitj*. Does 
 that not thrill you with rapture? And think of our 
 revenge! Here with our death we will destroy their 
 monument, hard as their hearts, black as their selfish- 
 ness, sharp as their scorn. It, too, will be blown to 
 pieces." 
 
 She looked up at the black column almost as if she 
 were sorrj' for it. I laughed harshly. 
 
 *' Ves, I know. You do not hate the Needle, but 
 just think of the people who are so proud of it, the 
 devils who have goaded us to this. At first I thought 
 that with my death I would destroy their Albert Me- 
 morial, and so break their philistine hearts. But that 
 would have taken so much pepsinite, and I have only 
 this pitiful piece. So it had to be the Needle." 
 
 Again she seemed almost to regret its impending 
 doom. 
 
 " And now," I cried, " the time has come. Oh, curse 
 you, curse you, vast vain-glorious city ! Under the 
 Upas window of your smoke what dreams have withered, 
 what idols turned to clay ! How many hearts of splen- 
 did pride have failed and fallen! How many poets 
 cursed thy publishers and died! Oh heedless, heartless 
 London ! " 
 
 With a gesture full of noble scorn I shook my fist in 
 tlie direction of the Savoy Hotel. Then I changed to 
 another key. 
 
 " But no, let me not curse v'ou, great city ! Here at 
 the gateway of death let me envisage you again, and 
 from the depths of the heart you have broken say to 
 you sadly : ' London, ruthless, splendid London, I for- 
 give ! ♦ " 
 
 My hand quivered as I laid the grey stick at the 
 
88 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 base of the monument ; my hand trembled as I planted 
 a large wax match in it; mj hand positively shook 
 as I struck another match and applied a light to the 
 upright one. With eyes dilated I stared at the tiny 
 flickering flame, and at that moment, so worked up 
 was I, I will swear I thought I was looking at the very 
 flame of death. 
 
 " Come closer, closer girl," I gasped. " See it burn- 
 ing down, down. Soon it will reach the end and we 
 will know nothing. Oh is it not glorious — nothing! 
 Good-bye world, good-bye life ... see! it is nearly 
 half way. Oh gracious flame, burn faster, faster yet! 
 And now, girl, standing here in the shadow of death 
 do not refuse my last request; let me kiss you once, 
 just once upon your brow." 
 
 For answer she stooped swiftly and blew out the 
 match. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 THE YOUNG MAN WHO MAKES GOOD 
 
 "Why did ^'ou do it?" I demanded angrily. "Why 
 couldn't we have gone through with it? " 
 
 Then for the first time the girl seemed to find her 
 voice, and it was a very faint voice indeed. 
 
 " No, no, I could not. For myself it does not mat- 
 tairc ; but you, monsieur — that's different." 
 
 Again I was struck with her foreign intonation, her 
 pretty precision with which Frenchwomen speak Eng- 
 lish, the deliberate utterance due to an effort, not 
 wholly successful, to avoid zeeing and zizzing. 
 
 " Why is it so different ? " I asked sulkily. 
 
 " Because — because me, I am nossing. If I die no 
 persons will care; but you, monsieur, you are artist, 
 you are poet. You have many beautiful sings to do 
 in the life. Ah, monsieur! have courage, courage. 
 Promise me you nevaire do it some more." 
 
 ** All right," I said gloomily ; " I promise.'* 
 
 She seemed reassured. Her child's face as she looked 
 at me was full of pity and sympathy. 
 
 "And now," I said, " what's to be done? '* 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. All at once 
 
 a look of terror came into her fu ,e. Fearfully she 
 
 peered over my shoulder, then she cowered back in the 
 
 shadow of the wall. 
 
 " Oh, I'm 'fraid, I'm 'fraid." 
 
 89 
 
9() 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 Involuntarily I turned in the direction of her stare, 
 but saw no one. 
 
 " What arc you afraicl of r *' I asked. " What's the 
 trouble?" 
 
 "It's Monsieur O'Flazzaire ! Oh, I am bad, bad 
 girls! Why you not let nie die.' I have keel, I have 
 keel." 
 
 "Good Heavens! you haven't killed Professor 
 O'Flather?" 
 
 "No, no, but I have keel ze troupe; Batsheba, all, 
 all; dead, keel by my hand, keel in revenge. Oh I 
 am so wicked! I hate myself." 
 
 I stared at her. " In the name of Heaven, what have 
 you done.'' " 
 
 For answer she pulled from the pocket of her mantle 
 a tin canister of fair size and handed it to me. By 
 the lamplight I could just make out the label: 
 
 skeeter's ixsect powder. 
 
 A light dawned on me. " You don't mean to say 
 you've fed 'em on this ? " 
 
 " Yes, yes, all of eet. I have spare nossing. I was 
 mad. Oh I 'ate heem so ! And now I'm 'fraid. If he 
 finds me he will keel me, certainly. He's bad man. 
 Oh don't let heem find me ! " 
 
 She clutched my arm in her terror. 
 
 " Don't worry," I assured her. " But first, let's de- 
 stroy the evidence of your crime." 
 
 I flung the canister into the river, where we heard 
 a faint splash. 
 
 " Now," I went on, " you're no doubt cold and 
 hungry. Let me take you to the cofFee-stall on the 
 
rili: YOUNG MAN WHO MAKES GOOD 91 
 
 llnibankmcnt nnd give you some supper. Then, accord- 
 iiii,' to the custom of the situution, you may tell me 
 till' sad story of your life. In the meantime, as we 
 walk there, let's hear how you fixed O'Flather." 
 
 "It is true, what I tell you, Monsieur; he's very, 
 v( ry bad man. He 'ave sai<l the things disgusting to 
 1110, and he try to make me have dinner wi/ hcem many 
 hcvenings, but I say: No! No! Because, truly, I have 
 'orror for such mans. Den last night he tell mc if I 
 don' come wiz heem, he don' want me some more. He 
 refuse pay me my money, and the lady where I rest 
 till me: 'You don't come back some more wiz no money.' 
 So what I must do? I have no 'ome, and just one sheel- 
 iiig of money. Ah, no! It was not interesting for 
 me, truly." 
 
 She shook her head with all the painful resignation 
 
 of the poor. 
 
 " Well, I am desperate. I sink it is all finish for me. 
 I must drink of the gran' cup at last. That make me 
 sad, because I have fight so long. But there! it is 
 the life, is it not ? Then I sink I have one gran' revenge. 
 I buy wiz my sheeling dat powdai;e, and I go to the 
 exposition. There was only the Japonaise girl, and 
 she leave me wiz the troupe. They lie on their backs 
 and they wait for dejeuner. W^ell, I geeve them such 
 as I don' sink they want eat ever again. Oh, I 'ate 
 them so, and I 'ate heem so, and so I keel them every 
 (ine wiz that powdaire, till zere legs don' wave some 
 more. Even ze wild ones, they don' jump some more 
 now." 
 
 " Poor Bathsheba ! " 
 
 " Then when I finish keel the last one the Japonaise 
 girl come and scream for *he patron, and I run like 
 
98 
 
 THE PRETKNDER 
 
 wind. But I know he fetch everywhere for mc, and 
 when he find nie he keel me too. Anyway, I was tire, 
 and I dispair, so I sink I throw myself in the water. 
 There!" 
 
 " Well, you must swear you won't do it again." 
 
 " Yes, I swear on the head of my fazzaire, I won't 
 <lo it again." 
 
 " And now for that cofFeo, coffee and sandwiches — 
 ham sandwiches." 
 
 She ate and drank eagerly, yet always with that 
 furtive, hunted look, as if she expected to see the huge 
 hull-dog face of O'Flathcr with its mane of brindled 
 hair come snarling out of the gloom. I saw, too, that 
 she was regarding me with great interest and curiosity, 
 indeed with a certain maternal and protecting air, odd 
 in one so cliildish and clinging herself. Once, seeing 
 that I shivered a little, she turned up the collar of my 
 coat and buttoned it. In spite of the mothering gen- 
 tleness of the act I might have thought it a little " for- 
 ward," had I not remembered that in her eyes we were 
 comrades in misfortune. 
 
 Her eyes! How blue and bright they were now, as 
 they regarded me over her coffee! And how long, I 
 wondered, had that wistful mouth been a stranger to 
 smiles? 
 
 " Let me see you smile," I begged. 
 
 I thought so. A flash of teeth that made me think 
 of an advertising poster for a popular dentifrice. 
 Again I noted the darkness of her hair, setting off the 
 porcelain whiteness of her skin. Again I approved of 
 the full forehead, and the frank eyebrows. Again ihe 
 girl stirred me strangely. And to think that she might 
 have been at the bottom of that hideous river by now! 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO MAKKS GOOD 93 
 
 I felt a sudden pity for her, and a wish to shj Id her 
 from further ill. 
 
 "And now for the story," I said, as she finihcd. 
 " I have told you mine, you know." 
 
 " Ah, mine ! It is not so interesting. There is not 
 nnich to tell. My fazzaire die when I was Icctle girl, 
 and I go to the convent. There I learn to do the hein- 
 hroderie, and when I leave the Sisters I work in atalier 
 in Paris. It was so hard. We work from eight by the 
 morning till seven at night. There was t'irty girl all 
 in one leetle room, and some girls was poitrinairey 
 
 "What's that.?" 
 
 " Ah . . . what you call it — yes, consumption. 
 Well, I begin to become that no more can I stand it, 
 so I come to Londres and try to get work. Every day 
 I try so 'ard for one month, for I can speak English not 
 much. Then just as I have no money left I get work 
 in atalier at the hem-hroderie. It was not so 'ard as in 
 Paris, and I was very 'appy. But pretty soon I am 
 seek, and it is neccssaire I go to the hospital. It was 
 the appendicite. When I get out I try to get back 
 to the atalier, but my place have been fill. No work, 
 no money — truly, I have no chance." 
 
 "Well, what happened then.'" 
 
 " Ah ! then it was not interesting. I often go very 
 hungry. 1 live for many days on bread, just bread. 
 But by and by I get more work. Then again I am 
 very 'appy. But I have no chance. I become seek 
 once more. I have headache very much ; my hair tum- 
 ble out, and every night I cry. But I try very 'ard. 
 I must 'ecp my work, I must, I must. Then the doc- 
 tor tell me I must have more air. I must respire. I 
 toil him it is not for the poor to respire, and he say 
 
94 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 3'ou must do something outside, or you will die. Well, 
 I leave the atalier and for two months I fetch somesing 
 outside. But I have no chance. Once more my money 
 is finish, then one day I get work with 3Ionsieur O'Flaz- 
 zairc. I would not have taken it, but that I am starve, 
 and I am 'fraid. It was so 'ard, and every day I get 
 more weak. Then, yesterday, he tell me : ' Go ! 
 I don' pay you,' — and I don' care for myself any 
 more." 
 
 " Why," I said gravely, looking her in the face, 
 "did you not do as others would have done?" 
 
 She stared at me in a startled way: 
 
 " You do not mean dishonour, monsieur. Ah no ! 
 You cannot mean that." 
 
 "Is it not better to do that than starve.'" 
 
 " It is better to die than to do that, ^ sink. I am 
 good Catholic, Monsieur." 
 
 " Do not call me Monsieur! Are we not fellow waifs.'' 
 So you think it is less sin to take your own life than to 
 sell your honour? " 
 
 " It is that that I think, Monsieur." 
 
 As I looked into the steady, blue eyes I saw a look 
 of faith that almost amounted to fanaticism, a sort of 
 Joan of Arc look. " How curious ! " I thought. " I 
 was under the impression such sentiments were confined 
 to books." However, I determined to fall back on 
 cynicism, and to seem the more cynical I lit a cigarette. 
 She watched me with a curious intensity ; and as she 
 stood there quietly, a naphtha lamp lit up her pale, 
 earnest face. 
 
 "Ah! young lady," I remarked mockingly, "you 
 speak like a penny novL-lette. In fact, you say the same 
 thing as did my heroine Monica Klein in A Shirt- 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO MAKES GOOD 95 
 
 maker^s Romance. It only remains for you to die to 
 .>low music in the snow outside the door of a fashionable 
 church. That's what happened to Monica. I shed a 
 bucket of tears as 1 wrote that scene. But I thought 
 we had decided you were to be Fact not Fiction.'' " 
 
 " I do not understand, Monsieur." 
 
 " Then let me cxpiain. Idealism is a luxury we poor 
 people can't afford. If you should be forced into dis- 
 honour for bread, lives there a man that would dare 
 blame you.'' To me you would be as good as the 
 purest woman, even though you walk the streets. 
 Nay! I'm not sure tiiat you wouldn't be better, bc- 
 <-ause you would be a victim, a sacrifice, a martyr. 
 No, you're wrong, mademoiselle. I think you're 
 wrong." 
 
 " It is easy to die ; it must be 'ard to live like zat." 
 
 " How lucky you find it so eas}- to die. Me, I'd 
 rather be a live lackey than a dead demi-god. But 
 let me tell you you won't get much credit in this world 
 for dying in the cause of virtue, and I have my doubts 
 about the next. And it doesn't seem to me to make 
 nuich odds whether you die quickly, as you intended 
 doing a little while ago, or whether you die slowly by 
 hard work and poor living. Society's going to do for 
 you anyway. You're Waste, that's what you arc. \n 
 every process there must be waste, even in the civilising 
 one. You're going to be swept into the rubbish heap 
 pretty soon. Poor pitiful W^aste ! What do you mean 
 to do now ? " 
 
 Her face fell sullenly. She would not look at me any 
 more, but sho answered bravely enough. 
 
 " Me ! Oh, I suppose I try again. Perhaps I starve. 
 Perhaps I find work. Anyway, I fight." 
 
96 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 " WTiat chance have you got — a poor physique, 
 hard toil, bad air, cheap food. You'll go on fighting 
 till you fall, then no one will care. If it's fighting 
 you're after, why don't you fight Society, fight with 
 your women's weapons, your allure, your appeal to 
 the worst in man. You can do it. Any woman can 
 if she's determined and forgets certain scruples. Do 
 as I would in your case, as many men would if they 
 had the cursed ill-luck to be women. Then, when 
 you're sixty you can turn round and have a pew 
 in church, instead of rotting at thirty in Potter's 
 
 Field." 
 
 "You advice me like zat?" I could feel that she 
 
 shrank from me. 
 
 "Doesn't it seem good, practical advice?" 
 
 " Suppose no one want me? " 
 
 "True. There's many a woman guarding ever so 
 jealously a jewel no man wants to steal. That's almost 
 more bitter than having it stolon. However, don't you 
 worry about that, there's no need to." 
 
 She raised her head which had been down-hung. In- 
 tently, oddly she looked at me. 
 
 "Will you take me?" she said suddenly. 
 
 "Me!'' I laughed. "Why no! I'm speaking as 
 one wastrel to another. How could I?" 
 
 " Would you if you could? " 
 
 " Well, ei- — I don't think so. You see — I'm not 
 that sort." 
 
 " No, I knew you were not," she said slowly ; " you're 
 
 good man." 
 
 " I'm not," I protested indignantly. How one hates 
 to he called "good" — especially if one is a woman. 
 
 " Yes, you are," she insisted. Then she threw back 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO MAKES GOOD 97 
 
 litr head with a certain tine pride, and the dark sea- 
 blue eyes were unfathomable. 
 
 "• You have saved my life. It is yours now. Will 
 you not take me? I am good girl. I have always 
 been serious, I have always been virtuous. 1 will work 
 hard for you. I will help you while you are so poor; 
 /en if one dav you are become rich, famous, and you 
 are tire of me, I will go away." 
 
 I was taken aback. If there's one thing worse than 
 to be convicted of vice it's to be convicted of virtue. 
 I ■«<iuirnied, stammered, shuffled. 
 
 '• Well, you sec I — Hang it all ! somewhere in my 
 iiKikc-up there's that uncomfortable possession, a Puri- 
 I. in conscience. I'm sorry — let me consider . . . Per- 
 li,i})N there's another way." 
 
 How terrible to a woman to have the best she has 
 to o.Tir refused; but the girl bore up bravely. 
 
 "What is it?" she asked, without any particular 
 interest. 
 
 I was doing some rapid thinking. An idea had come 
 into my head which startled mc. It was an inspira- 
 tion, a solution of a pressing problem. Swiftly I de- 
 cided. 
 
 " To do as you suggest," I said, " would be very 
 wrong, and what's worse, it would be crudely conven- 
 tional. It is commonplace now in some society to live 
 with a person without marrying them; the original 
 thing's to marry them. W^ell, will you marry me?" 
 She looked at me incredulously. I went on calmly. 
 " But for mo, as you say, your troubles would by 
 now have been over. In a way I'm responsible for your 
 life. What's to be done? I'm not old enough to adopt 
 you, and to constitute myself your guardian would lay 
 
9S 
 
 Tin: i'ki:ti:nueu 
 
 iiR- open to uiicharitfihle suspicion. From now on I 
 know I shall Ijl- infernullv worried about vou. Well, 
 the easiest way out of the ditticulty seems to be to marrv 
 you, doesn't it.' " 
 
 " But you don't know uu ," she gasped. 
 
 '• You've got • nothing on me ' there," I said airily ; 
 *• you don't know me. That's precisely what makes 
 it so interesting. Any man can marry a woman he 
 knows ; it takes an original to marry one he doesn't. 
 Hut after all, ha> not the method some merit .^ We 
 start with no illusions. There will be no eye-opening 
 process, no finding our swans geese. The beautv of 
 sueh a marriage is that we don't entirely ring down the 
 curtain on romance." 
 
 " Hut — I have no money." 
 
 " Neither have I. What does that matter .> Any 
 fool can marry if he's got monev; it takes a brave man 
 to do it if he's broke." 
 
 " Hut — " 
 
 '* Not another word. It's all settled. I think it's a 
 splendid idea. We'll be married to-morrow if possible. 
 I'll get a licence at once. By the way, what's your 
 name.'' It's oi no consequence, you know, but I fancy 
 it's necessary for the licence."' 
 
 '• .\nastasia Guinoval." 
 
 " Thank you. Now I'll take you to where you live, 
 and you must accept a little money to satisfy your 
 landlady. To-morrow I'll call for you. Hold on a 
 minute — as we're affianced, seems to me we ought to 
 kiss?" 
 
 "I — don't know." 
 
 " Yes, I l)elieve it's customary." I pecked at her 
 lightly in the dark. " Now, you understand we're mak- 
 
THE YOUNG MAN WHO MAKES GOOD 99 
 
 ing a real sensible marriage, without any sentimental 
 nonsense about it. You understand I'm not a senti- 
 mental man. 1 hate sentiment." 
 
 '' I understand," she said doubtfully. 
 
 As we moved away, up their in the dark that great 
 sonorous bell boomed the stroke of one. Only aji 
 hour, yet how busy had the fates been on my particular 
 account ! In what ludicrous ways had they worked out 
 their design ! On what trivial things does destiny sceuj 
 to hinge! Ah! who shall say what is trivial? 
 
 On reaching my room my first act was to take up 
 mv half-finished letter to Mrs. Fitz. I read the words : 
 " If ever we should find ourselves free to marry, you 
 promised you would send for me." 
 
 " Good ! " I cried exultantly. " She will find herself 
 fi-ee to marry all right, but I won't ; that is, I hope I 
 won't after to-morrow. Whoever could have guessed 
 the motive behind my apparently rash proposal. To 
 avoid one marriage I stake my chances on another. 
 Well, that settles things as far as Mrs. Fitz is con- 
 cerned. Ronnie and Lonnie, I defy you." 
 
 So I tore my letter into small pieces with a vast 
 satisfaction, and I was proceeding to tear also the 
 luckless copy of the Gotham Gazette when I paused. 
 I had not noticed th.at the fateful paragraph, begun 
 near the bottom of a page, was continued on the next. 
 Again I read: 
 
 "... when the nearest spectators could reach him to 
 rescue him from his perilous position they found to their 
 surprise that the man was dead . . ." 
 
 Quickly I turned over the page; then I gave a gasp, 
 for this was the continuation: 
 
100 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 "... to the world. The gallant captain had been im- 
 bibing not wisely but too well, and when aroused after some 
 difSculty, claimed that he had a right to sleep there if he 
 chose. It was only after much argument and resistance 
 that he was finally persuaded to accompany an officer to 
 the police station." 
 
 " Of all the — " 
 
 Words failed me at this point. I plumped down on 
 my chair and sat as if paralysed. And after all the 
 captain was not dead — only dead drunk, and my 
 brilliant effort to avoid marrying his widow had been 
 entirely unnecessary. Then after all I was a fool. 
 
 Well, it was too late to find it out. At least I never 
 went back on my word. I must go through with the 
 other business. 
 
 " Anastasia Guinoval ! Hum ! maybe it'll turn out 
 all right. Time will show. Anyway — it will be a 
 good chance to learn French." 
 
 And with this comforting reflection I went to bed. 
 
 EKD OF BOOK \ 
 
BOOK II — THE STRUGGLE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 THE NEWLY-WEDS 
 
 It was nearly a week bciore I recovered from the sur- 
 prise of my sudden niarriiig .■. 
 
 As far as the actual ceremony went it seemed as if 
 I were the person least concerned. One, James Horace 
 Madden, was tying himself in the most awkward man- 
 ner to a men)ber of the opposite sex, a slight, pale, 
 neatly -dressed girl whose lucent blue eyes were already 
 beginning to regard him with positive adoration. The 
 said James Horace Madden, a tall, absent- -ninded young 
 man, stared about him continually. He was, indeed, 
 more like a curious and amused spectator than a prin- 
 cipal in the affair, and it was nearly over before he de- 
 cided to become interested in it. 
 
 Well, I was married, so they told me, as they shook 
 
 my hand; and I had a wife, so she assured me as she 
 
 clung lightly to my arm. She seemed extravagantly 
 
 happy. When I saw she was so happy I was glad I 
 
 had married her. To tell the truth, I had almost 
 
 backed out. The inconsiderateness of Captain Fitz- 
 
 barrington in not dying had hurt my feelings and 
 
 aroused in me a resentment against Fate. In the 
 
 end, however, good nature prevailed. I believe I am 
 
 good-natured enough to marry a dozen women should 
 
 occasion demand. 
 
 We had not been wed five minutes before Anastasia 
 
 101 
 
102 
 
 Tin: PHKTKNDER 
 
 dcveloprd an oxtraonlin.irv capacity, for unreserved 
 affection. I have never been capable of unreserved 
 affection, not even for myself; but I can appreciate 
 it ill others, particularly if I am the object of it. She 
 also (levdoped such a morbid fear of the infuriate 
 OTlather that on my sn/jgcsting we spend our honey- 
 iiionn in Paris her enthusiasm was almost grotesque. 
 When we arrived at the Garc du Nord I believe she 
 could have km It down and kiss.d the very stones. 
 
 And to tell the truth my own delight was hardly 
 less restrained. There's only one mood in which to 
 approach Paris — Rhapsody. So for ten marvellous 
 days 1 rhapsodised. The fact that I was on a honey- 
 moon seemed trivial compared with my presence in 
 the most adorable of cities. Truly my bride had rea- 
 son to be jealous of this Paris, and, as she was given 
 that way, doubtless she would have been had not she 
 herself loved so well. 
 
 Rut I lure was another matter to distract me: had 
 I not a new part to play? As a young married man it 
 behoved me, in the first place, to acquire a certain 
 seriousness and weight. After due reflexion I decided 
 to give up tiie flippant cigarette and take to the more 
 diirnified pipe. So I made myself a present of a splen- 
 did nieerseliaum, and getting Anastasia to encase the 
 bowl In a flannel jacket I began to colour it. 
 
 Imagine me, then, on a certain snappy morning of 
 lati' December, nursing my flannel-clad meerschaum as 
 I 'swing jnuntily along the Quai des Toumelles. Sea- 
 sonable weather! the brilliant sunshine playing on the 
 Seine with all the glitter of cutlery : bevond the splen- 
 did stride of steel between the two lies, the Hotel de 
 Ville: to the left the hideous Morgue: beyond that, 
 
Tin: NKWLY-WKDS 
 
 KKJ 
 
 again, \hc grey glory of Notre Dainc, iK honc-blanclitil 
 buttresses like the ribs of some uncouth monster, its 
 two blunt towers like timewcm horns, its gargoyles 
 etched in ebon black against the sky. 
 
 " After all," I am reflecting, " the ndvantuge* of 
 marrying a person one does not know are sufficiently 
 obvious. Then there is no bitterness of disillusion- 
 ment, no chagrin of being found out. What woman 
 can continue to idealise an unshaven man in pyjamas? 
 What man can per'.!<t in kIm: i;ig a female in a peignoir 
 with her hair concentrated into knots? In good truth 
 we never marry the person with whom we go through 
 the wedding ceremony: it's always some one else." 
 
 Here I pause to stare appreciatively at the Fontaine 
 St. Michel, amid whose icicles the sunbeams play at 
 hide-and-seek. Then I watch the steam of a tug which 
 the sunshine tangles in fleeces of gold amid the bare 
 branches of a marronnier: after which in the same 
 zestful way I regard a hearty man on a sand-barge 
 toasting some beef on a sharpened stick over a fire. 
 Suddenly these humble things seem to become alive with 
 interest for me. 
 
 " Yes," I continue, " love is an intoxicant, marriage 
 the most eff^ertive of soberers. It is a part of life's 
 discipline, a bachelor's punishment for his sins, a life- 
 long argimient in which one is wise to choose an op- 
 ponent one can out-voice. How the fictitious values of 
 courtship arc discounted in the mart of matrimony! 
 It makes philosophers of us all. Having been a bene- 
 dict three weeks, of course T know cverythin^r about it." 
 The long slate-grey facade of the I.ouvre is sun- 
 radiant, and like a point of admiration rears the Tower 
 St. Jacques. Looking down the shining river the 
 
104 
 
 Tin: i'hi:'ii:m)i:h 
 
 arches of the many bridges interlock like lacework, 
 and like needles the li^ile steamers dart gleaming 
 throngli. The graceful river and the gleaming quays 
 laugh in the sunshine, and as I look at them my heart 
 Ifuighs too. 
 
 " Hut," I ^r„ on musingly, " to marry some one you 
 ilon't know, some one who has never inspired you with 
 mad dreams, never lived for you in the glamour of 
 romance: surely that is ideal. You have no illusions; 
 her virtues as well as her faults are all to discover. 
 Take my own case. So far, I haven't discovered a 
 single fault. My wife adores me. She can scarcely 
 hear me out of her sight. Even now I know she's 
 anxiously awaiting my return: imagines I may have 
 heen run over by a taxi, and then arrested by a police- 
 man for getting in its way. Or else I have a maitresse. 
 Frequently she shows signs of jealousy, and I've heen 
 away over an hour. Reallv I must hurry home to 
 reassure her." 
 
 With that I pass under the arch of the Institute, and 
 turn up the rue de Seine. I glance with eager interest 
 at the gorgelike nie Visconti : I itch to turn over th«- 
 folios before the doors of the art dealers, but on I go 
 stubbornly till I come to a doorway bearing the sign : 
 
 HOTEL or .MOXDE ET DV MOZAMBIQT'E. 
 
 A certain tenebrous suggestion in the vestibule 
 seems to account for the latter part of the title. It 
 is a tall, decrepit building that at some time had been 
 sandwiched between two others of more stalwart bear- 
 ing who now support it. It consists chiefly of a wind 
 ing stairway lit by lamps of oil. At everv stage two 
 
Tin: M.WI.V WKDS 
 
 10."» 
 
 rooms setiii to Inippi-n : but they are so small as to ap- 
 pear accidental. 
 
 So up this precipitous stairway lightly I leap till I 
 come to the third stony. Tliorc before a yellow door 
 I knock three times. 
 
 "Come in!" crie-s a joyful voice, and I enter to find 
 two soft arms nround my neck, and two soft lips up- 
 held expectantly. 
 
 " Hullo, Little Thing," I shout cheerily. 
 
 "Oh, darleon, why you not come before? You 
 aflPright me. I sink you have haxident, and I am 
 
 »♦ 
 
 nnxieuse 
 
 '' No, no, I've only been gone an liour 
 
 I've had 
 several narrow escapes, though. Nearly got blown into 
 the Seine, was attacked by an Apache in the Avenue de 
 rOpera, and, stepping off the pavement to avoid go- 
 ing under a ladder, was knocked down by a taxi. But 
 no bones broken ; got home at last." 
 
 " Ah ! you laugh ; hut me, I wait here and I sink 
 all the time you was keel. Oh, darlee- ' you was keel 
 I die too." 
 
 " Nonsense! You'd make rather a jolly little widow. 
 Well, what else have you been doing, besides worrying 
 about me.' '* 
 
 " Oh, I make blouse. I sink it will be very pretty. 
 You will see." 
 
 " All right, we'll put it on and go to the opcru to- 
 night." 
 
 The "opera" is a cinema hou.se near the Place St. 
 Michel, where we go on rainy evenings, usually in our 
 oldest clothes, and joking merrily about opera cloaks 
 and evening dress. 
 
 "See! Isn't it nice?" 
 
 ■ - ■ 
 
10() 
 
 Tin: rur/rKNDKii 
 
 she holds up a sliiiniii«<riiig sketch in silk and pins. 
 " It's the chiffon you gtpvc me. But you must not 
 spend your money like that. You spoil me." 
 
 " Not at all. But talking about money reminds me : 
 I got my English gold changed to-day. Now, let's 
 form a committee of ways and means. Her^ is all that 
 lies between you and me and the wolf." 
 
 I throw a wad of Him^y French bills on the table. 
 
 " A thousand francs ! Now that's got to last us till 
 some Editor realises that certain gems of literature 
 signed ' Silenus Starset ' are worth real money." 
 
 " Oh, they arc loovely, darleen, your writings. No 
 one will refuse articles so beautiful." 
 
 " My dear, you can't conceive the intensity of edi- 
 torial obfustication. I fear we've got to retrench. 
 You must make the ' economies.' " 
 
 " Yes, yes, that is easy for me. I know nussing but 
 make the economies. You see it is the chance often if 
 I have anysing to make the economics on." 
 
 " Good ! Well, the first thing is to get out of this 
 hotel. We can't afford palatial luxury at five francs 
 a day.'* 
 
 And here I look with some distaste at the best bed- 
 room the Hotel du Monde et du Mozambique affords. 
 I see a fat, higli bed of varnished pine, on which reposes 
 n bloated crimson quilt. On the mantelpiece a glass 
 bell enshrines a clock of gilt and chocolate-coloured 
 marble. There is a paunchy, inhospitable chair of 
 green plush, and two of apologetic cane. An oval tabic 
 is covered by a fringed cloth of crimson velour, and 
 there is a mirror in two sections, which, by an ingenious 
 system of distortion iuunediately makes one hate one- 
 
THK NKWLY-WEDS 
 
 lO- 
 
 sflf — one cither looks mentally abnormal, or about as 
 intelligent as a caveman. 
 
 " In truth," I observe, " the decorative scheme of 
 our apartment puzzles me. Whether it is Empire or 
 I.ouis Quinze I cannot decide. Really, we must seek 
 something less complex.'* 
 
 She looks at the money thoughtfully. "Wc might 
 take a logement. Already have I think of it. To-day 
 I have ask Mndanic who keep the hotel, and she tell 
 inc zore is one very near — rue Mazarin. The rent is 
 five hundred by year. Perhaps it is too much," she 
 adds timidly. 
 
 " No, I think we might allow that. We pay three 
 months in advance, I suppose. Allow other three hun- 
 dred* francs for furnishing — do you think we could 
 manage on that ? " 
 
 She looks doubtful. "Not very nice; but wc will 
 do for the best. I will be so careful." 
 
 " Oh, we'll arrange somehow. We'll then have five 
 hundred francs for food and other things. Wc must 
 make that last for three months. By that time I'm sure 
 to he making something out of my writings. Five hun- 
 dred francs for two people for three months isn't much, 
 is it?" 
 
 " No, but we will take very much care, darken. I 
 do not care for myself; it is only for you." 
 
 " Don't lose any sleep over me. I'll be all right if 
 you will. It will be real fun scheming and dreaming, 
 and making the best of everything. We'll see how 
 much happiness we can squeeze out of every little sou: 
 we'll get to know the joys and sorrows of the poor. 
 They say that Bohemia is vanished; but we'll prove 
 
10« 
 
 THE I'UETENDEK 
 
 that wherever there is striving and the happy heart in 
 spite of need, wherever there is devotion to art in the 
 face of poverty, there eternally is Bohemia. Hurrah ! 
 how splendid to be young and poor and to have our 
 dreams ! " 
 
 I laugh exultantly, and the girl enters into my joy- 
 ous mood. 
 
 " Yes," she says, " we shall be gay. As for me, I 
 will buy a metier. I will work at my hem-broderie. I 
 will make leetle money like that. Oh, not much, but 
 it will assist. So we will be all right." 
 
 " Yes," I cry, enamoured of the vision. " And 
 when success does come, how we will glory in it ! How 
 good will seem the feast after the fast ! Ah ! but some- 
 times, when we have our house near the Bois, will we not 
 look back with regret to the days when we struggled and 
 rejoiced there in our tiny Mansard of Dreams.?' " 
 
 I pause for a moment, while my kinematographic 
 magination begins to work. I go on dramatically: 
 
 "Then some day of December twilight, when the 
 snow is falling, I will steal away from the flunkies and 
 the marble halls, and go down to look at the old windows 
 now so blind and dead. And as I stand wrapped in 
 mournful reverie and a five hundred franc overcoat, 
 su.ldenly I hear a soft step. There in the dusk I am 
 aware of a shadowy form also gazing up at the poor 
 old windows. Lo! it is you, and there are tears in 
 your eyes. You too have slipped away from the marble 
 halls to sentimentalise over the old home. Then we 
 embrace, and, calling the limousine, whirl off to din- 
 ner at the Cafe de la Paix. ... But that reminds 
 '"«^ — 1^'*'^ go t" dijcuner. Where shall it he ~ chez 
 Voisin, Foyot, or Laperoiise? " 
 
THE NEWLY-WEDS 
 
 109 
 
 It turni out to be at the sign of the Golden Snail in 
 th« neighbourhood of the Markets, where for one franc 
 seventy-five we have an elaborate choice of hort-de- 
 auvreg, some meat that we strongly suspect to be horse, 
 big white beans, a bludgeon of highly-glazed bread, a 
 wedge of mould-sheathed Camembert (which she eats 
 with joy, but which I cannot be induced to touch), 
 and some purple wine that puts my teeth on edge. Yet, 
 as I sit there with a large damp napkin on my knee and 
 my feet in the saw-dust of the floor, I am superlatively 
 happy. 
 
 " It is very extravagant," I say, as I recklessly >rder 
 coffee. " You know there are places where we can 
 have dejeuner for one franc fifty, or even for one franc 
 twenty-five. Just think of it! We might have saved 
 a whole franc on this meal." 
 
 ** We save much more than that, when we have 
 menage. It will cost so little then. You will see." 
 
 " Will it really ? Come on, then, and let's have a 
 look at your apartment. It may be taken just ten 
 minutes before we get there. They always are." 
 
 Off we go as eager as children, and with rising ex- 
 citement we reach the mouldering rue Ma/arin. We 
 reconnoitre a gloomy-looking building entered by a 
 massive, iron-studded door. Through a tunnel-like 
 porch-way we see a tiny court in the centre of which 
 is a railed space about six feet square. Within it stand 
 a few pots of dead geraniums and a weather-stained 
 plaster-cast of Bellona, thus achieving an atmosphere 
 of both nature and art. 
 
 The corpulent concierge emerges from her cubby- 
 hole. — Yes, she will show us the apartment. There 
 has been a Monsieur to see it that very morning. He 
 
110 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 Iwis been undecided whether to take it or not, but will 
 let her know in the morning. 
 
 Tliiis makes us keen to secure it, and it is almost with 
 u determination to be please d that we mount five flights 
 of dingy stairs. A faded carpet accompanies us as far 
 as the fourth flight, then deserts us in disgust. 
 
 Nothing damps our ardour, however. We decide 
 that the smallness of the two rooms is a decided advan- 
 tage, th<.' view into the mildt^wed court quaint and 
 charming, the fact that water is obtained from a com- 
 mon tap on the landing no particular detriment. The 
 girl, pleased that I am pleased, becomes enthusiastic. 
 It will be her first home. Her heart warms to it. 
 Scant a:s it is, no other will ever be quite so dear. With 
 the eye ti fancy she sees its bareness clad and com- 
 forted. Poor lonely house ! Seeing the light ashine 
 in the wistful blue eyes, I too becouje enthusiastic, and 
 thus we inspire each other. 
 
 " It's a dear little apartment," I say. " How lucky 
 we are to have stumbled on it. I'm going to take it 
 at once. We'll pay the first quarter's rent right now." 
 
 '* Vou must geevc somesing to the concierge," she 
 whispers as I pay. 
 
 " Ah, I see ! a sop to Ccrebus. All right." 
 
 " How much you gecve.'' " 
 
 *' Twenty francs." 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! Twenty francs ! Ten was enough. 
 She sink now we are made of money." 
 
 Anastasia is always ready to remind me that we have 
 entered on a regime of economy. She seems to have 
 made up her mind that, like all Americans, I have no 
 idea of the value of money, and that as a thrifty and 
 prudent woman of the most thrifty and prudent race 
 
THE m:\vlv-weds 
 
 111 
 
 ill tlio world, it behooves her to keep a close hand on 
 the purse strings. I am just like a child, she decides, 
 and she must look after me like a mother. 
 
 \Vhat a busy week it is! She takes into her own 
 hands the furnishing of our home, calculating every 
 'ou, pondering every detail. Time after time we prowl 
 past the furnishing shops on the Ave/iue du Maine, 
 trying to decide what we had be-.t take. There is a 
 iiDve! pleasure in this. Thus I am absurdly pleased 
 when, on our decidujg to take a table at twenty-two 
 frai.cs, I find a place where I can buv exactly the same 
 
 J. f •> 
 
 for twenty-one. 
 
 We save money on the cleaning of the house by doing 
 it ourselves. There is the floor to wax and polish. For 
 the latter operation I sit down on a pad of several 
 tliicknesscs of flannel, then she, catching my feet, pulls 
 me around on the slippery surface till it shines like 
 u mirror. We are very proud of that gloss}' floor, and 
 regard our work almost with reverence, stepping on it 
 as one might the sacred carpet of Mecca. 
 
 Then comes the furnishing. P'irst, there is the bed- 
 room. We buy two little beds of the fold-up variety, 
 and set them side by side. Our bedding, though only 
 of cotton, is, we decide, softer and nicer than linen 
 and wool; and the pink quilt that covers both beds, 
 could, we declare, scarce be told from silk. Our ward- 
 robe — what is easier than to make a broad shelf about 
 six feet high, and hang from it chintz curtains behind 
 which a dozen hooks are screwed into tne wall. 
 
 E(iually simple are our other arrangements. A 
 cosy corner can be deftly made of boards and cushions. 
 She insists on me buying a superannuated arm-chair, 
 ami she re-covers it, so that it looks like new. She 
 
11'.' 
 
 THE rHKTENDEU 
 
 selects clieap but daint}- curtains, a pretty table-clotli 
 to hide the rough table, so that you'd never know; a 
 little buffet, a mirror for the bedroom, pictures for the 
 walls, kitchen things, table things — really, it's awful 
 how much 3'ou require for a menage, and how quickly 
 in spite of yourself your precious money melts. 
 
 These ;irc the merry days, but at last all is finished — 
 the first home. What if we have exceeded the margin 
 a little? Everything is really cosy and comforting. 
 
 " This is an occasion," I say. " Let us celebrate it." 
 
 In our little stove, heated to a cherry glow, we 
 roast our maiden chicken. The first time we put it 
 on the table it is not quite enough done. We peer at 
 it anxioiisly, we probe at it cautiously, finally we de- 
 cide to put it back for another quarter of an hour. 
 Hut then — ye gods! W^hat a bird! How plump and 
 brown and savoury! How it sizzles in " amber 
 gravy ! Never, think we, have we tasted f > • - so de- 
 licious. We eat it with reverence. 
 
 Aftor that she makes one of the seven-and-thirty 
 ^Hla(ls of that land of salads; then we have a dish of 
 I'ttits pois, and we finish off with a great golden brioche 
 and red currant jam. 
 
 " Now," I say, " we'll drink to ourselves, and to our 
 ^■•\~t\n- 'ome; and, by the gods, we'll drink in cham- 
 
 !)ft<rnc 
 
 , I "' 
 
 With that I triumphantly produce a half-bottle of 
 Moiis.u'ii.v that I have been hiding, a graceful bottle 
 V. i!h .1 cap of gold. Appalling extravagance! Veuve 
 Amivt! Who could tell it from Veuve Clicquot? — and 
 it costs only a franc and a half. 
 
 Cut tlie win! Watch the cork start up, slowly, 
 slouly . . . then — Pop! away it springs, and smacks 
 
THE NEWLY-WEDS 
 
 lis 
 
 the ceiling. Quickly I fill her a foaming glass, and 
 we drink to " La France." After that, sitting over 
 the fire, we plunge long spongy biscuits into the bub- 
 liling wine that seems to seethe in fierce protest at be- 
 ing thus tormented. And if you do not think we are as 
 happy as the joyous liquor wo sip, you do not know- 
 Youth and Paris. To conclude the evening, we scurry 
 off to the Cinema theatre as merry as children. 
 
 Most of the films are American, and what is my 
 amazement to find that one of them, all cowboys, 
 breeze, and virtue rewarded, is a cinematisation of 
 my own book. Rattlesnake Ranch. Yes, there are my 
 characters — the sheriff's daughter, Mike the Mule- 
 skinner, and the rest. A thrill runs down my back, 
 almost a shiver. 
 
 " How do you like it? " I ask the girl. 
 
 " I love it. I love all sings Americaine now." 
 
 " Really, it's awful rubbish. You mustn't judge 
 America by things like that." 
 
 " I love it," she protests stoutly. 
 
 We get home quite tirfd; but after she has gone to 
 hod, I get out my pen and plunge into a new article. 
 It is called, How to be a Successful Wift. 
 
 I 
 
 ftt 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THAT MIDDLE-HEADED SANTA CLAUS 
 
 Ix the morning Anastasia always has her menage to 
 do. She sweeps till the parquet is like a mirror, and 
 dusts till not a speck can you find from floor to ceiling. 
 No priest could take his ministrations more seriously 
 than Anastasia her daily routine as a femme d'interieur, 
 and on these occasions she makes me feel negligible to 
 the point of humility. So I kiss her, and after being 
 duly inspected and adjured to take preciou3 care of 
 myself, I am permitted to depart. 
 
 Oh, those morning walks! How this Paris inspires 
 and exalts me ! The year is closing with a seasonable 
 bnlhancy of starry nights and diamond-bright mom- 
 mgs. How radiant the sunshine seems as I emerge 
 from our gloomy porchway, with its prison-like gate! 
 The gaunt rue Mazarin is a lane of light, and the 
 ancient houses, with their inscriptions of honourable 
 service seem to smile in every wrinkle. Each has a 
 rharactenr-0f its own. There are some that step dis- 
 dainfully back from their fellows, and there are quaint 
 roofs and unexpected, pokey little windows, and a 
 dilapidated irregularity that takes one back to the 
 days of swashbuckling romance. 
 
 At the end of the street I stop to give a penny to the 
 blind man who stamps his cold feet and holds 'out his 
 red hand. On this particular morning he stamps a 
 little more vigorously than usual, and the red hand is 
 so numb that it seems insensible to the touch of the 
 
 lU 
 
muddle-iii:adi:d santa claus 115 
 
 copper coin. The Seine flashes with light. Uphol- 
 stered with its long, slim quays, it looks more than 
 tver gilt and gracious. Yes, it is cold. The darting 
 bateaux-mouchi are icicle-fringed, and the guardians 
 of the few book-bins that are open arc muffled to the 
 ears. I wear no coat, because, except for my old 
 mackintosh, I do not possess one. I have, however, 
 bought a long muffler which I wind around my throat, 
 and allow to flutter behind. People look oddly at me ; 
 because, where the world wears a coat, the coatless 
 man becomes a mark. 
 
 From the Pont des Arts the river is yellow in colour, 
 and seethes with slush ice. The sun is poised above 
 the Institute, whose dome is black against the sky. 
 The He de la Cite is a wedge of high grey houses that 
 seem to pierce the Pont-Neuf bridge, and protrude in 
 a green point, dominated by an enormous tree, through 
 whose branches I can dimly discern the statue of 
 Henri Quatre. Afar, the sweeping rampart of houses 
 that overhang the river melts in pearly haze, and the 
 dim ranges of roofs uprise like an arena amid which I 
 can see the time-defying towers of Notre Dame and the 
 piercing delicacy of the spire, as it claims the sun in a 
 lance of light. 
 
 Here I pause to fill (with reverence) the meerschaum 
 pipe, which is colouring as coyly as a sunkissed peach. 
 " What a privilege to live in this adorable Paris ! " 
 I think: "How exasperatingly beautiful!" 
 
 Under the statue of Voltaire I stop for a moment to 
 regard that enigmatic smile; then I turn to the rue 
 Bonaparte. The ficole des Beaux-Arts is disgorging 
 its students, fantastic little fellows with broad-brimmed 
 hats and dark, downy facis. Here they come, these 
 
 I 
 
116 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 vivacious raping drawn from all the world by that 
 mighty magnet, Paris. Art is in the very air. In that 
 old quadrangle it quivers from each venerable stone. 
 It challenges at every turn. The shops that line the 
 street exude it. Since I have come here it is odd how 
 I have felt its inspiration, so confident and serene, mak- 
 ing me disgusted with everything I have done. 
 
 Striking up the rue de Rennes I come to a doorway 
 bearing the sign in large letters: 
 
 MONT DE PIETE 
 
 Trust the French to do things gracefully. Now, 
 if this was a sordid Anglo-Saxon pawnshop I would be 
 reconnoitring up and down, imagining every one 
 knew my errand. Then I would sneak upstairs like 
 a thief trying to dispose of stolen property. But a 
 Mont de Piete — " here goes ! " 
 
 In spite, however, of its benevolent designation I 
 find tl.is French pawnshop in no way disposed to gen- 
 eiosity. Even the most hardened London pawn- 
 broker could hardly be more niggard in appraisal of 
 my silver cigarette c.ise than this polite Mont d.- 
 Pietist who offers me twenty francs on it. Twenty! 
 it is worth eighty : but my French is too rudimentary 
 for argument, and as twenty francs is not enough for 
 my purpose I draw forth with a sigh my precious meer- 
 schaum and realise another five francs on that. 
 
 "What does it matter?" I think dolefully. "'Til 
 the tide turns no more smoking. After all, oh mighty 
 Nicotine, am I thy slave.^ Never! Here do I defy 
 thee! Oh, little pipe, farewell! We'll meet again, I 
 trust, in the shatle of the mazunm tree." 
 
 It is now nearly half-past eleven, and already the 
 
MUDDLE-HEADED SANTA (LAI'S 117 
 
 Parisian mind is turning joyfully to thoughts of f/«- 
 jcuner. Portly men, to whoni eating is a religion an- 
 spurring appetite with aperitif. Within the restau- 
 rants many have already lunched on a sea of Graves and 
 gravy. " Be it ever so humble," I decide, " There's 
 no cooking like * Home.' " 
 
 With which sentiment I pause before a little shop 
 devoted to the sale of ladies' furs, iind joyfully regard 
 the object of my journey. It is a large, sleek, glossy 
 muff of the material known as electric rabbit, and its 
 price is twenty-five francs. It just matches a long 
 wrap of Anastasia's, rather worn out but still nice 
 looking. 
 
 " How lucky I ran across it yesterday ! " I think, as 
 I hurry joyfully home with the muff under my arm. 
 " And to-morrow's Christmas Day too. I don't mind 
 giving up tobacco one bit." 
 
 So many others are hastening home with parcels 
 under their arms! Such a happy Santa Claus spirit 
 fills the air! Every one seems so glad-e3ed and rosy. 
 I almost feel sorry for the naked cherubs in the centre 
 of the basin in the Luxembourg. Icicles encase them 
 to the toes. Poor little Amours ! so pretty in the !!pring 
 sunshine, now so forlorn. 
 
 How quietly I let myself into the apartment, I am 
 afraid she will hear my key scroop in the lock and 
 run as usual to greet me. Softly I slip into the bed- 
 room and pushing the parcel into the suitcase I lock 
 it quickly. Safe! 
 
 "Little Thing!" I shout, but there is no reply. 
 
 I look into the kitchen, into the dining-room, into 
 the cupboard — no sign of her. Yet often she will 
 hide in order to jump out on me. 
 
118 
 
 Tin: I'RKTENDEH 
 
 (( 
 (( 
 
 " Come out ! 1 know you're there," I cr^' in several 
 corners. No Little Thing. 
 
 Then I n)ust confess I begin to feel just a wee bit 
 anxious; when cautiously I hear another key scroop 
 in the lock. It is xVnastasia, and she has evidently been 
 walking briskly for her eyes arc radiant, and a rosekaf 
 colour flutters in her cheeks. I watch her steal in 
 just as I have done, holding behind her a largish 
 parcel. 
 
 "Hullo! What have you got there .^" 
 
 She jumps, then tries to conceal the package. See- 
 ing that it is useless she turns on nic imperiously. 
 
 " Go away one moment ! Oh go, please ! " 
 Tell me what's in your parcel, then." 
 It's nossing. It's not your affair. Please give it 
 tome. Now you are not nice. Oh thanks! Now you 
 are nice. To-morrow I show you what it is." 
 
 So I leave off teasing her and make no further refer- 
 ence to the mysterious packet. 
 
 There is no doubt the Christmas spirit is getting into 
 me, for I find it more and more difficult to keep my 
 mind on my work. This is distressing, because lately 
 I have been making but slow progress. Often I find 
 myself halting ten minutes or more to empale some 
 elusive word. Greatly am I concerned over rhythm 
 and structure. Of ideas I have no lack; it is form, 
 form that holds me in travail. And the more I per- 
 spire over my periods the more self-exacting I seem to 
 become. There will arrive a time, I fear, when my 
 ideal of expression will be so high I will not be able to 
 express myself at all. I wonder if it is something in 
 tin air of this Paris that calls to all that is fine and high 
 in the soul.'' 
 
MUDDLE-HEADED SANTA (LAI'S 119 
 
 After supper Anastasia remarks in some surprise: 
 " Why! you do not smoke zis hevening? " 
 
 " No, I'm taking a rest. It's good to leave off 
 sometimes." 
 
 She seems about to say something further, but 
 checks herself. Oh, how I do miss that after-dinner 
 pipe! Life suddenly seems hollow and empty. I had 
 always sworn that the best part of a meal was the smoke 
 after; I had always vowed that tobacco added twenty 
 per cent, to my enjoyment of life, and now — 
 
 " Little Thing," I say presently, " let's go out on 
 the boulevard. I can't work to-night. It's Christmas 
 eve." 
 
 She responds happily. It is always a joy to her to 
 go out with me. 
 
 " You'd better put on your fur. It's awfully cold." 
 
 " No, I don't sink so this hevening, if you don't mind. 
 I have not cold, not one bit." 
 
 As we emerge from the gloom of the rue Mazarin the 
 river leaps at us in a blaze of glory. Under a sk}' of 
 rosy cloud it is a triumph of jewelled vivacity. Exul- 
 tantly it seems to mirror all the radiance of the city, 
 and the better to display its jewels it undulates in 
 infinite unrest. Here the play of light is like the flut- 
 tering of a thousand argent-winged moths, there a 
 weaving of silver foliage, traversed by wriggling 
 emerald snakes. Yonder it is a wimpling of purest 
 platinum; afar, a billowing of beaten bronze. Bridge 
 beyond bridge is jewel-hung, and coruscates with shift- 
 ing fires. The little steamers drag their chains of 
 trembling gold, their trains of rippling ruby ; even the 
 black quays seem to be supported on undulant pillars 
 of amber. 
 
lieo 
 
 Tin: i»ui:ti:ndeh 
 
 Over yondrr on tlu' right bank the great Magasins 
 overspill their radiance. They arc like huge honey- 
 combs of hght, nearly all window, and each window 
 H square of molten gold. The roaring streets flame in 
 fiery dust, and flakes of gold seem to quiver skyward. 
 Oh, how it stirs me, this Paris ! It moves me to delight 
 and despair. To think that I can feel so intensely its 
 wonder and beauty yet to be powerless to express it. 
 I can imagine how too much beauty drives to mad- 
 ness; how the Chinese poet was drowned trying to 
 clasp the silver reflexion of the moon. 
 
 And so we walk along, I fathoms deep in dream, and 
 the little grey figure by my side trying to keep pace 
 with me. She, too, has that appreciation of beauty and 
 art that seems innate in every Parisienne, yet she 
 cannot understand how I can stare at a scene ten, 
 fifteen, twenty minutes. However, she is very patient, 
 and effaces herself most happily. 
 
 Never have I seen the Boul' Mich' so gay, and nearly 
 all are carrying parcels. A million messengers of 
 Santa Claus arc hastening to fill with delight the .yes 
 of innocence. The Pttit Jesus they call him here, these 
 charming Parisian children. Th-^' preoiods letters to 
 him, placed so carefully in the chimney, are often wept 
 over by mothers in estranging after years. What joy 
 when there comes an answer to their tiny petitions! 
 When there is none : " Ah ! it is because you have 
 not been wise, Clairette. The Little Jesus is not 
 pleased with you." But the Gift-bringer always re- 
 lents, and the little shoes, brushed by each tot till not 
 a speck of dulness remains, are found in the morning 
 overspilling with glorious things. 
 
 All along the outer edge of the pavement stalls have 
 
MUDDLE-HEADED SANTA ( LAUS U\ 
 
 been set up, tenanted by portly, red-faced women, who 
 are padded against the cold till their black-braided 
 jackets fit tight as a drum. There are booths of 
 brilliant confectionery, of manellous mechanical toys, 
 of perfumery and patent medicines, of appliances for 
 the kitchen and knirk-knacks for the boudoir, of mu- 
 sic, of magnifying glasses, of hair restorer, of boot 
 polish. 
 
 And the street hawkers haranguing the crowd! 
 There are vendors of holly and mistletoe ; men carrying 
 umbrellas all stuck over with imitation snails to * bring 
 the good luck'; others with switches to spank one's 
 mother-in-law; others with grotesque spiders on wire 
 to make the girls scream. 
 
 It is nearly midnight when we reach our apartment. 
 The cafds are a glitter of light and a storm of revelry. 
 The supper that is the prelude to further merriment is 
 just beginning, and thousands of happy, careless peo- 
 ple are drinking champagne, shouting, singing, laugh- 
 ing. But the rue Mazarin is very dark and quiet, and 
 the girl is very tired. 
 
 Then when I am sure that she is asleep I steal to my 
 suitcase and taking out the precious muff lay it at the 
 foot of her bed. Bending over her, as she sleeps like n 
 child, I kiss her. So I too fall asleep. 
 
 I am awftkened by her scream of delight. She is 
 sitting up, fondling the new muff. 
 
 " Oh, I am so please. You don't know how I am 
 please, darleen." 
 
 '* Oh, it's nothing. Only I thought it would go nicely 
 with your other fur." 
 
 Her face changes oddly. Then she rises and brings 
 me the mysterious parcel. 
 
MiH 
 
 Tin: PHKTENDER 
 
 " It's your Christmas. I'm sorrj- I could not geevc 
 you anysing bettaire. Oh, how I love my muff." 
 
 If it had been plucked beaver she could not have 
 been more pleased. I open my parcel eagerly, and a 
 fragrant odour greets me. It is a silver-mounted 
 tobacco jar, full of my favourite amber flake. 
 
 Over our petit dejeuner of coffee and croissants we 
 are both very gay. I decide not to work that day ; we 
 will go for a walk. 
 
 "Geeve me your pipe, darleen. I feel it for you." 
 
 " I don't seem to be able to find it," I answer, search- 
 ing my pockets elaborately. 
 
 " Vou have not lost it? " 
 
 " Oh, no, just mislaid it. Never mind, it will turn up 
 all right. Are you ready?" 
 
 " Yes, all ready." She holds the precious muff up to 
 her chin, peering at me over it, 
 
 " But your wrap ! Aren't vou going to put that on 
 too.?" 
 
 Then In fear and trembling she confesses. She has 
 taken her fur to the Mont de Piete that she might have 
 ten francs to buy the tobacco jar. 
 
 " Why ! " I cry, " I sold my pipe so that I might 
 have enough to buy your muff." 
 
 Then I laugh loudly, and after a little she joins me; 
 and there we are both laughing till we are tired; which 
 is not the worst way of beginning Christmas Dav, is 
 it? 
 
CHAPTER m 
 
 THE CITY OF LIGHT 
 
 '* Little Thing," I say severely, " you must never 
 say ' Damn.' " 
 
 " But you say it, d.irleen." 
 
 " Yes, but men may do and say things women must 
 not even think of. Say * Dash ' if you want to say 
 anything." 
 
 " Oh, you are funny. You tell me 1 must not say 
 corteen words in English, yet in France everybody say 
 ' Mon Dieu.' " 
 
 " Yes, it's not good form to say those words in 
 English; just as you tell me in France in polite 
 society one never refers to a thousand sacred pigs. 
 Profanity is to some extent a matter of geogra- 
 phy." 
 
 But if I succeed in prohibiting the profanity of my 
 country, I cannot prevent her picking up its slang. 
 For instance, " Sure Mike " is often on her lips. She 
 has heard me use it, and it resembles so much her own 
 *• Surement " that she naturally and innocently adopts 
 it. I tremble now when she speaks English before 
 any punctilious stranger, in case, to some polite in- 
 quiry, she answers with an enthusiastic : " Sure 
 Mike." 
 
 I have insisted on her recovering her fur from the 
 
 Mont de Piete, and she in her turn has made mc buy a 
 
 long, black brigandish cape that has previously been 
 
 lis 
 
1^4 
 
 Tin: I'HETENDKH 
 
 worn by some budding B.iiulclajrc or snuif crubrvo 
 Verlainc. 
 
 "Seems to mo," I grumble, "now I have this thing 
 I might as well get one of those bat-winged ties, and 
 a hat with a six-inch brim." 
 
 " Oh, you will be lovely like that," she assures me 
 with enthusiasm. « And you must let your hair grow 
 long like hartist. Oh, how chic you will be!" 
 
 " Perhaps you'd also like me to "cultivate an Assyrian 
 beard and curl my hair into ringlets like that man we 
 sat next to at the cafe du Dome last night." 
 
 "No, no: I do not want that you hide your so nice 
 mouth, darleen. I am prefair American way now." 
 
 " You prefer Americans to Frenchmen, then." 
 
 "All French girls prefer American and English to 
 Frenchmans. They are so frank, so honest. One can 
 trust them." 
 
 " So you would rather be married to an Englishman 
 than a Frenchman ? " 
 
 "Mon Dieu! yes. The Frenchmans deceive the 
 womans very much, but the Englishman is always 
 comme il fait. If ever 1 have leetle girl I want she 
 shall marry Englishmans. Ah! she shall be like her 
 fazzer, that ketle girl, wiz blue eyes, and colour so 
 fresh; and I want she have the lovely blond hair like 
 all English children." 
 
 "What if you have a boy.''" 
 
 "Ah no! I no want boy. I know I am selfeesh. 
 The boys have the best sings in the life, and it is often 
 hard for the womans. But if I have girl, I keep her 
 love always. If I have boy soon I lose heem. He get 
 marry, and zen it is foenish. But leetle girl, in trooble 
 she always come back to her mosser." 
 
THE CITY OF LIGHT 
 
 1S5 
 
 "And suppose you don't have either?" 
 
 " Oh, I sink zat would be very, very sad." 
 
 Often hnve I murvelled at the passion for maternity 
 lliat burns in Anastasia. Her eyes shine so tenderly on 
 iliildron, and she will stop to caress some little one so 
 yearningly. 
 
 " Hy the way, have you ever noticed the child on the 
 ^rround floor apartment.^ — a little one with hair the 
 colour of honey." 
 
 •• Oh yes ; she's good friend of me. She is adorable. 
 Oh how I love have childs like zat. She's caK Solonge. 
 She's belong I'rosine." 
 
 "Who's Frosine.J>" 
 
 " She's girl what sew all day. bhe work for the Bon 
 Marche. It's awfool how she have to work hard." 
 
 " Poor woman ! " 
 
 " Oh no ; she's very 'appy like that. She's free, and 
 she have Solonge. She sing all day win. she sew. 
 Oh, she have much of courage, much of n It, that 
 girl." 
 
 " But," I say, " would vou like to have a child like 
 that?" 
 
 " Why not, if I can care well for it and it make me 
 'appy?" 
 
 '• But — it wouldn't be moral." 
 
 " No, but it would be natural." 
 
 "•Yes, but sometimes isn't it wicked to be natural?" 
 
 " I do not understand. I do not sink Frosine is 
 wicked. Sh 's so kind and gently. She adore Solonge. 
 She's brave. All day she work and sing. You do not 
 sink she is all bad because she have childs?" 
 
 I did not immediately reply. I am wondering. . . . 
 
 Have social conditions reached a very lofty status 
 
126 
 
 THE piu:ti:m)i:u 
 
 f'vcn yt't wlu'n tlie finest, triiist instincts implanted 
 in liuniankinci are often denied? Does not life mean 
 effort, progress, human triumph? Can we not look 
 forward to a better time wlicn pi .t manifestly im- 
 perfect conditions will be ])erfecti. . 
 
 "Yes, Anastasia," I conclude; "the greatest man 
 timt ever lived should take off his hat to the humblest 
 mother, for slic has accomplished something he never 
 could if lie lived to be a thousand. 3ut come ! Let's 
 go out on the Grand Boulevard. I've been working 
 too hard; I'm fagged, I'm stale, there's a fog about my 
 brain." 
 
 Very proudly slie dons lier furs of electric rabbit, and 
 rather ruefully' I wreathe myself in my conspiratorial 
 cloak ; then together we go down into the city. 
 
 The City of Light ! Is there another, I wonder, that 
 flaunts so superbly the triumph of man over darkness? 
 From the Mount of Paniassus to the Mount of the 
 MartjTs all is a valley of light. The starry sky is 
 mocked by the starry city, its milky way, a river 
 gleaming with gold, shimmering with silver, spangled 
 with green and garnet. The Place de la Concorde is a 
 very lily garden of light; up the jewtlKd sweep of the 
 Champs Elysee the lights are like sheeny pearls with 
 here and there the exquisite intrusion of a ruby ; be- 
 neath a tremulous radiance of opals the trees are bathed 
 in milkj light, while amid the twinkling groves the 
 night restaurants arc sketched in fairy gold. The 
 Grand Boulevards are fiery-walled canyons down which 
 roar tumultuous rivers of light ; the Place de I'Opera 
 is a great eddy, flashing and myriad-gemmed; the 
 magasins are blazing furnaces erupting light at every 
 
THE C ITV 01" LKiHT 
 
 127 
 
 point : They arc festooned with flame ; they are 
 crnnuned with golden lustre ; they blaze their victorious 
 refulgence in signs of light against the sky. And so 
 night after night this city of sovereign splendour 
 hurls in flashing light its gauntlet of deflancc to the 
 Dark. 
 
 The pavements are packed with people, moving 
 slowly in opposing streams. Most are garbed in cere- 
 monial best; and manv carry flowers, for this is the 
 sacred day of family gathering. The pavement edge 
 is lined with tiny booths and shrill with importunate 
 clamour. 
 
 We stop to gaze at some of the mechanical toys. 
 Here are aeroplanes that whirl around, peacocks that 
 strut and scream, rabbits that hop and squeak, shoe- 
 blacks, barbers, acrobats, jugglers, all engaged in their 
 various ways. But what amuses us most is a little 
 sirvant maid who walks forward in a great hurry car- 
 rying a pile of plates, trips, sends them scattering, then 
 herself falls sprawling. How I laugh! Yet I am at 
 the same time laughing at myself for laughing. Am I 
 going back to my second childhood? No! for see; all 
 those bearded Frenchmen are laughing too, just like 
 so many grown-up children. 
 
 " Come," I suggest, after we have ranged along a 
 mile or so of these tiny booths, " let's sit down in 
 front of one of the cafes." 
 
 With difliculty we find a place, and ordering two 
 cafes crime watch the dense procession. The honest 
 bourgeois are going to New Year's Dinner, and their 
 smiles are very happy. Soon they will frankly aban- 
 don themselves to the pleasures of the table, discussing 
 
1^8 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 cuch dish with rapture and outing till they can eat no 
 more. 
 
 " What a race of gluttons art the French," I remark 
 severely to Ana.stasia. " Food and dress is about all 
 they seem to think of. The other day I read in the 
 paper that a celebrated costumier had received the 
 cross of the Legion of Honour, and this morning I sec 
 that a well-known restaurateur has also been deemed 
 w orthy of the decoration. There you are ! Reward 
 your tailors and your cooks while your poets and your 
 painters go buttonless. Oli, if there's a people I de- 
 spise, it's one that makes a god of its stomach ! By the 
 way, what have we got for dinner? " 
 
 -' Oh, 1 got chickens." 
 
 " A good fat one, I hope." 
 
 " Yes, nice fat chickens. I pay five franc for it. 
 You are not sorry ? " 
 
 " No, that's all I'ight. We can make it do two 
 evenings, and we allow ourselves five francs a day for 
 grub. I fancy we don't spend even that, on an aver- 
 age?" 
 
 " No, about four and half franc." 
 
 Every week she brought her expense book to me, 
 and very solemnly I wrote beneath it: Examined and 
 found correc*^. Another habit was to present for my 
 approval a menu of all our meals for the coming week 
 beneath which I would, in the same serious spirit, 
 write: Approved. To these impressive occasions she 
 contributed a proper dignity ; yet at a hint of praise 
 for her house-keeping nothing could exceed her delight. 
 
 Presently we rise and continue our walk. Every- 
 where is the same holiday spirit, the same easily amused 
 crowd. There are song writers hawking their ditties, 
 
THE CITY OF LIGHT 
 
 129 
 
 poor artists peddling their paintings, a " canvas fjr a 
 crust." Evtry ncodv art is gleaning on the streets. 
 
 " Stop ! " she cries suddenly. Drawing me in the 
 (lirtction of a small crowd: "let's watch the silhouette 
 man." 
 
 He is young, glih, good-looking. He has audacious 
 tves and a rapscallion smile. This smile is sometimes 
 positively impish in its mockery; yet otherwise he is 
 ratlur like a cheruh. His complexion is pinkish, his 
 iiD.iirur mercurial, his figure shapely and slim. He 
 is dressed in the cloak, broad-brimmed hat, and volu- 
 minous velveteen trowsers of the rapin. I stare at 
 him. Something vaguely familiar in him startles me. 
 
 In one hand he holds a double sheet of black paper, 
 in the other a pair of scissors. For a moment he looks 
 keenly at his subject, then getting the best angle for 
 the profile, proceeds without any more ado to cut the 
 silhouette. It is a very deft, delicate performance and 
 all over in a minute. 
 
 "Just watch him, Anastasia," I say after a pause; 
 " I think there's something interesting going to hap- 
 pen." Then in a drawling voice I remark : 
 
 " Well, if that's not a dead ringer for Livewire Lor- 
 
 j imer : 
 
 t '> 
 
 He liears me, looks up like a flash, scrutinises me in 
 a puzzled way. 
 
 " I haven't heard that name for fifteen years. Of 
 all the — why, if it isn'l Jimmy Madden, Mad Mad- 
 den, Blackbeard the pirate. Red Hand the scout, friend 
 of my boyhood ! I say ! there's a dozen people waiting 
 and this is my busy day. Ask your friend to stand 
 up tn the light and I'll make a silhouette of her while 
 we talk." 
 
 » u 
 
 i ,' 
 
130 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 "My wife." 
 
 " Hless us ! Married too ! Well, congratulations. 
 Churiiied to meet Madame. There! Just stand so." 
 
 U'ith great dexterity he proceeds to cut Anastasia's 
 delicate features on the black paper. 
 
 " Great Scott ! I haven't heard a word about you 
 since I left home. But then I've lost track o: all the 
 crowd. Well, what in the world are you doinir 
 here?" 
 
 " I'm trying to break into the writing game. And 
 
 you ? " 
 
 " For ten years I've been trying to become an artist. 
 Occasionally I get enough to eat. I have to work for a 
 living, as you see at present; but when I get a little 
 ahead I go back to my art. Where do you live.' " 
 
 I tell him. 
 
 " Oh, I know, garden and statuary in the court. I 
 lived in that street myself for a time, but my landlord 
 and I did not agree. He had ridiculous ideas on the 
 subject of rent. My idea of rent is money you owe. 
 He was so prejudiced that one night I lowered all my 
 effects to a waiting friend with a voiture a bras, and 
 since then rue Mazarin has seen little of me. But I'd 
 like to come and see you. We'll talk over old days." 
 
 " Yes, I do wish you would come." 
 
 " I will. Ah, Madame, here is your charming pro- 
 file. I only regret that my clumsy scissors fail to do 
 you justice. Yes, Madden, I'll come. And now, if 
 you'll excuse me, there's a dozen people waiting. I 
 must make my harvest while the sun shines. Good-bye, 
 just now. Expect me soon." 
 
 He waves us an airy farewell, and a moment after, 
 wilh the same intent gaze, he is following the features 
 
THE CITY OF LIGHT 
 
 181 
 
 of A fat Frenchwoman, who laughs immoderately at his 
 pleasantries. 
 
 We walk home almost without speaking. Anastasia 
 has got into the way of respecting my thoughts. To 
 her I am Balzac, Hugo and Zola rolled into one, and 
 labelled James Horace Madden. Who is she that 
 should break in on the dreams of this great author.' 
 Rather let her foster them by sympathetic silence. Yet 
 on this occasion she looks up in my face and sighs 
 wistfully: 
 
 "What arc you sinking of, darleen.''" 
 
 Now, here^a ichat I think she thinks I am thinking: 
 
 " Oh, this fiery, fervid Paris, how can my pen pro- 
 claim its sovereignty over cities, its call to high endeav- 
 our, its immemorial grace? How can 1 paint its 
 folly and its faith, its laughter and its te; ♦^, its streets 
 where tragedy and farce walk arm in arm, where 
 parody hobnobs with pride, and beauty bends to ridi- 
 cule ! Oh, exquisite Paris ! so old and yet so eter- 
 nally j'oung, so peerless, yet ever prinking and preen- 
 ing to make more exorbitant demands on our admira- 
 tion. . . ." And so on. 
 
 Here's what I am really thinking: 
 
 ** Funny I should run into Livewire like that. To 
 think of it ! We swapped the same dime novels, robbed 
 the same cherry trees. Together we completed for the 
 bo am place in the class. (I think I generally won.) 
 By pedagogic standards we were certainly impossible. 
 And yet at some studies how precocious! How I re- 
 member that novel I w rote, The Corsair's Crime, or the 
 Hound of the Hcllispont, illustrated by Livewire on 
 every page. Oh. I'd give a hundred dollars to have 
 that manuscript to-day ! " «nd so on. 
 
132 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 Here's what I nay I am tn'mking: 
 '* I wfts wondtring, Anastasia, if when jou I)ouglit 
 that chicken, vou let them clean it in the shop. Because 
 if you do thej just take it away and bring you hack 
 an inferior one. You can't trust them. You should 
 clean it yourself. Be sure you roast it gently, so as to 
 have it nicely browned all over. . . ." And so on. 
 
 It is night now and I am working on my articles while 
 she sews steadily. It has been a long silent evening, 
 a fire of houlets throws out a gentle heat, and she sits on 
 one side, I on the other. About ten o'clock she com- 
 plains of feeling tired, and decides to go to bed. After 
 our habit I lie down on my own bed, to wait with her 
 till she goes to sleep; for she is just like a child in some 
 ways. I am reading, and the better to see, I lie with 
 my head where my feet should be. 
 
 As she is dropping off to sleep, suddenly she says: 
 "Will you let me hold your foot, darken?" 
 " Yes, it's there. But if you want to look for holes 
 in the sock, you won't find any." 
 
 I just want to pretend it's leetle 
 
 " No, it's not zat. 
 hcher 
 
 " So she holds it close to her breast, and ever since 
 then she will not sleep unless she is holding what she 
 calls ' her poupee.* " 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 THE CITY OF LAIGHTEU 
 
 The last few weeks have passed so swiftly I scarce can 
 credit it. In the mornings my vitalising walks ; in 
 the afternoons my lapidary work in prose. I have 
 hegun a series of articles on Paris, and have just 
 finished the first two, bestowing on them a world of 
 loving care. Never have I known such a steady glow 
 of inspiration. A pure delight in form and colour 
 thrills in me. I begin to see beauty in the commonest 
 things, to find a joy in the simplest moments of living. 
 
 It is rather curious, this. For instance, I gaze in 
 rapture at a shop where vegetables are for sale, charmed 
 with its oasis of fresh colouring in the grey street, 
 the globular gold of turnips, the rich ruby of radishes, 
 the ivory white of parsnips. Then a fish shop charms 
 me, and I turn from the burning orange of the dories 
 to the olive and pearl of the merlin; from the jewelled 
 mail of the mackerel, to the silver cuirass of the her- 
 ring. And every day seems fresh to me. I hail it with 
 a newborn joy. I seem to have regained all the wonder 
 and vital interest of the child point of view. In my 
 work, especially, do I find such a delight that I shall 
 be sorry to die chiefly because it will end my labour. 
 " So much to do," I sigh, " and only one little lifetime 
 to do it in." 
 
 Then there are long, serene evenings by the fire, 
 
 where I ponder over my prose, while Anastasia sits 
 
 absorbed in her work. What a passion she has for her 
 
 133 
 
184 
 
 THE PRKTENDER 
 
 nej'dlt! Slie plies it as an nrtist, delighting in diffi- 
 culties, in intricate lacework, in elaborate embroidery. 
 In litth- s(piares of fine net she works scenes from 
 Fontaine; or else over a great frame on which a sheet 
 of satin is tightly stretched, she makes wonderful de- 
 signs in silks of delicate colouring. At such times she 
 will forget everything else, and sit for hours tranquilly 
 happy. So I write and dream; while she plies that 
 exquisite needle, and perhaps dreams too. 
 
 " Oh, how good it is to be poor ! " I said last night. 
 " What a new interest life takes on when one has to 
 fight for one's bread! How much better to have noth- 
 ing and want everything, than to have everything and 
 want nothing! Just think, Little Thing, how pleased 
 wc are at the end of the week if we've spent five francs 
 less than we thought! Here's a month gone now and 
 I've done four articles and a story, and wc still have 
 three hundred francs left." 
 
 "When it will be that you will send them to the 
 journjils? " 
 
 " Oh, no hurry, I want to stack up a dozen, and then 
 ril start shooting them in." 
 
 " We have saved four francs and half last week." 
 
 '* The deuce we have ! Then let's go to Bullier to- 
 night. We both want a touch of gay life. Come! 
 we'll watch Paris laugh." 
 
 So we climbed the Boul' Mich', till at its head in 
 a crescent of light we saw the name of the famous old 
 dance-hall. Threading our way amid the little green 
 tables, past the bowling alley and the bar, we found 
 a place in the side gallery. 
 
 Wo were looking down on a scene of the maddest 
 gaiety. The great floor was dense with dancers and 
 
THE CITY OF LAUGHTER 
 
 135 
 
 kaleidoscopic in colouring. In tlu- wildest of spirits 
 five liundrod imn and girls were capering, shuffling, jig- 
 ging and contorting their b- 'ies in time to tumultuous 
 music. Some danced limb to limb, others were bent 
 out like a bow ; some sidled like a crab, others wriggled 
 like an eel; some walked, some leaped, some slid, some 
 merely kicked sideways: it was dancing in delirium, 
 Hedlam in the ball-room. 
 
 And what conflicting colours? Here a girl in lob- 
 ster pink galloped with another whose costume was like 
 mayonnaise. There a negress in brilliant scarlet with 
 a corsage of silver darted through the crowd like a 
 riame. A hideous negro was dancing with a pretty 
 grisette who with fluffy hair and flushed cheeks looked 
 at him adoringly as he pawed her with his rubber-blue 
 palms. An A.Tierican girl in shirt waist and bicycle 
 skirt /ig-zagged in and out with a dashing Spaniard. 
 A tall, bashful Englishman pranced awkwardly around 
 with a midinette in citron and cerise, while a gentleman 
 from China solemnly gyrated with a mannequin in pis- 
 tachio and chocolate. Pretty girls nearly all; and 
 where they lacked in looks, full of that sparkling Pari- 
 sian charm. 
 
 " There's your friend, Monsieur Livwir," said Anas- 
 tasia suddenly. Sure enough, there in that maelstrom 
 of merriment I saw Lorrimer dancing with a girl of 
 dazzling prettiness. Presently I caught his eye and 
 after the dance he joined us. 
 
 " You haven't been to see me yet," I remarked. 
 
 " No, been too busy, — working every moment of my 
 time." Then realising that the present moment rather 
 belied him he shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 To tell the truth I have been feeling a little hurt. 
 
1S6 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 We sentimentalists are so prone to measure others by 
 our own standards. Our meeting, so interesting to 
 me, had probably never given him another thought. 
 Now I saw that while I was an egoist, Lorrimer was an 
 egotist ; but with one of his boyish smiles he banished 
 my resentment. 
 
 "Let me introduce you to Rougette," he said airily; 
 " she's my model." 
 
 He beckoned to the tall blonde. Rarely have I seen 
 a girl of more distracting prettiness. Her hair was 
 of ashen gold; Parma violets might have borrowed their 
 colour from her eyes; Nice roses might have copied 
 their tint from her cheeks, and her tall figure was of 
 a willowy grace. Her manner had all the winning 
 charm of frank simplicity. She was indeed over pretty, 
 one of those girls who draw eyes like a magnet, so that 
 the poor devil who adores them has little peace. 
 ^ "The belle of all Brittany," said Lorrimer proudly. 
 
 I discovered her when I was sketching at Pont Aven 
 last summer. !'„, going to win the Prix de Rome with 
 a picture of that girl. Vm the envy of the Quarter. 
 Several Academicians have tried to get her away from 
 me; but she's loyal,— as good as she looks." 
 
 I did not find it easy to talk to Rougette. Her 
 French was the argot of the Quarter, grafted on to 
 the patois of the Breton peasant; mine, of the school 
 primer. Our conversation consisted chiefly of smiles, 
 and circumspect ones at that, as Anastasia had her eye 
 on me. 
 
 " After another dance," suggested Lorrimer, " let's 
 go over to the Lilas. We'll probably see Helstem 
 there. I'd like you to meet him. Besides it's the 
 
THE CITY OF LAUGHTER 
 
 187 
 
 night the Parnassian crowd get together. Perhaps 
 you'll be amused." 
 "Delighted." 
 "All right." 
 
 Off they went with their arms around each other's 
 necks, and I watched them swiftly mingle with the 
 dancers. What a pretty couple they made ! — Lorrimer 
 so dashing and debonair, with his face of a sophisticated 
 cherub, jaid his auburn hair that looked as if it might 
 have been enamelled on his head, so smooth was it; 
 Rougette with the mien of a goddess and the simple 
 soul of a Breton fishwife. 
 
 But it was hard to follow them now, for tlie throng 
 on the floor had doubled. In ranks that reached to 
 the side galleries the spectators hemmed them in. The 
 variety of costume grew more and more bewildering. 
 Men were dressed as women, women as men. Four 
 monks entered arm in arm with four devils; Death 
 (lanced with Spring, an Incroyable with a stone-age 
 nan, an Apache with a Salome. More and more 
 th'f/lige grew the costumes as models, mannequins, mil- 
 lii rrs, threw aside encumbering garments. Every one 
 was getting wound up. Yells and shrieks punctuated 
 the hilarity; then the great orchestra burst into a pop- 
 ular melody and every one took up the chorus: 
 
 " Down in Mozambique, Mozambique, Mozambique, 
 It's so chic, oh so chic; 
 No need to bother over furs and frills, 
 Xo need to worry over tailor's bills; 
 Down in Mozambique. Mozaml)ique, Mozambique, 
 You may wear flg-Ieaves there 
 When you go a-mashing in the open air 
 ill Mo-zaui-bique." 
 
 S 
 
138 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 As they finislicd men tossed their parlners in the air 
 and carried them off the floor. Every one was hot and 
 dish<viHed: the air reeked of pachouli and perspira- 
 tion, and seeing Lorrimer signalling to us we made our 
 escape. 
 
 I remember how dehViously pure seemed the outside 
 air. The long tree-clad Avenue de I'Observatoire was 
 blanched with hoar frost and gleamed whitely. The 
 face of the sky was pitted with stars, and the crescent 
 moon seemed to scratch it like the manicured nail-tip 
 of a lovely woman. Across the street amid the trees 
 beaconed the lights of a large corner caf«:>, and to this 
 we made our way. 
 
 A long room, lined with tables, dim with tobacco 
 smoke, clamorous with conversation. We found a va- 
 cant table, and Lorrimer, after consulting us, ordered 
 
 ham sandveeches ct grog American." In the mean- 
 time I was busy gazing at the human oddities around 
 me. It seemed as if all the freaks of the Quarter had 
 gathered here. Nearly all wore their hair of eccentric 
 length. Some had it thrown back from the brow and 
 falling over the collar in a cascade. Others parted 
 It m the middle and let it stream down on either side, 
 hiding their ears. Some had it cut square to the neck, 
 and coming round in two flaps; with others again it was 
 fuzzy and stood up like a nimbus. Many of the women, 
 on the other hand, had it cut squarely In the Egyptian 
 manner ; so tliat it was difficult to tell them at a distance 
 from their male companions. 
 
 " It's really a fact," said Lorrimer, « that long hair 
 IS an aid to inspiration. Every time I cut mine it's 
 good-bye work till it grows again. And as I reallv 
 bate it long my work suffers horribly." 
 
THE CITY OF LAUGHTER 
 
 139 
 
 The centre of attraction seemed to be a tall man 
 whose sallow face was framed in inky hair that de- 
 tached itself in snaky locks. As if to accentuate the 
 ravenish effect he wore an immense black silk stock, and 
 his pince-nez dangled by a black riband. This was 
 Paul Ford, the Prince of the Poets, the heritor of the 
 mantle of Verlaine. 
 
 "There's a futurist poet," said Lorrimer, pointing 
 to a man in a comer who had evidently let his comb 
 fall behind the bureau and been too lazy to go after 
 it. He had a peaked face overwhelmed by stringy 
 hair, with which his beard and whiskers made such 
 an intimate connection that all you could see was a 
 wedge of nose and two pale-blue eyes gleaming through 
 the tangle. 
 
 " See that man to the right," went on my informer; 
 " that's the cubist sculptor, a Russian Jew." 
 
 The sculptor looked indeed like a mujic, with coarse, 
 spiky hair growing down over his forehead, eyebrows 
 that mad« one arch over his fierce little eyes, upturned 
 nose, a beard and moustache, which, divided by his 
 mouth, looked exactly like a scrubbing-brush the centre 
 of which has been rubbed away by long usage. 
 
 "Look! There's an Imagist releasing some of his 
 inspirations." 
 
 This was a meagre little man in evening dress, with 
 a bony skull concealed by the usual mop of hair. He 
 had a curiously elongated face, something like a horse, 
 the eyes of a seraph, the shell-like colour of a con- 
 sumptive, large, vividly-red lips, and an ineffable smile 
 which exposed a small cemetery of decayed teeth. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Lorrimer suddenly : " see that chap sit- 
 ting lonely in the comer with his arms folded and a 
 
140 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 sort of Strindberp-Xictzsolie-Ibsen expression? Well, 
 that's Htlsteni." 
 
 I saw a tall, voungish-oldish sort of man with a face 
 of distinguished taciturnity. His mouth was grimly 
 clinchfd; two vertical lines were written between his 
 eyebrows, and a very high forehead was further height- 
 ened by upstanding iron-grey hair. On the other hand 
 his brown eyes were soft, velvety and shy. He was 
 (Iressed in dead black, with a contrast of very white 
 linen. Close to his elbow stood a great stein of beer, 
 whde he puffed slowly from a big wooden pipe carved 
 into a fantastic Turk's head. 
 
 "Poor old Hclstern!" said Lorrimer; "he takes 
 life so seriously. Take life seriously and you're going 
 to get it in the neck : laugh at it and it can never hurt 
 you." 
 
 This was his gay philosophy, as indeed it was of the 
 careless and merry Quarter he seemed to epitomise. 
 Treat everything in a cynical and mocking spirit, and 
 you yourself arc beyond the reach of irony. It is so 
 much easier to destroy than to build up. Yet there was 
 something tart and stimulating in his scorn of things 
 as they are. 
 
 "Too bad to drag him from sublime heights of 
 abstraction down to our common level. Doesn't he 
 look like a seer trying to discern through the anarchy 
 of the present some hope for the future.? Well, Pll 
 go over and see if he'll join us. He's shy with women." 
 
 So the Cynic descended on the Seer, and the Seer 
 listened, drank, smoked thoughtfully, looked covertly 
 »•'. the two girls, then rose and approached us. With 
 a shock of pity I saw tliiit one of his legs was shorter 
 than the otlip r, and terminated in a club foot. Other- 
 
THE CITY OF LAUGHTER Ul 
 
 wise he was splendidly developed, and had one of the 
 (icepest bass voices I have ever heard. 
 " Well, old man, alone as usual." 
 
 Somewhat self-conscious and embarrassed, Helstern 
 spoke rather stiffly. 
 
 " My dear Lorrimer, much as I appreciate your 
 charmmg society there are moments when I prefer to be 
 alone." 
 
 "Oh, I understand. Great thoughts incubated in 
 silence. Own up now, weren't you thinking in na- 
 tions." " 
 
 " As it happens," answered the Seer in his irrave 
 penetrating tones, " I was thinking in nations. As a 
 matter of fact I was listening to the conversation of 
 two Englishmen near me." 
 
 He paused to light his pipe carefully, then went on 
 in that deep, deliberate voice. 
 
 "They were talking of International Peace — 
 fools ! " 
 
 " Oh, come now ! You believe in International 
 1 eace.'' " 
 
 He stared gloomily into the bowl of his pipe. 
 Bah ! a chimera ! futile babble ! No, no ; there are 
 oo many o d scores to settle, too many wrongs to right, 
 too many blood feuds to be fought to a finish. But 
 there will be International War such as the world has 
 never seen. And why not." We are becoming a race 
 of egotists, civilisation's mollycoddles ; we set far too 
 high a value on our lives. Oh, I will hate to see the 
 day when grand old war will cease, when we will have 
 the hearts of women, and the splendid spirit of revenge 
 u ill have passed away ! " * 
 
 ''Don't listen to him," said Lorrimer: "he isn't 
 
 I J 
 
142 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 so bloodthirsty as he sounds. He wouldn't harm a fly. 
 He's actually a vegetarian. What work are you doing 
 now, you old fraud .'' " 
 
 Helstem looked round in that shy self-conscious way 
 of his : 
 
 " I'm working oa an allegorical group for the Salon." 
 
 " What's the subject? " 
 
 " Well, if I must confess it, it's International Peace. 
 Of course, it's absurd; but the only consolation for 
 living in this execrable world is that one can dream of a 
 better one. To dream of beauty and to create accord- 
 ing to his dream, that is the divine privilege of the 
 artist." 
 
 " Yes, what dreamers are we artists! " said Lorrimer 
 thoughtfully. « You, Helstem, dream of leaving the 
 world a little better than you find it ; I dream of Fame, 
 of doing work that will win me applause; and you. 
 Madden — what do you dream of.?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't take myself quite so grandiosely," I 
 said with a laugh. " I dream of making enough money 
 to take me back to the States, to show them I'm not a 
 failure." 
 
 "Failure!" said Lorrimer with some feeling; "it's 
 those who stay at home that are the failures. Look at 
 them — small country ministers, provincial lawyers, 
 flourishing shopkeepers ; such are the shining lights of 
 our schoolboy days. Tax-payers, pillars of respecta- 
 bility, good honest souls, but — failures all." 
 
 " A few are drummers," I said. " The rest are hum- 
 drummers." 
 
 " Yes," sai ' Lorrimer. " By way of example, let 
 me relate the true history of James and John." 
 " James was the model boy. He studied his lessons, 
 
THE CITY OF LAUGHTER 143 
 
 was conscientious and persevering. He held the top 
 of the class so often that he came to consider he had 
 an option on it. He nearly wore his book, out with 
 study, and on prize-giving days he was the star actor on 
 the progre.mnie. Brilliant future prophesied for James. 
 
 ♦ *, u";. I"'^'"" ''°^"' °" *^^ °*^^'' ^^""^^ a« consis- 
 tently held down the bottom of the class. He was la/y. 
 unambitious, irreverent. He preferred play to study, 
 «.nd was the idol of the unregenerate. Direst failure 
 prophesied for John. 
 
 "James went into the hardware store and com- 
 menced to save his earnings. Soon he was promoted 
 to be salesman. He began to teach in the Sunday 
 bchool. He was eager to work overtime, and spent his 
 evenings studying the problems of the business. 
 
 " John began :o take the downward path right away. 
 He attended race-courses, boldly entered saloons, 
 haunted low music-haUs. The prophets looked wiser 
 than ever. He lost his job and took to singing at 
 smoking concerts. He spent his time trying to give 
 comic imitations of his decent neighbours, and practis- 
 ing buck and wing dances till his legs seemed double- 
 jointed. 
 
 "James at this period wore glossy clothes, and re- 
 fused to recognise John on the street. John merely 
 grinned. -^ 
 
 "James stayed with the home town, married respect- 
 ably, and had six children in rapid succession as every 
 respectable married man should. He owned the house 
 he hved m and at last became head of the hardware 
 store. 
 
 "John one day disappeared; said the vilinge was 
 top small for him; wanted to get to a City where he 
 
 i 
 
144 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 could have scope for his tnlcnts. Said the prophets: 
 ' I told you so.' 
 
 " And to-day James, my friends, is a school trustee, 
 an alderman, a deacon of tlie church. He is pointed 
 out to the rising generation as a model of industry and 
 success. But John — where is John? 
 
 " Alas ! John is, I regret to say, at present touring 
 in the Frohert & Schumann Vaudeville Circuit. He is 
 a headliner, and makes five hundred dollars a week. 
 All he does for it is to sing some half-a-dozen songs 
 every night, in which he takes off his native townsmen, 
 and to dance some eccentric steps of his own invention. 
 He has a limousine, a house on Riverside Drive, and a 
 h. X of securities in the Safety Deposit Vault that makes 
 the clerk stagger every time he takes it out. He talks 
 of buying up his native village some day and the 
 prophets have gone out of business. 
 
 " And now, friends, let's pry out the unmoral moral. 
 Honest merit may cinch the boss job in the hardware 
 store, but idle ignorance often cops the electric sign on 
 Broadway. The lazy man spends his time scheming 
 how to get the easy money — and often gets it. The 
 ignorant man, unwarped by tradition, develops on 
 original lines that make for fortune. Even laziness 
 and ignorance can be factors of success. All of which 
 isn't according to the Sunday School story book, but 
 it's the world we live in. And now as I see Madam is 
 tired, let's bring the session to a close." 
 
 That night, as I was going home, with Anastasia 
 clinging on my arm, I said: 
 
 " And what is it you dream of, Little Thing? " 
 
 "Me! Oh, I dream all time I make gond wife for 
 the Beautiful One I have."' 
 
m 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 THE CITY OF LOVE 
 
 This morning in the course of my walk I was passing 
 Cook's corner in the Place de I'Opera, when I was 
 accosted from behind by an alcoholic voice: 
 
 " Want to see the Crystal Palace to-day, sir ? " 
 
 Now the Crystal Palace is one of these traps for the 
 stranger with which Paris is baited. Your Parisian 
 knows these places as part of the city's life which is 
 not there for the Frenchman but for the tourist and 
 stranger. These people look for these things as a 
 part of the life of Paris, j'our Parisian says, and in 
 consequence they are there. 
 
 I was going on, then, when something familiar in 
 the voice made me turn sharply. Lo and behold! — 
 O'Flather. 
 
 " Hullo, Professor ! " I said, with a grin. " Gone 
 out of the flea-taming business.''" 
 
 For a moment he stared at me. 
 
 " Hullo! young man. Yep. Met with a dirty deal. 
 One of my helpers doped the troupe. Them as wasn't 
 stiff and cold was no more good for work. Busted me 
 up." 
 
 " Too bad. What are you doing now.** '* 
 
 ** Working as a guide." 
 
 " But you don't know Paris ! " 
 
 *' 'T ain't necessary. Mighty few Paris guides know 
 Paris. Don't have to." 
 
 145 
 
 1 ,1 
 
 i J 
 f I 
 I 
 
 i 
 
146 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 " Well, I wish jou luck," I said, and left him. He 
 looked after me curiously. His eyes were bloodshot 
 from excessive drinking, and his dewlaps were blotcheo 
 and sagging. "Vindictive brute!" I thought. "If 
 he only knew wouldn't he be mad! What a ripping 
 villain he'd make if this was only fiction instead of real 
 life!" 
 
 It waj this morning, too, I made the acquaintance 
 of Frosine. Passing through the mildewed court I 
 saw peering through the window of a basement room 
 the wistful face of little Solonge. Against the dark 
 mterior her head of silky gold was like that of a cherub 
 pamted on a panel. Struck with a sudden idea, I 
 knocked at heir door. 
 
 Solonge opened it, turning the handle, after several 
 attempts, with both hands, and very proud of the 
 feat. She welcomed me shyly, and a clear voice in- 
 vited me to enter. If the appearance of the child had 
 formerly surprised me, I was still more astonished when 
 I saw the mother. She was almost as dark as the little 
 one was fair. The contrast was so extreme that one 
 almost doubted their relationship. 
 
 Scarcely did she pause in her work as I entered. 
 She seemed, indeed, a human sewing machine. With 
 lightning quickness she fed the material to the point of 
 her needle, and every time she drew it through a 
 score of stitches would be made. Already the 
 bed was heaped with work she had finished, and a 
 small table was also piled with stufF. A wardrobe, 
 H stove, and two chairs completed the furniture of the 
 room. 
 
 But if I felt inclined to pity Frosine the feeling 
 
THE CITY OF LOVE 
 
 141 
 
 vanished on looking into her face. It was so brave, 
 so frank, so cheerful. There was no beauty, but a 
 piquant quality that almost made up for its lack. 
 Character, variety, appeal she had, and a peculiar 
 fascinating quality of redemption. Thus the beautiful 
 teeth redeemed the rather large mouth; the wide-set 
 hazel eyes redeemed the short, irregular nose ; the broad 
 well-shaped brow redeemed the somewhat soft chin. 
 Her skin was of a fine delicacy, one of those skins that 
 seem to be too tightly stretched; and constant smil- 
 ing had made fine wrinkles round her mouth and 
 eyes. 
 
 " A female with an active sense of humour,*' I thought. 
 Anastasia's sense of humour was passive, Rougette's 
 somewhat atrophied. So Mademoiselle Frosine smiled, 
 and her smile was irresistible. It brought into play 
 all these fine wrinkles ; it was so whole-hearted, so free 
 from reservations. That tonic smile would have made 
 a pessimist burn his Schopenhauer, and take to reading 
 Elbert Hubbard. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," I began in my fumbling French, 
 " I have come to beg a favour of you. You would be 
 a thousand times amiable if you could spare Solonge 
 for an hour or two in the afternoon, to go with us to 
 the Luxembourg Gardens. There she may play in the 
 sunshine, and it will give my wife infinite gladness to 
 watch her." 
 
 Frosine almost dropped her needle with pleasure. 
 " Oh, you are so good. It v "11 be such a joy for my 
 little one, and will make me so happy. Madame loves 
 children, does she not ? " 
 
 "It is truly foolish how she loves them. She will 
 
 ■4 
 
 t T 
 
UK 
 
 TIIK PKETKNDEH 
 
 be ravished if you will permit us to have your treasure 
 for a little while." 
 
 " Ah, monsieur, you are entirely too amiable." 
 "Not at all. It is well Ik art!, then?" 
 " But, yes, certainly. Vou make me too happy." 
 "Ah, well! this afternoon at three o'elock?" 
 " At three o'clock." 
 
 So I broke the news to Anastasia. " I.ittle Thin^, 
 I've borrowed a baby for you this afternoon. Solonge 
 is coming' with us to the gardens." 
 
 (Really, if I had given her a new hat she could not 
 have been more enchanted.) 
 
 " Oh, that will be lovely ! Then will I have my two 
 childrens with me. You don't know how I um glad." 
 So we g.iH" descended the timeworn stairs, and found 
 the youngster eagerly awaiting us. In her naw blue 
 coat and hat her wealth of long hair looked fairer and 
 silkier than ever. For a child of four and a half she 
 was very tall and graceful. Then we bade the mother 
 an raoir, and with the youngster chattering excitedlv 
 as she held the hand of Anastasia, and me puffing at the 
 cheap l)riar I had bought in the place of the ill-fate.l 
 meerschaum, we started out. 
 
 " I suppose if it hadn't been for Solongc>," I observed, 
 " Frosine would have thrown up the sponge long ago. 
 How awful to be alone day after day, sewing against 
 time, so to speak; and that for all one's life!" 
 
 "Oil, no. There is many girl like that in Paris. 
 They work till they die. They are brought up in the 
 convent. That make tluni very serious." 
 
 Anastasia had certainly the deepest faith in her re- 
 ligion. 
 
 After its long winter rcWichc the glorious old garden 
 
THE CITY OF LOVE 
 
 149 
 
 was awakening to the symphony of Spring. The soft 
 breeze that stirred the opening buds came to us hiden 
 with fragrance, arousing that so exquisite feeling of 
 sweet confused memory that only the Spring-birth can 
 evoke. The basin of the Fontaine de Medicis was 
 stained a dehcate green by peeping leaves, and a flock 
 of fat sparrows with fluttering feathers and joyous 
 cries were making much ado. We sat down on one of 
 the stone benches, because the pennies for the chairs 
 might buy many needful things. 
 
 That dear, dear garden of the Luxembourg, what, 
 I wonder, is the secret of its charm.? Is it that it is 
 haunted by the sentiment and romance of ages dead 
 and forgotten? Beautiful it is, yet other gardens are 
 also beautiful, and — oh, how different! Surely it 
 should be sacred, sacred to children, artists and lovers. 
 There, under the green and laughing leaf, where 
 statues glimmer in marble or gloom in bronze, and the 
 fountain throws to the tender sky its exquisite aigrette 
 of gold — there the children play, the artists dream, 
 and the lovers exchange sweet kisses. Oh, Mimi and 
 Musette, where the bust of Murger lies buried in the 
 verdure, listening to the protestations of your Eugene 
 and Marcel! — do you not dream that in this self-same 
 spot your mothers in their hours listened to the voice 
 of love, nay, even their mothers in their hours. So 
 over succeeding generations will the old garden cast 
 its spell, and under the branches of the old trees lovers 
 in days to come will whisper their vows. Yea, I think 
 it is haunted, that dear, dear garden of the Luxem- 
 bourg. 
 
 Solonge, whom I had decided to call " The Mome," 
 had a top which she kept going with a little whip. 
 
 *f 
 
150 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 To start it she would wi: .1 t^: lash of the whip around 
 its point, then standin j it ^.right in the soft ground, 
 give it a sharp jerk. But after a little she tired 
 of this, and began to ask questions about fairies. 
 Never have I seen a child so imaginative. Her world 
 is peopled with fairies, with whom she holds constant 
 communion. There are tree fairies, water fairies, 
 fairies that live in the ground, fairies that lurk in the 
 flowers — she can tell you .ill about them. Her faith 
 in them is touching, and brutal would he be who tried 
 to shatter it. 
 
 " You that make so many stories," said Anastasia, 
 as she listened to the prattle of the Mome, " have you 
 no stories for children .> Can you not make one for lit- 
 tle Solonge ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course, I might ; but you will have to put 
 it in French for her." 
 
 "All right. I try." , 
 
 So I thought a little, then I began : 
 
 Once upon a time there was a little boy who was very 
 much alone and who dreamed greatly. In his father's gir- 
 dtn he had a tiny corner of his own, and in this corner 
 grtw a large pumpkin. The boy, who had never seen a 
 pumpkin so big, thought that it might take a prize at the 
 yearly show in the village, and so every day he fed it with 
 milk, and always with the milk of the brindled cow, which 
 was richest of all. 
 
 So the pumpkin grew and grew, and the little boy be- 
 came so wrapt up in it he thought of little else. At last 
 it grtw to such a size that other people began to look at it, 
 and say it would surely take a prize. The little boy be- 
 came more proud of it than ever, and fed it more and more 
 of the milk of the brindled row, and took to rubbing it 
 till it shone — with his big brother's silk handkerchief. 
 
THE CITY OF LOVE 151 
 
 Then one night as he lay in bed he heard a great to-do 
 in the garden, and ran out in his night-dress. There was 
 a patch of ground where grew the pumpkins, and another 
 where grew the squashes, and both seemed greatly dis- 
 turbed. Fearing for his favourite he hurried forward. 
 No, there it was, great and glossy in the moonlight. He 
 kissed It, and even as he did so it seemed as if he heard 
 from within it a tiny, tinny voice calling his name. In 
 surprise he stepped back, and the next moment a door 
 opened in the side of the pumpkin and a fairy stepped 
 forth. 
 
 " I am the Pumpkin King," said the fairv, " and in the 
 name of the Pumpkin People I bid you welcome." 
 
 Then the boy saw that the inside of the great gourd was 
 hollow, and was lit with a wondrous chandeUer of glow- 
 worms. It was furnished like a little chamber, with a bed, 
 table, chairs — such a room as you may see in a house for 
 doUs. The boy wished greatly that he might enter, and 
 even as he wished he found that he had grown very small, 
 as small, indeed, as his own finger. 
 
 " Will you not enter.? " asked the King with a smile of 
 we* -t/me. 
 
 So the boy ad the King became great friends, and each 
 night when every one else was a-bed he would steal fortli 
 and sit in the chamber of the Pumpkin King. The King 
 thanked him for his care of the royal residence, and told 
 him many things of the vegetable world. But chiefly he 
 talked of the endless feud between the pumpkins and their 
 hereditary enemies, the squashes. Whenever the two came 
 together there was warfare, and when the squashes were 
 more numerous the pumpkins were often defeated. Yon- 
 der by the gate dwelt the Squash King, a terrible fellow, 
 of whom the Pumpkin King lived in fear. 
 
 " Can I not kill him for you ? " said the little boy. 
 
 " No, no," answered the King. " No mortal can de- 
 stroy a fairy. Things must take their course." 
 
152 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 At this the little boy was very sad, and began to dread 
 all kinds of dangers for his friend the King. Then one 
 day he was taken ill with a cold, and the window was 
 closed at night so tli.it he could not steal out as usual. And 
 as he lay tossing in his bed he heard a great noise in the 
 garden. At once he knew that a terrible battle was raging 
 between the squash and the pumpkin tribes. Alas ! he could 
 do nothing to help his friends, so he cried bitterly. 
 
 And next morning his father came to his bedside and told 
 him that all the pumpkins had been destroyed, including 
 his big one. 
 
 " It was that breechy brindled cow," said the father. 
 " It must have broken into the garden in the night." 
 But the little boy knew l)etter. 
 
 As I finished a deep, strongly vibrating voice greeted 
 us. 
 
 "What a pretty domestic scene. Didn't know you 
 had a youngster. Madden. Must congratulate you." 
 
 Looking up I saw Helstcrn. lie was leaning on a 
 stout stick, carved like a gargoyle. All in black, with 
 that mane of iron-grey hair and his keen, stern face 
 he made quite a striking figure. There is something 
 unconsciously dramatic about Helstern ; I, on the other 
 hand, am consciously dramatic; while Lorrimer is ab- 
 solutely natural. 
 
 " Sorry," I said, " she doesn't belong to us. We've 
 just borrowed her for the afternoon." 
 
 " I sec. What a beautiful type ! English, I should 
 imagine 
 
 .? " 
 
 " No, that's what makes her so different — French." 
 lie looked at her as if fascinated. 
 " I'd like awfully to make a sketch of her, if you 
 can get her to stand still." 
 
THE CITY OF LOVE 
 
 153 
 
 At that moment there was no difficulty, for the 
 Moiiic was gazing in round-eyed awe at the ferocious 
 Turk's head pipe in the sculptor's mouth. So Hclstern 
 took a chair, whipped out his sketch-book, and before 
 the fascinated child could recover he had completed a 
 graceful little sketch. 
 
 " Splendid ! " I said. 
 
 Anastasia, too, was enthusiastic; but when the Momc, 
 who was now nestling in her arms, saw it she uttered 
 a scream of delight. 
 
 " If you just sit still a little," said Helstem eagerly, 
 '* while I do another one for myself, I'll give you this 
 one to take home to your molhcr.'* 
 
 The Alome was very timid; but we posed her sitting 
 on the end of the stone seat, with one slim leg bent 
 under her and the other dangling down, while she 
 scattered some crumbs for the fat sparrows at her 
 feet. Against the background of a lilac bush she made 
 a charming picture, and Hclstern worked with an en- 
 thusiasm that made his eyes gleam, and his stern face 
 relax. This time he used a fine pencil of sepia tint, 
 working with the broad of it so as to get soft effects 
 of shadow. True, he idealised almost beyond resem- 
 blance; but what a delicate, graceful picture he made! 
 
 " It isn't such a good likeness as the first one," I 
 remarked, after I had murmured my admimtion. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said, with the pitying superiority of the 
 artist. " But you don't see her as I see her." 
 
 There, I thought, is Art in a nutshell ; the individual 
 vision, the divination of the soul of things, hidden 
 inexorably from the common eye. To see differentlv; 
 a greener colour in the grn-i'i, ;\ deeper blue in the sky, 
 a madonna in a woman of the street, an angel in a 
 
154 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 chiJd, God in all things — oh, enchanted Vision ! they 
 who have thee should be happier than kings. 
 
 There, little one ! " said the sculptor, giving her 
 the first sketch ; « take that to your mother and say 
 I said she should be very proud of you. Heavens, I 
 wish I could do a clay figure of her. I wish — " 
 
 He looked at her in a sort of ecstasy, sighed deeply, 
 then stumped away looking very thoughtful. 
 
 " Is he not distinguished," I said, « in spite of that 
 foot of his.?" 
 
 " Ah ! that is so sad, I sink. But perhaps it is - 
 the best he have foot like that. It make him u .re 
 serious; it make him great artist." 
 
 Trust Anastasia to find some compensation in all 
 misfortune ! 
 
 Frosine was plying that lightning needle when we 
 returned. She looked up joyfully as the little one 
 rushed to her with the sketch. 
 
 " Who did this.? It is my little pigeon — truly, it is 
 her very self." 
 
 " It was H friend of ours," said Anastasia, '« who is 
 a great sculptor, or, at least, who is going to be. He 
 has fallen in love with your daughter, as indeed we all 
 have." 
 
 " Oh, it is so good of you to take her out. Already 
 r see a difference in her. I would not have her grow- 
 up like the children of the streets, and it is so hard 
 when one is poor and has to work every moment of 
 one's time. As for this picture, thank the Monsieur. 
 Say I will treasure it." 
 
 We promised to do so, and left her singing gaily by 
 the open window as she resumed her everlasting toil. 
 
 So it h.-.s come ubout that nearly every afternoon 
 
THE CITY OF LOVE 
 
 155 
 
 we sit in the Luxembourg enjoying the mellow sun- 
 shine, with the little girl playing around us. We know 
 many people by sight, for the same ones come day 
 after day. There by the terrace of the Queens we 
 watch the toy yachts careening in the basin, the boys 
 playing diabolo, the sauntering students with their 
 sweethearts. Anastasia works industriously on some 
 Spanish embroidery, I read for the twentieth time one 
 of my manuscripts, while the Momc leaps and laughs 
 as she keeps a shuttlecock bounding in the air. Her 
 eyes are very bright now, and her delicate cheeks have 
 a rosy stain. Then, when over the great trees tin* 
 Western sky is aglow, when the fountain turns to flame, 
 and a charmed light lingers in the groves, slowly we 
 go home. Days of grateful memory, for in them do I 
 come to divine the deepest soul of Paris, that which 
 is Youth and Love. 
 
 ■s' 
 
 i 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 GETTING DOWN TO CASES 
 
 " AxASTASiA," I said with a sigh, " did I ever tell you 
 of (iwindolin? " 
 
 " No; what is it? " she asked, and her face had rather 
 an anxious expression. 
 
 "Gwendolin was a girl, a very nice girl, a trained 
 nurse; and we wore engaged." 
 
 " What you mean ? She was your fiancee? " 
 
 " Ves, she was one of my fiancees." 
 
 "What! You have more than one.?" The poor 
 girl was really horrified. 
 
 " Oh, several. I don't just remember how many. I 
 quarrelled with one heeause we couldn't agree over tin- 
 name wo would give the first baby. I broke it off with 
 another because her stomach made such funny noises 
 every time I tried to squeeze her. It made me nervous. 
 But Gwendolin — I must tell you about her. I was 
 very ill with diphtheria in a lonely house by the sea, 
 and she had come to nurse me. She would let no one 
 else come near me, and she waited on me night and 
 day." 
 
 (Anastasia suspended operations on the heel of mv 
 sock she was darning.) 
 
 " She was a nervous, high-strung girl, and she 
 watched over me with an agony of care. There was a 
 doctor, too, who came twice a day, yet, in spite of all, 
 I hourly grew more weak. My dreary moans seemed 
 to be echoed by the hollow moans of the sea.* 
 
 156 
 
 »» 
 
GETTING DOWN TO CASES 
 
 151 
 
 (Anastasia seemed divided between resentment of 
 Gwendolin and pity for me.) 
 
 " Well, the poor girl was almost worn to a shadow, 
 and one night, as she sat by me, pale and hollow-eyed, 
 I saw a sudden change come over her. 
 
 " ' I can stand it no longer,' she cried. * His every 
 moan pierces me to the heart. I must do something, 
 something.' 
 
 " Then she rose, and I was conscious of her great, 
 pitiful eyes. Suddenly I thrilled with horror, for I 
 realised that they were the eyes of a mad woman. 
 The strain of nursing had unhinged her mind. 
 
 " * The doctor tells me there is no hope,' she went 
 on. *0h, I cannot bear to hoar him suffer so; I 
 must give him peace; — but how?' 
 
 " On a table near by there was a small pair of scis- 
 sors. She took them up thoughtfully. 
 
 "'Dearest,' she said to me, 'your sufferings will 
 soon be over. I am going to cut your poor throat, 
 that gives you such pain.' 
 
 " I struggled, twisting my head this way and that, 
 but she held me like a vice, and over my throat I felt 
 two edges of cold steel." 
 
 (Anastasia was gazing in horror.) 
 "Steadily they closed, tighter, tighter. Now I 
 could feel them bite the flesh and the blood spout. 
 Then I, who for days had been unable to utter a word, 
 suddenly found my voice. 
 
 " ' Don't butcher me,' I whispered hoarsely. • Cut 
 my accursed throat by all means, but do it neatly. 
 Your scissors are far too blunt.' 
 
 " ' But how may I sharpen them, darling? ' she cried 
 piteously. 
 
158 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 " I remembered how I had seen other women do it. 
 
 " ' Try to cut on the neck of a bottle.' 
 
 "♦Will that do?' 
 
 Yes, yes. Keep cutting on the smooth round 
 glass. It's astonishing the difference it makes.' 
 
 " ♦ What kind of a bottle, sweetheart.' ' 
 
 "•An ink-bottle's best. You'll find one downstairs 
 on the dining-room mantelpiece. Ilurrv.' 
 
 " ♦ All right, I'll get it.' 
 
 " She fliw downstairs. Now was my chance. With 
 my remaining strength I crawled to the door and 
 locked it. When I recovered from a faint her struggles 
 to force it had ceased, and at the same moment I heard 
 the honk of the doctor's auto. Going to the window, 
 I bellowed like a bull. Then I was conscious of a 
 strange thing: by the pressure on my throat, by my 
 struggles, the malignant growth had broken. I was 
 saved." 
 
 Anastasia shuddered. "And that Gwendolin .J* " she 
 queried. 
 
 " Was taken to an asylum, where she died," I said 
 sadly. 
 
 " Poor sing," said Anastasia. 
 
 To tell the truth, the whole thing had happened to 
 me the night before in a very vivid dream. Often, 
 indeed, I got ideas in this way, so I promptly made a 
 story of Nurse Gwendolin. 
 
 I was putting the finishing touches to it when a 
 knock came to the door. It was Helstern, panting, 
 perspiring. 
 
 " Heavens ! but it's hard climbing that stairway of 
 yours with a game leg. Sorry to disturb you, Mad- 
 den, but where does the mother of your little girl live? 
 
GETTING DOWN TO CASES 159 
 
 You don't know how that youngster inspires me. I 
 feel that if I could do a full-length of her it would get 
 me into the Salon. See ! here's a sketch. Spring, it's 
 called. Of course, I mean to follow up with the other 
 seasons, but I want a child for my Spring." 
 
 He showed me a tender fiUette^in a state of nature, 
 trymg to avoid tripping over a tame lamb as she 
 scattered abroad an armful of flowers. 
 
 "Stunning!" I said. "So original! Lot's go 
 down and interview the mother." 
 
 Into his brown eyes came a look of distress. " I'm 
 a bit awkward with women, you know. Would you 
 mmd doing the talking.? " 
 "Right O! Follow me." 
 
 So we descended the narrow, crumbling stairs, from 
 each stage of which came a smell of cookery. Thus 
 we passed through a stratum of ham and eggs', another 
 of corned beef and cabbage, a third of beefsteak and 
 onions, down to the fried fish stratum of the entresol. 
 Frosine was in the midst of dinner. The Alome re- 
 garded us over a spoonful of milk soup, and as he 
 wiped the perspiration from his brow, Helstern looked 
 at her almost devouringly. But in the presence of 
 Frosine he seemed almost tongue-tied. To me, who 
 have never known what shyness was, it seemed pitiable. 
 However I explained our mission, and even showed the 
 sketch at a flattering angle. Frosine listened politely, 
 seemed to want to laugh, then turned to the sculptor 
 with that frank, kindly smile that seemed to radiate 
 good fellowship. 
 
 " You do me too great honour. Monsieur. I am sure 
 your work would be very beautiful. But alas ! Solonge 
 18 very shy and very modest. One could never get her 
 
160 
 
 TIIK rUKTKNnEK 
 
 to pose for the figure. I uni sorry, but believe me, the 
 thing is impossible." 
 
 " Thank vou, Miulani. I am sorrv too," he said 
 humbly. He stumped away crestfallen, and with a 
 final, sorrowful look at the Mome. 
 
 Anastasia was keeping supper hot for me. '* Poo- 
 Ilelstern," I remarked over my second chop, " I m 
 afraid he'll have to look out for another vernal infant. 
 But talking of Spring reminds me, time is passing, and 
 we're not getting any richer. How's the family 
 treasury.* " 
 
 An examination of the tea-canister that contained 
 our capital revealed the sum of twenty-seven francs. 
 I looked at it ruefully. 
 
 " I never dreamed we were so low as that. With 
 care we can live for a week on twenty-seven francs — 
 but what then?" 
 
 " Vou must try and sell some of your work, darlecn ; 
 and I — I can sell some hcin-hrodcric.'' 
 
 " Never ! I can't let you sell these things. They're 
 lovely. I want to keep them." 
 
 " But I easily do some more. It is pleasure for me." 
 
 " No, no ; at least, hold on a bit. I'll make some 
 money from my work. I'm going to send it off to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Vis, we were surely " getting down to cases." But 
 what matter! Of course my work will be accepted at 
 once, and paid for on the spot. True, I have no ex- 
 perience in this kind of peddling. My stuft" has always 
 appeared virgin in a book. Not that I think I am 
 prostituting it by sending it to a magazine, but that 
 no sooner do I sto it in print than my interest in it 
 dies. It belongs to the public then. 
 
GETTING DOWN TO CASES 
 
 161 
 
 Next (lay I bought a box of big envelopes, a quan- 
 tity of French and English stamps, and a manuscript 
 book in which I entered the titles of the different items. 
 1 also ruled columns : Where Sent : When Sent ; even 
 When Returned, tliou^ I thought the latter super- 
 fluous. Here then was my list : 
 
 The Psychology of Sea-sickness. 
 
 An Amateur Lazzarone. 
 
 A Detail of Two Cities. 
 
 The ^ficrobe. 
 
 How to be a Successful Wife. 
 
 Nurse GwendoIIn. 
 
 The City of Light. 
 
 The City of Laughter. 
 
 The City of Love. 
 
 and 
 Three Fairy Stories. 
 
 Twelve items in all. So I prepared them for des- 
 patch; but where." That was the question. How- 
 ever, after examining the windows of several English 
 book-shops, I took a chance shot, posted them it 
 twelve different destinations, and sat down to await 
 results. 
 
 Since then, with a fine sense of freedom, I have been 
 indulging in my mania for old houses. I do not meah 
 houses of historic interest, but ramshackle ruins tucked 
 away in seductive slums. To gaze at an old home and 
 imagine its romance is to me more fascinating than try- 
 ing to realise romance you know occurred there. I 
 examine doors studded with iron, search mouldering 
 walls for inscriptions, peer into curious courtyards. 
 I commune with the spirit of Old Paris, I step in the ' 
 
 ^^ 
 
16i2 
 
 THE PKETEXDER 
 
 footprints of Voltaire and A trlaine, of Rousseau and 
 Kacine, of Mirabeau and Molicrc. 
 
 One day I visit the room where an English Lord of 
 Letters died more diatlis than one. A gloomy, grue- 
 some hotel, with an electric night-sign that goes in and 
 out like some semaphore of sin. A cadaverous, miser- 
 able-looking man tells me that the room is at present 
 occupied. I return. A cadaverous, miserable-looking 
 woman whines to a dejected looking valet-de-chambru 
 that I may go up. 
 
 It is on the first floor and overlooks a court. There 
 is the bed of varnished pine in which he died ; the usual 
 French hotel wardrobe, the usual plush armchair, but 
 not, I note, the usual clock of chocolate marble. Every- 
 thing so commonplace, so sordid ; yet for a moment I 
 could see that fallen demi-god, as with eyes despairful 
 as death in their tear-corroded sockets, he stared and 
 stared into that drab, rain-sodden court. 
 
 For who can tell to what red Hell 
 His sightless soul may stray. 
 
 And so in sweet, haphazard wanderings amid the 
 
 Paris of the Past time sped ever so swiftly. I forgot 
 
 my manuscripts, my position, everything 'in my sheer 
 
 delight of freedom; and how long my dream would 
 
 have continued I know not if I had not had a sudden 
 
 awakening. It was on my return from one of my 
 
 rambles when I drew up with a start in front of a shop 
 
 that showed all kinds of woman's work for sale. 
 
 " Heavens ! Surely that isn't Anastasia's cushion? " 
 
 I was staring at a piece of exquisite silk embroidery, 
 
 an imitation nf ancient tapestry. No, I could not be 
 
 mistaken. Too well I remembered every detail of it ; 
 
GKTTING DOWN TO CASES 
 
 163 
 
 how I had watclied it take on beauty under her patient 
 fingers; how hour after hour I could hear the crisp 
 snap as the needle broke through the taut silk. Over 
 a v..!, i.a,! sUl- (oilLd on it, rising with the first dawn, 
 M, that slic might have more daylight in which to blend 
 lu r colours. And there it was, imbedded in that mass 
 of cheap stufF, and marked with a smudgy paper, 
 "Forty-five francs." Yes, I felt sick. 
 
 How careless I had been! I had never given the 
 financial situation another thought, yet we had wanted 
 for nothing. There was that excellent dinner we had 
 liud the night before; why, she must have sold this to 
 liuy it ! Even now I was living on the proceeds of her 
 work. 
 
 '• What a silly girl ! She wouldn't say a word, in 
 case I should be worried. Just like women ; they take a 
 fiendish delight in humiliating a man by sacrificing 
 themselves for him. But I can't let her support me. 
 Let's sec . . . There's my watch and chain. What's 
 a chain but a useless gaud, a handhold for a pick- 
 pocket. Maybe this very afternoon I'll have the whole 
 tiling snatched. I'll take no chances; it's a fine, heavy 
 tliain, and cost over a hundred dollars; maybe the 
 Mont de Pietists will give me fifty for it.'* 
 
 They wouldn't. Twenty-five was their limit, so I 
 took it meekly. Then, returning hastily to the em- 
 broidery shop, I bought the cushion cover, carried it 
 home under my coat, and locked it safely away in the 
 alligator-skin suitcase. 
 
 Though her greeting was bravely brjght, it seemed 
 to me that Anastasia had been crying, and of the nice 
 onitlelte she had provided for my lunch she would 
 scarcely taste. 
 
 J4 
 
164 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 "\^^lat♦s the trouble, Little Thing; out with it." 
 
 She hesitated; looked anxious, miserable, apologetic. 
 
 " I don't like trouble you, darleen, but the concierge 
 have come for the rent tree time, and I don't know 
 what I must say." 
 
 " The rent ! I quite forgot that. Why, yes, we pay 
 rent, don't we.? How much is it?" 
 
 " Don't you remember.' One 'undred twenty-five 
 franc.*' 
 
 " Well, there's only one thing to do — pay it. But 
 to do so I must put my ticker up the spout." 
 
 "Oh, my poor darleen, I'm so sorry. I sink it is 
 me bring you so much trooublc. If it was not for me 
 you have plenty of money, I sink." 
 
 "Don't say that. If it wasn't for your economies 
 I'd be rustling for crusts in the gutter. And any way, 
 what's the good of a watch when I can see the time in 
 every shop I pass.' Besides, I might lose it; so here 
 goes." 
 
 It is quite in tune with the cheerful philosophy of 
 the French to find a virtue in misfortune. Whether 
 they break a glass, spill red wine, or step in dirt, it's 
 all the same: "Ah! but it will carry the good luck." 
 
 For my gold watch I received two hundred francs, 
 though it had cost over a thousand; and with this I 
 returned. Much the shape and colour of a bloated 
 spider, the concierge emerged from her den, and to her 
 I paid the rent. Then, leaping upstairs, I poured the 
 balance remaining from both transactions into Anas- 
 tasia's lap. 
 
 "There! That ought to keep away the wolf for 
 a month. A hundred and fifty francs and the rent 
 paid for another quarter. Aren't we the lucky things.' 
 
GETTING DOWN TO CASES 
 
 165 
 
 The roof's overhead ; the soup's in the pot ; let's sing. 
 Now do 1 know why the very wastrels in the street 
 u u.t so much to be pitied after all; a warm corner 
 u: full belly, that's happiness to them. Wealth's 
 
 oi X matter of wants. Well, we're wealthy, let's go 
 to th>- cinema." 
 
 "No, darleen, that would not be serious. I must 
 ffuard your money now. When you sink you begeen 
 work once more? " 
 
 " I don't know. I'm having one of my bad spells. 
 Funny how it takes one. Times ideas come in a perfect 
 spate, and I miss half grabbing for the others. At 
 present the divine afflatus is on a vacation. I'm trying 
 to start a novel and I haven't got the Idea. You see 
 this short story and article stuff is all very well to boil 
 the marmite, but a novel's my real chance. '. success- 
 ful novel would put me on my feet. Pray, Little 
 'I liing, I get the idea for a novel!" 
 
 " Yes, I will, I will indeed," she answered me quite 
 st'riously. 
 
 And indeed she did: for one day I strolled into Notre 
 Dame, and there by one of those hard, high-backed 
 chairs before the mighty altar I discovered her implor- 
 ing (I have no doubt) the " bon Dieu " that the idea 
 might come. 
 
 For simple, shining faith I'm willing to bet ray last 
 dollar on Anastasia. 
 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE .MI'.HHV MONTH OF' MAY 
 
 May \xt. 
 This inorning in the course of my wiilk I saw a liungry 
 child trying to sell violets, a girl gazing fearfully at 
 the Maternity Hospital, an old woman picking, as if 
 they were gold, co/ds from the gutter. At times wliat 
 a world of poignant tlrama these conunon sights reveal ! 
 It is like getting one's eye to a telescope that is focussed 
 on a world of interesting misery. I want to write of 
 these things, hut I must not. First of all I must write 
 for money: that gained, I may write for art. 
 
 So far I haven't hit on my novel motif, though I've 
 lain awake at nights racking my poor hrains. What 
 nuikes me fi. t so is that never have I felt such con- 
 fidence, such power, such hunger to create. I think 
 it must he Paris and the Springtime. The comhination 
 makes n»e ditliyramhic with delight. I thrill, 1 hurn, 
 I see life with eyes anointed. Yesterday in the Luxem- 
 hourg I wrote some verses that weren''t half had; but 
 writing verses does not make the thorns crackle under 
 the pot, far less supply the savoury soup. Oh, the 
 Idea, the Idea! 
 
 To my little hand of manuscripts I have never given 
 another thought. But that is my way. I am like a 
 mother cat — when my kittens are young I love them: 
 when thoy grow to he cats I spit at them. .My work 
 finished, I never want to set- it a/tjain. 
 
THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY 167 
 
 One day as I fumed and fussed abominahlv I.orrinicr 
 
 oilled. 
 
 "Look here, Madden, I don't know what kind of 
 writing you do, but I suppose you're not any too 
 luastly rich ; you're not above making an honest dollar. 
 Now, I'm one of the future gold medallists of tho 
 Spring Salon, cela va sans dire, but in the meantime 
 I'm not above doing this." 
 
 " This " was a paper covered booklet of a flaming 
 t.vpt-. r took it with some disfavour. The paper was 
 muddy, the typn disreputable, the illustrations lurid. 
 Turning it over I read : 
 
 TICK M.\RVEM.Ors PENNVWOBTir UBRABY 
 OK WORLD ADVENTI-'RE. 
 
 "Prcfty rotten, isn't it.?" said Lorrimor. "Well, 
 you wouldn't believe it, some of these things sell to' 
 nearly quarter of a million. They give the best value 
 for the money in their line. Fifty pages of straight 
 adventure and a dozen spirited illustrations for a hum- 
 ble copper; could you beat it?" 
 
 " Well, what's it got to do with me? " 
 " It's like this: I've been guilty of the illustrations 
 of two of these masterpieces. They were Wild West 
 stories. Being an American, though I've never lived 
 out of Connecticut, I'm supposed to know all about 
 Colorado. Well, it's the firm of Shortcake & Ham- 
 mer that publish them, and I happened to meet young 
 Percy Shortcake when he was on a jamboree in Paris. 
 Over the wassail we got free, so he promised to put 
 some work my way. Soon after I got a commission to 
 illu^1rate Sureshot, or the Scout's Revenge; then sotnc 
 
168 
 
 THK PRETENDER 
 
 inontl.s after I adorned the pagts of UnlfianJ the 
 Sightrider, or the Prowler of the Prairiet." 
 
 " I see. What's the idea now? " 
 
 " Tlie idea is that you write one of these thinifs and 
 I ilhjstrate it." 
 
 " Mv dear feUow. jou have too high an opinion of 
 my powers." 
 
 "Oh, come now, Madden, try. You won't throw 
 me down, old man. I n.t.l the money. Supposing 
 we place it we'll g^t a ten pound note for it; that will 
 he seven for you and three for me. Throe pounds, 
 man, that w.ll keep me for a month, give me time to 
 finish my prize picture for the Salon. Just think what 
 • t means to me, what a crisis in mv fortunes. Fame 
 there ready to crown me, and for the want of a measly 
 three quid, biff! there she chucks her crown back in 
 the laurel bin for anotlier year. Oh, Madden, try. 
 Vm sure you could rise to the occasion." 
 
 Thus approached, how could a kind-hearted Irish- 
 ..mn refuse.? Already I saw Lorrimer gold-medalled, 
 glorified; then the reverse of the picture, Lorrimer 
 writhing m the clutches of dissipation and despair 
 Could I desert him? I yielded. 
 
 "Good!" whooped Lorrimer; "we'll make a best- 
 seller in Penny-dreadfuldom. Take Sureshot here as 
 a model. Here, too, are your illustrations." 
 "My what?" 
 
 " The pictures. Oh, yes, I did them first. It 
 doesn t^ make any difference, you can make them fit 
 in. It s often done that way. Half the books pub- 
 lished for Christmas sale are written up to illustra- 
 tions that the publishers have on hand." 
 
THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY 169 
 
 "All right. The illustrations may suggest the 
 story." 
 
 Lorrimcr went away exultant. After all, I thought, 
 seven pounds won't be bad for a week's work. So I 
 read Stireshot with some care. It was divided into 
 twenty chapters of about a thousand words each, and 
 (Very chapter finished on a situation of suspense. 
 The sentences were jerkily short ; each was full of pith 
 and punch, and often had a paragraph all to itself. 
 For example: 
 
 By one hand Sureshot clung to that creaking bough. 
 Bth.w him was empty space. AUne iiim leertd his f»,-. 
 Poisoned Pup, black hate in his f.ice. 
 
 Tlie branch cracked ominously. 
 
 Uith n shudder the Lone Scout looked down to the 
 bottom of the abvds. No way of escape there. He looked 
 up once more, and even as he looked Poisoned Pup raised 
 liis tomahawk to sever the frail branch. 
 
 "Perish! Paleface," he hissed; "go down to the Gulf 
 of the Lost Ones, and let the wolves pick clean your bones." 
 
 Sureshot felt that his last hour had come. 
 
 "Accursed Redskin," he cried, "do your worst. But 
 lieware, for I will be avenged. And now, O son of a dojr. 
 strike, strike ! " 
 
 And there with gleaming eyes the intrepid scout waited 
 for that glittering nxe to fall. 
 
 End of chapter; the next of which artfully switches, 
 and takes up another thread of the story. 
 
 The result of my effort was that in six days I pro- 
 duced Daredeath Dick; or the Scourge of the Sierras. 
 Lor rimer was enthusiastic. 
 
 " Didn't think you had it in you, old man. I'll ^-t 
 
170 
 
 THE PRKTENDKU 
 
 it off to Shortcak*- & Ilamnur at oiico. It will likely 
 Ih' some weeks before we ran hear from them." 
 
 Since then I have been seeing quite a lot of Lorrimer. 
 After all, our little apartment is cosiness itself, and 
 beer at four sous a litre is ambrosia within reach of 
 the most modest purse. He talks vastly of his work 
 (with a capital W). He arrives with the announce- 
 ment that he has just dropped in for a quiet pipe; in 
 an hour he must be back at his Work. Then: " Well, 
 old man, just another short pipe, and I must really be 
 off." But in the end he takes his departure about two 
 in the morning, sometimes talking me asleep. 
 
 How he lives is a mystery. Any evening you can 
 svv him in the Cafe D'Harcourt, or the Soufflet, and 
 generally accompanied by Rougette. When he is in 
 funds he spends recklessly. Once he gained a prize 
 for a Moulin Rouge poster, and celebrated his success 
 in a supper that cost him three times the value of his 
 prize. Sometimes he contributes a very naughty 
 dniwlng to Pages FoUcs, and I know that he does 
 aqttarellea for the long-haired g(>nius who sells them on 
 the boulevards, and who, though he can draw little else 
 than a cork from a bottle, in aj)pearance out-rapins the 
 
 frt/WW.*. 
 
 One afternoon I heard Helstern painfidly toiling up- 
 stairs. 
 
 *• I've got an idea," he began. " Vou know as soon 
 as I set eyes on the mother of your little Solonge I 
 saw she was just the type I've been looking for for my 
 group. Maternity. That woman's a bom mother, a 
 mother by destiny. See, here's a sketch of my group." 
 
 Helstern's statues, I notice, seldom get beyond the 
 sketch stage. This one showed a mother suckling an 
 
THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY 171 
 
 Infant and gazing fondly at another little girl, who in 
 li«r turn was looking niatornally at the hahy. 
 
 "That's all very well," I objected lianally ; •' Imt 
 Frosine hasn't got a baby.** 
 
 *' Pooh ! a mere trifle. I'll soon supply the baby. 
 Already I see my group crowned in the Salon. The 
 thing's as good as done. It only remains for you to 
 go down and get the consent of Madam." 
 
 " Me ! " 
 
 "^Vhy, yes. You know I'm no good at talking to 
 women. It takes an Irishman to be persuasive. Go 
 on, there's a good fellow." 
 
 Was I ever able to resist an appeal to my vanity? 
 Hut pretty soon I returned rather crestfallen. 
 
 " It's no use, old man. Can't nuike anything of the 
 lady. I showed her your sketch; I offered to provide 
 tiie infant; I pointed out the sensation it would make 
 in the Salon; no use. She positively refuses to pose; 
 prefers to sew lingerie. If she would be serious I 
 might be able to wheedle her; but she only laughs, and 
 when a woman laughs I've got to laugh with her. But 
 I can't help thinking there's something at the back of 
 her refusal." 
 
 " Well, well," sighed the big sculptor, " I give her 
 up. And already I could see the crowds admiring my 
 group as it stood under the dome of the Grand Palace ; 
 already I could hear their plaudits ringing in my cars; 
 already. ..." 
 
 Once more he sighed deeply, and went away. 
 
 May \5th. 
 It is so hot to-day that I think Summer must have 
 taken the wrong cue. On the Houl' Mich' the marron- 
 
172 
 
 THE i»ri:ti:nder 
 
 niers sickin In the stale air composed equally of asphalt, 
 petrol and escaping gns. Assyrian bearded students 
 and Aubrey Beardsley cocoitet are sitting over opaline 
 glasses in front of the stifling cafes, and the dolphins 
 in the fountains of the Observatory spout enthusiasti- 
 cally. Now is the time to loll on a shaded bench in 
 the Luxembourg Gardens, and refrain from doing any- 
 thing strenuous. 
 
 So I sit there dreaming, and note in a careless way 
 that I am becoming conspicuously shabby. Because 
 the necessary franc for the barber cannot well be 
 spared, I have allowed my hair to accunmlate a'sthetic- 
 ally. Anastasia loves it like that — says it makes 
 me look like the great man of letters I am: and with 
 a piece of silk she has made me a Lavallicre tie. 
 More than ever I feel like a character in a French 
 farce. 
 
 My boots, I particularly note, need heeling. Every 
 morning I conscientiously brush them before I go out, 
 but invariably I am called back. 
 " Show me your feet." 
 I bow before this domestic tyrant. 
 " Oh, what a dirty boy it is. What shame for me to 
 have husbands go out like that." 
 
 " But look ! " I protest ; " they're clean. They shine 
 like a mirror. Why, you can see your face in them — 
 if you look hard enough." 
 
 "But the heels! Look at the heels. Why you 
 have not brush them. Oh, I nevaire see child like that. 
 You just brush in front." 
 
 "Well, how can I see the heels? I'm no contor- 
 tionist." 
 
 "Oh, mon Dint! He l)rush his boots after he puts 
 
THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY 173 
 
 thrill on. Oh, what a cabbage head I have for hus- 
 band ! " 
 
 " Well, isn't that the right way? " 
 " Xom d'un chien! Give mo your patte." 
 Thni what a storm if I try to go out with a hole in 
 my socks! 
 
 "Oh, dear! I nevaire see man like that. Suppose 
 you get keel in the street, and some one take off your 
 boots, sink how you are shamed. What shame for me, 
 too, if I have husbands keel wiz hole in his sock!" 
 
 In addition to her other duties I have made her my 
 Secretary. Alas! I must confess some of my valiant 
 manuscripts have come sneaking back with unflattering 
 promptitude. It is a new experience and a bitter one. 
 Vet I think my chief concern is that Anastasia's faith 
 in me should be shattered. After the first unbelieving 
 moment I threw the things aside in disgust. 
 
 " They're no good. Til never send them out again." 
 
 " Oh, don't say that, darleen. You geeve to me 
 and I send away some more." 
 
 " Do what you like," I answered savagely. «' Rut 
 don't let me see the beastly things again. And don't," 
 I added thoughtfully, "send them twice to the same 
 place." 
 
 So what is happening I know not, though the ex- 
 pense for stamps is a grievous one. She has a list of 
 periodicals and is posting the things somewhere. Per- 
 haps she may blunder luckily. Anyway, I don't care. 
 I'm sick of them. 
 
 May SOth. 
 Some days ago I was sitting by the gate of the 
 Luxembourg that fronts the bust of St. Bvuve. That 
 
nt 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 fJriJ', vlirowtl face socined to smile at inc with pawky 
 kindliiifss, a^ if to s.iy : "Don't de<*j)uir, young men; 
 sei'k, Mrk, for the luminotiH idea will come." 
 
 Hut just thin it was more pkasant to dreauj than 
 to s.ek. A slim pine threw on the sun-flooded lawn 
 its purple pool of shadow; in the warm breeze a thick- 
 set yiw heaved gently; a livrly acacia twinkled and 
 fhitten-d; a silver-stemmed hirch toss,-d enthusiastic- 
 plumes. Over a bank of golden lilies bright-winged 
 butterflies were hovering, and in a glade beyond there 
 was a patch of creamy hyacinths. Against the ivy 
 that mantled an old oak, the white dr.ss of a girl out- 
 gleaiiied, and her hat, scarlet as a praniu!!i, mad-' ;. 
 sparkling note of colour. 
 
 Then, as she drew near I saw it was Anastasia, and 
 she was much excited. I wondered why. Is then- 
 anything in this world, I asked myself, 'worth while- 
 getting excited about? Just then I was inclined to 
 think not; so I smoked on imperturbal.lv. Th.- 
 vacuum in my life made by the lack of tobacco ha«l 
 b.-t-n more than I could bear, and I had taken to thosi 
 cheap packets of Caporal, cigarettes blates, whose 
 luxuriant whiskers I surreptitiously trimmed with 
 Anastasia's embroidery scissors. Never shall I be one 
 of those kill-joys who recommend young men not to 
 smoke — in the meantime filling up their own pipes 
 with particular gusto. 
 
 "Hullo, Little Thing! Why this unexpected pleas- 
 ure?" 
 
 "Oh, I search you everywhere. See! There's let- 
 ter from editor." 
 
 "So it is; and judging by your excitement it must 
 contam at least twenty pounds. Already I wallow in 
 
THE MERRV MONTH OF MAY 175 
 
 tlu" sands of Pactolus. . . . Vcs, you're right: A 
 ilii-quc. How long it seems since I've seen a cheque! 
 Let's sec — why! it's for a whole guinea." 
 
 Her eyes ghftintd with pleasure, ami she clapped 
 her hands. 
 
 "In payment," I went on, "of the article llov to 
 he a Successful Wife, from the editor of Unhi/'s Oum 
 a weekly Magazine specially devoted to the Xurserv." 
 
 " Yes, yes. I send heem zere. I sink it's so chic, 
 that magazine." 
 
 " Well, I congratulate you on your first success as 
 a literary agent. You deserve your ten per cent, com- 
 mission. It isn't the Eldorado of our dreams, hut it will 
 enahle us to carry out some neetled sartorial reforms. 
 For example, I may now get my hoots persuaded to a 
 luw lease of life, while you can buy some stuff for a 
 lilouse. How much can we do on twenty-six francs.'" 
 
 Hetween Necessary Expenditure and Cash in Ham! 
 the ilifference was appalling, hut after elaborate debate 
 the money was duly appropriated. From this time on 
 An.istasia became more energetic than ever in her con- 
 sumption of postage. It was about this time, too, I 
 noticed she ate very sparingly. On my taxing her, 
 she declared she was dieting. She was afraid, she said, 
 of getting fat. On which I decided I also was getting 
 fat: I, too, must diet. Every one, we agreed, ate 
 too much. I for one (I vowed) could do bettor work 
 on a mess of pottage than on all the fleshpots of 
 f^g.vpt- So the expenses of our menage began to take 
 .1 very low figure indeed. 
 
 At the same time "Soup of the Onion" began to 
 make its appearance with a monotonous frequency. 
 It is made by frying the fragments of one of these 
 
MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART 
 
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 ("6) 48; - 030C - Pf,one 
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1T6 
 
 THE niETENDER 
 
 vegetables till it is nearly black. You then add hot 
 water, boil a little, strain. The result is a warm, yel- 
 lowiph liquor of onionish suggestion, which an ardent 
 imagination may transform into a delicate and nour- 
 ishing soup — and which costs about one sou. 
 
 A sudden reversion, however, to a more generous 
 cuisine aroused my suspicion, and, on visiting the little 
 embroidery shop, again I saw some of her work. I 
 made a rapid calculation. Of rnv personal possessions 
 there only remained to me my gold signet ring, and 
 the seal that had hung at the end of my chain. For 
 the first I got fifty francs, for the second, twenty. So 
 for thirty francs I bought her work, and locked it 
 away with the cushion cover. 
 
 I am really beginning to despair, to think I shall 
 have to give in. Oh, the bitterness of surrender! 
 All that is mulish in me revolts at the thought. For 
 myself rather would I starve than be beaten, but there 
 is the girl, she must not bo allowed to suffer. 
 
 Mai/ 31 »f. 
 
 This has been a happy day, such a happy day as 
 never before have I known. This morning Lorrimer 
 burst into my apartment flourishing a cheque for The 
 Scourge of the Sierras. Shortcake & Hammer ex- 
 pressed themselves as well pleased, and sent — not ten 
 pounds but twelve. 
 
 " I tell you what ! " cried the artist excitedly, 
 •• we*vc got to celebrate your success as a popular 
 author. We'll spend the extra two pounds on a din- 
 ner. We'll ask Rougette and Helstern, and we'll have 
 it to-night in the Cafe d'Harcourt." 
 
 He is one of these human steam-rollers who crush 
 
THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY 
 
 177 
 
 down all opposition; so that night we five met in the 
 merriest cafe in the Boul' Mich'. Below its hizarre 
 frescoes of stur?'>nt life we had our tahle, and consider- 
 ing that foui . '■ us did not know where the next month's 
 rent was coming from we were a notably gay party. 
 
 Oh, you unfortunates who dine well every day of 
 your lives, little do you guess the gastronomic bliss of 
 those whose lives are one long Lent ! Never could 
 you liave vanquished, as we, that host of insidious 
 hors-d\vuvres; never beset as we that bouillon with 
 the brown bread drowned in it. How the crisp fried 
 soles shrank in their shrimp sauce at the spectacle of 
 our devouring rage, and the filet mignon hid in fear 
 under its juicy mushrooms ! The salad of chicken 
 and haricots verts seemed to turn still greener with 
 terror, and, as it vanished in total rout, after it we 
 hurled a bomb of Neapolitan ice cream. And the wine! 
 How splendid to have all the Beaune one wants after 
 a course of " Chateau La Pompe ! " And those two 
 bottles of sunshine and laughter from the vaults of 
 Rheims — not more radiantly did they overflow than 
 did our spirits! And so sipping our cafh fltre, we 
 watched the crowd and all the world looked glorious. 
 
 The place had filled with the usual mob of students, 
 models and fiUes-de-joie, and the scene was of more 
 than the usual gaiety. The country had just been 
 swept by a wave of military enthusiasm ; patriotism 
 was rampant ; the female orchestra perspired in its 
 efforts to be heard. Every one seemed to be thumping 
 on tables with bocks, and two hundred voices were 
 singing: 
 
 " Encore un petit vfrre de vin pour nous mettre en route; 
 Kncore un petit verrc de vln pour nous mettre en train." 
 
178 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 Some one started Fragson's En avant, mea petit s 
 Gars, and there was more stamping, .shouting and 
 hinging of bocks. Then the orchestra broke into the 
 melody for which all were longing: 
 
 " AHons, cnfants dc la Patrir, 
 !-<> joiir de gloirc rst arrivr.' 
 
 All were up on their seats now, and the song finished 
 in a furore of enthusiasm. 
 
 The generous wine had afTcctod us three men differ- 
 ently. Lorrimer was loquacious, Helstern glooniy, 
 while I was inclined to sleep. 
 
 " Bah ! " Helstern was saying: " This fire and fury, 
 what is it.' A mask to hide a desperate uneasiness. 
 Poor France! There she is like some overfat ewe; 
 there is the Prussian Wolf waiting; but look! between 
 them the paw of the Lion." * 
 
 He represented the fat ewe with the sugar bowl, the 
 Wolf with the cream jug, and laid his big hand in 
 between. 
 
 "Poor France!" broke in the girls; Rougette was 
 more brilliantly pretty than ever, and her eyes flashed 
 with indignation. Even the gentle Anastasia was 
 roused to mild resentment. 
 
 " Yes," went on Helstern, " you're a great race, but 
 you're too old. You've got to go as they all went, 
 Greece, Rome, Italy, Spain. England will follow, 
 then Germany, last of ail Russia." 
 
 " For Heaven's sake ! " broke in Lorrimer noisily, 
 ** don't let him get on the subject of International 
 Destinies. What does it matter to us.? To-day's the 
 only time worth considering. Let's think of our own 
 
 • Thii was written in ttie Spring of 1914. 
 
THE MERRY MONTH OF MAY 
 
 179 
 
 (l(>liiiic> : mine as the coming (Jerome, Hilstern's as 
 the coming Rodin, and Madden's as the coming Syl- 
 vanus Cohb." 
 
 But I did not heed him. Drowsy content had pos- 
 session of me. "Seven pounds," I was thinking; 
 " that means the sinews of war for another month. 
 Oh, if I could onlv get some kind of an idea for that 
 novel! What is Lorrimcr babbling about now,?" 
 
 " Marriage," he was saying ; " I don't believe in 
 marriage. The first year people are married they are 
 happy, the second contented, the third resigned. 
 There sljould be a new deal every three years. Why, 
 if '• general dispensation of divorce were to be granted, 
 half of the married couples would break away so quick 
 it would make your head swim." 
 
 " Oh, Monsieur, you are shocking," said Anastasia. 
 
 " What shocks to-day is a commonplace to-morrow. 
 There will come a time when the custom that condemns 
 a couple to bore one another for life will be considered 
 a barbaric one. Why penalise people eternally for 
 the aberration of a season? Three year marriages 
 would give life back its colour, its passion, its romance. 
 People so soon grow physically indifferent to each 
 other. Flavoured with domesticity kisses lose their 
 rapture." 
 
 " You have the sentiments epouventahle" said Anas- 
 tasia. "Wiiit till you have marry." 
 
 " Me ! You'll never see me in the valley of the 
 shadow of matrimony. Would you spoil a good lover 
 by making an indifferent husband of him? No, we 
 never care for the things we have, and we always want 
 those we haven't. If I were married to Helen of 
 Troy I'd be sneaking .side glances at some little Mimi 
 
180 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 Pinson across the way. And by the same token, 
 Madam, keep your eye on that husband of yours, for 
 even now he's looking pretty hard at some one else." 
 And indeed I was, for there across the room was the 
 girl from Naples, Lucrczia Poppolini. 
 
CHAPTER nil 
 
 "TOM, DICK AND HARRY" 
 
 The partner who managed the forwarding department 
 of the firm of Madden & Company reported to the 
 partner who represented its manufacturing end that 
 the editor of the Babbler had accepted his story 
 77j<* Microbe, for one of his weekly Tabloid Talcs. 
 A cheque was enclosed for three guineas. 
 
 The manufacturing partner looked up in a dazed 
 way from his manuscript, tapped his mighty brain 
 to {juicken recollection of the story in question, signi- 
 fied his approval, and bent again to his labours. Being 
 in the heart of a novel he dreaded distraction. These 
 necessary recognitions of every day existence made 
 it harder for him to lift himself back again into his 
 world of dream. 
 
 However, in his sustained fits of abstraction he had a 
 worthy ally in the forwarding partner. Things came 
 to his hand in the most magical way, and his every 
 wish seemed anticipated. It was as if the whole 
 schinie of life conspired to favour the flow of inspira- 
 tion. Thus, when he was quietly told that lunch was 
 ready, and instead of eating would gaze vacantly at 
 the Imtter, there was no suggestion of his impending 
 insanity; neither, when he poured tea into the sugar 
 basin instead of into his cup, was there any demon- 
 stration of alarm. 
 
 On the other hand the forwarding partner might 
 
 often have been seen turning over the English maga- 
 
 iftl 
 
182 
 
 Tin: pui:Ti:Ni)Eu 
 
 /inos displayed in front of the booksellers, and noting 
 their office addresses. She was wonderfully persistent, 
 hut wofully unfortunate. Even the New York-Lon- 
 don article, which the manufacturing partner had told 
 her to send to the Gotham Gleaner, had been returned. 
 The editor was a personal friend of his, and had the 
 article been signed in his own name would probably 
 have taken it. As it was it did not get beyond a 
 sub-editor. 
 
 " Throw the thing into the fire," he said savagely 
 when she told him ; but she promptly sent it to the 
 Sunday Magazine section of the Xerc York Monitor. 
 After that she was silent on the subject of returned 
 manuscripts. 
 
 I have forbidden Anastasia to sell any more em- 
 broidery, so that she no longer spends long and late 
 hours over her needle. Instead she hovers about me 
 anxiously, doing her work with the least possible com- 
 motion. 
 
 I have given her the forty francs remaining from 
 the sale of my seal and ring, and that, with the three 
 guineas from the Babbler, is enough to carry us on for 
 another month. It is extraordinary how we just 
 manage to scrape along. 
 
 I wish to avoid all financial worry just now. ^ly 
 story has taken hold of me and is writing itself at 
 the rate of three thousand words a da}-. No time now 
 to spend on meticulous considerations of style; as I 
 try to put down my teeming thoughts my pencil cannot 
 travel fast enough. It is the same frenzy of narration 
 with which I rattled off The Haunted Taxicah and its 
 fellow culprits. If at times that new-born conscience 
 
" TOM, DICK AND HARRY 
 
 183 
 
 of iiiino gives iiu' qualms, 1 dull them with the thought 
 that it is just a tale told to amuse and — oh, how I 
 r..t'(l 111. liionpy ! 
 
 And now to come to my novel, Tom, Dick and 
 Ilorrif. 
 
 Three cockney clerks on a ten days' vacation, are 
 tramping over a desolate moor in Wales. Tom is a 
 dreamer with a turn for literature; Dick an adventurer 
 who hates his desk ; Harry an entertainer, with remote 
 designs on the stage. 
 
 The scenery is wild and rugged. The road winds 
 between great boulders that suggest a prehistoric race. 
 The wind of the moor brings a glow to their cheeks, 
 and their pipes are in full blast. Suddenly outspeaks 
 Tom : 
 
 " Wouldn't it be funny, you fellows, if a man clad in 
 skins were suddenly to dodge out from behind one of 
 these rocks, and we were to find that we were back in 
 the world of a thousand years ago — just as we 
 are now, you know, with all our knowledge of things? " 
 
 " It wouldn't be funny at all," said Dick. " How 
 could we make use of our knowledge? W^hat would 
 we do for a living? " 
 
 " Well," said Tom thoughtfully, " I think I would 
 go in for the prophecy business. I could foretell 
 things that were going to happen, and — yes, I think 
 I'd try my hand at literary plagiarism. With all my 
 reading I could rehash enough modem yarns to put all 
 the tribal story-tellers out of business. I'd become 
 the greatest yam-spinner in the world. What would 
 you do, Hal?*" 
 
 " Oh, I don't think I'd have any trouble," said Harry. 
 " I'd become the King's harper. I think I could 
 
184 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 vamp on the liarp all right. I'd revive all the popular 
 songs of the last ten years, all the minstrel songs, all 
 the sentimental ballads, all the national airs, and I'd 
 set them to topical words. I'd become the greatest 
 minstrel in the world. Now, Dick, it's your turn." 
 
 Dick considered for so long that they fancied he was 
 at a loss. At last he drew a deep l)reath. 
 
 " I know — I'd discover America." 
 
 They thought no more about it, and next day went 
 gaily a-dimbing a local mountain. But Tom, who 
 was a poor climber, lagged behind his companions, and 
 began to slip. Clawing frantically at the rough rock 
 over the edge of the bluff he went, and fell to the 
 bottom with a crash. 
 
 When he opened his eyes his head ached horribly. 
 Putting up his hand he found his scalp clotted with 
 blood. The heavy mist shut off everything but a 
 small circle all round him. As he lay wondering 
 what had become of his companions, suddenlv he be- 
 came aware of strange people regarding him. Grad- 
 ually they ame nearer and he saw that they were clad 
 in skins. 
 
 Well, they take him prisoner and carry him off to 
 their village, where their head-man questions him in an 
 uncouth dialect. Then they send for a sage who also 
 questions him, and is much mystified at his replies. 
 " This wise greybeard," thinks Tom, " seems to know 
 less than an average school-boy." 
 
 Then comes the news that two more of the strange 
 creatures have been captured. Once again the trio 
 arc united. 
 
 " It's a rum go," said Ditk. " Seems we've slipped 
 back a thousand vears." 
 
"TOM, DICK AND HARRY 
 
 185 
 
 " Wliat particular period of liistory linve we climbed 
 off at?" cletnaiulecl Harry. 
 
 " It looks to nic," said Tom, " as if we wi-ro in 
 Saxon Kngland, just before the Normiin Invasion. 
 From what the old gentleman tells me Harold is the 
 big chief." 
 
 "What will we do?" 
 
 " Seems to me we'll be all right. With a thousand 
 years or so of experience ahead of those fellows we 
 ought to become great men in this land. W^e were 
 mighty small fry in old London. I wish I was an 
 engineer, I'd invent gunpowder or something." 
 
 '• We'd better carry out our original plans," said 
 Dick. 
 
 By and by came messengers from the king, who 
 wished to see these strange beings descended on his 
 earth from a star. And, indeed, it seemed to the three 
 friends as if they had really dropped on some planet a 
 thousand years less advanced than ours (for given 
 similar beginnings and conditions, will not history go 
 on repeating itself?). In any case, the king received 
 them with wonder and respect, and straightway they 
 were attached to the royal household. 
 
 (Jradually they adapted themselves to medittval 
 ways, became accustomed to sleeping on straw, and to 
 eating like pigs; but even to the last they did not cease 
 to deplore the absence of small-tooth combs in the 
 toikt equipment of the royal family. 
 
 The book goes on to trace the fortunes of each of its 
 three heroes. It tells how Harry captivated the court 
 with a buck-and-wing dance, set them turkey-trotting 
 to the strains of " Hitchy Koo," and bunny-hugging to 
 the melody of "Down the Mississippi." He even 
 
18G 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 opened n private class for lessons in the Tango, and 
 initiated 'I'ango Teas in which inrad replaced the fra- 
 grant orang*' pekoe He invented the first banjo, de- 
 moralised the court with the first ragtime. You should 
 have heard King Harold joining in the cliorus of 
 " Waiting for the Robert E. Lee," or singing as a 
 solo " You Made Me Love You." Decidedly Harry 
 bid fair to be the most popular man in the kingdom. 
 
 But Tom was running him a pretty close race. He 
 had become the Royal Story-teller, and nightly held 
 them breathless while he thrilled them with such mar- 
 vels as horseless chariots, men who fly with wings, and 
 lightning harnessed till it makes the night like day. 
 Yet when he hinted that such things may even come 
 to pass, what a howl of derision went up! 
 
 " Ah, no ! " cried King Harold, " these be not the 
 deeds of men but of the very gods." And all the wise 
 men of the land wagged their grey beards in approval. 
 
 So after that he gave Truth the cold shoulder, and 
 found fiction more grateful. He reconstructed all the 
 stock plots of to-day, giving them a Saxon setting: 
 and the characters that had taken the strongest hold 
 on the popular imagination he rehabilitated in Saxon 
 guise. The most childish tales would suffice. Night 
 after night would he rivet their attention with 
 " Aladdin " or " Bluebeard," or " Jack and the Bean- 
 stalk." Just as Harry had made all the minstrels rend 
 their harp-strings, in despair, so Tom made all the 
 story-tellers blush with shame, and take to the Hinter- 
 lands. 
 
 Poor Dick, however, was having a harder time of it. 
 Like a man inspired he was raving of a wonderful land 
 many day« sail beyond the sea. But the stolid Saxons 
 
t( '1 
 
 rOM, DICK AM) HARRY " 
 
 187 
 
 rifiised to believe him. " Fancy believing one who 
 >;ivs the world is round! Surely the man is mad." 
 
 At last he fell in with some Danes who, seeing an 
 opportunity for piracy, agreed to let him be their pilot 
 to this golden land. They fitted out a vessel, and 
 saikd away to the West. But they were storm-driven 
 for many days, and finally their boat was wrecked on 
 the Arran Islands. 
 
 In the meantime, William the Conqueror came on 
 tlie scene, and King Harold, refusing to listen to the 
 warning of Tom, gave fight to the Norman. Then 
 Tom and Harry beheld with their modern eyes that 
 epoch-making battle. 
 
 " Oh, for a hundred men armed with modern rifles ! " 
 said Tom. " Then we could conquer the whole world." 
 
 But with the subjugation of the Saxon, dark days 
 follow for the three friends. Harry, trying to get a 
 footing in the new court, and struggling with the new 
 language, is stabbed by a jealous court jester. Dick, 
 having escaped from the irate Danes, marries an Irish 
 princess and becomes one of the Irish kings. Tom, 
 continuing to indulge in his gift for prophecy, incurs 
 the dislike of the Church and is thrown into prison. 
 Then one bright morning he is led to be executed. He 
 lays his head on the block. The executioner raises 
 liis axe. There is sudden blankness. . . . 
 
 " Yes, very interesting case," he hears the doctor 
 saying. " Fell thirty feet. Came nasty whack on the 
 rocks. We've trepanned . . . expect him to recover 
 consciousness quite soon. . . ." 
 
 One morning, aboui the beginning of July, I was 
 leading Dick through a whirl of adventu'-e in the wilds 
 
188 
 
 THE PRKTENDER 
 
 of darkest Ireland, when Anastasia entered. I looked 
 at her blankly. 
 
 " Hullo ! What's wrong now? " 
 
 " Oh ! I inn desolate. Please excuse me for trouble 
 you, durleen, but there is no help for it. We have 
 forget the rent, and once more it is necessary to be 
 paid." 
 
 " Oh, the rent, the awful, inevitable rent ! What 
 a cursed institution it is! Well, Little Thing, I've 
 no money." 
 
 "What we do, darleen.?" 
 
 " It's very unfortunate. I'm getting on so nicely 
 with my novel, and here I. have to break off and worry- 
 over matters of sordid finance." 
 
 " I'm so sorry. Let me sell some of my hem-hroderie, 
 I sink I catch some money for that." 
 
 " \o, I hate to let you do that. Stop ! We'll com- 
 promise. Give me what you have and I'll put it ' up 
 the spout.' It will be only for a little while." 
 
 So she gave me a cushion cover, two centre pieces, 
 and some little mats. 
 
 " How much money is left ? " I asked. 
 
 " Only about eleven franc." 
 
 "Hum! That won't help us much. All right. 
 I^-ave it to me, and whatever you do, don't worry. 
 I'll raise the wind somehow." 
 
 So I took the suitcase, with the pieces of enibroidery 
 I had previously bought, and carried the whole thing 
 to the Mont de Piete. I realised seventy francs for 
 the whole thing. 
 
 " There you are," I said on my return. " With the 
 eleven francs you have, that makes •.'ighty-one. You'd 
 
" TOM, DICK AND HARRY " 189 
 
 better pay the rent for one month only. Then we 
 will have forty francs left. We can struggle along on 
 that for two weeks. By that time something else will 
 be sure to turn up." 
 
 Something did turn up — the very next day. The 
 I'ditor of a cheap Weekly who had already begun to 
 make plans for his special Christmas number, wrote and 
 oft'cred to take my diphtheria story if I would give it 
 a Christmas setting. I growled, and used shocking 
 l.inguagc, but in the end I laid aside my novel and re- 
 clirisceaing the story My Terrible Christmag, I made 
 the necessary changes. Result: another cheque for a 
 guinea. 
 
 How she managed to last out the balance of the 
 month on an average of two francs a day I never knew. 
 I discontinued my morning wulks, giving all my time 
 to my novel, and thinking of nothing else. I was 
 dimly conscious that once more we were in the " Soup 
 of th< Onion " zone, but as I sat down dazed to my 
 mials 1 scarce knew what I ate. I was all keyed up, 
 with my eyes on the goal. I would compose whole 
 chiipters in my dreams, and sleeping or waking, my 
 mind was never off my work. 
 
 Then came an evil week when the power of produc- 
 tion completely left me. How I cursed and fretted. 
 I was sick of the whole trade of writing. What a sorry 
 craft ! And my work was rotten. I hated it. A fog 
 overhung my brain. I saw the whole world with dis- 
 tempered eyes. I started out on long walks around 
 the fortifications, and as I walked everything seemed 
 unreal to me. I was like an automaton ; I seemed to 
 lose all sense of mv identity. Yet the fresh air was 
 
190 
 
 THE rilETENDER 
 
 good to mc, and the weaving of green leaves had a 
 strange swoetness. The river, too, soothed me; then 
 one day all my interest in the world came back. 
 
 At six o'clock that evening I began to work, and all 
 night through I wrote like a madman. As I finished 
 covering a sheet I would throw it on the floor and grab 
 fi fresh one. I was conscious that my wrist ached 
 infernally. The dawn came and found me still writing, 
 my face drawn, my eyes staring vaguely. Then at 
 (l(?ven in the morning I had finished. I was islanded 
 in a sea of sheets, over twelve thousand words. 
 
 " Please pick them up for me," 1 asked her. " I'm 
 afraid it's awful stuff, but I just had to go on. Every- 
 thing seemed so plain, and I just wanted to get it down 
 and out of my mind. Well, it's done, my novel's done. 
 See, I've written the sweetest of all words: Finis. 
 But I'm so tired. No, I don't want any lunch. I'll 
 just lie down a bit." 
 
 With a feeling of happiness that was like a flood of 
 sunshine I crept into bed, and there I slept till eight of 
 the following morning. Next day all I did was to loaf 
 around the Luxembourg in the joyance of leaf and 
 flower. I was still fagged, but so happy. As I 
 smoked a tranquil pipe I watched the children on the 
 merry-go-round. They were given little spears, with 
 which to tilt at rings hung round the course, and if 
 they bagged a certain number they were entitled to a 
 scat for the next round. To watch the rosy and 
 eager faces of these youthful knights on their fiery 
 steeds, as they rode with lances couched, was a gentle 
 specific for the soul. 
 
 Yes, evcrytlnng seomod <n good, so bright, so benef- 
 icent. I loved that picture full of freshness, gaiety 
 
"TOM, DICK AND HARRY" 191 
 
 and youth. Anastasia and the Momc joined me, and 
 we listened to the band under the niarronnicrs. Then 
 we h'ngered on the Terrace of the Queen's to watch 
 the skj behind the Toxcer Eiffel kindle to a glow of 
 amber, and a wondrous golden tide o'erflooding the 
 rrroves till each leaf seemed radiant and the fountain 
 txultcd in a spray of flame. 
 
 Suddenly the Mome gave a cry of delight. Listen! 
 In the distance we could hear a noise like a hum of 
 bees. It is the little soldier, who every evening at 
 closing time, parades the garden with his drum, warn- 
 ing every one it is time to go. This to the children is 
 the crown of all the happy day. Hasten Sylvere and 
 Yvonne — it is the little soldier. Fall in line, Francois 
 and Odette, we must march to the music. Gather round 
 Cyprille, Maurice, Victoire: follow to the rattle of the 
 drum. Here he comes, the little blue and red soldier. 
 How sturdily he beats! With what imperturbable 
 dignity he marches amid that scampering, jostling, 
 laughing, shouting mob of merry-hearted children! 
 
 " After all," I observe, " struggle, poverty and hard 
 work give us moments of joy such as the rich never 
 know. I want to put it on record, that though we 
 arc nearly at the end of our resources, this has been 
 one of the happiest days of my life." 
 
 " I weesh you let me go to work, darleen. I make 
 some money for help. I sew for dressmaker if vou 
 lit me." 
 
 "Never. How near are we to the end?" 
 
 " I have enough for to-morrow only." 
 
 " That's bad." I didn't say any more. A gloom 
 foil on my spirits. 
 
 •' A letter for Monsieur," said the concierge, as with 
 
1!W 
 
 THE I'UKTENDER 
 
 heavy hearts and slow steps we mounted to our rooms. 
 
 I handed it to Anastasia. 
 
 "Open it, Little Thing; it's in your department." 
 
 She did so; she gave a little scream of delight. 
 
 " Look ! It's for that article I send to New York 
 
 Monitor. He geevc you cheque. Let me see . . . 
 
 Oh, mon Dicu! one hundred franc ! good, good, now we 
 
 arc save ! " 
 
 I took it quickly. 
 
 "One hundred francs nothing," I said. "Young 
 woman, you've got to get next to our monetary system. 
 That's not one hundred francs; that's one hundred 
 dollars — ^ve hundred francs. Why, what's the mat- 
 ter?" 
 
 For Anastasia had promptly fainted. 
 
(MASTER IX: 
 AN IXKXPhXTKD DEVELOPMENT 
 
 I AscRinKD Anftst.isia\ fainting spell to the somewhat 
 -ketch V lilt {lis we had been having; so for the next 
 ft u weeks I fed her up anxiously. That same evening 
 «t held a special meeting of the -ance Committee to 
 consider our improved position. 
 
 •• Be under no illusion," I observed as Chairman, 
 " with reference to our recent success. It is not, as 
 you might imagine, the turn of the tide. There are 
 tliree reasons why this particular article was accepted: 
 First, it was snappy and up-to-date; second, it com- 
 pared Manhattan and Modern Babylon in a way fa- 
 vourable to the former; third, and chief reason, the 
 editor happened to have some very good cuts that he 
 <()uld work in to make an attractive spread. Given 
 these inducements, and a temporary lack of more ex- 
 citing matter, any offering can dispense with such a 
 detail as literary merit." 
 
 Here I regarded some jottings I had made on an en- 
 velope. 
 
 " I.vt Us now sec how wc stand. We started w ith 
 twelve manuscripts, of which wc have sold four. 
 There remain five more articles, and three fairy stories. 
 The articles I regard as time wasted. People won't read 
 -traight descriptive stuff; even in novels one has to 
 -ncak it in." 
 
 Hire the Secretary regarded ruefully some manu- 
 
 >cripts rather the worse for postal transit. 
 
 193 
 
 h 
 
 I 
 
19+ 
 
 thp: pretender 
 
 " Go on wasting stamps on thcni if you like," I con- 
 tinued ; "but, candidly, thoy'rc tlu> wrong thing. As 
 for the fairy stories, wlicre are tliev now? " 
 
 " I have sent them to the Pichadcehi Mngaziuc." 
 
 "Tliey miglit have some chance thtre. The editor 
 devotes a certain space to children that aren't grown 
 up. Now as to funds." 
 
 The Secretary sat down, and the Treasurer rose in her 
 place. She stated that there were five htuidred frano 
 in the treasury, of which a hundred would be needed to 
 pay the rent up to the end of September. Two hun- 
 dred francs would have to be allowed for current ex- 
 penses; that would leave a hundred for contingencies. 
 
 "Very good," I said; "I move that the money 
 be expended as suggested. And now — two blissful 
 months of freedom from worry in which to re-write niv 
 novel. Thank Heaven!" 
 
 With that I plunged into my work as strenuously 
 as before. I must confess I re-read it with a tremor. 
 It was bad, but — not too bad. Unconsciously I had 
 reverted to my yarn-spinning style, yet often in the 
 white heat of inspiration I had hit on the master-word 
 just as surely as if I had pondered half a day. How- 
 ever, the result as a whole I regarded with disfavour. 
 The work was lacking in distinction, in reserve, in the 
 fine art of understatement. Instead of keeping mv 
 story well in hand I had let it gallop away with me. 
 Truly I was incorrigible. 
 
 "Anastasia," I said one 'la\. as I was about half 
 through with my revision, "you're always asking if 
 there's no way you can help me. I can suggest one " 
 
 "Oh, good! What is it?" 
 
 " Well, I know where I can hire a typewriter for a 
 
AX UNEXPECTED DEVELOPMENT 19o 
 
 month very cheaply. You might try your hand at 
 punching out this wonderful work of fiction on it." 
 
 " Oh, that please me very much." 
 
 " All right. I'll fetch the instrument of torture." 
 
 It was a very old machine, of eccentric mechanism 
 and uncouth appearance. With fumbling hesitation 
 she began. About a word a minute was her average, 
 and that word a mistake; but rapidly she progressed. 
 Sometimes I would hear a vigorous: " Nom d'un 
 Chien ! " and would find that she had gone over the 
 same line twice. Then again, she would get her carbon 
 paper wrong, and the duplicate would come out on the 
 back of the original. At other times it was only that 
 sIh- had run over the edge of the paper. 
 
 The typewriter, too, was somewhat lethargic in ac- 
 tion. It seemed to say: "I'm so old in service, and 
 my joints are so stiff — surely I might be allowed to 
 take my own time. If you try to hurry me I'll get my 
 fingers tangled, or I'll jam my riband, or I'll make 
 all kinds of mistakes. Really, it's time I was super- 
 annuated." No beginner, even in a Business School, 
 ever tackled a more decrepit and cantankerous machine, 
 and it said much for her patience that she turned out 
 such good copy. 
 
 So passed August and most of September — day 
 after day of grinding work in sweltering heat; I, prun- 
 ing, piecing, chopping, changing; she pounding pa- 
 tiently at that malcontent machine. Then at last, 
 after a long, hard day it was done. The sunshine was 
 mellow on the roofs as I watched her write the closing 
 words. She handed the page to me, and, regarding the 
 sunlight almost sorrowfully, she folded her tired hand^. 
 
 Two tears stole down her pale cheeks. 
 
196 
 
 THE PKLTENDER 
 
 All at once I saw how worn and weary slic wa^. 
 Thin, gentle, sad — more than ever like a child sin- 
 looked, with her exquisite profile, and the heaped-up 
 masses of her dark hair; more than over like a child 
 with her shrinking figure and her delicate pallor: yet 
 she would soon he nineteen. The idea came to me that 
 in my passion of creative egotism I had given litth' 
 thought to her. 
 
 " Why, what's the matter, Little Thing? Arc vou 
 sick?" 
 
 She looked at me piteously. 
 
 *' Have you not see? Have you not guess? " 
 
 '• \o, what? " I demanded in a tone of alarm. 
 
 " Pretty soon you are going to be a fazzcr." 
 
 « My God ! " * 
 
 I could only gasp and stare at her. 
 
 " Well, are you not going to kees me, and say you 
 are not sorry? " 
 
 " Yes, yes. There, Little Thing ... 1 — I'm 
 glad." 
 
 IJut there was no conviction in my tone, and I sat 
 gazing into vacancy. In my intense preoccupation 
 never had such a thing occurred to me. It came as a 
 shock, as something improper, as one of those brutal 
 realities that break in so wofully on the screnitiis of 
 life. There was a ridiculous side to it, too. I saw 
 myself sheepislily wlucling a baby carriage, and I nml- 
 lered with set teeth: " Never!" 
 
 " Confound it all ! It's so embarrassing," I thought 
 distressfully. "It upsets my whole programme. It 
 iiuikes I'fe luore compltx, and I am tryiug to make it 
 ii: :)e siiiijile. II gives me new responsibilities, and 
 
A\ rNKXPFXTKO DKVKLOPMKNT 197 
 
 luy every effort is to avoid them. Worst of ull, it 
 seems to sound the death-knell of my youth. To ftfl 
 like ft boy has always been my ideal of well-being, and 
 how can one feel like a boy with a rising son to remind 
 one of maturity? " 
 
 Perhaps, however, it would be a daughter. Some- 
 how that didn't seem so b;id. So to change the subject 
 I suggested that we take a walk along the river. As 
 we went through tlie Tuileries all of the western city 
 seemed to wallow in flame. The sky rolled up in 
 tawny orange, and the twin towers of the Trocadero 
 were like arms raised in distress amid a conflagration. 
 The river was a welter of lilac fire, while above the 
 portal of the Grand Palace the cliariot driver held his 
 rearing horses in a blaze of glory. To the east all 
 was light and enchantment, as a thousand windows 
 burned like imperial gems, and tower and spire and 
 dome shimmered in a delicate dust of gold. 
 
 "What a city, this Paris!" I murmured. "Add 
 hut three letters to it and you have Paradise." 
 
 " Where you are, darleen, to me it is always Para- 
 dise," said Anastasia. 
 
 In the tranquil moods of matrimony, how is it 
 that one shrinks so from sentiment? On the Barbary 
 ("oasts of Love we excel in it. In books, on the stage, 
 we revel in it ; but when it comes to the hnllowcd 
 humdrum of the home it suits us better to be curtly 
 commonplace. This is so hard for the Latin races to 
 understand. They arc so emotional, so unconscious 
 in their affection. Doubtless Anastasia put down my 
 reserve to coldness, but I could not help it. 
 
 " Look here, Little Thing," I said, us we walked 
 
 I 
 
198 
 
 Tin: pki:teni)er 
 
 honif, " jou mustn't work any more. Lot's go to the 
 country for a week or two. Let's go to Fontaine- 
 bleau." 
 
 '* How we get money? " 
 
 " We'll use that extra hundred francs." 
 
 " Yes, but when that is spend.* " 
 
 " Oh, don't worry. Something will turn up. Let's 
 go." 
 
 " If you like it. I shall love it, the rest, the good 
 air. Just one week." 
 
 " And let's take the Mome with us. Frosine will let 
 her go. It will be such a treat for her. Perhaps, too, 
 Ilelstern will spare a few days and join us." 
 
 " Ah, it will all be so nice." 
 
 So next day I bundled up Tom, Dick and Harry, and 
 under the name of Silenus Starset, I sent it off to the 
 publishers of my other novels. 
 
 "I've been thinking, Little Thing," I said, "that 
 when we come buck we'd better give up the apartment 
 and take a room. We can save ovct twenty francs a 
 njonth like that. It won't be for long. When the 
 novel's accepted, there will be an end of our troubles." 
 
 " Just as you like it. I've been very happy." 
 
 Helstern promised to meet us in the forest, so that 
 afternoon with the Mome and a hundred francs we took 
 the train to Barbizon. If we had not both been avid 
 for it, that holiday would have been worth while only 
 to see the rapture of the Mome. It was her first 
 sight of the real country, and she was delirious with 
 delight. Anastasia had a busy time answering her 
 questions, trying to check her excitement, gently re- 
 straining her jerking arms and legs. Her eyes shone. 
 
AN INKXPFXTKD DEVKLOPMKNT 199 
 
 Ik V tongue i-ftttk-d, litr luad pivoted eagerly, and many 
 Mh tilt tiuiii WHtelied lier with ainuseiiient. 
 
 A^ we lulled through the country of Millet, the 
 u. ^tiring sun slanted across the level fields, catching 
 tilt rdges of the furrows, and luundiing long shadows 
 adONs the orcliards. We took rooms in a cottage in 
 Uirhi/on. From the sun-haked street a step, and we 
 u.ic in the thick of the forest, drowned in leafy twi- 
 lii;lit and pine-scented solitude. And with every turn, 
 iiiidir thiit canopy of laughing leaves, the way grew 
 uildtr and more luring. The molten sunshine <lripped 
 thiDugh hranches, flooding with gold the ferny hollows, 
 (l.ippiiiig with amher the russet pathway. Down, 
 tlir()ii<4h the cool green aisles it led in twilights of trans- 
 luit nt green, mid pillering oak and yielding carpets of 
 fiiK-powdered cones. And ever the rocks grew more 
 ^i()tes(jue, taking the shapes of griffins and primordial 
 li. a"-ts, all mottled with that splendid moss of crimson, 
 nil in, and gold. Then it grew on one that wood nymphs 
 u( re ahout, that fawns were peeping from the lightning- 
 -pliiitered oaks, and that the spell of the forest was 
 I'lilding one around. 
 
 On the second day Helstern joined us. He was 
 gloomily enthusiastic, pointing out to me beauties of 
 t'linn and colour I would have idly passed. He made 
 iiu- really feel ashamed of my crassness. What a gifted, 
 .uiite chap! But, oh, how atrabilious! 
 
 •• For Heaven's sake, old man," I said one day, " don't 
 lir so pessimistic." 
 
 " How can a man be other than pessimistic," he an- 
 swi red, " with a foot like mine. Just think what it 
 means. Look here." 
 
200 
 
 Tin: PHKTFA'DKU 
 
 Rolling lip liis sitt've he sliowcd tnc nn arm n sculptor 
 might liHve ravi'd ovt-r. 
 
 " If I'd httn ull right, what an Hthletr' IM have iruule. 
 Look at my torso, my other leg. And n)y whole heart 
 is for notion, for energy, for dee<ls. Just think how 
 much that makes life worth while is barred to inc. 
 And I shrink fron» society, especially where there are 
 women. I'm always thinking they pity me. Oh, that s 
 gall and wormwood — to be pitied! I should have a 
 wife, cliildren, a home, yet here I am .i lonely, brooding 
 misanthrope; and I'm only forty-six." 
 
 Yet he cheered up when the Mome was near. The 
 two were the greatest of friends now, and it was a 
 notable sight to s.e the i)ig man with his Forbes Robert- 
 son type of face and his iron-grey mane, leading bv 
 the hand the little girl of five with the slender limbs, 
 the pansy-blue eyes, and the honey-yellow hair. 
 
 And what exciting tales the Mome would have to tell 
 on her return: how they had surprised a deer nibbling 
 at the short grass; how a wild boar with tushes gleaming 
 had glared at them out of the brake; how an eagle had 
 arisen from a lonely gorge! Then there were lizards 
 crawling on the silver-grey rocks, and the ceaseless 
 calling of cuckoos, and scolding squirrels, and drumming 
 woodpeckers. Oh, that was the happy child! V«7 
 sometimes I wondered if the man was not as happy in 
 his own way. 
 
 He was a queer chap, was Helstern. I remember one 
 time we all sat together on a fallen log, and the sky 
 seen through the black bars of the pines was like a fire 
 of glowing coals, Long, serene and mellow the evening 
 lengthened to a close. 
 
 " You know," said the sculptor, as he pulLd steadily 
 
AX rNEXPlXTKD DE^EL{)P^IK^T inn 
 
 at *ho Turk's lioad pipe, and regarded the Mume 
 llidughtfullv, " I b«lu'Vf that all children should Ih» 
 itand and (ducated by the State. Then there wouhl 
 he no unfair liundicapping of the poor: each child Mould 
 find its proper place in the world." 
 
 '• Wluit would you do with the home? " 
 
 •• I would surely tiestroy the millions of un- 
 wdi-thy homes, stupid homes, needy homes, bigoted 
 homes, sordid homes. I would replace these with a 
 ;^rcat glorious Home, run by a beneficent State, where 
 I'rom the very cradle children would bo developed 
 and traineil on scientific principles, where they would 
 he taught that the noblest effort of man is the service 
 nf man; the most ignoble, the seeking of money. I 
 would teach them to live for the spiritual, not the 
 Mii>.ua! benefits of life. Many private homes do not 
 teach these things. Their influence is pernicious. 
 How many men can look back on such homes and not 
 declare them bungling makeshifts, either stupidly nar- 
 row, oi' actually unhappy?" 
 
 •' You would destroy the love tics of parent and 
 child?" 
 
 " \ot at all. I would strengthen them. As it is, 
 how many children are educated away from their 
 liomes, in nnvents, hoarding-schools, Li/ceen? Do 
 they love their parents any the less? No; the more, 
 for they do not see so much that is wvak and con- 
 temptible in them. But if mothers wish, let them enter 
 the State nurseries and nurse their own little ones — 
 not according to our bungling, ignorant methods, but 
 according to the methods of science. Then the young- 
 sters would not be exposed to ti.c anxieties that darken 
 the average home; they would not pick up and per- 
 
yos 
 
 Tin: ]'hi:ti:\i)i:r 
 
 petuatf tilt* vulguritics of tlitir paivnts. The cliild of 
 the puuptr would be just as refined as the child of 
 the peer. Think what that would mean; a breaking 
 down of all class distinction. The word 'gentleman' 
 would come into its true significance, and in a few 
 years we would have a new race, with new ideals, new- 
 ambitions, new ways of thought." 
 
 "You would educate them, too?" 
 
 " They would have all the education they wanted, but 
 not in the present wav. Thev would l)e tauiiht to 
 examine, to reason: not to accept blindly the beliefs of 
 their fathers; to sift, to analyse: not to let themselves 
 be cranuned with ready-madf ideas. I would not try 
 to turn them all out in one mould, as the pe(lag()<rues 
 do; I would try to develop their ()ri«^inality. Ques- 
 tion and challenge would be their attitude. I would 
 establish * ("hairs of Imjuiry.' I would teach them 
 that the circle is not round, and that two and two do 
 not make four. Up the great stairway of Truth would 
 I lead them, so that standing on its highest point they 
 nu'ght hew still higher steps in the rock of knowledge." 
 
 " And how would you pay for this national nursery 
 nonsense.''" 
 
 " By making money uninheritable. I believe the 
 hope of the future, the triumph of democracy, the very 
 salvation of the race lies in the State education of the 
 children. The greatest enemies of the young are the 
 old. Instead of the child honouring the parents, the 
 parents should honour the child; for if there's anv vir- 
 tue in evolution the son ought to be an improvement on 
 the father." 
 
 In the growing darkness I could see the bowl of his 
 pipe glow and fade. I was not paying nuich attention 
 
AN r\i:XPK( TKD DEVELOPMENT 203 
 
 ti> what he was saying, but there in tliat scented pine- 
 gloom it was a pleasure to listen to that rich, vibrating 
 voice. 
 
 " I want to be fair, I want to be just, I want to sec 
 (Very nian do his share of the world's work. Let him 
 larn as much money as he likes, but at his death let it 
 rivert to the State for the general education of the race, 
 not to pamper and spoil his own particular progeny. 
 Lit the girls be taught the glory of motherhood, and the 
 imn military duty; then, fully equipped for the strug- 
 glf, let all go forth. How simple it is! How sane! 
 Vet we're blind, so blind." 
 
 " Solonge is sleeping in my arms," said Anastasia. 
 "• I sink it is time we must go home." 
 
niAI'TEK X 
 THE I.IIT, AND DEATH OF DOROTHY MADDF.X 
 
 Tick time was drawing near when I would become n 
 futlier. Yit us the hour of my trial approached I 
 nalised that I was <rhid, glad. I hoped it would bo a 
 girl ; nay, I was sure it would bo a girl ; a little, dark, 
 old-fasliioned girl, whose hand I would hold on my 
 rambles, and whose innocent mind I would watch un- 
 folding like a flowir. And I would call her . . . yes, 
 I would call her Dorothy. 
 
 Dorotliy! How >wiet the name sounded! But no 
 sweeter than my little daughter — of that I was sure. 
 I could feel lu r hand, small as a rose leaf, nestling in 
 mine; see lier innocent, tarn-brown eyes gazing upward 
 into my face. Tlien as she ran and eagerly plucked a 
 vagrant blossom I would weave about it some charming 
 legend. I would people the glade with fairies for her, 
 and the rocks with gnomes. In her I would live over 
 again my own w.)nderful childhood. She, too, would bo 
 a dreamer, sharing that wonderful kingdom of mine, 
 understanding me as no other had ever done. 
 
 Then when she grew up, what a wonderful woman 
 she would bo! How proud she would be of me ! How, 
 in old age, when my hair grew white, and my footsteps 
 faltered, she would take my arm, and together we would 
 walk round the old garden in the hush of eventide. 
 
 " Wonderful destiny ! " I cried, inspired by the senti- 
 mental pictures unfolding themselves before me. " I 
 can s(<(. myself older yet. an octogenarian. My back is 
 
 Mi 
 
DOROTHY MADDEN 
 
 aoo 
 
 li(nt. my liair is snowy white. I have a vcnerahle 
 Itiard, and kindly eyes that shine through gold-rinniied 
 «|)( c-tacles. A tartan shawl is round my shoulders, and 
 my hands, as they rest on my silver-lieadcd cane, are 
 ;,'l;izrd and crinkly. But, crowning glory ! Greater 
 tlian that array of children of my • ..nd for which n.on 
 <^\w me honour, are the children of my flesh who play 
 .uoiind my knee, my grandchildren. There will be 
 siicli a niirry swarm of them, and in their joyous laugh- 
 Ur I will grow young again. Oh, blessed destiny! To 
 lie a father is much; but to be a grandfather so infinitely 
 iKibltr — and less trouble.'' 
 
 The more I thought o\er it, the more I became im- 
 pressed, yiy imminent ]'aternity became almost an 
 ()l)>tssion with me. My narriage had surprised nie. 
 \o time had I to embroidt-r it with the flowers of fancy, 
 liiit this was different. So engrossed did I become with 
 ,1 xnse of my own importance that you would have 
 tl:ought no one had ever become a father before. In 
 my enthusiasm I told T^orrimer of my interesting condi- 
 tion, but the faun-like young man rather damped my 
 ardour. 
 
 ** Marriage," he observe<l, in his usual cynical man- 
 ner, •• is a lottery, in which the prizes are white ele- 
 |)liaiits. But Fatherhood, that's the sorriest of gambles. 
 True, as you suggest, ^-our daughter may marry the 
 Proident of the I'liited States, but on the other hand 
 ^lie may turn out to be another Brinvilliers. She may 
 I'e a Madame de Stael and she may be a Pompadour. 
 Then again, you may have a family of a dozen." 
 
 " But I won't," I protested indignantly. 
 
 "Well, just suppose. You mav have a dozen or- 
 dinary respectable tax-payers and one rotter. Don't 
 
iHH) 
 
 THE PHKTKNDEK 
 
 you think tlic black sheep will discomit all your success- 
 ful efforts? Really, old man, you're taking an awful 
 chance. Then after all it's an ungrateful business. 
 The girls get married and enter the families of their 
 husbands; the boys either settle far away, or get wives 
 you don't approve of. Anyway, you lose them. At 
 the worst you beget a criminal, at the best an ingratc. 
 It's a poor business. However, cheer up, old man: 
 we'll hopt' for tlie best." 
 
 Helstern, on the other hand, took a diflVrent view of 
 it. The sculptor was sombrely enthusiastic. 
 
 " You must let me do a group of it, Madden, I'll 
 call it the First-bom. I'm sure I could take a gold 
 medal with it.'' 
 
 He led me to a cafe and in his tragic tones ordered 
 beer in which we drank to the health of the First-born. 
 " Just think of it," he rolled magnificently, his vision- 
 ary instincts aroused; "just think of that little human 
 soul waiting to be born, and it's you that give it the 
 chance to enter this world. Oh, happy man! Just 
 think of all the others, the countless hosts of the unborn 
 waiting tlieir turn. Why, it's an inspiring sight, these 
 wistful legions, countless as the sands of the sea. And 
 it's for us to welcome them, to be the means of opening 
 the door to as many as possible, to give them beautiful 
 botlies to enter into, and to make the world more pleas- 
 ant for them to dwell in. Now, there's a glorious am- 
 bition for us all. Let parenthood be the crowning 
 honour of life. Let it be the duty of the race to so 
 improve conditions that there will be the right kind of 
 welcome waiting for them — that they will be fit and 
 worthy in body and soul to live the life that is await- 
 ing them.*' 
 
DOROTHY MADDEN 
 
 201 
 
 ]lo drank deeply from his big stein, and wiped some 
 fd.ini from his lips. 
 
 ''Win', it's more than an ambition: it's a religion. 
 The Japanese worship the Dead; let us worship the 
 T'nborn, the great races who are to come, the people 
 nc are going to htlp to make great. For on us it all 
 (It })( lids, on us to-day. Every action of ours is like a 
 pebble thrown in a still sea, the waves of which go 
 rippling down eternity. Yes, let us realise our re- 
 sponsibility to the Unborn, and govern our lives accord- 
 ingly in grace and goodliness. There! that goes to 
 fi:e very heart of all morality — to live our best, not 
 because we are expecting to be rewarded, but because 
 wt are making for generations to come better bodi^^s. 
 In ttir homes, better lives. And they in their turn will 
 realise their duty to the others that are crowding on, 
 and nink ' " world still worthier for their occupation." 
 
 He fill s Turk's head pipe thoughtfully. 
 
 *' I want to go further," he went on, " but the rest 
 is more fanciful. I believe that the armies of the Un- 
 born know that it all depends on us here to-day what 
 kind of deal they arc going to get, and in their vast, 
 blind way they are trying to influence us. I like to 
 think that that is the great impulse towards good we 
 all feel, the power that in spite of selfishness, is gradu- 
 ally lifting us onward and upward. It is the multitude 
 to come, trying in their blind, pitiful way to influence 
 us, to make us better. There they wait, the soldiers of 
 the future, ready to take up the great fight, to carry 
 the banner of freedom, happiness, and mutual love to 
 the golden goal of universal brotherhood. Truly I wor- 
 ship the Unborn." 
 
 He lit his pipe solemnly. 
 
'^08 
 
 Tin: PHKTKNDEU 
 
 •• Then, k't iiie fongralulHtt- vou, Madden. You are 
 ii \irv lucky num.'" 
 
 Much cluLTi'd I tlumked him and, absorbed in niv 
 divanis of paternity, continued to tramp the streets. 
 All the time I was seeing Ihat slim little girl of mine, 
 with her long dark hair, her ha/el eyes, her quaint, 
 old-fashioned ways. And as the day drew near she 
 grew u\ore and more real to me. I could feel her 
 caressing arms around my neck, and her rosebud mouth 
 pressed to mine. Truly she was the most adorable 
 child that ever lived. 
 
 One {)iece of luck we had at this period: The fairy 
 stories were accepted by the Piccadilly Maya~.ini' and 
 we got ten pounds for them, thus saving the situation 
 once again. 
 
 When the time came tiiat we should obtain a new 
 lodging I had taken a room in the rue D'Assas, but I 
 was ijnmediately sorr}', for I discovered that it over- 
 looked the Maternity Hospital Tarnier. The very first 
 morning I saw a young woman coining out with a new 
 baby. She was a mere girl, hatless and all alone, and 
 she cried very bitterly. 
 
 Then that night, as I was preparing to ascend the 
 stairs, I heard terrible shrieks coming from the great, 
 gloomy building as if some woman within were being 
 ])ainfully murdered. For a moment I paused, stricken 
 witli horror. There was a cab drawn up close by, .'ind 
 the cochcr was pacing beside it. He was the typical 
 Parisian cab-driver, corpulent and rubicund, the product 
 of open air, no brain worry, and generous living. He 
 indicated the direction of the appalling cries: "The 
 world's not coming to an end just yet," he observed 
 with a great rosy grin. 
 
DOROTHY MADDEN 
 
 209 
 
 i 
 
 \or was the view from our window conducive of more 
 cl'.fcrful thoughts. I could look right down into one 
 of the wftrds, a great, barn-like place, mathematically 
 monotonous, painfully clean. There were the white 
 rnami'llod beds, each with its face of pain on the pil- 
 low, its tumbled bedding, agony-twisted or still in 
 up.iMiy. Then in the night I suddenly started, for once 
 again I heard those awful sounds. They began as lorg, 
 lijilf-stifled moans . . . then screams, each piercing, 
 sliarp-idgcd with agony, holding a strange note of ter- 
 ror . . . then shriek upon shriek till the ultimate ex- 
 pression of human agony seemed to be reached . . . 
 then sudden silence. 
 
 At least twice during the night this would happen, 
 and often in the morning there would be a dismal little 
 funeral cortege standing outside the gates ; a man dab- 
 bing red eyes with a handkerchief would herd some 
 bhibl)ering children into a carriage, and drive after a 
 liearse in which lay a coffin. It was all very melan- 
 elioly, and preyed on my spirits. I wondered how peo- 
 ple could live here always; but no doubt they got 
 hardened. Xo doubt this was why we got our room so 
 elieaply. 
 
 Then at last the day came when Little Thing held me 
 wry tigjitly, gave me a long, hard kiss and left me, to 
 |)ass through that portal of pain. Back I went to the 
 room again. How empty it seemed now! I was 
 miserable beyond all words. I had dinner at the Lilas, 
 and for two hours sat moodily brooding over my coffee. 
 What amazed me was that other men could go through 
 Hiis trial time after time and take it with such calmness. 
 The long-haired ports, the garcons with their tight, 
 nhite aprons — were they fathers too.' A girl came 
 
mo 
 
 Tin: pki:ti:m)Er 
 
 and sat by nic, a girl with high cheok-boncs, simkc-likc 
 eyes, and a mouth like a red scar. I rose with dignity, 
 sought my room and my bed. 
 
 There I fell into a troubled doze in which I dreamet* 
 of Dorothy. Slu' had grown up and had made her 
 di'but as an operatic star with overwhelming success. 
 How proud I was of her! Thin suddenly as I gazed, 
 she changed to the young woman of the cafe, who had 
 looked at me so meaningly. I awoke with a crushing 
 sense of distress. 
 
 Ilark! Was that a scream.* It seemed to cleave 
 my very heart. But then it might be some one else. 
 There was no distinguishing quality in these screams. 
 Trull or princess they were all alike, just plain mothers 
 cr^'ing in their agony. N'o, I could not tell . . . but it 
 was too terrible. I dressed hurriedly and went out into 
 the streets. 
 
 At three in the morning Paris is a i-itv of weird fas- 
 cination. It turns to us a new side, sinister, dark, 
 mysterious. Even as the rats gather in its glitters, so 
 do the human rats take possession of its pavements. 
 Every one you meet seems on evil bent, and in the dim 
 half-light you speculate on their pursuits. Here come 
 two sauntering demireps with complexions of vivid 
 certainty; there a rake-hell reels homeward from the 
 night dens of Montmartre: now it is a wretched gatlierer 
 of cigarette stubs, peering hawk-eyed as he shambles 
 along; then two dark, sallow youths, witli narrow faces, 
 glinting eyes, and unlit cigarettes in their cynical 
 mouths — the sinister Apache. 
 
 Coming up the Roul' Mich' were a stream of tumbrels 
 from the Halles, and following their trail I came on a 
 .scene bewildering in its movement and clamour. The 
 
DOROTHY MADDEN 
 
 an 
 
 carts tliat had been arriving since the previous night 
 liud gorged the ten pavilions that form the great Paris 
 M.irket till they overflowed far into the outlying streets. 
 The pavements were blocked with heaps of cabbages 
 and cauliflowers, carrots and turnips, celery and as- 
 paragus, while a dozen different kinds of salad gleamed 
 iiiuler the arc lights with a strange unnatural viridity. 
 In other parts of the market crates of chickens and rab- 
 l»its were being dumped on the pavements; fresh fish 
 from the coast were being unloaded in dripping, salty 
 boxes; and a regiment of butchers in white smocks 
 were staggering under enough sides of beef to feed an 
 army. 
 
 What an orgy of colour it was I You might pass 
 from the corals and ivorys of the vegetable market to 
 tlie fierce crimsons of the meat pavilion; from the silver 
 greys of the section devoted to fish, to the golden yel- 
 lows of the hall dedicated to butter, and cheese. There 
 M «re a do/en shades of green alone — from the light, 
 glossy green of the lettuce to the dull green of the 
 cress; a dozen shades of red — from the pale pink of 
 the radish to the diirk crimson of the beet. 
 
 Tiirough this tunudt of confusion I pushed my way. 
 Hurrying ])orters in red night-caps, witli great racks of 
 ">i< r stra{)pe(l on their backs, rushed to and fro, pant- 
 ing, and dripping with sweat. Strapping red-faced 
 women with the manner of men ordered them about. A 
 self-reliant race, these women of the Halles, accustomed 
 to hold their own in the fierce struggle of competition, 
 to eat and drink enormously, to be exposed to the 
 weather in all seasons. Their voices are raucous, their 
 eyes sharp, their substantial frames swathed in many 
 layers of clothes. Their world is the market; thej 
 
iilU 
 
 Tin: IMIKTENDEK 
 
 wcro born in its atmosphere, they will die with its 
 clamour in their cars. 
 
 Aiul from the surrounding slums what a sea of misery 
 sccmtd to wash up I At this time you may see human 
 flotsam that is clstwhen invisible. In the bustling con- 
 fusion of the dawn the human rats slink out of their 
 holes to gain a few sous ; not much — just four sous for 
 st)up and bread, four sous for a corner in the dosshouse, 
 and a few sous for cognac. Here flourish all the metiers 
 of mi.''.T3'. I saw five old women whose combined ages 
 must have made up four hundred years, huddled to- 
 gether for warmth, and all sunk in twitching, shudder- 
 ing sleep. I saw outcast men with livid faces and rat- 
 I'hewcd beards, whose clothes rotted on their rickety 
 frames, I saw others dazed from a debauch, goggle- 
 eyed, blue-lipped pictures of wretchedness. And the 
 drinking dens in the narrow streets vomited forth more 
 wanton women, and malevolent men, till it seemed to me 
 that never does misery seem so pitiable, never vice so 
 repulsive, as when it swirls round those teeming pa- 
 vilions at four o'clock of a raw, rainy morning. 
 
 Suddenly I stopped to look at a female of unusual 
 height and robust rotundity. A woman merchant of 
 the markets, seemingly of substance no less than of 
 flesh. Her voice was deep and hoarse, her eyes hard 
 and grim, and tlie firmness of her mouth was accentu- 
 jitrd by a deliberate moustaclie. A masculine woman. 
 A truculent, overbearing woman. A very virago of a 
 woman. Her complexion was of such a hard redness, 
 her Roman nose so belligerent. On her bosom, which 
 outstood like the seat of a fauteuil, reposed a heavy 
 gold cliain and lorkrl. On her great, red wrists were 
 bracelets of gold; and on her hands, which looked as if 
 
DOROTHY MADDKN 
 
 ?1{J 
 
 tiny could deliver a skdgt-hainmer blow, sparklcil ii:uiiv 
 lings. Beside this magnificent tennagant her perspir- 
 ing porters looked pusillanimous. " Here," thought I, 
 " is the very Queen of the Halles." 
 
 She was enthroned amid a pile of wicker crates con- 
 i. lining large grey shells. As I looked closer I saw 
 that the grey shells contained grey snails, and that 
 those on the top of the heap were peering forth and 
 shooting out tentative grey horns. Some of them were 
 t vtn crawling up the basket work. Then as I watclud 
 tliinj curiously a label on the crate caught my eyr ami 
 I read : 
 
 Madame Sekaphixe ClrixoVAL 
 
 Marchandc d' Escargots 
 
 Les Halles, Paris. 
 
 "Guinoval," I thought: "that's odd. Surely I've 
 htard that name before. Why, it's the maiden name of 
 Anastasia. The name of this enormous woman, then, 
 is (luinoval. Sudden idea! Might it not be that there 
 is some relationship between them? " But the contrast 
 hit ween my slight, shrinking Anastasia with her child- 
 like face and this dragoon of a woman was so great that 
 I dismissed the idea as absurd. 
 
 I was very tired when I reached home. I liad been 
 afoot four hours, and dropping on my bed I fell asleep. 
 About eleven o'clock I awoke with a vague sense of fear. 
 Something had happened, I felt. Hurrying down, I 
 iiitercd the hospital. 
 
 "Yes," they told me; "my wife had been confined 
 during the night. She was very weak, but doing well." 
 
 " And the child," I asked, trying to conceal my 
 lagtrness. " Was it a boy or a girl.' " 
 
«lf 
 
 THE PUKTENDFR 
 
 "Tlio child, Monsieur, wns a girl" (how my heart 
 N'rtpt); "but unfortunnttly it — had not lived." 
 
 '* Dead ! " I stammered ; then after a stunned mo- 
 ment : 
 
 " Can I see her? Can I see my child? " 
 
 So they took me to something that lay swathed in 
 linen. I started with a curious emotion of pain. That ! 
 so grotesque, so pitiful, — that, the gracious girl who 
 WHS going to he so much to me, the sweet companion 
 who was going to understand me as no one else could, 
 the precious comfort of my declining years! Oh, the 
 bitter mockery of it ! 
 
 And so next day, alone in a single cab I took to the 
 cemetery all that was mortal of Dorothy Madden. 
 
 KND OK HOOK II 
 
part 
 
 mo- 
 
 i in 
 hat! 
 who 
 nion 
 >u1d, 
 the 
 
 I the 
 
 HOOK III — THE AWAKKMNG 
 
 CH AFTER I 
 
 THI-. STUKSS OK THK STRIT.GI.E 
 
 ** Look here, Miiddon, you really ouglit to try and 
 shake off your nulaneholy,'* said Helstern, as we snt in 
 front of the Cafe Soufflet. 
 
 " To hear vou call lue nielancholv," I retorted, " is 
 like hearing the pot call the kettle black. And any- 
 way you've nerer lost an only child." 
 
 " I believe you're a little mad," said the sculptor, 
 observing nie closely. 
 
 "Are we not all of us just a little mad? Would 
 you have us entirely sane? What a humdrum world 
 that wouhl be I I hate people who are so egregiously 
 sane." 
 
 " Hut you're letting this idea of yours altogether 
 obsj^ss you. You've created an imaginary child, just 
 as you might have created one in fiction, only ten times 
 more vividly. Then when the earthly frame into which 
 it was to pass proves too frail to hold it you refuse to 
 lit it die. You keep on thinking: ' My daughter! my 
 ciaught 
 
 er: 
 
 I » 
 
 And spiritually you reach out to a being 
 that only exists in your imagination." 
 
 *' She doesn't, Helstern ; that's where you're wrong. 
 I thought so at first, but now I know. She really ex- 
 ists, exists in that wonderful world we can only dimly 
 
 conjecture. She sought for admission to this our world 
 
 215 
 
21fi 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 and it was denied her; but she lives in the spirit. She 
 will grow up in the spirit ; and, even as if bhe were a 
 child of the flebh, I who loved her so well have her 
 always." 
 
 " Rubbisli ! Look here, I see what's the matter with 
 you. You've got the fietionists' imagination. This is 
 only a creature of your brain. Kill it, as Dickens killed 
 little Donibey, as the female novelists kill their little 
 Willies and little Evas. Kill it." 
 
 " Man, would you make a parricide of me.' Murder 
 is no' ''ine with hands alone. I loved this child as 
 never ir .ly life have I lovwl any one. It's strange — 
 I don't Melicve I ever did really love any one before. 
 !'• . had an inunense affection for people; but for 
 
 Dr 
 
 ;»V I would have died." 
 
 '* Vou make me tired, man. She's not real." 
 
 " She is — to me; and supposing for a moment that 
 she isn't, is it not the case that we can never care for 
 real persons with their faults and follies as we can for 
 our idealised abstractions? We never really love any 
 one till we've lost them. But, as you say, I must rouse 
 myself." 
 
 " W'!iy, of course. Granted that she really exists in 
 the spirit, let her presence be a sweetness and an in- 
 spiration to you, not a gnawing sorrow. Buck up I " 
 
 '* You're right. I must get to my writing at once. 
 After all I have my wife to think of. She loves me." 
 
 " She surely' does, devotedly. You have a treasure 
 in her, and you don't realise it." 
 
 " I suppose not. My work takes so much of the 
 power of feeling out of me. My emotional life is sacri- 
 ficed to it. The world I create is more real to me than 
 the world about me. I don't tliink the creative artist 
 
vm 
 
 Tin: STRESS OF THE STRUGGLE UV 
 
 Ho only makes an apology for a lui 
 
 -liould marrv, 
 Lund." 
 
 "Well, I tliink a irian with the artistic temperariient 
 oiiglit to marry a woman who can look after him from 
 the materiil side. She should be a buffer between him 
 and the world, always willing to keep in the back- 
 ;;i(>und and never be a constraint on him. A real 
 ^'t nius, on the other Imnd, ought never to marry. He's 
 altogtther too impossible a person. But then, Mad- 
 den, you know you're not a genius." 
 
 He said this so oddly that I burst out laughing, and 
 with that I felt my grey mootl lifting. 
 
 "By the way," said Helstem, just as we were part- 
 ing, " I don't like to mention it, but what with hospital 
 ixpenses and so on you've been having a pretty hard 
 time of it lately. I've just had my quarterly alfowance 
 — more money than I know what to do with. If a 
 hundred francs would be of any use to you I'll never 
 miss it." 
 
 I was going to refuse ; but the thought that the offer 
 was made in such a generous spirit made me hesitate; 
 and the further thought that at the moment all the 
 money I had was ten francs, made me accept. So Hel- 
 stem handed me a pinkish bank note. 
 
 ""I don't know how to thank you," I said. "But 
 don't be afraid, I'll pay you back one of these days. 
 You know I've got a novel knocking around the pub- 
 lishers. When it gets accepted I'll be on velvet. In 
 the meantime this will help to keep the pot a-boiling. 
 That reminds me I must find a new place to hole up in. 
 Do you know of any vacant rooms in your quarter? " 
 
 " In the famous Quartier Mouffetard? Come with 
 liic and we'll have a look." 
 
 ^ 
 
U\H 
 
 THF PRETENDER 
 
 The result was tlmt for a rent of twenty francs a 
 month I found myself the tenant of a spacious garret 
 in the rue Ciracieuse. So, feeling well pleased, I re- 
 turned to the room in the rue D'Assas to gather to- 
 gether our few effects. I was so engaged when a knock 
 came to the door and the little Breton hofinr appeared. 
 
 " A lady to see Monsieur." 
 
 I rose from the heap of soiled linen I was trying to 
 compress into as small hulk as possihle. 
 
 " Show lier in,"' I said with some surprise. 
 
 Then there entered one whom I had almost forgotten 
 — Lucretia. 
 
 My first thought was: "Thank God! my wife isn't 
 here!" My second: "How can I get rid of her.'" 
 It is true I have always tried to make life more like 
 fiction, to drench it with romance, to cultivate it in 
 purple patches. Here, then, was a dramatic situation 
 I might have used in one of my novels ; here was a 
 sentimental scene I might develop most artistically; 
 and now ni}' whole panting, perspiring anxiety was 
 not to develop it. " Confound it ! " I thought, " this 
 should never have happened. Wliy can** fiction stay 
 where it belongs ? " 
 
 Lucretia was dressed with some exaggeration. Her 
 split skirt showed a wedge of purple stocking almost to 
 the knee. Her blouse, too, was of purple, a colour that 
 sets my teeth on edge. She wore a mantle of prune 
 colour, and a toque of crushed strawberry velvet with 
 an imitation aigrette. The gilt hcrls of her shoes were 
 so high that she was obliged to walk in the mincing 
 manner of the mannequin. 
 
 She offered mo a languid hand and subsided unasked 
 on the sofa. Her lips were Cupid's bows of vermilion, 
 
THE STRESS OF THE STRUGGLE 219 
 
 jirul her complexion was a work of art. She regarded 
 iiH- with some defiance; then she spoke in excellent 
 Frtnch. 
 
 "■ Well, mon ami, I have come. You thought to leave 
 iiic there in Napoli, but I have follow ed you. Now, 
 what are you going to do about it? " 
 
 "Do!" I said, astounded. "Why, you have no 
 claim on nio! " 
 
 *' I have no claim on you. You say that — you who 
 have stolen my heart, you who have made me suffer. 
 Vou cannot deny that you have run away from me." 
 
 "I don't deny it. I did run away from you; but it 
 was to save you, to save us both. 1 have done you no 
 w rong." 
 
 " Ah ! you thought so. To leave one who loved you 
 in that way. That is like the Englishman." 
 
 *• But good heavens ! " I cried, half distracted, " I 
 tliought I acted for the best." 
 
 " I love you still," she went on; " I have traced you 
 here; I am friendless, alone, in this great and cruel city. 
 What must I do.»" 
 
 As she said these words, Lucretia, after seeing that 
 she possessed a handkerchief, appliecl it to her eyes so 
 as not to disturb their cosmetic environment, and wept 
 carefully. There was no doubting the genuineness of 
 her grief. I was touched. After all had I not roused 
 a romantic passion in this poor girl's heart? Was she 
 not the victim of my fatal charms? My heart ached 
 for her. I would have sat down on the sofa by her 
 side and tried to comfort her, but prudence forbade. 
 
 "I'm sorry," I said, "but how can I help you? I 
 have no monev, and my wife is in the hospital." 
 
 "Your wife!" 
 
220 
 
 THK PUKTENDER 
 
 " Ves ; I'm inarrk-d." 
 
 " Not one of thost' girls I saw you with in the cafe 
 that night? " 
 
 " Ves : the small one." 
 
 " A — h." She prolonged tlie exclamation. Tlun 
 she delicately dried her eyes. "That is different. 
 What if I tell your wife how you treated mc? " 
 
 " But I've done you no harm." 
 
 " Would she helieve tliat, do you think .=-" 
 
 " Hum ! no ! I don't think she would. But what 
 good would it do? You would only cause suffering and 
 e>trangement, and you would gain nothing. I told you 
 I had no money to give you." 
 
 Looking around the shahhy room she saw the soiled 
 linen I was trying to do into a newspaper parcel. This 
 evidently convinced her I was speaking the truth. 
 
 " Bah ! " she said, " why do you insult me with offers 
 of money .> If you offered me ten thousand francs at 
 this moment I would refuse them. What I want is help, 
 sympathy." 
 
 *'01i! If it's sympathy you want," I said eagerly, 
 "I'm there. I've gallons of it on tap. But help — 
 what can I do.'' " 
 
 " You have friends you can introduce me to. Can 
 you not find me work of some kind,? x\ny thing at all 
 that will hring me an honest living. Rememher I am 
 only a poor, weak woman, and I love you." 
 
 Here she showed signs of weeping again. 
 
 " Well," I said, touched once more, " I don't know. 
 The men I know are all artists." Then an idea shot 
 through me like a bullet. To cure a woman who is 
 infatuated with you, introduce her to some man who is 
 more fascinating than yourself. But to whom could I 
 
Tin: STRESS OF THE STRUGGLE 2ill 
 
 transfer this embarrassing affection? Ilolstcrn? He 
 was out of the question. Eorrimer? Ah, there was 
 man. Handsome, debonnaire Lorrimer; Lorrimer 
 vho prided himself on being such a Lothario; whom I 
 had heard say : " Why should I wrong the sex whose 
 privilege it is to love mc by permitting any one member 
 to monopolise me? '' Yes, Lorrimer should be the 
 li cky one. So I said: 
 
 " Let mc see ; you would not care to pose for the 
 artists, would you? " 
 
 " Ah, vos, I think that would suit me very well in- 
 deed." 
 
 " Well, then, I'll give you the address of an artist 
 friend. He's poor, but ho knows every one. Perhaps 
 he can help 3'ou. At least there will be no harm in 
 trying." 
 
 So I gave her Lorrimcr*s address, and she seemed 
 more than grateful. 
 
 *' Thank you very much. Shall I see you again 
 
 ^oon 
 
 J »• 
 
 " Perhaps ; but remember, not a word of Xapoli." 
 
 '"No; trust me. I am very discreet. Well, nil 
 revoir." 
 
 With that she took her departure, and once more I 
 felt th;it I had emerged successfully from a dangerous 
 situation. 
 
 On the following day I hired a voiturc a bras, and 
 loading on it my few poor sticks of furniture I easily 
 pulled the load to my new residence. Once there, it 
 was surprising how soon I made the place homelike. 
 Anastasia was coming out of the hospital the following 
 (liy, and I was intensely eager that everything should 
 l>r- cheerful. Fortunately, the window admitted much 
 
222 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 sunlight, and the slope of the roof lent itself to quaint 
 and snug effects of decoration. I really did wonders 
 with drapings of clieap cotton> made a lounge and a 
 cosy corner out of cushions, contrived a wardrobe (in 
 view of an increase in our prosperity), and constructed 
 two cunning cupboards within which all articles of mere 
 utility were hid from sight. 
 
 Lorrimer dropped in and gave me a hand with the 
 finishing touches. He also loaned me three lifesizc 
 paintings in oil to adorn my walls. They were studies 
 for the forthcoming Salon picture that was to mark a 
 crisis in liis career, and showed Rougette in diflferent 
 poses of the nude. I did not think it worth while to say 
 anything about T^ucretin just then. 
 
 Helstern, toyo, came to see how things were progres- 
 sing and contributed two day figures, also of the nude; 
 so that by the time everything was finished my garret 
 had bc^'.-ne quite a startling repository of feminine 
 loveliness unadorned. The following morning I bought 
 several bunches of flowers from a barrow, at two sous 
 a bunch, and arranged them about the room. Then my 
 two friends insisted on bringing up a supply of food and 
 preparing lunch. 
 
 So I went off to the hospital to fetch Anastasia. I 
 felt as excited as a child, and for the moment very 
 happy. I had been to see her for a few moments every 
 day, when she would hold my hand and sometimes 
 carry it to her lips. She was of a deathly whiteness 
 and more like a child than ever. As she came out lean- 
 ing on my arm I saw another of those sobbing girls 
 leaving the hospital with her baby. 
 
 " What an irony t " I said. '' There's a girl would 
 give anything not to have that infant. It's a reproach 
 
THE STRESS OE THE STRUGGLE iiil'6 
 
 ,111(1 a disgrace to liur. It will only drag her down, 
 prevent her making a living. It will be brought up in 
 iiii^erv. And we wiio wanted one so much, and 
 uould have made It m> liajipy, must go away empty- 
 handed." 
 
 '• Yes," she answered, with a sob in her throat; '' the 
 (li)etaire tell me nevuire inu-.t 1 have anuzzer. He tell 
 iiif it M ill keel me. And 1 want so much — oil, I want 
 leetle child!" 
 
 Hailing a cab, we were soon at our new home. She 
 did not >eem to take nnich interest ; yet, when she heard 
 tile souiuls of welcome from within, she brightened up. 
 Then when the door was thrown open she gave a little 
 ija>p of pleasure. 
 
 •• Oh, Em glad, Em glad." 
 
 For I.orrimer had painted a banner, Welcome Honw, 
 al>o\e the fireplace; the sunshine flooded in; the 
 (lowers were everywhere, and a wondrous lunch was 
 spread on the table. Then suddenly the two artists, 
 >taiiding on either side of the doorway, put mirlitons 
 to their mouths and burst into the Marseillaise, They 
 wrung her hand, and even (with my permission) 
 saluted her on both cheek> ; and she was so rarely glad 
 to Nee them that her eyes shone with tears. So after 
 all her homecoming was far from a sad one. 
 
 A!id after lunch and the good bottle of Ponunard 
 that Helstern had provided we discussed plans and 
 prospects with the hope and enthusiasm of beginners; 
 while j^he listened, but more housewife-like took stock 
 ol lier new home and its practical possibilities. 
 
 Next day I began work again. My idea was to com- 
 pletely ignore my own ideals and turn out stuff accord- 
 ing to magazine formula. I had made an analysis of 
 
UiH 
 
 Tin: i'Hi/n:M)ER 
 
 ^onic thirty niag.izino stories; it only remained to mix 
 them according to recipe and serve hot. I continued 
 to hire the rheumatic t\pewriter, and composed straiglit 
 on to the machine, so that I accomplished at 'east one 
 story a day. 
 
 Once more Anastasia took charge of the forwarding, 
 hut she seemed to have less entiuisiasm now. It was 
 as if Jier severe illness had taken something out of her. 
 •Ml the money I had been able to give her was seventy 
 francs, and this was not very heartening. She got out 
 her ru'tier again ; but she would often pause in her work 
 as if lier back pained luT, and rub her eyes as if they 
 too ached. Then with stubborn patience she w'ould 
 resume lur toil. 
 
 One niorniug the manuscript of 7\>m, Dick and Ilarri/ 
 was returned from the publisher, with a note to .say 
 that "at that time when the taste of the public was 
 .••II for realistic fiction work of fancy stood little chance 
 <»f success without a well-known name on the cover. A> 
 the policy of the firm was c()rl^ervative they were 
 obliged to return it." 
 
 How I laughed over this letter. How bitterly, I 
 thought, they would be chagrined Avhen they found out 
 who the unknown Silenus Starset was. I was even ma- 
 liciously glad, and, chuckling, sent off the manuscript 
 on another voyage of adventure. 
 
 I fairly bombarded t!:e magazines with short storie-<. 
 There was not one of anv standing that was not hold- 
 ing a manuscript of mine. And such manuscripts, some 
 of them! I was amazed at my cjieek in offering them. 
 I would sclict one of my twelve stock plots, alter tlie 
 ^etting, give it a dexterous twist or two, and shoot it 
 
riii: sTUEj^s 01 Tin: sthlggli: .'jii5 
 
 (itV. Mv iiuirk was a iiiiniiiiuiii of u nmnuscript a duv, 
 aii(i griiiilv I .stuck to it. 
 
 For tlirt-c ULt-ks I ktpt pounding awav on my clack- 
 ing typiwritLT, U was costing us a small income in 
 > tamps, and economy of the most rigid kind had to he 
 |na( tisicl in »ther ways. We gave up eating ordinary 
 nuat and took to patronising the Bouchcrie L'hcx-aliuc. 
 I came to ap{)reciate a choice nmle steak, and con- 
 sidtrt'd an cntrecote of ass a sj.ecial delicacy. We made 
 -alads of puiret, which is called the poor man's aspara- 
 i^iis. We drank xin ordinaire at eight sous a litre and 
 tuir l)read was of the coarsest. Down there in the rue 
 Moiitl'etard it was no trouhle to purchase with economy, 
 lor everything was sold from that standpoint. 
 
 I think the rue Mouftetard deserves a special page 
 nt' description, l)ecause it contains the elements of all 
 I'aris sluindom. From the steep and ancient rue St. 
 (iiiRvieve de Montague l)ianches the dismal rue Des- 
 ( utes. It runs hetween tall, dreary houses, growing 
 ;4ra(lually more sordid; then suddenly, as if ashamed of 
 it -elf, it changes its name to the rue Mouffetard, and 
 I'ontinues its infamous wav. 
 
 The street narrows to the width of a lani' and the 
 houses that flank it grow colder, hlacker, more decrepit. 
 The pavement on either side is a mere riiiand, and the 
 lohhled way is overrun with the tlike humanity 
 -pewed forth from the sinister houses. The sharp 
 :,'al)les and raking roofs, out of which windows like gap- 
 ing sores make jagged openings, notch themselves gro- 
 ttsijuely against the sky. Their faces are gnawed by 
 the teeth of time and grimy with the dust of ages. 
 Cheir windows are like blind eyes, barred and repulsiv. 
 
^26 
 
 THE I'HKTKNDKK 
 
 Till- (loois that burrow into tlieiii are iiotliing but black 
 holes, so narrow that two people parsing liave to turn 
 sideways, m> dark that it is like entering a eharnti 
 house. 
 
 Nearly every second shop is a ihupt\ a biivette, a 
 saloon. At one point there are four flustered together. 
 Some of these drinking dens are so narrow they seem 
 m«re hoKs in the wail, scarcely any wider than the 
 width of their own door, and running back like dark 
 cupboards. And in them, with their heads together 
 and their elbows on the tiny tables you can see the 
 ferret-faced I'oilo, and (iigolette, liis gosse, of the 
 greasy and elal)orate coiffure. Hollow-cheeked, glit- 
 tering of eye, light as a cat, cunning, cynical, cruel, he 
 smokes a cigarette; w!iile she, bra/eii, daw-fingered, 
 rapacious, sips from his Pernod. 
 
 At the butchers' only horse-meat is >old. A golden 
 horse Usually surmounts the door, overlooking a sign 
 — BoHclterie Chcvaimc, or sometimes Houcheric Hyp- 
 paffiqiu'. The meat is very dark; the fat very yellow: 
 and there are festoons of red sausages, very rod and 
 glossy. One shop bears the sign " House of Confi- 
 dence." There are other signs, such as " Mule of pre- 
 mier (piality," " Ass of first choice," 
 
 As you c'vscend the street you get passing glimpses 
 of inner courts of hideous .squalor, of side streets, nar- 
 row and resigned to misery. Daring odours pollute the 
 air and the way is now packed with wretchedness. 
 (Jrimy women, whose idea of a coiffure is to get their 
 matted hair out of the way, trudge draggle-skirted by 
 the side of husky-throated, undersized men whose bcard> 
 bristle brutishly. Bands of younger men hang around 
 !' bars. They wear peaked caps and have woollen 
 
THE STHi:sS OF THE STIUGCJLE ^27 
 
 bcarfb around their throats. Thiv look at thi- well- 
 dressed pusser-by with furtive speculation. They live 
 thieriy on the brazen girls who parade up and down. 
 with their hair coiled over their ears, clawed down in 
 front, sleek with lirilliantine and studded with conib>. 
 
 Then, as the narrow, tortuous street plunges down 
 to the currefour of the Gobelins it becomes violently 
 commercial, a veritable market jammed with barrows, 
 >tudded with stalls, strident with street cries of all 
 kinds. 
 
 Here it is that Anastasia does her marketing. It is 
 wonderful how nmch she can bring home for a franc, 
 sometimes enough to till the net bag she carries on her 
 arm. She never wears a hat on these expeditions; it 
 is safer without one. 
 
 'I'hree weeks gone; twenty stories written. I throw 
 myself back in weariness and despair. It is hard work 
 <loing three thousand words a day, especially when one 
 has to make a second copy for the clean manuscript. 
 I began at eight in the morning and worked till ten at 
 night. My face ^as thin, my cheeks pale, my eyes full 
 of fag and stress. How I despised the work I was 
 doing! the shoddy, sentimental piffle, the ansniic twad- 
 <lle, the pandering to the vulgar taste for stories of the 
 uj)per circles. Ordinary folk not being sufficiently in- 
 teresting for a snobbish public my heroes were seldom 
 less than baronets. It got at last that every stroke of 
 my typewriter jarred some sensitive nerve of pain in 
 me — " Typewriter nerves " they call it. Then one 
 night I gave up. 
 
 " I won't do another of these wretched things," I 
 cried; "I'm worked out. I feel as if my brain w.-. 
 mush, just so much sloppy stuff." 
 
UUH 
 
 Tin: I'HKTKNDKK 
 
 " Vou iuu^i take rest, darleen. You work too hard." 
 
 '• Vts, rest ill >oinL' far South Sea Island where 1 
 can forgtt that hooks and typewriters exist. I'm heart- 
 sick of the vampire trade. Well, I've reached my limit. 
 To-morrow I'm ju>t going out to the Luxemhourg to 
 loaf. Oh. that lovely word I I'm going to sit and watch 
 the children watching the Guignol, and laugh when they 
 laugh. That's all I'm equal to — the (iuignol." 
 
 And I did. Full of sweet, tired melancholy I sat 
 listlessly under the trees, ga/.ing at that patch of eager, 
 intense, serious, uproarious, utterly enchanted faces, 
 planted in front of the immortal Punch and Judy show. 
 Oh, to have written that little drama! Every thing 
 elsf could go. Oh, to play on the emotions like an in- 
 strument, as it played on the emotions of these little 
 ones ! What an audience ! How I envied them their 
 fresh keen joy of appreciation! I felt so jaded, so 
 utterly indifferent to all things. Yet I reflected to 
 some extent their enthusiasm. I gaped with them, I 
 laughed ith them, I applauded with them. 
 
 Then with a suddenness that is overwhelming came 
 the thought of my own little dream-child, she who in 
 years to come should have taken her place in that hi- 
 larious band. After all, the N'oveniber afternoon was 
 full of sadness. The withered leaves were underfoot, 
 and the vngue despondency of the waning year hung 
 heavily around me. Suddenly all joy seemed to go 
 clean out of life, and slowly I returned to the wretched 
 quarter in which I lived. 
 
 These were the sad days for us both, grey days of 
 rain and boding. Early and late she would work at 
 her embroidery, yet often look at nie with a sigh. Then 
 my manuscripts began to come back. Luckily, two 
 
Tin: sTUKss oi- tiii: sTuroGLE 220 
 
 were accepted, one In- n ,so<i( |y weekly, th»' otlier hy a 
 V. nnmn's journal. The l,'»tt»r was to he paid for on 
 puhlication; but I wrote pleading necessity for the 
 money and it was forthcoming. The two netted us 
 three pounds ten, enough to pay the rent and tide us 
 liver for another month. 
 
 Once more Tom, Duk ntul Unrri/ was returned, and 
 once more gallantly despatched. About this time I 
 began to lose all confidence in myself. On one occasion 
 I said to her: 
 
 " Sec, Little Thing, what a poor husband you have. 
 He can't even support you." 
 
 " I have the best husl)and in the world. Courage, 
 darleen. P'.vervthing will eome vet virv right I 
 know." 
 
 " If only our child had lived," I said moodily,. gazing 
 at the sodden, sullen sky. 
 
 Sitting with her hands folded in her lap she did not 
 answer. I saw that she drew back from her beautiful 
 embroidery so that a slow-filling tear would not stain 
 it. 
 
 " You know," I went on, " I can't believe we've lost 
 her. Seems to mc she's with us. I let myself think 
 of her too much. I can't help it. I loved her. God, 
 how I loved her! I never loved any one else like that.'' 
 
 She looked at me piteously, but I did not see. 
 
 And next day, in a pouring rain, I walked to the 
 cemetery and stood for an hour by an almost undis- 
 iinguishable little grave. I got back, as they say, 
 •' wet as the soup," and contracted a severe chill. Anas- 
 tasia made me stay in bed, and looked after me like a 
 mother. 
 
 Yes, these were sad days; and there wire times when 
 
2230 
 
 Tin: PRi ri:M)EH 
 
 I fflt movrd to own defeat, to acknowledge surress, to 
 accept the fortune I had gained. Then I ground niv 
 teeth. 
 
 " No, I won't. I'm hanged if I do. Til play the 
 j^ame, and in spite of it all I'll win." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THF, OAHKEST HOUR 
 
 Thk past month has been the hardest we have yet ex- 
 inrienced. After paying the rent wo had about fifty 
 francs to keep the house going. Not that it mattered 
 nnich ; for we both had such listless appetites and ate 
 next to nothing. I refused to do any more pot-boiling 
 work. For distraction I turned again to the stud}' of 
 tjje Quartier, to my browsings in its ancient by-ways. 
 Amid these old streets that, like a knot of worms, clus- 
 ter around the Pantheon, I managed to conjure up 
 many a ghost of bygone Bohemia. As a result I be- 
 gan a series of three papers which I called Demi-godx 
 in the Dint. They were devoted to the last sad days 
 of De Musset, Verlaine and Wilde, those strong souls 
 whose liauont with the powers of evil plunged them to 
 the utter depths. 
 
 The rue Gracieuse, where we reside, is probably one 
 of the least gracious streets of Paris. Its lower end is 
 grubbily respectable, its upper, glaringly disreputable. 
 It is in the latter we have our room. The houses are 
 small, old, mean, dirty. There are four drinking dens, 
 and the cobbles ring to the clang of wooden shoes. The 
 most prominent building is a hotel meuhJe, a low, lep- 
 rous edifice with two windows real, and four false. The 
 effect of these dummy windows painted on the stone is 
 oddly sinister. Underneath is a drinking den of un- 
 savoury size, and opposite an old junk shop. At night 
 
 23\ 
 
232 
 
 THE PHKTENDKH 
 
 till- street is fcvhly lit bv two gas laiiips tliat sprout 
 Iroin th<- uall. 
 
 I.iukilv. (iiir window f;ict> tlir r»if .Mon^i'. If it 
 fronted on the rue Saint-.Medard we should be unable 
 to live there, for the rue Saint-Medard, in spite of the 
 apostolic noiiienelature, is probably the most disgusting 
 street in I'aris. 
 
 It is old, three hundred years or more, and tiio 
 houses that englooni it are blaek, corroded and decrepit. 
 Its lower end is blocked by the aforesaid hostel of the 
 blind windows, its upper is narrow and wry-necked 
 where the Hotel des Hous Gar<,'<)iis bulges into it. Be- 
 tween the two is a dim, verminous gulf of mildewed 
 masonry. The timid, well-dressed person pauses on its 
 threshold and turns back. For the police seldom trou- 
 ble it, and tlie stranger passing through has a sense 
 of being in some desperate cul-de-sac, and at the mercy 
 of a villainous, outlawed population. They crawl to 
 their doors to stare resentfuily at the intruder, often 
 call harshly after him, and sometimes stand right in the 
 way, with an insolent, provocative leer. A glance 
 round shows that other figures have cut off the retreat 
 from behind, and for a moment one has a sense of being 
 trapped. It is quite a relief to gain the comparative 
 security of the rue Mouffetard. 
 
 But what gives the rue Saint-Medard its character 
 of supreme loathsomeness is because it is the headquar- 
 ters of the chiffonu'rs. These hereditary scavengers, 
 midden-rakers, ordure-sifters, monopolise its disease- 
 ridden ruins, living in their inmiemorial dirt. They are 
 creatures of the night, yet one may sometimes see a few 
 of them shambling forth to blink with bleary eves at 
 
THE DARKEST HOUR 253 
 
 the sun, their hair long and matted, the dirt grained 
 into their skins, their clothes corroded, their hoots agape 
 at the seams — very spawn of the ashpit. 
 
 And oh, the odour of the street ! The mere memory 
 makes me feel a nausea. It is the acrid odour of decay, 
 of ageless, indomitable squalor. It assails you the mo- 
 ment you enter that gap of ramshackle ruins, pungent, 
 penetrating, almost palpable. It is the choking odour 
 of an ash-bin, an ash-bin that is very old and is almost 
 eaten away by its own putridity. 
 
 Then on a Sunday morning w hen the rou Mouffetard 
 is such a carnival of sordid satisfactions the snakelike 
 head of the rue Saint-Mcdard is devoted to the marche 
 pouiUeux. Here come the chiffoniers and spread out 
 the treasures they have discovered during the week. 
 Over a greai array of his wares, all spread out on mil- 
 dewed sheets of newspj'per, stands an old chiffonier in 
 a stove-pipe hat. He also wears a rusty frock coat, 
 and with a cane points temptingly to his stock. His 
 white beard and moustache arc ambor round the mouth, 
 with the stain of tobacco, and in a hoarse alcoholic voice 
 ho draws our attention to a discarded corset, a pair 
 of moth-eaten trouser-s, a frying-pan with a hole in it, 
 an alarm clock minus the minute hand, a hair brush 
 almost innocent of bristles — any of which we may have 
 for a sou or two. 
 
 Such then is the monstrous rue Saint-Medard, and 
 on a dark, wet November day, when its characteristic 
 odour is more than usually audacious ; when the black, 
 irregular houses, like rows of decayed teeth, seem to 
 draw closer together; when the mildewed walls steam 
 loathfully : when the jagged roofs are black against the 
 
 m 
 
y:M- 
 
 Tin: imu:ti:m)eh 
 
 sky and the sinister .^liadows crawl from the darkened 
 rloorways, — it is more like a horrible nightmare than 
 a reality. 
 
 But the niisery of others often makes us forget our 
 own, and one day Helstern broke in on us looking grim- 
 mer than ever. 
 
 " Have you heard that our little Soloi.ge is very ill ? " 
 
 "Xo. What's the matter?" 
 
 '* Typhoid. Her mother is nursing her. You might 
 go down and see her, Madam. It will he a comfort to 
 her." 
 
 Anastasia straightened herself from the metier over 
 which she was stooping. 
 
 '* Yes, yes, I go at once. Oh, poor Frosine ! Poor 
 Solonge ! " 
 
 As I looked at her it suddenly struck me that she 
 lierself did not look much to brag about. But she put 
 on her mantle and we followed Helstern to the rue 
 Mazarin. 
 
 " It was like this," he told us. " I had an idea of 
 a statue to be called Bedtime. It was to be a little 
 Solonge, clad in her chemise and hugging a doll to her 
 breast. So I went to see the mother and found the 
 child had been sick for some days. I fetched the doc- 
 tor; none too soon. WeVe got to pull the kid 
 through." 
 
 We found the Mome lying in an apatheti'* way, her 
 lovely hair streaming over the pillow, her face already 
 hollow and strange-looking. She regarded us dully, 
 but with no sign of recognition. Then she seemed to 
 sleep, and her eyes, barely clc od, showed the whites 
 between the long lashes. 
 
 Frosine was calm and courageous, but her face was 
 
THE DARKEST HOUR 
 
 235 
 
 worn with long vigils, and her eyes, usually so cheerful, 
 wtrc now of a tragic seriousness. She turned to u« 
 eagerly. 
 
 " I can't get her roused, my little one. Not even 
 for her mother will she smile. She just lies there as if 
 ^lio wore tired. If she begins to sleep, she twitches and 
 (ipens her eyes again. It was a week ago I first no- 
 ticed she was ailing. She could scarcely hold up her 
 arms as I went to dress her. So I put her to bed again, 
 and ever since she's been sinking. She's all I've got in 
 the world and I'm af»-aid I'm going to lose her. Will- 
 ingly would I go in her place." 
 
 We arranged that Anastasia would remain there and 
 take turns watching by the bedside of the Mome; then 
 I returned to our garret alone. 
 
 It was more trying t^an ever now. Every day some 
 of my manuscripts came back, and I had not the cour- 
 age to send them out again. My novel, too, made its 
 appearance one morning with the usual letter of regret. 
 More sensitive than other men, it says much for au- 
 thors that they bear up so well under successive blows 
 of fate. With me a rejection meant a state of bitter 
 f^'loom for the rest of the day ; and as nearly every day 
 brought its rejection, cheerful intervals were few and 
 far between. 
 
 To get the proper working stimulus I drank immense 
 quantities of strong black coffee. In my desperate 
 mood I think I would have taken hasheesh if necessary. 
 It was the awful brain nausea that distressed me most, 
 the sense of having so much to say and being unable to 
 say it. I had moods of rage and misery, and sometimes 
 I wondered if it was not through these that men entered 
 into the domain of madness. 
 
y.'W 
 
 THE i'iii:Ti:M)KR 
 
 But aftrr about six cups of roffpc I would brightpn 
 mirarulously. My brain would be a gleaming, exulting, 
 conquering thing. I would feel the direct vision, the 
 power of forth-right expression. Thrilling with joy, 
 I would rush to my typewriter, and no power could 
 drag me away from it. If Anastasia approached me 
 at such a moment I would wave my arm franticallv: 
 
 " Oh, please go away. Don't bother me." 
 
 Then, holding my head clutched in both hands, and 
 glaring at the machine, I would try to catch up the 
 broken thread of my ideas. 
 
 What an unsatisfactory life! Dull as ditchwater 
 for days, then suddenly a change, a bewildering sense 
 of fecundity, a brilliant certainty of expression. Lo! 
 in an hour I had accomplished the work of a week. But 
 such hours were becoming more and more rare with 
 me, and more and more had I recourse to the deadly 
 black coffee. And if the retu.n of my stories hurt my 
 pride, that of my novel was like a savage, stunning 
 blow. I ground my teeth and (carefully observing that 
 there was no fire in the grate) I hurled it dramatically 
 to the flames. Then Anastasia reverently picked it 
 up, tenderly arranged it, and prepared it for another 
 sally. 
 
 " This will be the last time," I would swear. " You 
 can send it one time more: then — to hell with it." 
 
 And I would laugh bitterly as I thought of its far 
 different fate if only I would sign it with the name I 
 had a right to sign it with. What a difference a mere 
 name made! Was it then that my work was ^nly sell- 
 ing on account of my name.? Was it then that in itself 
 it had no merit.? Was I really a poor, incompetent 
 devil who had succeeded by a fluke? "I must win," I 
 
THE DARKEST HOUR 
 
 237 
 
 cried in the emptiness of the garret. " My pride, my 
 ^elf-respect demand it. If I fail I swear I'll never 
 write again." 
 
 There were times when I longed to go out and work 
 with pick and shovel. Distressed with doubt I would 
 gaze down at the dancing waters of the Seine and long 
 to be one of those men steering the barges, a creature 
 of healthy appetites with no thought beyond work, food 
 and sleep. Oh, to get away on that merry, frolicsome 
 water, somewhere far from this Paris, somewhere where 
 trees were fluttering and fresh breezes blowing. 
 
 Ah! that was the grey Christmas. Everything the 
 same as last — the booths, the toy-vendors, the holly 
 and the mistletoe, the homeward-hurrying messengers of 
 Santa Claus — everything the same, yet oh, how diflFor- 
 cnt ! Where now was the singing of the heart, the hrill- 
 ing to life's glory? Did I dream it all? Or was I 
 dreaming now? As I toiled, toiled within myself, how 
 like a dream was all that happened without ! Yes, all 
 of the last year seemed so unreal that if I had awakened 
 in America and had found this Paris and all it had 
 meant an elaborate creation of the magician Sleep, I 
 would not have been greatly surprised. It has always 
 been like that with me, the inner life real, the outer a 
 dream. 
 
 I walked the crowded Boulevards again, but with no 
 Little Thing by my side. Ah! here was the very cafe 
 where we sat a while and heard a woman sing a faded 
 ballad. Poor Little Thing! She was not on my arm 
 now. And, come to think of it, she too used to sing 
 in those days, sing all the time. But not any more, 
 never a single note. 
 
 At that moment she was watching by the bedside of 
 
HUH 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 the Munie, she who herself needed care and watching. 
 She had been the good, good wife, yet I had never cared 
 for her as I ought. I was always like that, longing for 
 the things I had not, careless of what I had. Perhaps 
 even if the child had lived I would have transferred my 
 affections elsewhere. But I couldn't bear to think of 
 that. No, my love for the child would have been an 
 ideal that nothing could dim. 
 
 But if Christmas was grey. New Year's Day was 
 black. Anastasia came back with bad news from the 
 sick room. The Mome wa>s gratlually growing weaker. 
 Helstern had brought her a golden-brown Teddy bear 
 and had held it out to her, but -he had looked at it with 
 the heart-breaking indifference of one who hud no more 
 need to take an interest in such things. Her manner 
 had that aloofness, that strange, wise calmness that 
 makes the faces of d^'ing children so much older, so much 
 loftier than the faces of their elders. It is the pitying 
 regard of those who are on the brink of freedom for us 
 whom they leave in the prison of the flesh. 
 
 " Little Thing," I said one day, gazing grimly at the 
 tobacco tin that acted as our treasurv, " what are we to 
 do.'* We've only one franc seventy -five left us, and the 
 rent is due to-morrow." 
 
 She went over to her metier and held up the most 
 beautiful piece of embroidery I had yet seen. 
 
 " Courage, darleen. The sun shine again very soon, 
 I sink. Now we can sell this. I am so glad. It seem 
 Zaire is so leetle I can do." 
 
 "No, no; I can't let you sell it. I don't want to 
 part with any of your work. Let me take it to the 
 Mont-de-Pietc. Then wc can get it back some day." 
 
THE DARKEST HOUR 
 
 iS9 
 
 " But Zaire we onlv get half what wt- have if we 
 sell it." 
 
 " Never mind. Perhaps it will be enough to tide us 
 over for a day or two." 
 
 I realised thirty francs for the cushion cover, paid 
 the rent, and was about seven francs to the good. " We 
 can go on for another week anyway," I said. 
 
 During this black month I only saw Lorrimer once. 
 It wus on the Boul' Mich' and he was in a great hurry, 
 but he stopped a moment. 
 
 " I say, Madden, was it you who sent me the Dago 
 skirt? Where did you dig her up? Slie's a good type 
 and makes a splendid foil to Rougette. I've changed 
 my plans and begun a new Salon picture with both girls 
 in it. Come up and see it soon. It's great. I'm sure 
 the crisis in my fortune has come at last. Well, good- 
 bye now. Thanks for sending me the model." 
 
 He was off before I could say a word ; but in spite of 
 the wondrous picture I did not go to his studio. 
 
 I had finished my Demi-gods in the Dust articles. 
 As far as finish and force went I thought them the best 
 work I had ever done. Now I began a series of genre 
 stories of the Paris slums, called Chronicles of the Cafe 
 Pas Chemise. I rarely went out. I worked all the 
 time, or tried to work all the time. I might as well 
 work, I thought, for I could not sleep. That worried 
 me more than anything, my growing insomnia. For 
 hours every night I would lie with nerves a-tingle, hear- 
 ing the noctambules in the rue Monge, the thundering 
 crash of the motor-buses, the shrill outcries from the 
 boozing den below, the awakening of the chiffoniers in 
 the rue Saint-Medard : all the thousand noises of noc- 
 
2 to 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 turnal invstery. cruelty and crime. Then I would rise 
 in the morning distracted and wretched, and not till I 
 had disposed of two big cups of coflFee would I feel able 
 to begin work again. 
 
 Then one morning I arose and we had no more money 
 — well, just a few sous, enough to buy a crust or so for 
 (h'jeuner. She took it as she went on her way to the 
 bedside of the dying Mome. She was a brave little soul, 
 and usually made a valiant effort to cheer me, but this 
 morning she could not conceal her dejection. She kissed 
 me good-bye with tears coursing down her checks. 
 Then I was alone. Never had the sky seemed so grey, 
 >o hopeless. 
 
 •' I fear I'm beaten," I said. " I've made a hard fight 
 and I've been found wanting. I am supposed to be a 
 capable writing man. I'm a fraud. I can't earn my 
 salt with my pen. The other was only an accident. 
 It's a good thing to know oneself at one's true value. 
 I might have gone on till the end of the chapter, lulled 
 in my fatuous vanity. I'm humble now; I'm crushed." 
 
 I sat there gazing at the drear}' roofs. 
 
 " Well, I've had enough. Here's where I throw up 
 the sponge. I'm going to spend the rest of my life 
 planting cabbages in New Jersey. If it was only for 
 myself I'd never give in. I've got just enough mule 
 spirit to fight on till I'm hurt, but I can't let others get 
 hurt too. Already I've gone too far. I've been a bit 
 of a brute. But it's all over. I've lost, I've lost." 
 
 I threw myself back on my bed, unstrung, morbid, 
 desperate. Then suddenly I sprang up, for there came 
 u knocking at the door. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE dawn- 
 
 It was the postman, not the usual bearer of dejected 
 manuscripts; another, older, more d.dtinguished. 
 
 " Registered letter. Monsieur.** 
 
 Wondcringly I signed for it. The man lingered, but 
 I had no offering for the great god Pourboire. I re- 
 ;,'arded the letter curiously. It was from MacWaddy 
 \ Wedge, the last people to whom I had sent Tom, 
 Dick and Harry. All I knew of them was that they 
 wore a new firm who had adopted the advertising meth- 
 ods of the Yankees, to the horror of the old and crusted 
 British publisher. In consequence they had done well, 
 iind were disposed to take risks where new writers were 
 concerned. 
 
 Well, what was in the letter? Like a man who stands 
 before a closed door, which may open on Hell or Heaven, 
 I hesitated. Then in fear and trembling I broke the 
 soul. This is what I read : 
 
 " Dear Sir, — We have perused with interest your novel, 
 Tom, Dick and Harry, and are minded to include it in our 
 Frivolous Fiction Library. As your work is entirely un- 
 known, and we will find it necessary to do a great deal 
 of advertising in connection with it, we are thus incurring 
 a considerable financial risk. Nevertheless, we are pre- 
 pared to offer you a five per cent, royalty on all sales; or, 
 if you prefer it, we will purchase the British and Colonial 
 riglits for one hundred pounds. 
 
 " Yours very truly, 
 
 " MacWaddy & Wedof 
 Ml 
 
 II 
 
UV2 
 
 Tin: rUKTENDER 
 
 " P.S. — Our Mr. Wedge- in at present in ParU for a 
 day or two, so if you call un him you might arrange de- 
 tails of publication. His address is the Hotel Cosmopoli- 
 tan." 
 
 I sat staring at the letter. It had come at last, — 
 Success! One hundred pounds! Twenty-five hundred 
 francs! Why, at the present rate of living it would 
 keep us for two years; at the rate of the rue Mazarin, 
 marly twelve months. Never before had I realised that 
 money meant so much. The prospect of living once 
 more at the rate of two hundred and fifty francs a month 
 intoxicated me. It meant chicken and champagne sup- 
 pers; it meant evenings at the moving picture show; 
 it even meant indulgence in a meerschaum pipe. Hur- 
 rah! How lovely everything would be ugain. As I 
 executed a wild dance of delight I waved the letter tri- 
 umphantly in the air. All the joy, the worth-whileness 
 of life, surged buck again. I wanted to rush away and 
 tell Anastasin ; then suddenly I sobered myself. 
 
 " I must contrive to see this Mr. Wedge at once. And 
 I mustn't go looking like an understudy for a scare- 
 crow. Happy thought — Helstern.'* 
 
 I found the sculptor in bed. " Hullo, old man!** I 
 cried, " if you love me lend me a collar. I've got to 
 interview a blooming publisher. Just sold a novel — a 
 hundred quid." 
 
 '* Congratulations," growled Helstern from the blan- 
 kets. " Take anything you want. Light the gas when 
 you go out, ana put on my kettle.'* 
 
 So I selected a collar ; then a black satin tie tempted 
 me; then a waistcoat seemed to match it so well; then 
 a coat seemed to match the waistcoat ; then I thought I 
 might as well make a complete job and take a pair of 
 
THE DAWN 
 
 S4!3 
 
 trousers and a long cape^oat. As Helstern it bulkier 
 Hmn I, tlie clothes fitted where they touched, but the 
 fiisemble was artistic enough. 
 
 " I'm off, oh, sleepy one ! " I called. ** Be back in 
 two hours or so. Your water's nearly boiling. By the 
 way, how did you leave the Mome?'* 
 
 " Better, thank 'i aven. I do believe the kid's going 
 to pull through. L.ast night she seemed to chirp up 
 some. She actually deigned to notice her Teddy bear." 
 
 " Good. I'm so glad. You know, I believe the New 
 Year's going to open up a new vein of happiness for 
 us all." 
 
 '• We need it. Well, come back and we'll drink to 
 the healths of Publishers and Sinners.** 
 
 It seemed my luck was holding, for I caught Mr. 
 Wedge just as he was leaving the luxurious hotel. 1 
 guve my name and stated my business. 
 
 " Come in," said the publisher, leading the way to the 
 gorgeous smoking-room. Mr. Wedge was a blonde, 
 l)land man, designed on a system of curves. He was the 
 travelling partner, the entertainer, the upholder of the 
 ".(•cial end of the business. Immensely popular was Mr. 
 Wedge. Mr. MacWaddy, I afterwards found, was 
 equally the reverse. A meagre little man, spectacled 
 and keen as a steel trap, he was so Scotch that it was 
 said he did not dot his " i''s " in order to save the ink. 
 However, with MacWaddy's acumen and Wedge*8 ur- 
 banity, the combination was a happy one. 
 
 " Yes," said the latter affably, offering me a cigar 
 with a gilt band, " we'll be glad to publish your book, 
 Mr. Madden. By the way, no connection of Madden, 
 the well-known American novelist ; writes under the 
 name of Norman Dane? " 
 
2U 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 " Ye-cs — only a distant one." 
 
 " How interesting. Wish you could get him to tlirc * 
 something our way. We'd be awfully glad to show 
 what we could do with his books. They're just the sort 
 of thing we go in for — light, sensational, easy-to-read 
 novels. He's a great writer, your cousin — I think you 
 said your cousin? — knows how to hit the public taste. 
 His books may not be literary, but '^hey sell; and that's 
 how we publishers judge books. Well, I hope you're 
 going to follow in his footsteps. Seems to run in the 
 fiimily, the fiction gift. By the way, I'd better make 
 out a contract form, and, while I think of it, I'll give 
 you an advance. Twenty pounds do.' " 
 
 " You might make it forty, if it's all the same." 
 
 Mr. Wedge drew his cheque for that amount, and I 
 signed a receipt. 
 
 " I'm just going round to the bank," he continued. 
 " Come with me, and I'll get the cheque cashed for 3'ou." 
 
 So in ten minutes' time I said good-bye to him and 
 was hurrying home with the money in my pocket. The 
 sun was shining, the sky a dome of lapis lazuli, the 
 Seine affable as ever. Once again it was the dear Paris 
 I loved, the city of life and light. In a perfect efferves- 
 cence of joy I bounded upstairs to the garret. Then 
 (luite suddenly and successfully I concealed my elation. 
 
 " Hullo, Little Thing ! " I sighed. " Whathave you 
 got for dinner.' It's foolish how I am hungry." 
 
 " I have do the best I can, darleen," Anastasia said 
 sadly. "There was not much of noney — only forty- 
 five centimes. See, I have buy sausage and salad and 
 some bread. That leave for supper to-night four sous. 
 '•o on. Eat, darloen. I don't want anything,'* 
 
 r looked at the glossy red sancissoti-a-la-mulet. the 
 
THE DAWN 
 
 i>i.-) 
 
 stringy head of chicory, the stale bread. After all, 
 spread out there and backed by a steaming jug of cof- 
 fee, it didn't look such a bad repast. I kissed her for 
 the pains she had taken. 
 
 " Hold up your apron," I said sadly. 
 
 Wonderingly she obeyed. Then I threw into it one 
 by one ten crisp pink bank-notes, each for one hundred 
 francs. I thought her eyes would drop out, they were 
 so wide. 
 
 " Eight — nine — ten hundred. There, I guess we 
 (•«n afTord to go out to dejeuner to-d.iy. What do you 
 say to our old friend, the oi.fe Soufflet ? " 
 
 " It is not true, this money? You are not doing thi* 
 for laughing? " 
 
 " You bet your life. It's real money. There's more 
 of it coming up, fifteen more of these billets deux. So 
 come on to the cafe, Little Thing, and I'll tell you all 
 the good tidings." 
 
 Seated in the restaurant, I w in tlie dizziest heights 
 of rapture, and bubbling over w.tn plans. Such a dra- 
 matic plunge into prosperity dazzled me. 
 
 " First of all," I said, " we must both from head to 
 heel get a complete outfit of new clothes. We'll eacli 
 take a hundred francs and spend the afternoon buying 
 things. Then I'll get our stuff out of pawn. Then as 
 soon as we get things straight we'll find a new apart- 
 ment." 
 
 Suddenly she stopped me. **MonDkn! Where you 
 get the clothes? " 
 
 " Oh, I quite forgot. They're Helstern's. I'll just 
 run round to his place to return them. He might want 
 to go out. Here, give me one of those bits of paper 
 and I'll pay my debts." 
 
^46 
 
 TiiK i»hkti:m)i:r 
 
 I found the sculptor in his underwear, philosophically 
 smoking his Turk's head pipe. 
 
 " Awfully obliged, old man, for the togs. I never 
 could have ventured into that hotel in my old ones. 
 Well, here's the money you lent mc, and a thousand 
 thanks." 
 
 " Sure you can spare it ? " 
 
 " Yes, and another if you want it. Why, man, I'm 
 a little Cra?sus. I'm simply reeking with the stuff. I 
 feel as if I could buy up the Bank of France. Just 
 touched a thou', and more coming up." 
 
 " W^ell, I'm awfully glad for your sake. I'm glad to 
 get this money, too. D'ye know what I'm going to do 
 with it? I'm going to hire a nurse for Solonge. It 
 will relieve the tension somewhat. What with watching 
 and a^xiet}', we're all worn out. And, Madden, excuse 
 mo nK>ntioning it, but that little woman of yours wants 
 looking after. She's not overstrong, in an}' case, and 
 she's been working herself to death. I don't know what 
 we would have done without her down there, but there 
 were times when I was on the point of sending her 
 home." 
 
 " All right. Thanks for telling me. I say, as far 
 as the Mome is concerned, I'd like to do something. 
 Let's give you another hundred." 
 
 " No, no, I don't think it's necessary in the mean- 
 time. If I want more I'll call on you. You're off? 
 Well, good-bye just now." 
 
 As far as they concerned Anastasia I thought a good 
 deal over his words, and when I returned, after an 
 afternoon spent in buying a new suit, hat, boots, I 
 found her lying on her bod, her hundred intact. 
 
 When a woman is too sick to spend money in new 
 
THE DAWN 
 
 241 
 
 clothes it's time to call a doctor. This, in spite of her 
 protestations, I promptly did, to be told as promptly 
 that she was a very sick woman indeed. She had, said 
 the medico, never fully recovered from her confinement, 
 and had been running down ever since. For the pres- 
 ent she must remain in bed. 
 
 Then he hesitated. " If your wife is not carefully 
 looked after there is danger of her becoming poitri- 
 naire." i 
 
 I was startled. In the tension of literary effort, in 
 the egotism of art, I had paid little heed to her. If 
 she had been less perfect, perhaps I should have thought 
 more of her. But she just fitted in, made things 
 smooth, effaced herself. She was of that race that 
 make the best wives in the world. The instinct is im- 
 planted in them by long heredity. Anastasia was a 
 born wife, just as she was a born mother. Yes, I had 
 neglected her, and the doctor left me exceedingly pensive 
 and remorseful. 
 
 " You must hurry up and get well, child," I said, 
 as she lay there looking frail and wistful. " Then we're 
 going away on a holiday. We're going to Brittany 
 by the sea. I'm tireu of grey days. I want them all 
 blue and gold. We'll wander down lanes sweet with 
 may, and sit on the yellow tands." 
 
 She listened fondly, as I painted pictures, growing 
 ever more in love with my vision. 
 
 ** Yes, I try to get well, queck, just to please you, 
 darleen. Excuse me, I geeve you too much trooble. 
 I want so much to be good wife to you. That is tho 
 bestest thing for me. I don't want ever you be sorry 
 you marry me. If you was, I sink I die." 
 
 Once I had conceived myself in the part of a nurse. 
 
S48 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 I entered into it with patience and enthusiasm. I am 
 not lavish in the display of affection ; but in these days 
 I was more tender and considerate than ever I had been, 
 and Anastasia was duly grateful. So passed two 
 weeks — the daily visits of the doctor, patient vigils on 
 ruy part, hours of pain and ease on hers. 
 
 In Bohemia it never rains but it pours ; so with cruel 
 irony in the face of my good fortune other successes 
 began to surprise me. Within two weeks I had seven of 
 my stories accepted, and the total revenue from them 
 was twelve pounds. I felt that the worst of the fight 
 was over. I had enough now to carry me on till I had 
 written another novel. I need not do this pot-boiling 
 work any more. 
 
 Every day came Helstcm with news of the growing 
 prowess of the Mome. She was able to sit up a little. 
 Her legs were like spindles, and she could not walk ; but 
 she looked rarely beautiful, almost angelic. In a few 
 days he was going to get a chair on wheels, and take her 
 out in the gardens. 
 
 ** I can't make this out," I said, chaffingly. « You 
 must have made an awful hit with Frosine. Why don't 
 you marry the girl?" 
 
 He looked startled. 
 
 "Don't be absurd. Why, I'm twenty years older 
 than she is. Besides, I'm a cripple. Besides, I'm a 
 confirmed bachelor. Besides, she's a confirmed widow." 
 
 ** No young woman's ever a confirmed widow. Be- 
 sides — she's no widow." 
 
 " Good Heavens ! You don't mean to tell me Solonire 
 IS — " 
 
 "WTiy, yes, I thought you knew. Anyway, ther« 
 was no reason to tell you anything like that." 
 
THE DAVVX 
 
 249 
 
 Helstern rose slowly. My information seemed to be 
 exceedingly painful to him. That firm mouth with its 
 melancholy twist opened as if to speak. Then, with- 
 out saying a word, he took his hat and went off. 
 
 "After all," I thought, "why not? Frosine is as 
 good as gold, a serene, sensible woman. I'd marry her 
 myself if I wasn't already married to Anastasia. I 
 wonder . . .*' 
 
 Thereupon I started upon my career as a match- 
 maker. Why is it that the married man is so anxious 
 to induce r jrs to embrace matrimony? Is it a sense 
 of duty, a desire to prevent other men shirking their 
 duty? Or (as no woman is perfect) is it a desire to 
 see the flies in our ointment outnumbered by the flies 
 in our neighbour's? Or, as marriage is a meritorious 
 compulsion to behave, is it a desire to promote merit 
 among our bachelor friends by making them behave 
 also? In any case, behold me as a bachelor stalker, 
 Helstern my first quarry. I did not see him for a week, 
 then one afternoon I came across him by the great 
 gloomy pile of the Pantheon, gazing at Rodin's statue 
 of the Thinker. 
 
 How often have I stood in front of it myself! That 
 figure fascinates me as does no other in modem 
 sculpture. The essence of simplicity, it seems to say 
 unutterable things. Arms of sledgehammer force, a 
 great back corded with muscle, legs banded as if with 
 iron, could anything be more expressive of magnificent 
 strength? Yet, oh, the pathos of it — the small, un- 
 developed skull, the pose of perplexed, desperate 
 thought ! 
 
 So must primitive man have crouched and agonised 
 in that first dim dawn of intelligence. Within that 
 
 -i J 
 
250 
 
 THi: PRKTENDER 
 
 brain of a child alrt-ad}- gliniiiicrK the idea of something 
 greater than physical force ; within that brute man Mind 
 is beginning its supreme struggle over Matter. Here 
 is the birth of brain domination. Here is the savage, 
 thwarted, mocked, impotent ; yet trying with every fibre 
 of his being to enter that world of thought which he is 
 so conscious of, and cannot yet understand. Pathetic ! 
 Yes, it typifies the ceaseless struggle of man from the 
 beginning, the agony of effort b}' v hich he has raised 
 himself from the mire. Far from a Newton, a Darwin, 
 a Goethe, this crude, elementary Thinker! Yet, with 
 his brain of a child as he struggles for Light, who shall 
 say he is not in his way as great. Salute him! He 
 stands for the cumulative effort of the race. 
 
 Helstern himself, as he stood there in his black cloak, 
 leaning on his stick with the gargoyle head, was no 
 negligible figure. I was struck by a resemblance to a 
 great actor, and the thought came that here, but for 
 that misshapen foot, was a tragedian lost to the world. 
 This was strengthened by the voice of the man. Hel- 
 stern, in his deep vil)rating tones, could have held a 
 crowd spellbound while he told them how he missed his 
 street car. 
 
 " Great," I said, indicating the statue. 
 
 *' Great, man ! It's a glory and a despair. To me it 
 represents the vast striving of the spirit, and its impo- 
 tence to express its dreams. I, too, think as greatly as 
 a Rodin, but my efforts to give my thoughts a form 
 are only a mockery and a pain. I, too, have agonised 
 to do; yet what am I confronted with.^ — Failure. For 
 twenty years I've studied, worked, dreamed of success, 
 and to-day I am as far as ever from the goal. Yes, 
 I realise my impotence. I have lived my life in vain. 
 
THE DAWN 
 
 251 
 
 Old, grey, a cripple, a solitary. What is there left for 
 
 mc i 
 
 He finished with a lofty gesture. 
 
 " Nothing left," I said, " but to have a drink. Come 
 
 on. 
 
 But no. Helstcm reposed on his dignity, and re- 
 fusfd to throw off the mantle of gloom. 
 
 " I tell you wlmt it is," I suggested. " I think you're 
 in love." 
 
 '• Bfih ! I was never in love but once, and that was 
 twenty years ago. We were going to be married. The 
 day was fixed. Then on the marriage eve she went to 
 try on the wedding gown. There was a large fire in 
 the room, and suddenly as she was bending before the 
 mirror to tie a riband, the flimsy robe caught the flame. 
 In a moment she was ablaze. Screaming and panic- 
 stricken she ran, only to fall unconscious. After three 
 days of agony she died. I attended a funeral, not a 
 wedding." 
 
 I shuddered — not at his story, but because the in- 
 cident occurred in my novel. The Cup and The Lip. 
 Alas! How Life plagiarizes Fiction. I murmured 
 huskily : 
 
 " Cheer up, old man ! " 
 
 He laughed bitterly. " Twenty years ! I might have 
 had sons and daughters grown up by now. Perhaps 
 even grandchildren like Solonge. How strange it seems ! 
 What a failure it's all been! And now it's too late. 
 I'm a weary unloved old man." 
 
 " Oh, rot," I said. *' Look here, be sensible. Why 
 don't you and Frosine hitch up? There's a fine, home- 
 loving woman, and she thinks you're a little tin god.** 
 
 " How d'ye know that ? " he demanded, eagerly. 
 
25!» 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 "Isn't 8he always sajing so to my wife?" (This 
 was a little exaggeration on my part.) " I tell you, 
 Helstern, that woman adores you. Just think how 
 different that unkempt studio of yours would be with 
 such a bright soul to cheer it." 
 
 " I've a good mind to ask her." 
 
 "Why don't you?" 
 
 " Well, to give you the truth, old man, I've been try- 
 ing to, but I haven't the courage. I've got the frame 
 of a lion, Madden, with the heart of a mouse." 
 
 " I'll tell you what. If I go down and speak for you 
 will you go through it? " 
 
 " Yes, I will ; but — there's no hurry, you know. To- 
 morrow. . . ." 
 
 " Come on. No time like the present. We'll find her 
 at work." 
 
 " Yes, but . . . will you go in and sound her first? " 
 
 " Yes, yes. Don't be such a coward. You can wait 
 outside." 
 
 He stumped along beside me till we came to the rue 
 Mazarin, and I left him while I went to interview Fro- 
 sine. 
 
 "Oh, it's you," she said gladly. "Come in. It's 
 early, but I put Solonge to bed so that I could get a 
 lot of work finished. See! it's a wedding trousseau. 
 How is Madame? Is everything well? Can I do any- 
 thing for you? Solonge remembered you in her pray- 
 ers. You may kiss her if you like." 
 
 " How lovely she is," I said, stooping over the child. 
 I was trying to think of some way in which to lead up 
 to my subject. 
 
 Frosine never left off working. Once more she was 
 
THE DAWN 
 
 255 
 
 the blight, practical woman, capable uf fighting fur h«r- 
 .self in the struggle of life. 
 
 " How hard you work! Do you never tire, never get 
 (icspondcnt ? " 
 
 She looked at me with a happy laugh. The fine 
 wrinkles seemed to radiate from her eyes. 
 
 " No; why should I? I have my child. I am free. 
 There's no one on my back. You see I'm proud. I 
 don't like any one over me. Freedom is a passion with 
 me." 
 
 " Yes, but you can't always work. You must think 
 of the future. Some day you'll grow old." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders. " There will still be So- 
 longe." 
 
 •' Yes, but you must think of her too. Listen to me, 
 Miulemoisclle Frosine. I'm your friend. I would likf 
 to see you beyond the need of such toil as this.. Well, I 
 come to imtke you an offer of marriage." 
 
 She stared at me. 
 
 " I mean, I come on behalf of a friend of mine. Ho 
 is very lonely, and he wants you to bi' his wife. I refer 
 to Monsieur Helstern." 
 
 She continued to stare as if ama/cd. 
 
 " It is droll Monsieur Helstern caiuiot sptak for him- 
 self," she said at last. 
 
 " He has been trying to, but — well, you know Hel- 
 stern. He's as shy as a child." 
 
 Her face changed oddly. The laughter went out of 
 it. Her head drooped, and she gazed at her work in 
 ;in uns'ieing way. She was silent so long that I became 
 uncomfortable. Then suddenly she looked up, and her 
 eyes were aglitter with tears. 
 
S54 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 '* Listen, my friend. I want you to liiHr my story, 
 then tell me if I ought to marry Monsieur Helstcrn. 
 
 " I've got to go back many years — fifteen. My 
 father was in business, and I was sheltered as all French 
 girls of that class are. Then father died, leaving 
 mother with scar>. ly a sou. I had to work. Well, I 
 was expert with m}' needle, and soon found employment 
 with a dressmaker. 
 
 " You know how it is with us when one has no dot. 
 It is nearly impossible to make a marriage in one*s own 
 class. One young man loved me and wanted to marry 
 me; but his mother would not hear of it because I was 
 poor. She had another girl with a good dot picked 
 out for him, and as children are not allowed to marry 
 without their parents' consent he became discouraged. 
 I do not blame him. It was his duty to marry as his 
 mother wished. 
 
 " Well, it was hard for me. It was indeed long be- 
 fore my smiles came back. But it makes no difference 
 if one's heart aches ; one must work. I went on working 
 to keep a roof over my mother's head. 
 
 " By and by she died and I was alone. That was 
 not very cheerful. I had to live by myself in a little 
 room. Oh ! I was so lonely and sad ! Remember tha^ 
 I was not a girl of the working class. I had been edu- 
 cated. I could not bring myself to marry a workman 
 who would come home drunk and beat me. Xo, I pre- 
 ferred to sit and sew in my garret. And the thought 
 came to me that this was going to be my whole life — 
 this garret, this sewing. W^hat a destiny ! To go on 
 till I was old and worn out ; then a pauper's grave. My 
 spirit was not broken. Can vou wonder that I re- 
 belled? 
 
Tin: DAWN 
 
 *ioo 
 
 "When I was a littlv gir! I was always playing 
 with my dollies. When I got ttvo old for them I took 
 to nursing other little ones. It seemed an instinct. 
 And so, whenever I thought of marriage it was with 
 thi' idea of having children of my own to love and care 
 tor. 
 
 " Imagine me then with my hopes of marriage de- 
 stroyed. *0h,' I said. 'Is my life to be so b»irren? 
 Am I to live like n>any other women, without hope or 
 joy? Surely this is not intended. Surely I am meant 
 to enjoy happiness.' 
 
 " Then," she went on, " one evening I was standing 
 hefore a print-shop looking at some drawings when a 
 tall, fair man stopped to examine them too. He was 
 an artist, an Englishman. Somehow nj spoke to me, 
 then walked with me as far as my home. Well, to make 
 my story short, he was the father «)f Solonge. 
 
 '• I never was so happy as then. I did not dream 
 such happiness could be. If I was sorry for anything 
 it was that my happiness came in this way. And I 
 knew this great happiness could not last. In time he 
 hud to go. His home, his mother, called him. We were 
 both very sad, for we loved one another. But what 
 would you.'' We all know these things must have an 
 end. it's the life. 
 
 " The parting was so sad. I cried three days. But 
 I told him he must go. He must think of his position, 
 his family. I was only a poor little French girl who 
 did not matter. He must forget me. 
 
 " I did not tell him I was going to have a child 
 though. He would never have gone then. He would 
 have made me marrv him, and then I would have sjwiled 
 his career. No, I said nothing. But, oh, how the 
 
^lid 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 lliought glowed in me! At last I would have a child, 
 iny own. 
 
 " He wanted to settle money on me, but I would not 
 have it. Then, with tears in his eyes, he went away, 
 swearing that he would come buck. Perhaps he would 
 have. I don't know. He was killed in a railway ac- 
 cident. That is one reason I do not wish to be re- 
 minded of artists. He was a famous artist. You 
 would know his name if I told it. But I never will. I 
 am afraid his family would try to take away Solonge. 
 
 " You see I have worked away, and my garret has 
 been full of sunshine. Oh, how different it was! I 
 Ming, I laughed, I was the happiest woman in Paris. 
 I'm not sorry for anything. I think I did right. Now 
 I've told you, do you still think Monsieur Helstern would 
 be willing to marry me? " 
 
 " More so than ever," I said. ♦♦ As far as I know he 
 has pretty much the same views as you have." 
 
 " Ho says so little to me. But he has been so kind, 
 so good. I believe I owe it to him that I still have mv 
 little one." 
 
 " Yes, he's not a bad old sort. I don't think you'd 
 ever regret it." 
 
 " You may tell him my story, then, and if he doesn't 
 think I'm a bad woman . . ." 
 
 " He'll understand. But let me go and tell him now. 
 He's waiting round the corner." 
 
 " Stop ! Stop ! " she protested. But I hurried away 
 and found the sculptor seated outside the nearest caf^, 
 divided between anxiety and a glass of beer. 
 
 " It's all right, old chap," I cried. " I've squared it 
 all for you. Now you must go right in and clinch 
 things." 
 
THE DAWN 
 
 257 
 
 " But I'm "not prepared. I — " 
 
 " Come on. Strike while the iron's hot. I've just 
 l)oen getting the sad story of her life, and she is in a 
 sentimental mood. Now's the time." 
 
 So I dragged him to Frosine's door and pushed him in. 
 
 Then this was what I heard, for Helstern's voice would 
 alnjost penetrate a steel safe. 
 
 " You know, Mademoiselle Frosine, I — I love your 
 daughter." 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur Helstern." 
 
 " 1 love her so much that I want to ask you if you'll 
 let me he a father to her." 
 
 *' Hut do you love me? " 
 
 *' I — I don't know, I've never thought of that. 
 But wi> both love Solonge. Won't that be enough? " 
 
 '* I don't know. Let us wait awhile. Ask me some 
 months from now. Perhaps you've made a mistake. I 
 want you to be quite sure. If by then you find you've 
 not made a mistake, I — I might let myself love you 
 very easily." 
 
 " You've made me strangely happy. Everything 
 seems changed to me. I may hope then?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 I did not hear any more. But a moment after Hel- 
 stern joined me. 
 
 " Oh, Madden, how can I ever thank you ! You've 
 made me the happiest of men." 
 
 Looking back at the lighted window we saw Frosine 
 bent again over her work, trying to make up for lost 
 time. Helstern gazed at the shadow and I could scarce 
 draw him away. What fools these lovers be ! 
 
CHAPTKU IV 
 
 A CHAPTIIt THAT mc.lSS WKI.L AND FA'DS HADLY 
 
 "J'aimo Paimpol et sa fnlaise. 
 SfMi cliK-luT <t son praiul p.irtlon; 
 J'num- Mirtu;,! la I'limpoLiix- 
 <}u\ iiriith-iid ail pays IJrrtoii." 
 
 It is Littlf Thins ^i"ff''"ff as slu- siU bv tl;e poppy 
 patth hcforo tlit- door. 'J'lurc are liim.ln (!s „f poppies. 
 Thvy dunce in gleeful giory and their scarlet is so 
 hnninoiis it seems about to burst into flame. Mayl)e 
 the shell-pink in the girl'.s cheeks is a reflexion of that 
 radiant ^flow. 
 
 'Jhe coast of Brittany dimples as it smiles, and in its 
 most chanuing dimple is tucked away our little village. 
 The sea has all the glitter of crushed gems. It sparkles 
 in amethyst and emerald; it glooms to garnet and 
 sardonyx. There is a bow of golden sand, and the 
 hill-side is ablaze with yellow brown. 
 
 " Dreamhaven " I call our house, and it stands be- 
 tween the poppies and the pines. A house of Breton 
 granite, built to suffice a score of geiurations, it glim- 
 mers like some silvery grand-dame, and its roof is 
 velvety with orange-coloured moss. 
 
 We have been here three weeks and Anastasia has 
 responded wonderfully to the change. Nothing can 
 exceed her delight. She sings nil day, rivalling the 
 merle that waken us every morning w[th his flute-like 
 run of melody. 
 
 Dhe loves to sit in « corner of the old garden whore 
 
 i58 
 
BEGINS WELL AND ENDS BADLY 259 
 
 There she will knit 
 
 • •* flicker over the 
 
 ••anting si(h»s and 
 
 for me, I prefer 
 
 n fig tree climbs the silvery wall. 
 
 tranquilly and watch the little li/ 
 
 sun-warnied stone, then pause wi 
 
 head-like eyes to peer around. I 
 
 the scented gloom of the pine cuptjice beyond the 
 
 {■iPden. Dearly do I love the sudden solitude of 
 
 pines. 
 
 I have corrected the proofs of Tom, Dick and Harrt/ 
 there. I am relieved to find the story goes with zim. 
 It is as light as a biscuit, and as easy of mental diges- 
 tion. I have sent off the last batch of proofs; my part 
 is done; the rest is Fate. 
 
 Now I turn to my jolly Bretons, so dirty and devout, 
 so toilworn and so tranquil. My old women have the 
 bright, clear eyes of children. Never have they woni 
 hat or shoes, never left their native heaths. Yet thev 
 are happy — because it has never struck them that 
 they are not happy. 
 
 My young women all want to marry sailors so that 
 they may be left at hame in tranquillity. They do not 
 desire to see over-much of their lords and masters, who 
 I fear, arc fond of mixing eau-dr-z'k with their cider. 
 If they go to live in cities they generally die of con- 
 sumption. Their costume is hauntingly Elizabethan, 
 and they are three hundred rears behind the times. 
 
 About a week ago I had a curious conversation with 
 Anastasia. 
 
 •'Little Thing," I began, "do you know that if I 
 like I can go away and marry some other French 
 
 gir 
 
 J »♦ 
 
 " What do you mean? " she said, somewjiat iturtled. 
 
260 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 "I mean that as far as France is concerned our 
 marriage doesn't hold." 
 " Mon Dieu!" 
 
 "It's all right by English law, but French law 
 doesn't recognise it." 
 
 " How droll ! But what does it matter? You don't 
 want marry other French girls.* " 
 
 " No, but it's interesting to know that one can." 
 
 " But me, too. Have I not right to marry some 
 other persons? " 
 
 "Hum! I never thought of that." 
 
 " Another thing," I continued, " under French law 
 man and wife hold property in common. Now, sud- 
 posing you came into fortune, I couldn't touch it." 
 
 " Ah ! now you speak for laughing. I nevaire come 
 into fortune." 
 
 "Well, suppose I come into a fortune — but then 
 that's equally absurd; anyway, I just wanted to point 
 out to you that by a curious vagary of tin law we could 
 repudiate our marriage and contract others — in 
 France." 
 
 Anastasia looked very thoughtful. Though I had 
 spoken jestingly I might have known that with her 
 serious imagination she would take it gravely. Surely 
 enough, a few days after she brought up the subject. ' 
 
 " 1 smk I like very much, darleen, if we get marry 
 once more, French way, if you don't mind." 
 
 " Not at all : only — I don't want to make a habit 
 of it." 
 
 " Excuse me, darleen ; and please I like it very much 
 if we get marry in Catolick church." 
 
 " All right. We'll get married in Notre Dame this 
 time." 
 
BEGINS WELL AND ENDS BADLY 261 
 
 " But . . ." Here she hesitntt<l — " zere is one 
 trouble." 
 
 "Well, what is it?" 
 
 " In France it is necessaire by law I have consent 
 of my fazzaire and my muzzairo." 
 
 "Well, seeing that they're in (we hope) heaven, it 
 won't h'. very easy to get it." 
 
 " Oh, no I I nevaire say my muzzairc is dead." 
 
 " But isn't she." " 
 
 " I don't know. I have not hear of her for many 
 year. I leave wiz my fazzaire when I was leetle girls, 
 btfore he put me in the coin\'iit. My fazzaire get 
 separation from my muzzaire. She's very bad 
 woinans. She's beat my fazzaire very cruel, so's he 
 get separation. My fazzaire was poet." 
 
 "And your mother?" 
 
 " Oh, jhe was not at all chic. She was what we 
 call • merchant of the four seasons.' " 
 
 " Good heavens ! You don't mean one of those 
 women that hawk stuff in the street with hand har- 
 rows ? " 
 
 Anastasia nodded gravely. 
 
 I shuddered. Father a cnbaret poet ; mother a 
 street pedlar of cabbages and onions. Sa<:ri' mud! 
 Then a sudden suspicion curdled my blood. 
 
 " Tell me," I demanded, " xa it not that your mother's 
 name is Seraphine?" 
 
 " Yes," she exclaimed, amazedly. 
 
 " And she's a very big woman with a large nose? " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; how you know ? " 
 
 *' Well then, let me inform you that your respected 
 parent is at present doing business in a rather flourish- 
 ing way in the Hallet. She imports escargots and 
 
S6S 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 wears sovon diamond rings on one hand. Judging by 
 that hanil jilom*, there's n respcctftble prospect of your 
 becoming an luiress after all." 
 
 *' Sht's !(rril)If woman," said Anastasia, after I had 
 cxplaint'd my nueting with iier mother. "I'm afraid 
 she's make troohlc Shi's hehave very cruel to my 
 fazz.iire and slu' not like me, because when they sepa- 
 rate I choose go wiz heem. She nevaire forgeeve me. 
 I'm 'fraid she's never consent to our marriage in 
 P'raiice." 
 
 " Wait till we get back to Paris and we'll tackle her." 
 
 '* When we go hack to I'/iris.' " 
 
 " \t xt week. I can't afford to rent the house after 
 the end of the month." 
 
 " I'm sorry to I'o. I love it hen." 
 
 " Ves, hut I Kiust get hack to work again. We 
 must bid our jolly Bretons good-h\i."' 
 
 We bade them good-bye this morning; great, great 
 grandfather Dagorn herding his cows on the velvety 
 dune; Yyves swinging his scythe as he whisked down 
 the heavy crimson clover; Marie stooped over her 
 churn; Mother Dagoni whose withered clieeks are 
 apple-bright ; the rosy-faci il children, the leaping 
 dogs. We looked our last on that golden beach, that 
 jewelled sea; we roamed our last amid the hedges of 
 honeysuckU, the cherry-trees snowed with blossom, the 
 stream where the embattled lilies brandished blades and 
 flaunted starry lianners. Last of all, and with some- 
 thing very like sa<lness, we bade good-bye to that old 
 house I called Dreamhaven, which stands between the 
 poppies and the pines. 
 
UKGINS WI:LL AM) ENDS BADLY 263 
 
 Back in VarU. Tho do.ir mnny boulevards arc once 
 more tmbowirtd in tender green, and once more I am 
 H (Ireainy Luviniburger, feeding my Bohemian spar- 
 rows in tlmt cool, still grove where gleam the busts of 
 Miirger and \<rlaine; once more I roam the old streets, 
 M(kiiig the spirit of the past: once more I am the 
 ajxi^le of Hie clear laugh and the jovou^ mind. 
 
 One of the first persons I met as I walked down the 
 spinal column of the Quarter, the Bunl' Mich', was 
 Helstern. He had just come from a le( 'me bv Berg- 
 sen it the Sorbonne and was indignant because he had 
 been obliged to stand near the door. 
 
 " Bergsen's n society craze just now. The place 
 was crowded with wretched women that couldn't under- 
 stand a word of his lecture. They chattered and 
 st.ired at one another through their lorgnettes. One 
 u !•( tclud rocnttf threw the ohl man a bunch of violets." 
 
 "What did he do?" 
 
 '• lie took it up and after looking at it as if he didn't 
 know what it was he put it in his pocket." 
 
 " Well, how's cverv one? What have vou been 
 domg.' Some symbolical group, I suppose.''" 
 
 "No: I've decided to go in for simple things, the 
 simpler the better. I've done a little head and bust 
 of Solonge I want you to see. I'm rather pleased with 
 it." 
 
 " All right. I'll come as soon as we get settled." 
 
 "Where are you going this time?" 
 
 " I've taken u logement on the Passage d'Enfer; 
 you know it — a right-angled street of quaint old 
 houses that runs into the Boulevard Raspail." 
 
 " I know. I once lived in the rue Boissonniere. 
 What are you going to do now.' " 
 
asi 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 " Another novel, I suppose. I have enough money 
 to last me for five montl-s. Just funcy ! five months 
 to write and not worry about anything at all. How's 
 Frosine and the Monie? " 
 
 Helstern beamed. Then for the first time I noticed 
 a remarkable change in him. No longer could I call 
 him the "melancholy Dane" (he was really a Swede, 
 by the way). He had discarded his severe black 
 stock for a polka-dot Lavalliere, and he was actually 
 wearing a check suit. 
 
 " Come with us on Sunday. We are all going to St. 
 Cloud." 
 
 "I'll ask my wife. Thing's going all right?" 
 " Yes, I think she'll consent to name the dav." 
 " Well, I congratulate you. And how's Lorrimer? '* 
 " He seems to have taken up with a new girl, a dark, 
 Italian kind of a type. I've seen him with her at the 
 cafds. He's fickle in his attachments." 
 
 " That nmst be Lucretia," I thought ; and I con- 
 gratulated myself on my adroit disentanglement. 
 Then I felt some compunction as I thought of Rou- 
 gette. 
 
 But I was reassured, for I saw the two together that 
 very afternoon in front of the cafe du Pantheon. 
 Rougette looked sweet and serene. Whatever might 
 have been the philandering of Lorrimer it had not 
 disturbed her Breton phlegm. Or, perhaps it was that 
 in her simple faith she was incapable of believing him 
 a gay deceiver. She was more than ever distractingly 
 pretty, so that, looking at her, I could not imagine 
 how any one could neglect her for the olive-skinned 
 Lucretia. 
 
 Lorrimer, too, was the picture of prosperity. He 
 
BEGINS WELL AND ENDS BADLY Ji.i.j 
 
 wore a new Norfolk suit, nnd a wide-brimmed grey 
 hut. He looked more faunescjue and insouciant than 
 ever, a being all ner>es and energy and indomitable 
 gaiety. 
 
 "Hullo," he greeted me; "here's old Daredeath 
 Dick. Come and join us. Hougette wants to hear all 
 about her ' pays Breton.' You're looking very fit. 
 How's everything.* " 
 
 " Excellent, I'm to have a novel published next week, 
 and I've got enough money to follow it up with an- 
 other." 
 
 " What a wonderful chap you are to be able to 
 spread your money out like that ! You know wealth 
 would be my ruin. Poverty's my best friend. Wealth 
 really worries me. I never could work if I had lots 
 of money. By the way, you must see my picture at 
 the Salon des Independents. Hougette and the Nea- 
 politaine are in it. It's creating quite a sensation." 
 
 "How is our dark friend?" 
 
 He shrugged his shouhlers gaily. "Just a little 
 embarrassing at times. She's awfully jealous of 
 Hougette. The other day in the studio she snatched 
 up a knife, and I thought she was going to stick it into 
 me; but she only proceeded to slash up a picture I 
 had done called The Jolie Bretonne, for which Rougette 
 had posed. After that we had a fuss, and I told her 
 all was over between us. So we parted in wrath, and 
 I haven't spoken to her since. She has a devil of a 
 temper; a good girl to keep away from." 
 
 Poor unsuspecting Lorrimer! I felt guilty for a 
 moment. Then I changed the subject. 
 
 " But you're looking very spruce. Don't tell me 
 you've sold a picture." 
 
9«6 
 
 THE I»HET1:M)KR 
 
 " No, l)ut I'vi' ^ot a job, rt »ttn(lv job. I'm doing 
 cartoons every night at tlic Noctanibules. You must 
 come round and sec nic.'* 
 
 I promised I wouhl, and returned to the Passage 
 d'Enfer, where Anastusi.i was busy putiirig our new 
 apartiiiirit in ordir. There was n bedroom, dining- 
 roouj, and n kitehen, about the size of a parking-tiox ; 
 but sh( was gnatly pleastd with everything. We sup- 
 plemented our old furniture with some new articles 
 from tlie bazanrs. A dressing-table of walnut, a ward- 
 robe with mirror tloors, and cretonne curtains with a 
 design of little rosi-s. Soon, we found ourselves in- 
 stalled with a degree of comfort we had not hitherto 
 known. 
 
 It was one evening that Anastasia, who had been 
 papering tin- dining-room, retired to bed (juite early, 
 that I (lecidnl to accept Lorriiner's invitation and visit 
 the Noctanibules. This is a cabaret in a dark side- 
 street that parallels the " Houl' Mich'." I found my- 
 self in a long, low room whose walls were covered with 
 caricatures of artists who in their Bohemian days had 
 bein habitues of the place. There was an array of 
 chairs, a shabby little platform, and a piano. As each 
 chansonuier came on he was introduced by an irre- 
 pressible young man with a curly mop of hair and merry 
 eyes. Then, a> the singer finished, the volatile young 
 man called for three rounds of hearty appl/uise. 
 
 The cabaret chanson titers of Paris arc unique in their 
 way. They are a connecting-link bvtwcen literature 
 and the stage — hermaphrodites of the entertaining 
 world. Tluy write, compose, anci sing their own songs, 
 which, often, not only liave a distinctive note that 
 makis for art, but are sung inimitably well. Ex-poets, 
 
nr.GINS WELL AND ENDS BADLY !i67 
 
 stndintt with a turn for untiric JivcrMion, juiimalist.4 
 of llolicmia, all go to swill the rankn of thi-sc iiihtritors 
 of the traditions of licranger. From that laureate 
 of the gutter, Aristide Bruant, down to the smallest of 
 them, they portray with passionate fidelity the humour 
 and tragedy of the street — irreverently Rahelaisian 
 at one moment, pathetically passionate at the next. 
 
 As I enter, Marcel Legay is in the mitlst of a song 
 of fervid patriotism. In spite of his poetic name, he 
 i> a rubicund little man with a voice and the mane of a 
 lion. Then follows Vincent Hispy, with catlike eyes 
 and droll, caustic wit. Then comes Zavier Privas, big 
 and boisterous as the west wind, lover to his soul of 
 the chamoM he writes and sings. Finally, with a stick 
 of charcoal and an eager smile, Lorrimcr appears. A 
 screen is wheeled up on which are great sheets of coarse 
 paper. The artist announces that his first effort will 
 f)e Sarah Bernhardt. Ho makes about five lightning 
 lines, and there is the divine Sarah. Then follow in 
 swift succession Polaire, Dranem, Mistinguette, Mayol, 
 and other lights of the Paris stage. 
 
 And now the cartoonist turns to the audience and 
 asks them to name some one high in politics. A voice 
 shouts Clemcnceau. In a moment the well-known 
 features arc on the board. Poincare! It is done. 
 And so on for a dozen others. Applause greets every 
 new cartoon, and the artist retires covered with glory. 
 
 " How did you like it." " grins Lorrimer, as he joins 
 me in the audience. 
 
 " Splcndkl ! Why, man, you could make barrels of 
 money in America doing that sort of thing.'* 
 
 " I'd rath* r be a pauper in Paris than a money- 
 changer in Chicago. But there's Rougette at the back 
 
y()M 
 
 TIIK PRETENDER 
 
 of the .'.ill. D.Mxi'l slir iiHik sfunning.- ThankH to 
 this jciii, Tvc htiti iihli- to pay luT for a ^ood many sit- 
 tings, and now silt's got a niw gown niul liat. By 
 Jovi- ! that girl m ill \h the nniking of nic yet. Her lovc- 
 iiiitss nally inspires me. Nature leaves me cold, hut 
 woman, heautiful woman! — I could go on painting her 
 etirnally and not ask for other reward." 
 
 And, indeed, the Breton girl, with her ash-gold hair 
 and her romplexion of roses and cream, was a delicate 
 vision of heauty. 
 
 " Never let a woman see that you cannot he serenely 
 hap{)y without her,*' says I.orrimer. " I'd do anything 
 for Hougitte (short of marrying her), yet I never let 
 her know it. And so she's faithful to me. Others 
 have tried to steal her from me ; have offered her luxury ; 
 l>ut no, she's the same devoted, unspoiled girl. Just 
 look at her, .Madden, a pure lustrous pearl. Think 
 what a life sueli a girl nught have in this Paris, where 
 mtn make ijueens of heautiful women ! What triumphs ! 
 what glories! Yet there she is, content to follow the 
 fortunes of an ohscure painter. But come on and join 
 till' girl. They're going to do a little silhouette drama." 
 
 As we sit hy Rougette, who smiles radiantly, the 
 lights go out, and beyond the stage a little curtain goes 
 up, showing a Hsher cottage in Brittany. The scene is 
 »arly morniiig, the sea flooded with the coral light of 
 ilawn. Then across the face of the picture comes the 
 tiny silhouettes of the fishermen carrying their nets. 
 The cottage is next shown in the glow of noon, and, 
 lastly, hy night, with the fisher boats passing over the 
 face of the moon. 
 
 'i'luii the scene changes. We see the inside of the 
 cabin the bed, the wardrobe of oak and brass, the 
 
HKGINS WKI.L AND KNDS HADI.Y 269 
 
 Rreat stone firi'placf, the ship linn^in^ ovtr it, tlie olil 
 grandiiiother sitting by lu r spiiiMing-wlutl. To h,r 
 come the children begging f..r n story, and shi- telN 
 them one from out the past — a sf ory of her y«.iith, the 
 rising of the \ indee. 
 
 All this is made clear by tliree singi rs, who, some- 
 where in the darkness, tell it in swtet, wild strains of 
 Hreton melody. There i> a soprano, a tenor, a bass; 
 now one takes up the story, then another: then all 
 time voices blend with beautiful effect. And as they 
 sing we see the tiny silhouettes of the peasants, viviil 
 and clear-cut, passing across the face of the changing 
 Mene. Those strong, melodious voices tell of how the 
 farmer-soldiers rose and fought: how they marched in 
 the snow; how they suffered: how they die«l. It is 
 sad, sweet, beautiful; and now the music grows more 
 dramatic; the action quickens; the climax draws near. 
 And as I sit there with eyes fixed on that luminous 
 space, I feel that something else, also terrible, is about 
 to happen. Surely some one is moving in the darkness 
 behind us? Even in that black silence I am conscious 
 of a shadow blacker still. Surely I can hear the sound 
 of hard, panting breath? That dreadful breathing 
 passes me, passes Lorrimer, conies to an arrest behind 
 Rougettc. 
 
 Then I hear a scream, shriek on shriek, such as I 
 never dreamed within the gamut of human agony. 
 And in the hush of panic that follows the lights go up. 
 Rougette is lying on the floor, her head buried in her 
 arms, uttering heart-rending cries. Lorrimer, with a 
 face of absolute horror, is bending over her, trving to 
 raise her as she grovels there in agony. 
 
 What is it? A hundred faces are turned towards us, 
 
MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART 
 
 ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) 
 
 1.0 
 
 I.I 
 
 1.25 
 
 
 1^ 
 
 1.4 
 
 2.2 
 2.0 
 
 ^ APPLIED IIVHGE 
 
 ^^ '653 Eas! Mam Street 
 
 5*«S "'Chester, New Vo'k 14609 u^ 
 
 '-^ (16) 482 - 03OO - Phone 
 
 ^S (^'6) 288 - 5989 - Fox 
 
270 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 each tlie mask of terror and dismay. I will always 
 reimmlK-r those faces that suddenly flamed at us out 
 of the dark, all so difl'erent, yet with the one awful 
 expression. 
 
 Then I see a tiny hottle at my feet. Almost mechani- 
 cally I stoop and pick it up; but I drop it as if I had 
 been stung. I fall to rubbing my fingers in agony, 
 and everywhere I rub there is r. brown burn. Now T 
 understand the poor, writhing, twisting girl on the 
 floor, and a similar shudder of understanding seems 
 to convulse the crowd. There comes a hoarse whisper 
 — " Vitriol! " 
 
 Turning to the door, I am just in time to see a girl 
 in black make her escape, an olive-skinned girl with 
 beetle-black hair and the eyes of an odalisque. And 
 Lorrimer h)oks at me in a ghastly way, and I know that 
 he too has seen. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 Tin: GREAT QUIETUS 
 
 " It's terrible ! It's unspeakable ! " I groaned, on aris- 
 ing next morning, as I thought of the events of the 
 night before. "That poor girl, so good, so sweet! 
 And to think that she should suffer so — through me, 
 through me." 
 
 There was a knock at the door, and Lorrimer 
 appeared. "It's horrible! It's unthinkable!" he 
 moaned. " Poor Rougette, who never harmed a living 
 soul. And to think that I should have brought this 
 calamity upon her." 
 
 " It's my fault," I objected; " I introduced Lucretia 
 to you." 
 
 "No, no; it's my fault," he insisted. "I trifled 
 with the girl's feelings." 
 
 " Well, any way," I said, " what are we trolns to do 
 about it.?" 
 
 " I don't know. What do you think? " 
 
 " I'd marry her," I suggested. " But I can't, being 
 married already." 
 
 " I'll marry her," cried Lorrimer. " You know, last 
 night on the way to the hospital, when I saw that 
 leautiful face covered with those hideous bandages, I 
 wept like a child. She told me not to mind. It was 
 not my fault. She would enter a convent, become a 
 nun. Just fancy. Madden, that lovely face eaten to 
 the bone, a horrible sight ..." 
 
 "Perhaps it won't be so bad, old chap Perhaps 
 
272 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 she's only burned on one side ; then the other side of 
 her face will still be beautiful." 
 
 " Yes, that's one blessing. I told her as they took 
 lier away. ' Rougette,' I said, ' the day you come 
 out of the hospital is the day of our marriage. You 
 must not think of anything else. I'll devote my life 
 to you.' Could I do less, old man? We may talk 
 cynically about women, but when it comes to the 
 ])()int, we're all ready to die for 'em. I'd have given 
 anything last night if it had been me. It's always the 
 innocent that suffer." 
 
 " Every one is talking of it this morning," I obser\-ed. 
 " It's in all the papers, but no one suspects who did it. 
 Are you going to tell the police.'" 
 
 " No, how can I.'* I'm indirectly to blame. But 
 oil ! if I can lay my hands on that girl ! " He broke 
 off with a harsli laugh that was more eloquent of venge- 
 ful rage than any words. 
 
 " Well, cheer up, old man. I applaud your action 
 in marrying Rougette. And perhaps she won't be so 
 terribly disfigured after all." 
 
 So I accompanied Lorrimer on his way to the hospi- 
 tal, and we were going down the Boul' Mich' when sud- 
 denly he turned. 
 
 " Let me leave you now. Here's that blithering lit- 
 tle Bebcrosc coming to buttonhole me and tell me of 
 his love affairs. I'm not in a fit state to listen at 
 present. You just talk to him, will you?" 
 
 So I was left to interview Monsieur B^berose whom I 
 had met once or twice in his capacity as art patron, 
 and the proud purchaser (for an absurdly small price) 
 of one of Lorriiner's masterpieces. Monsieur Beberose 
 is a rrtircd manufacturer of Aries sausages, a man of 
 
THE GREAT QUIETUS 273 
 
 fifty, and reputed to be wealthy. lie is a little, over- 
 h'tl man, not unremotely resembling the animal from 
 whose succulence his money has been made. Besides 
 the crimson button of the Legion, he wears as a watch- 
 charm a large gall-stone that had been extracted from 
 him by a skilful surgeon. On the fore-front of his 
 head is a faint fringe of hair, trimmed and parted like 
 an incipient moustache ; otherwise his skull would make 
 an excellent skating-rink for the flies. Add to this 
 that he is a widower, on the look-out for a second 
 wife. 
 
 "Well," I hailed him, "you're not married yet."" 
 ^^ Monsieur Beberose shook his head mournfully. 
 " No, things do not march at present. You remember 
 I told you about Mademoiselle Juliette. Well, J like 
 that girl very much. I have known her since she was 
 a baby. I think I like to marry her. So I ask the 
 mother. Well, she put me ofF. She say she decide in 
 a week. Then in a week I go back and she tell me that 
 she think Mademoiselle Juliette too young to marry me 
 but she have a girl friend. Mademoiselle Lucille, who 
 want to get married. Perhaps I would be pleased with 
 the friend." 
 
 Here Monsieur Beberose siglied deeply. 
 
 "Well, she introduce me to Mademoiselle Lucille, 
 and I give them all a dinner at Champeaux ! It cost 
 nic over one hundred francs, that dinner. The way 
 the mother of Mademoiselle Juliette drink champagne 
 make me afraid for her. J am pleased with Made- 
 moiselle Lucille very well, and I think I like to marry 
 her. So I tell the mother if the girl, who is orphan, 
 IS willing, it goes with me, and she says she will speak 
 with the girl and advise her." 
 
274 
 
 THE pri:tendeii 
 
 Here Monsieur Beberose began to get indignant. 
 
 " So in a week I go back and say to the niotlier of 
 Mademoiselle Juliette. ' Well, liow docs it go with 
 Mademoiselle Lucille?' She shrug her shoulders. 
 
 " * Lucille ! Oh, yes : I have never asked her. Fve 
 been thinking it over, and I think I'll give you Juliette 
 after all.' 
 
 " Well, I like Lucille best now, but I like Juliette, too, 
 so I say : ' Very well, Madame, it goes with me. When 
 may I have tlie pleasure of taking to the theatre my 
 fiancee ? ' 
 
 " But ^ladame say it is not conxcnahlc if I go out 
 alone with her daughter. She must accompany us. 
 So when we go to the theatre she sit between us; when 
 we have dinner she watch me all the time. Indeed, I 
 have not been able to have one word in private with 
 Mademoiselle Juliette. Perhaps I am not reasonable; 
 but I think I ought to find out liow she feels towards 
 me before I become fiance. I think marriage is better 
 if there is a little affection with it, don't you.'' " 
 
 " Yes, it's preferable, I think." 
 
 " Of course, I know Juliette will obey her mother 
 and marry me ; but me, I do not like the way they 
 treat me about Lucille. Am I like a sheep that they 
 shall pull about? Besides, Juliette is so young — just 
 nineteen. It might be better if I find some nice young 
 widow with a little money, don't you think?" 
 
 I agreed with him that the matter was worthy of 
 serious consideration, and that the hdle-viirc was likely 
 to be a disturbing factor in his domestic equation. So, 
 solenuily warning him to be careful, I left him more 
 in doubt than before. 
 
 When I reached home Anastasia was awaiting me. 
 
THE GREAT QUIETUS 
 
 275 
 
 " Well, darlccn, what is it that you have of news 
 ahout Rougette? " 
 
 " I don't know. Lorrimcr thinks she'll have a mask 
 down one side of her face. He swears he's going to 
 marry her though. Fancy " ( I shuddered) " marrying 
 a medallion. Now, there's a dramatic situation for 
 you. Handsome, romantic, young artist — wife, su- 
 premely beautiful to port, a hideous mask to starboard. 
 His increasing love of the beautiful side, his growing 
 Iiorror of the other. His guilty knowledge that he is 
 himself responsible for the disfigurement . . . why! 
 what a stunning story it would make, and what a tragic 
 denouement! How mean of life to steal so brazenly 
 the material of fiction!" 
 
 " Poor, poor girl," sighed Anastasia. " I must go 
 to the hospital and see her this afternoon. And I too 
 I have some news for vou." 
 
 "Not bad, I hope?'" 
 
 "Xo, I sink you arc please. It is that Monsieur 
 Helstern have call. He was so funny, so shy, so glad 
 about somesing. Well, what you sink.' He and 
 Frosine get marry very soon and want you to be wit- 
 ness." 
 
 "Good! It'll be the best thing in the world for the 
 old chap." 
 
 " Yes, he seem very happy — quite different." 
 " Funny," I remarked, " how every one's thoughts 
 seem turning to marriage. It must be epidemic. 
 There's Helstern and Frosine. Here's Lorrimcr say- 
 ing he'll marry Rougette; and this morning. Monsieur 
 Beberose. By Jove! and weren't we talking about it 
 too! Ah, there's an idea! Why shouldn't we have 
 our second marriage at the same time as Helstern and 
 
276 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 Lorrimer get tied up? You see four witnesses are 
 needed at the cereinon}', two male and two female. 
 We can act as one another's witnesses as well as get 
 married ourselves. And just think of the money we'll 
 save on tlie carriages and the supper! Talk of killing 
 three birds with one stone!" 
 
 " We must get my mother's consentement first." 
 
 " Ah, yes, my belligerent belle-mire. Well, we'll go 
 and interview her to-morrow." 
 
 " I'm afraid," said Anastasia, blanching at the pros- 
 pect. 
 
 " You nnistn't be," I said bravel}' : " you have me 
 to protect you. Remember you're my wife." 
 
 " Not by French law. But I will go with you, dar- 
 ken. I know you are strong." 
 
 She looked at me with undisguised admiration. I 
 think that Anastasia really thinks I am a hero. 
 
 In the afternoon she returned from the hospital with 
 cheering news. It was not going so badly with 
 Rougette after all. She had had a wonderful escape. 
 A great deal of the acid had lodged in her veil, and 
 what she had got began a little below the left ear. 
 Her neck and breast were burned badly, and she was 
 suffering agony, but her beauty had been spared. By 
 wearing collars of an extra height scarcely any one 
 would suspect. 
 
 " Monsieur Lorrimer was there too. Hc*s so change. 
 I nevairc see a man so serious. Truly, I sink he mean 
 marry Rougette all right." 
 
 Next morning, bright and early, we sallied forth to 
 tackle the redoubtable Madame Seraphine. After re- 
 connoitring cautiously we located her in her stall in 
 
THE GREAT QUIETUS 277 
 
 tlie fish pavilion throned high amid licr crates of e$car- 
 gots. As with beating hearts we approached we heard 
 her voice in angry argot berating a meek wisp of a 
 porter. Against the grey of her surroundings her face 
 loomed huge and ruddy, and her eyes had the hard 
 brightness of a hawk's. Again I wondered how she 
 could ever have been the mother of my gentle Anas- 
 tasia. , 
 
 "Your father must have been the most angelic of 
 little men," I murmured. 
 
 " He was," she answered breathlessly. 
 
 I* You'd better go first," I suggested nervously. 
 
 " No, you," she protested, trying to get behind me. 
 
 " But you've got to introduce me," I objected, trv- 
 ing to get behind her. 
 
 Then while we were rotating round each other sud- 
 denly the eyes of my belle-mere fell on us, and as they 
 dwelt on Anastasia her mouth grew grimmer, and her 
 nose more aggressive. Her whole manner bristled 
 with pugnacity. 
 
 '' Tiens! Tiens! if it isn't, of all the world, my little 
 
 Tasie." 
 
 Anastasia went forward meekly; I followed sheep- 
 ishly. 
 
 " Yes, Menu'," she said ; " I've come to visit you." 
 The majestic woman relaxed not, nor did she make 
 
 any motion to embrace her shrinking offspring. 
 
 " Well," she said, after a long, severe silence, " I 
 
 imagine that it is not all for pleasure you come to see 
 
 your poor old mother. What is it.''"' 
 
 " .Alcme, I want to present to you my husband." 
 Here I bowed impressively. The big woman with 
 
278 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 tlu' folded arms shifted her gaze to nic. It was a 
 seiirdiirig, sneering, almost derisive gaze, and I hated 
 her on the spot. 
 
 "So!" she saifl, more grimly than ever, "and how 
 is it you can get married without your mother's con- 
 sent, if you please?" 
 
 " We were married in England, Madame," I said 
 politely : " hut now we want to get married in France 
 as well, and we are come to ask your consent." 
 
 " Ah ! " she said sharply ; " you are not really mar- 
 ried then. And what if I refuse my consent? I do 
 not know you, young man. How do I know if you are 
 a fit husl)and for my precious little cabbage? Are 
 you rich ? " 
 
 « No." 
 
 "Are you a Catholic?" 
 
 " No."" 
 
 " Not rich ! Not a Catholic ! And this man ex- 
 pects me to let him marry my little chicken, I who am 
 so good .vith the church and can afford to give her a 
 handsome dot. What is your business?" 
 
 " I am a writer." 
 
 " Qiul ton pet! Just the same as her worthless 
 father, only he was worse — a poet. No, young man, 
 I think I would prefer a different kind of husband for 
 my sweet lamb." 
 
 " 1 won't marry any one else, Meme." 
 
 " Hold your tongue, girl ! Do I not know my duty 
 as a mother? You'll marry whom I choose." 
 
 "Then you refuse to give your consent?" I said 
 with some heat. 
 
 Her manner changed cunningly. 
 
 " I do not say that. All I desire is to know you 
 
THE GREAT QUIETUS 
 
 279 
 
 better. Will you come and have dinner with me some 
 Sunday evening.' " 
 
 After all, she was my helle-mirc. I consented, and 
 Ana>tasia seemed relieved. She promised to write and 
 give us a date. Then I shook hands with her; An- 
 a^tii>ia pecked at her in the French fashion, and there 
 wa>, to some appearance, a little family reconciliation. 
 
 " Perhaps the old lady's not so had, after all," I 
 suggested; but Anastasia was sceptical. 
 
 " I do not trust her. She have some ruse. We 
 must wait and see." 
 
 That was a memorable day; for on reaching home 
 I felt the sudden spur of inspiration, and sitting down 
 before the ranjshackle typewriter, 1 headed up a clean 
 sheet : 
 
 THE GREAT QUIETUS 
 
 A Novel 
 
 " The scene is on the top of a peak that overlooks a 
 vast plain. A majestic old man, bearded even as the propii- 
 ets, stands there looking at the Western sky which the set- 
 ting sun has turned into an ocean of gold. Island beyond 
 island of cloud swmis in that amber sea, each coral tinted 
 and fringed with crimson foam. And as he gazes, the 
 splendid old man is magnificently happy; for is he not 
 the last man left alive on this bad, sad earth, and is he 
 not about to close his eyes on it forever.^ 
 
 "In the twenty-first century, luxury and wickedness 
 had increased to such an extent that the whole world be- 
 came decadent. The art of flying, brought to such per- 
 fection that all travelled by the air, had annihilated space, 
 and the world had become very small indeed. Instead of 
 Switzerland, people went for a week-end skiing to the 
 Pull-; the unexplored places were Baedekerizcd, and the 
 
ieso 
 
 THE PllETENDEIl 
 
 wild creatures that formerly roamed their valleys relegated 
 to the alleys of zoological gardens. 
 
 "Behold then, a familiar world, shorn of all mystery; 
 a tamed world, Lnrncssed to the will of man; a sybaritic 
 world, starrid with splendid cities and caparisoned with 
 limitless luxury. Its population had increased a thousand 
 fold; its old religions were outgrown; its moral ideas en- 
 gulfed in a general welter of cynicism and sensuality. 
 
 " And out of this dung-heap of degeneracy there arises 
 a sect of pessimists who declare that human nature is in- 
 nately bad; that under conditions of inordinate luxury, 
 when the most exquisite refinements are within the reach 
 of the poorest, conditions of idleness, when all the work 
 of man is done by machinery, it is impossible for virtue 
 to flourish. War, struggle, rigorous conditions make for 
 moral vigour. Peace, security, enervating conditions result 
 in weakness. The blessings that increase of knowledge 
 had heaped on man were in their very plenitude proving a 
 curse. But alas! it was too late. Never could man go 
 back to the old life of virility. There was only one 
 remedy. It was so easy. Even as far back as the be- 
 nighted nineteenth century philosophers had pointed it 
 out: let every one cease to have children. Let the race 
 become extinct. 
 
 " For one hundred years had the promulgation of this 
 doctrine gone on. From their very cradles the children 
 had been trained to the idea that parenthood was shameful, 
 was criminal, was a sin against the race. The highest 
 moral duty of a couple was to die without issue. The 
 doctrine was easy of dissemination; for even to the re- 
 motest parts of the earth all men were highly educated; 
 all nations were gathered in world commonwealth with a 
 world language. 
 
 " But accidents will happen ; and it had taken a cen- 
 tury to reduce the population of the world down to a mere 
 handful. For a score of years all children born had been 
 
THE gui:at quietus 
 
 S81 
 
 suppressed nnd now, ns fnr as was known, only a do/cn 
 people remained. On a pivt n day tlirse had sworn to par- 
 take of a drug that v.otild ensure them a painless and 
 pleasant death. That day was past; there only remained 
 the chief priest to close the account of humanity. 
 
 " He too held the drug that meant his release, and as 
 he gazed his last on a depopulated world his heart was full 
 of exultation. He cursed it, this iniquitous earth, where 
 poor, weak man had been flung to serve his martyrdom. 
 Well, man had outwitted nature; mind had triumphed over 
 matter. Now the end. . . . 
 
 " And raising the fatal drug to his lips the last man 
 drained it to the dregs." 
 
 Here ended my prologue : now the story. 
 
 " A poor woman, feeling the life stir within her, and 
 loving it in spite of their teaching, had crawled away and 
 hid in the depths of a forest. There she had given birth 
 to a man-child; but, knowing that Iier boy would be killed, 
 this woman-rebel lurked in the forest, living on its fruits 
 and the milk of its deer. Then at last she ventured to 
 leave her child and revisit the world. Lo! she found that 
 the day of the Great Quietus has passed; there was no 
 more human life on the earth. So she returned to the 
 forest and soon she too perished. 
 
 " The boy Hirived wonderously. His mother had told 
 him that he was the one human being on the planet. He 
 had lived in a cave and fed of the simple fruits of the 
 earth, so that he grew to be a young god of the wild-wood. 
 But he was curious. He wanted to see the wonderful, 
 wicked world of which his mother had told him so much. 
 So he set out on his travels. 
 
 " Like a superb young savage he tramped through 
 Europe. He tamed a horse to bear him: he explored the 
 ruins of great cities — Vienna, Paris, Berlin. In the ivy- 
 

 Tin: PHKTENDElt 
 
 grown palaces and tlie wccd-stifled courts of kings lie killed 
 lions and tigers; for all the wild animals had escaped from 
 the menageries and had reverted to a savage state. He 
 ached to know something of the histories of these places; 
 but he could not read, and all was meaningless to him. 
 
 " He discovered how to use a boat, and in his experi- 
 ments lie was blown across the channel to Britain. Then 
 one day he lit a Iwnfire amid the ruins of London. Noth- 
 ing in the world but ruin, ruin. 
 
 " He was as one at the birth of things for he understood 
 nothing. He knew of fire and knives, but not of wheels. 
 He was a i)rimitive man in a world th.it has perished of 
 super-civilisation. Yet as he cowered by his fire in the 
 centre of Trafalgar Square the vast silence of it all 
 weighed him down, and he felt oh I so lonely. He caressed 
 the dogs he had trained to follow and love him. His 
 mother had been the only human being he had ever seen 
 and she had died when he was so young. His memory 
 of her was vague, but he could imagine no one different. 
 He knew nothing of sex. only that vast consuming loneli- 
 ness, those haunting desires he could not understand. 
 
 " Then as he sat there brooding, into his life there came 
 the woman — a girl. Where she came from he never 
 knew. Probably like himself she was a deserted child, 
 and like him she, too, was a child of nature, superb, 
 virile, unspoiled. She had tamed two leopards to de- 
 fend her, and she Mas clad in the skin of another. With 
 her leopards she saved his life, just as he was about to fall 
 in batlle against a pack of wolves. 
 
 "Their meeting was a wondrous idyll; their love an 
 idyll still more wonderful. There in the lovely Kentish 
 woodland they roamed, a new Adam and a new Eve. Then 
 to them in that fresh and glowing world, glad as at the 
 birth of things, a child was born. 
 
 " And here we leave them standing on a peak that over- 
 looks a beautiful plain, in the glory of t!ie rising sun. 
 
THE GREAT QUIETUS 
 
 283 
 
 The world rejoices; the sky is full of song; the air is 
 a-thrill with fate. There they stand h.ithed in that yellow 
 glow and hold aloft their child, the beginners of a new 
 race, a primal pair in a primal world. 
 
 " For nature is stronger than man, and the Master of 
 Destiny is invincible." 
 
 *#♦♦•*♦ 
 
 I was pounding away at my typewriter one morning, 
 and Anastasia was out on a marketing expedition, 
 when there came a violent knocking at my door. As 
 I opened^ it Lorrimer almost fell into my arms. He 
 was ghastly and seemed about to faint. Staggering 
 to the nearest chair he buried his head in his hands. 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 Me only groaned. 
 
 " Heavens, man ! tell me what's wrong." 
 
 Suddenly he looked up at me with wild staring eyes. 
 
 "Don't touch me, Madden; I'm accursed. Don't 
 M u see the brand of Cain on me.? I'm a murderer! 
 Oh, God! a murderer." 
 
 He rocked up and down, sobbing convulsively. 
 
 "What have you done.?" I cried, horrified. "Tell 
 me quick." 
 
 "I've killed her," he panted; "I've killed Lucretia. 
 She's dead now, dead in my studio. I'm on my way 
 to give myself up to the police." 
 
 "Killed Lucretia?" 
 
 " Yes, yes. I didn't mean to do it. I was mad for 
 revenge. I had her at my mercy. I thought of poor 
 Rougette. Her moans have haunted me night and 
 day. They've almost driven me mad. I can't blot out 
 the memory of that poor, bandaged face. Then when 
 I saw that female devil before me something seemed 
 
284 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 to snap in niv hrain. So I've killed her. Now I'm 
 sorry ; l)ut it's too late, too late." 
 
 " Don't take it so badly, old cliap. Xohody ever 
 gets punished for murder in France. They'lf bring 
 in a verdict of crime passtonnd, and you'll be acquitted. 
 But tell me, quick. What's happened? " 
 
 He went on in that broken, excited way. 
 
 " She did not know we had seen her that night. 
 She came to me with the most brazen effrontery. Pre- 
 tended to sympathise with Rougette; wanted me to take 
 her back as a model. That was what maddened me, 
 the smiling, damned hypocrisy of her. Oh! devil! 
 <levil ! " 
 
 "Go on, quick; what did you do?" 
 
 "I told htr I was going to paint a picture of 
 Mazeppa and wanted her to pose for me." 
 
 " But Mazeppa wasn't a femah'." 
 
 '' She doesn't know that. Well, on impulse I posed 
 her on that dunnny horse I have, and I bound her 
 to its back with straps, bound her so strongly she 
 could not move a muscle. She submitted till I had 
 pulled the last buckle, then she got alarmed, but I 
 snapped a gag in her mouth before she could scream." 
 
 "Yes, yes, and then?" 
 
 Lorrimer drew a long, shuddering breath. 
 
 "And then, Madden, I — I varnished her." 
 
 " Varnislied her? " 
 
 " Ves. You sec I read it in Pithi/ Paragraphs, an 
 advertisement for Silkolinc Soap. It began: 'No 
 })orson covered with a coating of varnish could live 
 for more than half an hour.' That gave me the idea. 
 It closes all the pores, you see. Well, there she was 
 at my mercy. There was a pot of shellac varnish 
 
THE GREAT QUIETUS 
 
 285 
 
 handy- In a few minutes it was done. From toe to 
 top I varnished her. Then threw a sheet over her. 
 And now . . ." 
 
 " Good Heavens ! How long ago? " 
 
 " I've come straight here." 
 
 " Wait, man ; perhaps it's not too late yet. Per- 
 haps — stay here till I get back." 
 
 I leapt down the stairs; caught a taxi that was 
 passing, shouted the number of the house and street, 
 adding that it was a matter of life and death ; leaped 
 out before the taxi came to a stand ; called to the 
 concierge to follow me, and burst into Lorrimer's 
 studio. Not a moment too soon. The girl was in a 
 dead faint, and it seemed as if every breath would bo 
 her last. In feverish hasto I directed the concierge to 
 unstrap her and wrap her up; then, carrying her down- 
 stairs, we lifted her into the taxi. 
 
 "The baths!" I cried to the chauffeur. "The 
 baths behind the Closerie de Liias. And hurry, for 
 Heaven's sake! A life's at stake." 
 
 In a few minutes we were there, and a nurse had the 
 girl, who had now recovered consciousness, in a hot bath. 
 Then for an hour of throbbing suspense, with aching 
 muscles and dripping brows they fought for her life. 
 As valiantly as ever hero fought with sword and shield 
 they fought with soap and soda. In the end the nurse 
 triumphed. Her skin was considerably damaged but 
 I.ucretia was saved. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE SHADOW OF SUCCESS 
 
 I WAS killing my chief priest in a blaze of glory wlien 
 Anastasia invaded the room that between meals is called 
 my bureau, at meals the sallc-a-matigcr, in the evening 
 the salon. 
 
 " Don't speak to me," I cried ; " I'm at a critical 
 point." 
 
 With which I ran my fingers through my hair, took 
 hold of my teeming skull with both hands, and glared 
 fiercely at the blank sheet of paper in my typewriter. 
 With a look almost of awe the wife of the great author 
 tip-toed out again. 
 
 About an hour after, having duly been delivered of 
 my great thoughts, I rejoined her. " W^hat is it.? " I 
 asked kindly. 
 
 " Oh, darken, I have letter from my muzzer. She 
 want us have dinner on Sunday. What must I say.'" 
 
 " Say yes, of course. The old lady wants to give us 
 her consent and her blessing. Incidentally, a hand- 
 some (lot for you. Shouldn't wonder if she'd taken 
 a shine to me after all." 
 
 " Any one take shine to such lovely sing like you, 
 darlei n : but I don't know about my muzzaire. Well, 
 I write and tell her we come. Oh, and anuzzer sing, 
 I have seen Rougette this morning. She look so happy. 
 She have come out of the hopital, and she tell me 
 she get married with Monsieur Lorrimer, July. You 
 
THE SHADOW OF SUCCESS 
 
 ^87 
 
 ncvairc knew she have been burn. It is all down her 
 ntc'k and shoulder. You cannot see." 
 
 " Vm so glad. They say beauty is only skin-deep, 
 but it's deep enough to change the destiny of nations. 
 Who would not rather be bom beautiful than good? 
 Why was I not born beautiful.'"' 
 
 "You are, darken. You are just beautiful, and 
 what is better, you are great writer." 
 
 (I'm afraid Anastasia sees n-c with the eyes of pos- 
 terity.) 
 
 "Well, now," I went on, "I must try and bring 
 off that triangular marriage scheme of mine. We'll 
 fix it all up with my bclle-mcre on Sunday, and in the 
 meantime I'll go out and see the others." 
 
 So I set forth in high spirits. Everything was go- 
 ing beautifully it seemed; and when a few moments later 
 I happened on Monsieur Beberose issuing from his 
 apartment, I beamed on him, and he beamed in return. 
 He was dressed with more care than usual; a hemi- 
 spherical figure in a frock coat and tall hat. He was 
 anxiously trying to get a new pair of lavender kid 
 gloves on his podgy hands without splitting them, and 
 the imperial that gave distinction to his series of crisp 
 chins had been trimmed and brilliantined. Plainly 
 Monsieur Beberose had dressed for no ordinary occa- 
 sion, and chafl^ingly I told him so. 
 
 " Ah, no ! Ah, no ! " he adnn'tted coyly. " I go 
 to give a dejeuner to my future belle-mere at the Cafe 
 Anglais." 
 
 "Ha! Who is it.? Juliette or Lucille.'' " 
 " Oh, neither," he said, with the archness of a baby 
 elephant. "It is a new one. I think I will be satis- 
 fied this time." 
 
ilHH 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 " Is she a widow? " 
 
 " No: but her mother is; and an old friend of mine." 
 
 "Is she pretty?" 
 
 "Pretty; only twenty and with some money." 
 
 "Ah! young, charming and with a comfortable dot; 
 what could be more deliglitful? Allow me to congratu- 
 late you, my friend. How you must dream of her! " 
 
 " Truly, yes ; day and night. She is adorable. She 
 melts in the mouth." 
 
 " What a lucky dog you arc ! I'm dying to see her." 
 
 " But I have not seen her myself yet. I have just 
 seen the mother. Ah! I will have that pleasure in a 
 few days though. Then it is she return from the 
 friend with whom she is visiting." 
 
 "Well, I wish you luck. I hope your troubles are 
 at an end." 
 
 How pleasant it was, 1 thought, to see all these wild 
 creatures of the ranges being roundid up into the bliss- 
 ful corral of matrimony! How comforting, after one's 
 own feathers have been trimmed, to see others joining 
 the ranks of the wing-clipped! Love should not be 
 represented as a rosy Cupid, but as a red-jowled re- 
 cruiting sergeant. True, I have one of the best wives 
 in the world ; yet, what man is there, who, if he has ever 
 roved the Barbary coasts of Philander Land, does not 
 once in a while sigh for the old freedom? Marriage is 
 a constraint to be good, against which the best of us 
 feel mona-iits of faint, futile rebellion. 
 
 Sometimes I wished that An 'stasia was not so des- 
 perately practical. She seems to consider that I am a 
 species of great child, and must be looked after ac- 
 cordingly. I am an ardent suffragist; I have always 
 advocated the rights of woman; I have always believed 
 
THE SHADOW OF SUCCESS 
 
 itSd 
 
 in her higher destiny ; I scofF at the idea that woman's 
 sphere is the home, and desire to see her marching 
 shoulder to shoulder with man in the ranks of progress. 
 Yet, alas ! I cannot make a convert of Anastasia. 
 
 Often I have tried to interest her in the burning 
 question ; to inspire in her a sense of having a mission, 
 of being oppressed: hut Anastasia only laughs softly. 
 She seems to have the ridiculous and old-fashioned idea 
 that her duty is to make me happy, to surround me 
 with comfortable routine, to remove from my daily 
 path all irritating and distracting protuberances. I 
 have left, with elaborate carelessness on her kitchen 
 table, enough feminist literature to convert a dozen 
 women. But Anastasia only rearranges it neatly, 
 props an open cook-book against it, and studies some 
 new recipe for stuffing duck. 
 
 " Ah, no," she would say. " I must not waste my 
 time reading. That is not serious of me. I have my 
 menage, my marketing, my sewing, — Oh, so much to 
 do! If I threw away my time reading, my Lovely One 
 might have holes in his socks; and just think what a 
 shame that would be for me ! " 
 
 Yes, it is sad to relate, but I believe if I had offered 
 her the choice between a nev hat and the vote she 
 would take the hat. 
 
 How often have I wished she had more individuality ! 
 Her idea seems to be to mould her nature to mine, so 
 that every day she becomes more like a faithful shadow. 
 How anxiously she watches me as I eat my soup, so 
 afraid it may not be to my taste! How cheerful, how 
 patient, how eager to please she is! Oh, for a flare 
 of temper sometimes, a sign of spirit, something to 
 show that she is a woman of character, of originality! 
 
290 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 But no. Her duty, as she conceives it, is to minister 
 to my material comfort, to see that I enjoy my food, 
 to make me wrap up sufficiently. Yet in these things 
 she is rather tyrannical, insisting on my coming home 
 to my meals at the hour I have decided on, emphatic 
 that I change my socks at least twice a week, indignant 
 if I brush my hair after putting on my coat. However, 
 she keeps my things in beautiful order, and although 
 I feel at times that she is a little exacting I yield with 
 good grace. After all, one ought to consider one's wife 
 sometimes. 
 
 On the other hand, I have insisted on some con- 
 cessions on her part that are revolutionary to the 
 French mind — that of sleeping with the window open, 
 for instance. I over-ruled her objection that the snow 
 and rain entering during the night, spoiled her parquet. 
 She keeps it beautifully polished, by the way, and 
 claims that the shining of it every day gives her enough 
 exercise without the Swedish gymnastics I insist on her 
 taking under my direction. But I am so anxious she 
 should keep slim and lissom, and the exercises are cer- 
 tainly effective. 
 
 But another matter is beginning to occupy my mind 
 and to give me a strange mixture of satisfaction and 
 regret. This is the apparent success of Tom, Dick 
 and Harry. About a month ago I received my six pres- 
 entation copies. MacWaddy and Wedge had done 
 their work well. The cover was stirring in the ex- 
 treme. An American publicity man on his probation 
 had seized on it as a medium for his first efforts. It 
 was advertised in the weekly, and even in the daily 
 papers; a royal princess was announced as having 
 included it in her library, and more or less picturesque 
 
THE SHADOW OF SUCCESS 
 
 S91 
 
 paragraphs about the author began to go the round 
 of the press. The imaginative efForts of the publicity 
 man were not stultified by any sordid knowledge of 
 hi.s subject. 
 
 Then press clippings began to come in. A great 
 many of these were a repetition of the puff on the 
 paper wrapper, which I had written myself, and there- 
 fore were favourable. But the reviewers who read the 
 books tliey review did not let me down so easily. The 
 Times was tolerant; The Academy acidulous; The 
 Spectator severe. On the whole, however, my debut 
 was decidedly successful. Nearly all concluded by say- 
 ing that "despite its obvious faults, the faults of a 
 beginner, its crudencss, its obviousness, its thinness of 
 character-drawing, this first book of Silenus Starset 
 showed more than the average promise, and his future 
 work should be looked forward to with some expecta- 
 tion." 
 
 I gave copies to Helstern and Lorrimcr, and they 
 were both enthusiastic in that tolerant way one's friends 
 have of applauding one's performances. 
 
 " For a first novel, it's wonderful," said the sculptor. 
 
 " You're a marvel for a beginner," said the artist. 
 
 These back-handed compliments rather discounted 
 my pleasure. On the other hand, Anastasia, who read 
 it with rapture, thought it the most wonderful produc- 
 tion since " Les Miserables." She hugged and treas- 
 ured it as if it were something rarely precious, and 
 verily I believe if she had been asked to choose between 
 it and the Bible she would have chosen Tom, Dick and 
 Harry. 
 
 Yes, it had all the appearance of success, and yet I 
 was, in a way, disappointed. It was the equal of my 
 
292 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 other work — no better, no worse. It Imd the sai.." 
 fresh, impetuous spirit, the sjinic wheedling, human 
 quality, the same light-hearted ingenuity. It had the 
 points that made for popularity ; yet I had hoped to 
 strike a truer note. I had a fatal faculty for success. 
 I began to fear that I was doomed irrevocably to be a 
 best-scllcrmonger. 
 
 Well, it must be as the public willed. I could only 
 write in the way that was natural to ntc. Still I hoped 
 that in The Great Quietut 1 would show that I could 
 aspire to better things. There were opportunities in 
 it for idyllic description, for the display of imagination. 
 I would try to rise to this new occasion. 
 
 So I was deep in the book the following Sunday 
 morning when Anastasia reminded me it was the day 
 we had promised to dine with her mother. The old 
 lad ', she said, had asked her to go in the afternoon 
 and help to prepare dinner. Would I follow about 
 six in the evening? I promised, glad to get the extra 
 time on my manuscript. 
 
 About six, then, I looked up from my work; sud- 
 denly remembered the important engagement, and 
 rushed on my best garments. I called a taxi and told 
 the chauffeur to stop at the beginning of the street. 
 Anastasia, if she saw me, would give me a lecture on 
 extravagance. 
 
 The house was in the rue MontgoWer, up five flights. 
 I knocked and Anastasia answered the door. She 
 looked as if she had been crying. There was a sound of 
 conversation from an interior room, where I saw a table 
 set for dinner, with the red checked table cloth beloved 
 of the bourgeois. 
 
 "What's the matter?" I whispered. 
 
THE SHADOW OF SUCCESS 
 
 S9S 
 
 "Oh, I'm so glad jou come. Wat you think she 
 want, thut had muzzaire of me? She ask another man 
 here and she want that I leave you and marry him. 
 He is quite rich, and she say she geeve me twonty tou- 
 sand francs for dot. All afternoon she d'ucute with 
 me. She tell me I always am poor wiz you, and nevaire 
 have much confort. And then she say you are stranger 
 and some day you leave me. She tell me the uzzer man 
 gecvc me automobile and I will be very grand. And 
 what you sink? When I say no, no, no, I nevaire, 
 nevaire leeve you, she say she geeve you two tousand 
 francs and you geeve me up like nothing. Oh, I 'ave 
 awful, awful time.** 
 
 " I don't care two pins for your mother,'* I said. 
 "But whore's the other party to this arrangement? 
 \yiKre's the damned Frenchman? I'm going to knock 
 his face in.'* 
 
 Suddenly Madame Guinoval appeared, wearing a 
 black satin robe that crackled on her and threatened to 
 burst with every movement of her swelling muscles. 
 The slightly moustached mouth was grim as a closed 
 trap, and the red face was flushed and angry look- 
 mg. 
 
 I was furious, but I tried to be calm. 
 
 Madam," I said, « Anastasia has just told me all. 
 
 You are her mother so I do not express my opinion of 
 
 you, but," I added in a voice of thunder, " where is the 
 
 sacred pig who wants to steal away my wife? " 
 
 There was a movement of alarm from the dining- 
 room. ® 
 
 " Because here's where I show," I went on, « that 
 an American is equal to two Frenchmen. Let me eet 
 at the brute." * 
 
294 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 Anastasia clung to mo, bcg^ng nic to he calm, but 
 Madame Guinoval was haughtily intrepid. 
 
 " Hegesippe! Ilegesippe! " she cried, "come out and 
 show this coquin you are a brave man." 
 
 There was no alacrity on the part of Hegesippe, so 
 the lady entered and fairly boosted him to the front. 
 I stared; I gasped; my hands dropped; for the suitor, 
 looking very much alarmed indeed, was little Monsieur 
 Beberose. 
 
 " Well," I said, " you're a fine man to try and steal 
 a friend's wife." 
 
 It was now the turn of Anastasia and Madame 
 Guinoval to gasp, for Monsieur Beberose burst away 
 from the grasp of the latter and rushing to me began 
 to stammer a flood of apologies. He was so sorry; 
 he had not known how things were; he had been de- 
 ceived. " It was that woman had deceived him," he 
 said dramatically, pointing to Madame Guinoval. 
 
 " That woman " retorted by a terrible calm, a calm 
 more menacing than any storm, a calm pregnant with 
 withering contempt. 
 
 "Out of my house," she said at last; "out, out, 
 you sale gottjat! " And Monsieur Beberose needed no 
 second bidding. He grabbed his hat from the rack 
 and his cane from the stand and vanished. Then the 
 virago turned to us. Going into the bedroom she 
 brought Anastasia's coat and hat. She ignored me 
 utterly. 
 
 "Do you still," she said, "intend to remain with 
 
 iS man; 
 
 ? >» 
 
 thi 
 
 Anastasia nodded a determined head, at which the 
 mother threw the coat and hat at her feet. 
 
 " Then go, and never let me see your face again. 
 
THE SHADOW OF SUCCESS 
 
 ^5 
 
 Novtr will I give my consent to your nmrriage in 
 Frnnct'. May my tongue wither if I ever give it." 
 
 " Put on your hat outside," I said to Anastasia, and 
 pushed her out. Then I turned to the woman: 
 
 " It does not matter," I hissed. " You're a devil. 
 You've tried to play a dirty game, but it won't do. 
 And now listen to me." 
 
 Then I took n step towards her and adopted the 
 manner of a stage villain. My face was apparently 
 convulsed with rage, and my raised lips showed my 
 teeth in a vicious snarl. It was most effective. I vow 
 the woman shrank back a moment. 
 
 "I'll pay you out, you harridan. I'll make you 
 smart for this. Nobody ever did me a bad turn but 
 what I did them a worse. Beware, Madame, beware. 
 I will have my revenge." 
 
 I slammed the door in her face. Then I laughed 
 loud and long. 
 
 " I say ! it's all awfully funny. Little Thing. Now 
 let's go and have some dinner in place of the one we 
 should have had with your mother." 
 
 When we got home that night, another matter 
 claimed my attention. On opening The Bookman, 
 which had arrived that morning, I found therein a well- 
 displayed advertisement of Twn, Dick and Harry. 
 There was half a column of press extracts carefully 
 culled and pruned, the evil of them having in some in- 
 explicable way evaporated. But, oh, wonderful fact 
 that made me scratch my head thoughtfully f in 
 bracketed italics was the announcement: Seventh Im- 
 pression. There was no guessing how many copies 
 went to an impression. If the publishers were boosting 
 up the number of editions by printing only five hundred 
 
 'ti . 
 
296 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 copies at a time this did not mean much. But it was 
 hardly likely. In any case it did not look as if Mac- 
 Waddy and Wedge were losing money over their ven- 
 ture. 
 
 The result was that next morning I read over my 
 contract with them. Thank goodness! I still had the 
 American rights ; so by the first post I wrote to Wid- 
 geon & Co., the literary agents, putting the matter in 
 their hands. There was a reply by return saying that 
 there were several representatives of American firms in 
 London at that time, and that they would get in touch 
 with them without delay. 
 
 The following day there came a telegram : " Messrs. 
 Liverwood & Son offer to publish book on fifteen per 
 cent, royalty basis. Will we accept. Widgeon." 
 
 I immediately wired back: "Accept for immediate 
 publication." 
 
 Well, that was off my mind anyway. A few days 
 after, I got a letter from MacWaddv & Wedge saying 
 that they hoped to have a new book from me soon. 
 What were the prospects, they wanted to know, of me 
 btmg able to let them have it for their autumn lists.? 
 In which case they would begin an advertising cam- 
 paign right away. I wrote back that mv affairs were 
 now in the hands of Widgeon k Co. and' that all busi- 
 ness would be done through them. 
 
 A week went past. Every day I had new proof that 
 Tom, Dick and Harry was going well. Then one 
 morning I had a letter from my agents. They had, 
 they said, an opportunity to place a good 'serial 
 Would I send them as much of my new book as I had 
 finished and give a synopsis of the rest. I did so, and 
 in three weeks' time they wrote again to say that the 
 
THE SHADOW OF SUCCESS 
 
 297 
 
 American magazine Uplift had bought the serial rights 
 for a thousand dollars. 
 
 That, too, was as satisfactory as it was unexpected. 
 It was like finding the money. Once more I seemed to 
 have entered on the avenue of success that seemed to 
 open up before me in spite of myself. From now on, 
 there would be nothing but monotonous vistas of 
 smooth going. I was doomed to popular applause. 
 Once more would I leap into the lists as a writer of best- 
 sellers. So strongly had I the gift of interesting nar- 
 rative that I could win half a dozen new reputations ; 
 of that I felt sure. 
 
 Yes, I had succeeded — no, I mean I had failed, 
 failed by these later lights that Paris had kindled within 
 nil'. Here, amid art that is eternal, art that means 
 sacrifice, surrender, renunciation, I had learned to de- 
 spise that work which merely serves the caprice of an 
 hour. I had come to crave form, to strive for style. 
 Yet what can one do? My efforts for art's sake were 
 artificial and stilted ; it was only when I had a story 
 to tell that I became entirely pleasing. Well, let 
 me take my own measure. I would always be a bagman 
 of letters. In that great division of scribes into sheep 
 and goats I would never be other than n bleating and 
 incorrigible goat. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE FATE OF FAME 
 
 ^Iadame Seraphixe had spoiled my plan of a triple 
 niarriago, but there was nothing to prevent a double 
 one. It took place one midsummer morning in the 
 Mairie, rue Crenelle. On the strength of my thousand 
 dollars from the Uplift people, I offered to pay all ex- 
 penses. 
 
 In the great gloomy chamber of the Mairie we oc- 
 cupied one of a series of benches. Frosine and Rou- 
 gette were looking radiant, and Helstevr and Lorrimer 
 comported themselves as if getting married was part 
 of their daily routine. I was the only person at all 
 excited. 
 
 On the other benches were other bridal parties, a 
 bridal party to a bench. On a platform facing us sat 
 a tall man with an Assyrian beard. He wore evening 
 dress traversed by a tricoloured sash. He took each 
 couple in turn, looking down on them with no more 
 nitercst than if they had been earwigs. Then he mum- 
 bled into his beard for about two minutes; finally. he 
 cleared his throat and for the first time we heard' him 
 distinctly: "The ceremony is terminated." 
 
 After he had spoken this phrase about a dozen times 
 our turn came. Joyfully I pushed forward my candi- 
 dates and in a few minutes they were admitted into the 
 matrimonial fold according to the law of France. 
 
 Then I whirled them off to Marguery's where we had 
 a lunch of uproarious jollity, punctuated with kisses. 
 
 298 
 
THE FATE OF FAME 
 
 299 
 
 compliments and toasts. They would fain have lin- 
 gered, hut I whisked them off once more to the Place 
 Denfort Rochereau where on every Saturday afternoon 
 assembles the crowd of tourists that descends into the 
 darkness of the Catacombs. I bought candles for all, 
 showed my permit to the doo''-keeper, and wo joined 
 the long procession of candle-bearing cosmopolitans. 
 The three women were delighted. It seemed so original 
 for a Parisian to visit the Catacombs of Paris. 
 
 So for miles we followed these weird galleries hewn 
 from the living rock and lined with the bones of their 
 million dead. As we walked in single file the flickering 
 candles gruesomely lit up the brown walls where the 
 shank bones were piled with such meticulous neatness, 
 knob dove-tailing i o hollow, and the whole face of 
 them decorated with fantastic frescoes of thousands of 
 skulls. And behind these cordwood-like piles were vast 
 heaps of indistinguishable debris, the bones of that 
 media?val myriad gutted from the graveyards when 
 the great city had to have more room. 
 
 We were all emerging from a side-gallery when I 
 pulled Anastasia back ; for there, at the head of a 
 party of Cook's tourists, whom should I see but her 
 enemy O'Flather. Luckily he did not notice her and 
 she did not recognise h..n, so I held my tongue. But 
 I thought : 
 
 " Ah, now if I were a writer of fantastic fiction, 
 instead of a recorder of feeble fact, what a chance I 
 should have here ! Could I not in some way have left 
 us in the darkness, all three together, our candles lost 
 down one of those charnel pits." Then imagine: a bat- 
 tle in the dark between him and me, with the girl in- 
 sensible between us. There in the black boweh of Paris 
 
300 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 how we smash at one another with naked femurs in our 
 hands! How the bones and dust of death come top- 
 phng down on us ! How, finally, I bowl him over with 
 n chance-hurled skull. Then imagine how I wander 
 there in the darkness with the girl in my arms ! How 
 we starve and nearly go mad ! And how at last, on the 
 followmg Saturday, the next batch of tourists finds us 
 lying insensible at the foot of the great stairs ! " As 
 I thought of these things, by an absent-minded move- 
 ment, I raised my candle. There was a fierce, frizzling 
 noise. It was the feathers on the hat of the stout dame 
 in front. They shrunk in a moment down to three 
 weedy quills. Poor lady ! she did not know, and I — 
 I confess it with shame — had not the moral couraee 
 to tell her. * 
 
 No sooner had we got into the open air again than 
 I whirled my party off again to Montmartre. There 
 was a matinee at the Grand Guignol, and I had taken 
 seats m the low gallery. The pieces were more thrilling 
 than usual and the three women screamed ecstatically 
 
 For example: A father and son are left in charge 
 of a solitary lighthouse. (You see the living-room of 
 the lighthouse; you hear the howling of the storm.) 
 
 1 hen the son confesses to the father that he has 
 ..een b.tten by a rabid dog and that he feels the virus 
 in his veins. He implores the father to kill him, but 
 the old man refuses. The storm increases. 
 
 The son begins to go mad. He freezes, he burns, he 
 raves, he weeps. Night is falling. It is time to light 
 he lamps The old man goes to do so; but the son is 
 trying to kill himself and the father has to wrestle with 
 him. The hoarse horn of a ship is heard in the grow- 
 ing storm. 
 
THE FATE OF FAME 
 
 301 
 
 Tliere is no time to lose. The ship is close nt hand, 
 rushin/^ on the rocks. The old man leaves his son and 
 springs to the rope-ladder leading to the lights. He 
 gets up it almost to the top, but the son is after him. 
 With the blood-curdling snarl of a mad animal he 
 seizes his father by the leg and buries his teeth in it. 
 The old man kicks out, and the son, loosing his hold, 
 tumbles crashing to the stage below. The curtain falls 
 on the spectacle of the old man crouching over the 
 dead body of his boy and the doomed ship crashing on 
 the rocks. 
 
 This was one of the most cheerful pieces we saw, so 
 that when we issued forth again we were all in excellent 
 frame of mind for an aperitif at the Moulin Rouge. 
 We Ii;"' dinner at the Abbaye, and finished up by visit- 
 ing thj-o bizarre cabarets, Hell, Heaven and Annihila- 
 tion. 
 
 " It's been a lovely day you've arranged for us," 
 said Lorrimer as we broke up; "but one thing you 
 missed to make it complete. Could j'ou not have con- 
 trived a visit to the Morgue? " 
 
 " I tried," I admitted mournfully, " but they're not 
 issuing permits any more." However, I agreed with 
 him : it had been one of the loveliest days I had ever 
 spent. 
 
 So Lorrimer and Rougette went off to Brittany, 
 and Helstem and Frosine to Normandv, and it seemed 
 very lonely without them all. Yet the days passed 
 serenely enough in our little apartment in that quiet 
 by-street. I was becoming more and more absorbed in 
 The Great Quietus which already was beginning to show 
 signs of unruliness. My Pegasus, harnessed to im- 
 agination, is hard to keep in hand, and I perceived 
 
 \ 
 
302 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 that soon it would take the bit in its teeth. Anastasia 
 WHS deeply interested in some tapestry she was trying 
 to imitate from a desi^ In the Cluny Museum. Some- 
 times for hours as wc both worked you would not hear 
 a sound in the tiny room. 
 
 Then wlun we were tired of toiling we wouhl go 
 out on, to me, the pleasantcst of all the boulevards, 
 Montparnassc. We would walk down as far as the 
 Invalides, and, returninfr. sit in front of the Dome or 
 the Rotando Cafe and sip Dubonnets while we watched 
 the passing throng. We mixed with the groups of 
 artists and students that thronged the rue de la (Jrand 
 Chaumiere with its gleaming signs of Croquis schools, 
 where for half a franc one may sketch for three hours 
 some nude damsel with a wrist watch and very dirtv 
 feet. Or \\v spent a tranquil evening in a Cinema, 
 halfway down the Boulevard Raspail, whose cherry- 
 coloured lights saves the people on the apartments 
 across the way a considerable sum yearly in gas bills. 
 
 Days of simple joys! What a world of difference 
 a few extra francs make. Econom}' still, but self-re- 
 specting economy, not sordid striving to make ends 
 meet. Anastasia would not waste anything. The re- 
 mains of the gigot for dinner appeared as a ragout at 
 lunch. The morning milk left over must serve as the 
 evening soup. Often I groaned in spirit, and sug- 
 gested a little more recklessness. But no ! I must not 
 forget we were poor. We must cut our coat according 
 to our cloth. 
 
 It was useless to try and change her. She was of 
 that race of born house-wives who have made France 
 the rich nation it is to-day. Early in the morning see 
 their kimono-clad arms protruded from their windows 
 
THE FATE OF FAME 
 
 303 
 
 to shake the energetic duster; a little later see them 
 seated, trim and smiling at the cash-desk? in their hus- 
 band's shops. Centuries of prudence are in their veins ; 
 industry is to them a religion, and the instinct of thrift 
 is almost tyrannical. I know one of them who insisted 
 on her daughter marrying an Englishman because she 
 had sent her to a school in Brighton for a year, and did 
 not want to sec the money wasted. 
 
 So, recognising the genius of the race, I submitted 
 meekly to Anastasia's sense of economy. Her greatest 
 delight was to spend the afternoon in the great Maga- 
 sins that lie behind the Opera. She would spend three 
 hours there, walking them from end to end, turning 
 over enormous quantities of stuff which she would throw 
 aside in the contemptuous way of the born shopper, 
 swooping hawk-like, pressing intrepidly through crowds 
 that appalled me, breathing air that gave me a head- 
 ache, and in the end returning with six sous of riband, 
 declaring that she had had a glorious day. 
 
 Often I wonder how a woman who is tired if she 
 walks a mile in the open air can walk ten in a close, 
 heated department store without fatigue. As I walk 
 in the street Anastasia lags hopelessly in the rear, but 
 the moment we enter the Louvre or the Bon Marche 
 there is a mighty change. The enthusiasm of the bar- 
 gain stalker gleams in her eyes; she becomes alert, a 
 creature of fierce and predatory activity. It is I who 
 am helpless now, I who try in vain to keep up, as in 
 some marvellous way she threads in and out that packed 
 mob of sister bargain-stalkers. She is still fresh when 
 I am ready to drop with exhaustion, and she knows the 
 Galcrie and the Printemps as well as I know my pocket. 
 Her only weakness is for special bargains. How often 
 
inn 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 has she bought fiincy boxes of note-paper and envelopes, 
 just because they were too cheap to resist. I have 
 enough rose and cream stationery to last nic the balance 
 of my life. I believe she buys them for the sake of the 
 box. 
 
 As the days went on I found myself becoming more 
 and more in love with the lotus life of Bohemia. 1 be- 
 gan to dread making an engagement ; it weighed on 
 me like a burden. I wanted to be free, free to do what 
 I liked every moment of my time. An engagement 
 was a constraint. The chances were that when the 
 time came I did not feel in a sociable mood. Yet I 
 would have to take part in conversation that did not in- 
 terest me; 1 would have to adapt my thoughts to the 
 thoughts of others. So Society became to me a form 
 of spiritual tyranny, a state where I could not be my- 
 self, but had to play the complacent ape among people 
 who were often uncongenial. 
 
 The fact of the matter was, I was overworking my- 
 self, living again that strange intense life of the maker 
 of books, heedless of the outside world, and more and 
 more vividly intent on the glowing world of my dreams. 
 When I felt the force flag within me I would stimulate 
 myself anew with draughts of strong black coffee. 
 More and more was I the martyr to my moods, a prey 
 to strange enthusiasms, strange depressions. 
 
 For hours I would sit tense over my typewriter, all 
 nerves and desire; now attacking it in a frenzy of 
 whirling phrases, now wrestling with the god of scribes 
 for a few feeble fumbling words. Words — how I loved 
 them ! What a glory it was to twist and torture them, 
 to marshall and command them, to work them like 
 jewels into the gleaming fabric of a story'. 
 
THE FATE OF FAME 
 
 305 
 
 As I walked the streits I had moments of wonderful 
 exaltation; moments when my brain would be full of 
 strange gleams and shadows. I would know the joy 
 that is theirs who feel for a moment the inner spirit of 
 things. I would have the reeling sense of intoxication 
 as the Right Word shot into my consciousness. As I 
 walked, the ground beneath my feet would seem billowy, 
 the world around strangely, deliciously unreal, and the 
 people would take on a new and marvellous aspect. 
 So light I felt, that I imagined my feet must have some 
 prehensible quality preventing me flying upward. 
 
 Particularly I favoured walking in an evening of 
 >>oft-falling rain. It turned the boulevards into ave- 
 nues of delight. The pavements were of beaten gold; 
 down streets that were like plaques of silver shot ruby 
 lights of taxi-cabs; the vivid leaves on the trees were 
 clustered jewels. Perhaps I would see two people de- 
 scending from a shining carriage, the lady in exquisite 
 gown, held up to show silk-stockinged ankles, the man 
 in evening dress. " They are going to dinner," I would 
 say ; « to force themselves to be agreeable for three 
 hours; to eat much rich, unnecessary food. Ah! how 
 much better to be one's own self and to walk and dream 
 in the still, soft rain." 
 
 So on I would go, and the world would become like 
 n shadow beside the glow of my imagination. I would 
 think of my work, thrill at its drama, chuckle over its 
 humour, choke at its pathos. I would talk aloud my 
 dialogues till people stared at me, even in Paris, this 
 city of privileged eccentricity. I was more absent- 
 nunded than ever, and my nerves were often on edge. 
 My manner bec.imc spasmodic, my temper uncertain. 
 I avoided my friends, took almost no notice of Anasta- 
 
306 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 sla; in short, I was agonising in the travail of, alas! 
 best-seller birth. 
 
 For my story had once more got out of hand. It 
 was writing itself. I could not check it. I would 
 rattle off page after page till the old typewriter seemed 
 to curse me and my frenzy. Then, if perchance I was 
 sitting mute and miserable before it, a few cups of 
 that hot, black coffee till my heart began to thump, 
 and I would be at it once more. I wanted to get it 
 finished, to rid my mind of it, to send it away so that 
 I would never see it again. 
 
 At last with a great spurt of effort 1 again wrote 
 the sweetest word of all — The End. I leaned back 
 with a vast sigh : " Thank God, I can rest now." 
 
 Then I looked at the manuscript sadly. 
 
 " Another of them. I've no doubt it will sell in 
 the tens of thousands. It will be a success; yet what 
 a failure ! What a chance I had to make art of it ! 
 What poetry! What romance! And I have sacri- 
 ficed them for what? — adventure, exciting narrative, 
 melodrama. I had to invent a villain, an educated 
 super-ape who makes things hum. But I couldn't help 
 it. It was just the way it cacnc to me and I could do 
 no other. 
 
 " Oh, cursed Fate ! I am doomed to success. Like 
 a Nemesis it pursues me. If I could only achieve one 
 glorious failure how happy I would be! But no. I 
 am fated to become a writer with a vogue, a bloated 
 bond-clipper. 
 
 " Alas ! No more the joy of the struggle, the hope, 
 the despair. Farewell, garrets and crusts! Farewell, 
 light-hearted poverty ! Farewell, the gay, hard life ! 
 Bohemia, Paris, Youth — farewell ! " 
 
THE FATE OF FAME 
 
 {J07 
 
 And as I gazed at the manuscript that was to make 
 for me a barrel of monej there never was more miser- 
 able scribe than I. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 THE MANUFACTURE OF A VILLAIN 
 
 "Here's crime," I said darkly, as I touched glasses 
 with O'Flather. 
 
 The man with the bull-dog face and the brindled hair 
 knotched his sandy eyebrows in interrogation. 
 
 " Down with the police," I went on, taking a gloomy 
 gulp of grenadine. 
 
 "Wot d'j'c mean?" said my boon companion, sus- 
 pending the operation of a syphon to regard me sus- 
 piciously. 
 
 " O'Flather," I lowered my voice to a mysterious 
 whisper — " have you never longed to revel in violence 
 and blood? Have you never longed to be a villain?" 
 
 " Can't say as I have," said O'Flather, somewhat 
 relieved, proceeding to sample the brandy and soda 
 I had ordered for him. 
 
 "Is there no one you hate?" I .suggested; "hate 
 with a deadly hatred. No one you wish to be revenged 
 on, terribly revenged on ? " 
 
 " Can't say as there is," said the fa* man thought- 
 fully. " But wait ; yes, by the blasting blazes, there's 
 the skirt wot put my show on the blink. I'd give a 
 month in chokey to get even with her." 
 
 " What would you do if you met her? " I demanded. 
 
 "Wot would I do?" he snarled, and his cod-mouth 
 
 opened to show those teeth like copper and verdigris 
 
 clenched in venomous hate ; " I'd do her up, that's 
 
 wot I would do." He banged his big, fat fist down on 
 
 308 
 
THK MANUFACTURE OF A VILLAIN 809 
 
 
 the tal»U\ " IM pound her face in. Td beat her to a 
 jiilv. rd leave about as much life in her as a sick 
 ■fly/' 
 
 " Did you never find out where she went? '* I asked. 
 
 '* Nary a trace," he said vindictively. *' 1 hiked it 
 over here to see if I could get on her tracks. They 
 say if you wait long enough by the Caffay-day-la-Pay 
 corner all the folks you've ever known will come along 
 soiiu' day. Well, I've been waiting round there doing 
 the guide business, but nary a trace." 
 
 " What would you say if I told you where she is? " 
 
 " I should say you was a good pal." 
 
 *' Well, then, O'Flather, I saw her only this morn- 
 ing " 
 ing. 
 
 "The blazes! Tell me where an' I'll start after 
 her right now." 
 
 " Easy on, my lad. Don't get excited. Let's talk 
 the matter over coolly. I'm sure it's the girl I saw 
 in the doorway of your Exhibition that night. It 
 struck me as so odd I inquired her name. Let me see; 
 it was Guin . . . Guin ... Ah ! Guinoval." 
 
 "By Christmas, that's her; that's her; curse her. 
 Where is she? " 
 
 " Wait a bit ; wait a bit, O'Flather. Revenge is a 
 beautiful thing. I believe in it. If a man hits you 
 hit him back, only harder. But while I approve your 
 motive, I deprecate your method. It's too primitive, 
 my dear man, too brutally primitive." 
 
 "Wot d'ye mean? D'ye think it's too much to 
 beat her up after the dirty trick she played me? " 
 
 " Keep cool, O'Flather. Have a little imagination. 
 There are other ways that you could hurt her far more 
 than by resorting to crude violence. She's a very hon- 
 
310 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 est girl, I believo. Sets a great deal on her reputa- 
 tion. Well, then, instead of striking at tlie girl, strike 
 at her reputation." 
 
 "Rut how? Wotter you getting at?" 
 
 " It's simple enough. These days the popular form 
 of villainy is White Slavery. Become a White Slaver. 
 What's to prevent you abducting the girl, having her 
 taken to that Establishment you so strenuously repre- 
 sent — your Crystal Palace? Once within those doors 
 it's • ^tty hard for her to get out again. You have her 
 at ., > mercy and the Institution ought to pay you 
 hand.s(>nicly." 
 
 " But it's a risky business. You know them French 
 ; v'dcfi have no mercy on a foreigner. If I was caught 
 Id get it in the neck." 
 
 " Don't do the actual abduction yourself. You're 
 too fat and too conspicuous to do the job yourself. 
 Besides, she knows you. Get three of these bullies 
 that hang around the Crystal Palace to do it for you. 
 You wait there till they come with the girl." 
 
 " But how would they know her? " 
 
 "That's true. Well, I'll tell you what I'll do, 
 O'Flathcr, being a bit of a villain myself, and ready to 
 help a pal ; I'll go with your cadets, or whatever they 
 are, and point out the girl. You engage your men. 
 We'll all go down in a taxi. The chauffeur must un- 
 derstand that he's to ask no questions. When the 
 girl comes along I point her out. Gaston rushes in 
 with a chloroformed rag. Alphonse and Achille grab 
 her arms. Presto! in a moment she's in the taxi. In 
 ten minutes she's in your Crystal Palace. Is it not 
 easy?" 
 
 " Seems so," he said thoughtfully. " I think I could 
 
vr^ 
 
 Tin: MANUFACTl RK OF A VILLAIN 311 
 
 get the men for to-night. Won't two do? Sure it 
 needs three? " 
 
 "Yes," I said thoughtfully; "it might be better 
 even with four, but I think three will do. I've found 
 that she goes to work every morning about two o'clock, 
 and takes the same road always. It's dark then, and 
 the road's almost deserted. I can be at the Place de 
 rOpera at half-past one, when you can meet me with 
 vour men and a taxi. How will that do? " 
 
 "Right O! I'll be there. To-night then. Half- 
 past one. And say! tell me before you go where- 
 abouts this abduction business is going to be done. It 
 don't matter to me, but you might be a little more con- 
 fidential. Where's she working? " 
 
 " She's working in the Holies and she goes by the 
 
 name of Seraphine Guinoval." 
 
 • ♦♦••♦• 
 
 The night was come, and though I arrived punc- 
 tually at the rendezvous O'Flatlur and his myrmidons 
 were thtrc before me. The fat man was tremendously 
 excited and fearfully nervous. His hand shook so that 
 he spoiled two cigarettes before he got one rolled de- 
 cently. He sank his voice to a hoarse whisper. 
 
 His accomplices were of the usual type of souteneurs 
 — little, dark, dapperly-dressed men with lantern- 
 jawed faces, small black moustaches and cigarettes in 
 their cynical mouths. Their manner was sullenly cool 
 and contemptuous — a contempt that seemed to extend 
 to their patron. There was no time to lose. We all 
 bundled into the waiting taxi. 
 
 "Good luck to ye," said O'Flather. "I'll be off 
 now and wait. The boys know where to take the jade. 
 Once they get her into the taxi the rest Is easy. I'll be 
 
312 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 waititiff tlierc to give licr the glad Itand, and extend, 
 so to say, tlie hospitality of the mansion. You're sure 
 you know wliere to drop on her? " 
 
 " Sure. She's as regular as clock-work, passing the 
 same corner and always alone. Rely on that part of it. 
 The rest lies with your satellites and with you." 
 
 "All right," he chuckled malevolently. "The 
 thing's as good as done. So long now. See you to- 
 morrow same place." 
 
 The taxi darted off, and the last I saw of my villain 
 was his immense bull-dog face lividly glowering in the 
 up-turned fur collar of his coat, and his ham-like hand 
 waved in farewell. 
 
 We were embarked on the venture now, and even I 
 felt a thrill as I looked at the dark, dissolute faces of 
 the men by my side. At that moment the affair be- 
 gan to seem far more serious than I had bargained for, 
 and I almost wished myself out of it. But it was too 
 late to turn back. I must play my part in the plot. 
 
 I had selected a narrow pavement and a dark door- 
 way as the scene of operations. It would be very easy 
 for three men lurking there to rush any passer-by into 
 a taxi at the edge of the pavement without attracting 
 attention. As I explained, I could sec my three braves 
 agreed with me. They shrugged their shoulders. 
 
 " Parbleu! It's too easy," they said, and retiring 
 into the doorway they lit frefeh cigarettes. 
 
 How slowly the time seemed to pass! I paced up 
 and down the pavement anxiously. Several times I 
 felt like bolting. The false beard I had donned was 
 so uncomfortable; and, after all, I began to think, it 
 was rather tough on my hdh-rture. There in the 
 darkened doorway I could see the glow of three 
 
THE MANUFACTURE OF A VILLAIN 313 
 
 riffarottcs, and I could Imagine the contemptuous, 
 Slurring eyes behind them. Hunching forward, the 
 c'haufFeur seemed asleep. Thi- street was silent, dark, 
 (listrtcd. Then suddenly I heard a step ... it was 
 her. 
 
 Ves, there was no doubt. Passing under a distant 
 lamp I had a convincing glimpse of her. I could not 
 mistake the massive figure waddling along in the black 
 serge costume of the market women, with the black 
 shawl over her shoulders, the black umbrella in the 
 hand. She was hatless too, and carried a satchel. 
 All this I saw in a vivid moment ere I turned to my 
 bullies and whispered huskily: 
 
 " Heady there, boys ! She comes." 
 
 My excitenunt seemed to communicate itself to them. 
 Tiieir cigarettes dropped, and Alphonse peered out al- 
 most nervously. 
 
 " Sapristi! that her? " he exclaimed hoarsely. 
 " Vou are sure. Monsieur?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ; sure, sure. She's a large girl." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders as if to say: " Monsieur, 
 otir patron, he has a droll taste among the women, par 
 cxemplc. But that is not our affair. Steady there 
 Gaston and Alphonse! Get ready for the spring." 
 
 The three men were tense and covchant; the 
 chauffeur snored steadily; the unsuspecting footsteps 
 drew nearer and nearer. Crossing the street, I stood 
 in the shadow on the other side. 
 
 What happened in the next half minute I can only 
 surmise. I saw three dark shadows launch themselves 
 on another shadow. I heard a scream of surprise that 
 was instantly choked by n hairy masculine hand. I 
 heard another hoarse yell as a pair of strong teeth met 
 
iUi 
 
 THE pretf:\der 
 
 in tliaf iiiasniUno hand. I heard volleys of fierce pro- 
 fane (iailic expletives, grunts, groans, yelps of pain and 
 the unniistakal)Ie whacking of an umbrella. Evidently 
 my desperadoes weren't having it all their own way. 
 The bigger shadow seemed to be holding the smaller 
 ones at bay, striking with whirling blows at them every 
 time they tried to rush in. The smaller shadows 
 seemed to be less and less inclined to rush in; each was 
 evidently nursing some sore and grievous hurt, and the 
 joy of battle did not glow in them. There is no doubt 
 they would have retired discomfited had not their 
 doughty antagonist suddenly tripped and fallen with a 
 resounding thump backwards. Then with a mutual 
 yell of triumph they all knelt on her chest. 
 
 She was down now, but not defeated. Still she 
 fought from the ground, but their united weight was 
 too much for her. She fell exhausted. Then with 
 main strength they hauled, pushed, lifted her into the 
 taxi, and piling in after her, panting and bleeding from 
 a score of wounds, they sat on her as fearfully as one 
 might sit on an exhausted wild cat. The taxi glided 
 away, and I saw them no more. 
 
 As to the sequel, I found it all in the columns of the 
 Matin two mornings after. Herewith is a general 
 translation: 
 
 " Madame Seraphine Guinoval is a buxom brunette who 
 carries on a flourisliing business in Lcs Halles. To look at 
 her no one would suspect her of inspiring an ardent and 
 reckless passion; yet early yesterday morning Madame 
 Guinoval was the victim of an abduction such as might have 
 occurred in the pages of romance. 
 
 " It was while she was going to her work in the very 
 early morning that the too fascinating fair one was set 
 
THE MANUFACTUUI-: 01' A VILLAIN iilo 
 
 upon by three young apaches and conveyed to a well-known 
 temi)le of Venus. Mau >me Guinoval appears to have given 
 
 j;()od account of herself, judging from the condition 
 . her assailants as they confronted the magistrate this 
 morning. All three suffer from bites, one received as he 
 s.it on the lady's head; their faces are scratched as by a 
 vigorous young cougar; two have eyes in mourning, while 
 each claims to have received severe bodily injuries. A 
 more sorry trio of kidnappers never was seen. 
 
 " But their plight is nothing to that of the instigator 
 of the plot — a certain Irish American, known as the 
 Colonel Offlazaire, a well-known boulevardier. He, it 
 seems, became so infatuated with the charms of the fair 
 Marchande d'escargots that with the impetuous gallantry 
 of his race he was determined to possess her .at all costs. 
 Alas! luckless, lovelorn swain! He is now being patched 
 up in the hospital. 
 
 " The real trouble began, it seems, when they got the 
 Guinoval safely within that pension for young l.ndies kept 
 by Madame Lebrun on the rue Montmartre. They put 
 her in a dark room and turned the key in the door. Then 
 to her entered the Chevalier Offlazaire, locked the door, and 
 turned on the light. He then must have entered into a 
 violent argument with the fair one, for presently were 
 heard sounds of commotion from behind the closed door, a 
 ni.an's voice pleading for mercy, and the smashing of 
 furniture. So fierce, indeed, did the turmoil become, that 
 l)resently the proprietress of the establishment, supported 
 by a bodyguard of her fair pensionnaires, felt constrained 
 to open the door with her private key. 
 
 " \ot a moment too soon ! For the unfortunate Cheva- 
 lier Colonel was already hors de combat, while over him, 
 the personification of outraged virtue^ poised the amazonian 
 Seraphine, whirling a chair around her head in a berserker 
 rage. Terrified. Madame Lebrun and her protegees fled 
 screaming; then the infuriated lady of the Hallet pro- 
 
316 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 ceeded to reduce the establishment to ruins. Verj* little 
 that was hrcakahlc escaped that flail-like chair swung bv 
 outraged virtue. Particularly did she devote her attention 
 to the room known as the Crystal Palace, where she 
 smashed all the mirrors that compose the walls, and then 
 ended by reducing to ruins the magnificent candelabra. 
 Her frenzy of destruction was only interrupted by the ar- 
 rival of the police. 
 
 " In consequence of the serio-comic character of the 
 affair, and its disastrous effects on those who promoted it, 
 the magistrate was inclined to be lenient. A nominal fine 
 of fifty francs was imposed on each of the three ac- 
 complices, while the illustrious O'Flather was fined two 
 hundred francs, and found himself bO ridiculously notorious 
 that he departed for pastures new." 
 
 (As for Madame Guinovnl, I think she enjoyed the 
 whole thing immensely.) 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 A CHEQUE AND A CHECK 
 
 One morning I received a cheque for nine hundred 
 dollars from Widgeon & Co. — payment for The Great 
 Quktnsy now running serially in the Uplift. Did I 
 wave it in the air? Did I do a war-dance of delight? 
 No. I looked at it with sober sadness. The struggle 
 was over. Henceforward it was the easy money, the 
 work that brought in ten times its meed of reward. 
 Alas! how I was doomed to prosperity! I banked the 
 cheque with a heavy heart. 
 
 Always was it thus. 1 vowed each book would be 
 my last. I would drop out of the best-seller writing 
 game, take to the country and raise calves. Then, 
 sooner or later the desire would come to leap into the 
 lists once more. There was usually a month's bore- 
 dom between books, and I would go at it again. " Per- 
 haps," I would say, " I'll be able to write a failure this 
 time." 
 
 So, having got The Great Quietus off my hands al- 
 ready, I was having this feeling of energy going to 
 waste. One day then, as I walked along the Avenue de 
 la Grande Armee, I happened to stop in front of an 
 automobile agency. There in the window was dis- 
 played the neatest voiturette I had ever seen. It had 
 motor-bicycle wheels, a tiny tonneau for two, an engine 
 strong enough for ordinary touring. It was called 
 the liabi/ Mignonne, and I fell in love with it on the 
 
 spot. 
 
 817 
 
318 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 As I was admiring the dainty midget two American 
 wouKu stopped in front of the window. 
 
 "Isn't it just tiie cutest thing?" said one. 
 
 " Isn't it just a perfect darling? " said the other. 
 
 Then they passed on, leaving me tingling with pride 
 at their verdict ; for on the spur of the moment I had 
 iii.ide up my mind that tl)is diminutive runabout should 
 belong to me. Ila ! that was it. I was seeking for a 
 new character in which to express my energy. Well, 
 I would become a dashing motorist in a leather cap 
 and gtggles, swishing along in my Baby Mignonnc. 
 Yet I hesitated a moment. 
 
 The price was thirty-eight hundred francs. That 
 would not leave much out of my forty-five. It seemed 
 a little indiscreet in a man who had been fighting the 
 wolf so long to spend the first decent bit of money he 
 made in an automobile; a man who lived in a garret, 
 whose wardrobe was not any too extensive, and whose 
 wife, that very morning, liad finished a hat for winter 
 wear with her own hands. Ah ! now I came to think of 
 it, she had looked so pale leaning over her cherry 
 ribands. Now I understood my sudden impulse. It 
 was for her I was buying it ; so that I might drive her 
 out; so that she might get lots of fresh air; so that 
 the roses might bloom in her cheeks agai % With a 
 sense of splendid virtue, I said to the agent : " I'll 
 take it." 
 
 Then I halted: "But I don't know how to drive 
 one," I said prudently. " How do I know I can get 
 a chauffeur's certificate? " 
 
 " Ah," said the agent, " that was easy. There was 
 a school for chauffeurs next door, where for a hundred 
 francs they qualified you for the licence." 
 
A CHEQUE AND A CHECK 
 
 319 
 
 So I promised the man I would return when I could 
 drive, and made arrangements to begin lessons on the 
 following day. 
 
 I returned home full of my new hobby. At all 
 costs I must keep it a secret from her. Her economical 
 soul would r bel at my splendid sacrifice. Then again 
 I wanted the surprise to be a dramatic one. I would 
 tell her one day to meet me at the Place de I'Opera, 
 and as she lingered, patiently waiting for me to come 
 plodding along on " train onze,'' up 1 would dash on 
 my Baby Mignonne. Removing my goggles, I would 
 laugh into her amazed face. Then I would remark in a 
 casual way : 
 
 " I thought you might be too tired to walk home, 
 so I brought you round your car. Jump in quickly. 
 We're blocking up the traffic." 
 
 So clearly did I see the picture that I chuckled over 
 my coffee and Camembert. 
 
 "What make you so amuse?" she asked curiously. 
 
 " Oh, nothing," I said hurriedly. " I was ju't think- 
 ing of a little business I have in hand." 
 
 I continued to chuckle throughout the day, and my 
 wife continued to wonder at this change in her husband. 
 (Here let me change for a moment from my view point 
 to hers.) She never pryed into his affairs, but never- 
 theless she watched him curiously. .^ nd day by day 
 his conduct was still more puzzling. Although an in- 
 veterate late riser, he sprang from bed at half-past 
 seven and dressed quickly. Then after a hurried break- 
 fast he said: " I've got an engagement at nine. Don't 
 wait for me." She did not dare ask him where he was 
 gt;i»g, but she saw an eager glow in his eyes, a gladness 
 as of one hastening to a tryst. 
 
320 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 And when ho returned liow joyous he was! With 
 what a hearty appetite lie attacked his hinch ! How 
 demonstrative in his affection! (Wives, when hus- 
 bands grow demonstrative in tlieir affection, begin to 
 get suspicious.) 
 
 She marked, too, his unusual preoccupation. He 
 had something on his mind ; something he was des- 
 perately anxious to keep from lier. He seemed afraid 
 to meet her eye. She began to be anxious, even afraid. 
 
 Next morning he arose at the same time and went 
 off again on his mysterious business. She fretted; she 
 worried. She knew he was wilful and headstrong; 
 she knew he would always be an enigma to her; 
 she loved him for that very quality of aloofness; 
 yet over all she loved him because of his caprice, be- 
 cause some day she dreaded she might lose him. He 
 had moods she feared, subtle, harsh moods ; then again 
 he was helpless and simple as a child. 
 
 Yes, she had never boon able to fathom his whimsical 
 changes, and he certainly was greatly excited about 
 this affair. It could not be that he was incubating a 
 new novel, for that only made him irritable. Now 
 his eyes expressed a rare pleasure. What, O, what 
 could this secret business be? 
 
 ( So much for what I imagined to be the '* Psychology 
 of Anastasia " at this moment. To return to myself.) 
 
 I was certainly getting a great deal of fun out of my 
 lessons. The change from book-making to machinery 
 was a salutary one, and every day saw me more en- 
 thusiastic. There in the quiet roads of the Bois-do- 
 Boulogne I practised turning and backing, accom- 
 panied by an instructor who controlled an extra set 
 
A CHEQTE AND A CHECK 
 
 '.y.n 
 
 of hr.ikis in case of uciidtnt. I was hrginnin^ to Ik- 
 vciv nroiul of niVM-lf as I bowKd around the Hois, 
 and Ma> ivon Intoniing conceited when one morning 
 my professor said to nic: 
 
 " To-morrow, Monsieur, you must come in the after- 
 noon instead of the morning. Then we will drive 
 along the Champs Klysees and the boulevards, for it 
 is necessary you iiavo some experience in handling 
 the automobile in the midst of traffic. On the morning 
 after, the Inspector will come to examine you for your 
 certificate." 
 
 I was tremendously excited. Instead of rising early 
 tile following day I visibly astonislied Anastasia by 
 sKtping till ten o'clock. But after lunch I announcetl 
 that I was going out and would not be back to sup- 
 p«r. 
 
 I saw her face fall. Doubtless she thought : " His 
 mvxterious business has only been transferred from 
 forenoon to afternoon. I thought this morning when 
 he did not get w^ it was finished. It seems only the 
 liour is changed. But I will say nothing." 
 
 So she watched me from the window as I went away, 
 and I believe the position must have been getting on 
 my nerves for that afternoon, amid the bewildering 
 traffic of Lcs Etoiles, I lost my head. Trying to avoid 
 a hand-barrow, I crashed into a cab, and of course the 
 emerg.ncy brakes refused to work. Considerable dam- 
 age was done. There were two policemen taking down 
 names, a huge crowd, much excited gesticulation. In 
 the end I promised to call at the office of the cab pro- 
 j)rietor and pay for the damage. Sadly I drove back 
 to the garage. Never, I thought, should I pass my 
 
ii^il 
 
 THE PRETENDEH 
 
 oxHmination on the morrow. Hut my instructor 
 clitirtd me up, and I began to look forward to it hope- 
 fully. 
 
 I arrived home trembling with excitement. I could 
 hardl3' eat my supper, and rose soon after it was over. 
 
 ** I've got an engagement this evening," I said nerv- 
 ously ; "I may be late; don't wait up for me." 
 
 I was conscious how furtive and suspicious my man- 
 ner was. I turned away to avoid her straight, pene- 
 trating gaze. 
 
 " Won't you tell me where you are going? " she said 
 quietly. 
 
 " Oh, just out on business," I said irritably. " I 
 have a matter to attend to." 
 
 With this illuminating infoniiation I went off. I 
 had the in)pression that she was restraining herself 
 with a great effort. Well, it was certainly trying. 
 
 I paid the proprietors of the cab a chwiue for two 
 hun('-ed francs. Then it was necessary to go round 
 and inform the police that everything had been settled. 
 Then it seemed fit to promote a good feeling all round 
 by ordering a bottle of champagne. Then one must 
 drink to my success as a chauffeur in another bottle. 
 When I reached home it was after midnight and I was 
 terribly tired. The excitement of the day had worn 
 me out ; and, besides, there was the worry over the ex- 
 amination in the morning. The wine too had made 
 me very drowsy. 
 
 Anastasia lay silent on her bed. She did not move 
 as I entered so I supposed she slept. Making as little 
 noise as possible, I undressed. As I blew out the 
 candle my last impression was of the exceeding cosiness 
 of our little room. Tarticularly I noted our new dress- 
 
A CIIKgUi: AND A CIIEC K 
 
 323 
 
 ing table of walnut, the armoirc with mirror doors, 
 and the frrsli ciirtaiiis of cream cretonne with a design 
 of ro>es. "It's home," I thought, ** and how glad I 
 am to get hack to it ! " Then I crept between the 
 sheets, and feeling as if I could sleep for ever and 
 ever, I launched into a troiibhd sea of dreams. 
 
 "What's the matter?" 
 
 It seemed as if some one was shaking me furiously. 
 Opening my eyes I saw that it was Anastasia. 
 
 "What is it.'* Fire? Burglars? " I exclaimed. I 
 had always made up my mind in the case of the latter 
 I would l«)ck the bedroom door and inteniew them 
 through the keyhole. I am not a coward, but I have 
 a very strongly developed sense of self-preservation. 
 
 " No, no ; something more serious than that," she 
 answered in a choking voice. 
 
 "What then? Are you sick?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, sick of everysing. I waken you up be- 
 cause you talk in your sleep." 
 
 "Do I? Seems to me you needn't waken me up 
 just for that. W'hat was I saying?" 
 
 " Saying? You talk all the time about her." 
 
 "Hit? Who?" 
 
 " Oh, do not try to deceive me any more. I know 
 all." 
 
 "You know more than I do," I said, astonished. 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 "Oh, do I not know you have a maitrcsse? Do I 
 not know you go to see her every day? Do I not know 
 you are spending all your money with her? For two 
 weeks have I borne it, seeing you go every day to keep 
 your shameful assignations with her. Though it was 
 
324 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 almost driving mc mad I li.ivc said no word. Hoping 
 that you would tire of her, that you would come hack 
 to me, I have tried to bear it patiently. Oh, I have 
 borne so much ! But when it comes to lying by your 
 side, and hearing you cry out and murmur expressions 
 of love for her, I can bear it no longer. Please ex- 
 cuse me for waking you, but j'ou torture me so." 
 
 T stared. This was an Anastasia altogether new to 
 me. Her voice had a strange note of despair. Where 
 had I heard it before.'' Ah! that night on the Em- 
 bankment, when she was such a hunted, desperate 
 thing. Never had I heard it since. Yet I knew the 
 primal passion which lies deep in every woman had 
 awakened. I was silent, and no doubt my silence 
 seemed like guilt. But the fact was — her accusation 
 had been launched in tumultuous French, and I was 
 innocently trying to translate it into English. 
 
 " What was I saying? " 1 said at last. 
 
 "Oh, you cry all night, 'Mignonne! Mignonne! 
 Petite Mignonne!' You say: 'You are love; you 
 arc darleen.' And sometimes you say: ' You are cute 
 little sing.' What is 'cute little sing'.'* Somesing 
 very passivnnantc I know. You have nevaire call me 
 zat. And nevaire since we marry you call me 
 Mignonne." 
 
 Suddenly it all burst upon me, and I laughed. It 
 did not strike me how utterly heartless my laugh must 
 have sounded. 
 
 " So that's it. You've found out all about Mig- 
 
 nonne.' 
 
 i " 
 
 '• Yes, yes. Who is this petite Mignonne? I kill 
 her. I kill myself. Tell me who she is. I go to her. 
 I beg her not to take you from me. I 'ave you first. 
 
A ( HEQT'K AM) A ("HECK 
 
 f\'iri 
 
 Yon belong to mo. No one sluill 'avc you but in«'. 
 Till me who slic is." 
 
 " I cannot tell you," I said, avoiding her ga/e. 
 
 "Zen it is true? You have niaitresne? You have 
 (Iveeive me I Oh, what a poor, poor girl I am! Oli, 
 God, help me!" 
 
 She was sobbing bitterly. Now, I am so constituted 
 that though I am keenly sensitive to stage sobs and 
 book sobs, domestic sobs only irritate nu. Outside I 
 can revel in sentiment, but at home I seem to resent 
 anything that goes beyond the scope of everyd;;}' hum- 
 (inun. I am tear-proof (which is often a mighty good 
 thing for a husband) ; so my only answer was to pull the 
 blankets over my head, and say in a rough voice : 
 
 " For goodness' sake, shut up and let's have a little 
 sleep." 
 
 But there was going to be no sleep for me that 
 night, and to have one's sleep invaded would make a 
 lamb spit in the face of a lion. 
 
 "Are you going to see her to-morrow.''" she de- 
 manded tragically. 
 
 " Yes," I said, with a disgusted groan. Realh' the 
 whole thing was becoming too ridiculous. All along 
 I had been irritated at her jealousy, the more so as 
 there had been certain grounds for it. It had been the 
 only fault I had found with her, and often I had been 
 stung to the point of protest. Now all my pent-up 
 resentment surged to the surface. 
 
 " Oh, please, darleen, excuse me ; please say you 
 won't go. Stay wiz 3-our leetlc wife, darleen." 
 
 " I've got to go ; it's important." 
 
 " Promise me zen you shall see her for the last time. 
 Promise mi you'll say good-bye." 
 
390 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 " T can't premise tliat." 
 
 •'Vou love her?" 
 
 " Ye — es. I love her." 
 
 My iiiliul WHS nifult? up. There is no cure for 
 jealousy like ridicule. It would be n little hard, but 
 I would keep the thing up for another day. I would 
 let matters come to a climax, then I would trium- 
 phantly drive round on my little voiturette and say, 
 pointing to the blue and gold name plate: 
 
 "There! Allow me to introduce to you * Little 
 Migiionne.' " 
 
 The whirl of the alarm-clock put an end to my 
 efforts to get some sleep, so up I sprang in by no means 
 the best of tempers. My examination at nine, and I 
 had had a wretched night. 
 
 Anastasia got up meekly to prepare the coffee. I 
 ate without saying a word, while she even excelled 
 me in the eloquence of her silence. Never eating a 
 mouthful, she sat there with her hands clasped in 
 her lap, her eyes downcast. She seemed to be restrain- 
 ing herself very hard. The domestic atmosphere was 
 decidedly tense. 
 
 At last I rose and put on my coat. 
 
 " Then you're going? " she said, breathing hard. 
 
 " Yes, I'm going." 
 
 At that her pent-up passion burst forth. She cried 
 in French : 
 
 " If you go to her, if you see that woman again, I 
 never want you to come back. I never want to see you 
 again. You can go forever." 
 
 " You forget," I said, " this is my house.'* 
 
 She bowed her head. " Yes, you are right. I am 
 nothing in it hut a housekeeper you do not have to 
 

 A CHEQUE AND A CHECK 327 
 
 
 fr.vo wagt's to, a convenience for you. But that will 
 
 
 hv all right ; I will go." 
 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders. " Really, you're too ab- 
 
 for 
 
 surd." 
 
 but 
 
 Suddenly she came to me and threw her arms around 
 
 uld 
 
 nie, looking frantically into my eyes. 
 
 im- 
 
 " Tell nie, tell me, do you not love me ? " 
 
 ay, 
 
 I softly unloosened her grasp. An actress on the 
 
 
 stage can do justice to these emotional scenes. In 
 
 ttle 
 
 real life, a little woman in a peignoir, with hair di- 
 
 
 shevelled, only makes a hash of them. 
 
 my 
 
 " Really," I said with some annoyance, " I wish you 
 
 ans 
 
 would cease to play the injured wife. You*re saying 
 
 d I 
 
 the very things I've been putting into the mouths of 
 
 
 my characters for the last five years. They don't seem 
 
 I 
 
 real to me." 
 
 lied 
 
 "Tell me. Do you love me?*' 
 
 ? a 
 
 " Why verge on the sentimental? Have I ever, since 
 
 in 
 
 we were married, been guilty of one word of love to- 
 
 ftin- 
 
 wards you? " 
 
 ras 
 
 " You have not." 
 
 
 " Yet we have been happy — at least I have. Then 
 
 
 let us go on like sensible, married people and take 
 
 
 things for granted." 
 
 
 " If you do not love me, why did you marry me? " 
 
 ried 
 
 "Well, you know very well why. I married you 
 
 
 because having saved you from a watery grave, I was 
 
 n, I 
 
 to a certain extent responsible for you. It was up to 
 
 you 
 
 me to do something, and it seemed to be the easiest 
 
 
 way out of the difficulty." 
 
 
 "Was that all?" 
 
 am 
 
 " No, perhaps not all. I wanted some one to cook 
 
 • to 
 
 for me. You know how I loathe eating at restaurants.'* 
 
 5 
 
328 
 
 THE PRETF.XDER 
 
 " Then you did not learn to care for me afterwards? " 
 " Why as to that I never stopped to consider. 
 Really it never occurred to me. I was quite happy 
 and contented. And I had my work to think of. You 
 know that takes all emotional expression out of me." 
 " And now yon love this Mignonne? " 
 "Hum! \e — es, I love Petite Mignonne." 
 " Oh, I rannot bear it ! I have come to love you 
 so much. Try, try, to geeve her up, darken. It will 
 kic) me if ynu do not." 
 
 Here she sank on her knees, holding on to the skirts 
 of my coat. 
 
 *' I — It's too late to give her up now." 
 " Then, you're going? " She still clung to me. 
 I disengaged myself. " Yes, I'm going." 
 She rose to her feet. She was like a little Sarah 
 Bernhardt, all passion, tragic intensity. 
 
 " Then go ! shameful man. Go to the woman you 
 love. I never want to see you again. But know that 
 you have broken my heart ! Know that however happy 
 you may be there is never more happiness 'or mc!" 
 
 With these words ringing in my ears I closed the 
 door behind me. Poor little girl ! Well, it was tough 
 on her, but she must really learn to curb that emo- 
 tional temperament. And after all, it was only for a 
 few hours more. I would show her how foolish she 
 had been, and she would forever after be cured of 
 jealousy. With this thought I hurried off to my ex- 
 amination. 
 
 I found the Inspector to be a most genial individual 
 who desired nothing more than that I should pass; so, 
 profiting by my mishap of the day previous, I acquitted 
 mvself to admiration. Elated with success, I was return- 
 
A CHKQT'E A\D A CHECK 
 
 329 
 
 lUfT nuTiily hoiiic wl-on sufldtnly I remcnibert'd the il<»- 
 iiustic cloud of the morning. My conscience pricked nie. 
 1\ rhiips after all 1 had been a little harsh. Perhaps 
 in the heat of the moment I had said things I did not 
 mean. Well, slie had never resented anything of the 
 kind before. By the time I reached home she would 
 have forgotten all about it. I would hear her hurried 
 run to the door to greet me. " Hello ! Little Thing," 
 I would say. And then she would kiss me, just as lov- 
 ingly a-i ever. Oh, I was so confident of her desperate 
 atf'edion ! 
 
 Hut, as I reached the door, there was an ominous 
 
 stillness within. 
 
 '• She is trying to frighten me," I thought ; yet my 
 hand trembled as I put the key in the lock. 
 
 "Hello, Little Thing!' 
 
 No reply. A silence that somehow sickened me; 
 then a sudden fear. Perhaps I would find her dead, 
 killed by her own hand in a moment of despair. But, 
 as I hurriedly hunted the rooms, the sickening feeling 
 vanished, for nowhere could 1 find any trace of her. 
 The breakfast things were on the tabic just as I bad 
 lift them. Everytiiing was the same . . . yet stay! 
 there was a note addressed to nic. 
 
 Again that deadly sickness. I could scarce tear 
 open tile envelope. There was a long letter written 
 in French in an unsteady hand, and blurred with many 
 tears. Here is what I read: 
 
 " I am leaving your house, where I am only in the way. 
 Now you may bring your Mignonne or any one else you 
 wish, I would not stand for a moment between you and 
 your happiness. 
 
 " For a long time I have felt keenly your coldness and 
 
 \ 
 
SiiO 
 
 THE PRETF.NDER 
 
 indiff'erence, but I Iiave siifTcrcd it because I thought it 
 was due to the difference of race between us. Now tliat 1 
 know you do not love me, I can remain no longer. I do 
 not think you will ever make any one hai)))y. You are too 
 selfish. Your work is like a vampire. It sucks away all 
 your emotions, and leaves you witli no feeling for those 
 who love you. 
 
 " I have tried to please you, to make you care for me, 
 and I have failed. I can try no more. You will never 
 see me again, for I am going away. I feel I cannot make 
 you happy, and I do not want to be a drag on you. You 
 must not fear for me. I can work for a living, as I did 
 before. Do not try to seek me out. I am leaving Paris. 
 You can get a divorce very easily, then you can marry 
 some one more worthy of you. I will always love you, 
 and bless you and bless you. For the last time, 
 
 " Your heart-broken Wife." 
 
 I sat down and tried to collect mv thoughts. I 
 turned to the letter and read it again. No; there it 
 was, pitilessly plain. I was paralyse<l, crushed by an 
 immense self-pity. In fiction I would have made the 
 deserted husband tear his hair, and cry, "Curse her: 
 oh, curse her ! " Then tear her picture down from 
 the wall, and fall sobbing over it. If there had been 
 a child to cling to him it would have been all the more 
 effective. But this was reality. I did none of these 
 things. I lit a cigarette. 
 
 " Well, if that's not the limit ! " I cried. " Who'd 
 have thought she'd have so much spirit. But she'll 
 come back. Of course she'll come back." 
 
 So I sat down to await her home-coming, b' t oh ! the 
 house was very sad and still and lonely ! Never be- 
 fore had I realised how much her presence in it had 
 meant to nie. I made some tea and ate some bread and 
 
A CHKQUE AND A CHFX'K 
 
 331 
 
 liulter, and that night I went to bed very early and 
 (lid not sleep at all. Next morning I made some more 
 t»ii and ate some more bread and butter, but I did not 
 wa^h any dislies. I was too sad to do that. 
 
 'llie next day crawled past in the sume lugubrious 
 way. I went to the police and reported her disappear- 
 ance, and they began to search for her. I approached 
 the Morgue to make daily inquiries with fear and 
 trembling. I spent my days 'u\ looking for her. 
 I'.verv one sympathised with me, as, wan and woc- 
 iNgone, I wandered round the Quarter. 1 did not 
 sptak of my trouble but the whole world seemed to 
 knf)w, and the general opinion seemed to be that she had 
 gone of}' with some other man. They hinted at this, 
 and advised me to forget her. 
 
 *' I can't forget her," I cried to myself. " I never 
 dreamed she meant so much to me. Over and over 
 again I live the time we spent together. Looking 
 back now, it seems so happy, the happiest time in my 
 I Iff. And to be separated all through a wretched mis- 
 imderstanding!" 
 
 And every night I would sit all alone in the apart- 
 imnt, brooding miserably, and hoping every moment 
 to hear a knock at the door, and to find that she had 
 come back to me. But as time went on this hope 
 faded. Once, when I saw them fishing a drowned girl 
 out of the Seine, I had a moment of terrible fear. 
 There in the boat it lay, a dripping, carrion thing, and 
 with a thousand others I pressed to peer. With re- 
 lief, I saw that the cadaver had fair hair. 
 
 I began to write again, but the old, gay, whimsical 
 spirit had gone out of me, and in its place was one of 
 bitterness. Yet 1 was prospering amazingly. Torn, 
 
f}.'}9 
 
 THE PRDTF.NDER 
 
 Dick- and Ilarri/ was selling among the popular books 
 in the Anitricun market, and it lookecl as if the new- 
 hook was going to he wjually successful. Already liad 
 I nceived a royalty' cheque for three thousand dollars, 
 and I had spent most of it in hiring private detectives 
 to search for Anastasia. For six months I believed 
 I looked the most wretched man in Paris. You see, 
 I was playing the part of the Deserted Husband as 
 splendidly as I had played all my other parts. Yet 
 never did I fail to minutely analyse and record my 
 feelings, and even in my blackest woe I seemed to find 
 a somewl>at Byronic satisfaction. Never did I cease 
 to be the egotistic artist. 
 
 But all my searcliings were vain. The girl seemed 
 to have disappeared as if the Seine had swallowed her. 
 I was wasting my life in vain regrets, so after six 
 months had gone 1 put my affairs into the hands of a 
 divorce lawyer, and having fulfilled all tlie requirements 
 of French law, I sailed for America. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 PRINT F OF DREAM F,RS 
 
 I WAS lucky in getting a state-room on the Garguan- 
 fiiati, and on reading over the list of passengers I saw a 
 name that seemed vaguely familiar. Miss B. Tevandalc. 
 Where had I heard it before? 
 
 Then my memory sluggishly prompted me. Wasn't 
 there a Miss Boadicea Tevandale who had played some 
 part in my life? Oh, Irony! when we recall our past 
 loves and have difficulty in remembering their names ! 
 
 For the first two days the weather was very unset- 
 tling and I decided that I would better sustain my dig- 
 nity by remaining in my cabin. On the third, how- 
 ever, I ventured on deck, and there sure enough I saw 
 a Junoesquc female striding mannishly up and down. 
 Yes, it was Boadicea. She was looking exasperatingly 
 fit — I had almost written fat; but really, she seemed 
 to have grown positively adipose. 
 
 " Miss Tevandale." 
 
 " Mr. Madden." 
 
 " Why, you look wretched," she said, after the first 
 greetings were over. 
 
 "Yes; I'm a little seedy," I answered wanly. 
 " Haven't quite got my sea-legs yet. But you seem a 
 good sailor? " 
 
 *' Aggressively so. But where have you been all 
 
 this time? What wild, strange land has been claiming 
 
 you? All the world wondered. It seemed as if you 
 
 had dropped ofF the earth.'* 
 
 333 
 
334 
 
 THE phi:ti:ndeh 
 
 " I've been concealing nivself in the heart of civilisa- 
 tion. And 3'ou? I thought you would have been Mrs. 
 Jarraway Tope by now." 
 
 "Why! Didn't you get my letter? I wrote just 
 after you left to say that I had broken off my engage- 
 ment.'' 
 
 " No ; the letter never reached me. I supi)ose it got 
 side-tracked somewhere. So you tlidn't marry Jar- 
 raway after all. Well, well, it's a funny world." 
 
 " You don't seem tremendously excited at the 
 news." 
 
 " Ah ! You want me to ask why you broke it off. 
 I beg your pardon. I did not think I .lad the right 
 to ask that." 
 
 " If you have no right, who has? " 
 
 "I — I don't quite understand." 
 
 " Don't you remember the words you said when last 
 we met ? " 
 
 I blush to say I did not remember, but I answered 
 emotionally : 
 
 " Yes : they are engraven on my memory forever." 
 
 " Then can you wonder? " 
 
 " You don't mean to say it was on my account you 
 broke off your marriage with a millionaire?" 
 
 She answered me with a shade of bitterness. 
 
 " Listen, Horace ; there need be no mincing of mat- 
 ters between us two. Since I saw you last 1 have been 
 greatly interested in Woman's Suffrage. In fact I 
 have been devoting myself body and soul to the Cause. 
 Even now I am returning from a series of meetings in 
 England, which I attended as a delegate from New 
 York, and mixing with these noble-minded women has 
 completely cured me of that false modesty that so 
 
PRINCE OF DKEAMEKS 
 
 335 
 
 Iiaiulicnps our si-x. I believe now that it is a woman's 
 privilege, just as . :u:-h ns a man's, to declare her af- 
 fection. Horace, i love vou. I have always loved 
 you from that day. Will you be my husband?" 
 
 I grew pale. I hung my head. My lips trembled. 
 
 " Boadicea," I faltered, " I cannot. It is too late. 
 I am already marritil." 
 
 I saw the strong woman shrink as if she had received 
 a l)I()w. Then quickly she recovered herself. 
 
 "How was it." Tell me about it," she said quickly. 
 
 So there, as we watched the rolling of the whale- 
 grey sea and each billow seemed part of a cosmic con- 
 spiracy to upset my equilibrium, I told her the story of 
 Aiiastasia's desertion. 
 
 " Of course," I said brokenly, " I'll never see her 
 again. In fact, eve"; now I am sueing for a divorce. 
 In a few months I expect to be a free man." 
 
 " My dearest friend, you have my sympathy." 
 
 Under the cover of our rugs I felt her strong capable 
 hand steal to meet mine. Here was a fine, lofty soul 
 who could solace and understand me. This big, hand- 
 some woman, with the cool, crisp voice, with the clear, 
 calm eye, with the features of confidence and command, 
 was surely one on whom a heart-broken world-weary 
 man could lean a little in his hour of weakness and trou- 
 ble. I returned the pressure of that large firm hand, 
 and, moved by an emotion I could no longer suppress, 
 I turned and dived below. 
 
 There is no matchmaker like the Atlantic Ocean; 
 and so as the days went on I grew more and more taken 
 with the idea of espousing Boadicea. As we sat there 
 in our steamer chairs and watched the shrill wind 
 whip the billow peaks to spray, and the sudden rain- 
 
336 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 Ijows glcuiu in till' silvery spcndrift I listened to her 
 arguments in favour of the Suffrage and they seemed 
 to me unnnswerahle. I, too, became inspired with a 
 fierce passion tc devote my life to the Cause, to enter 
 and throw myself in the struggle of sex, to play my 
 huiiihle part in the Woman's War. And in Boadicea 
 I had found my Joan of Arc. 
 
 So as we shook hands on the New York pier we had 
 every intention of seeing one another again. 
 
 " Vou have helped me greatly with your noble sym- 
 pathy," I said. 
 
 " You have cheered me greatly with your splendid 
 understanding," she answered. 
 *' We are comrades." 
 
 " Yes, we are good comrades — in the Cause." 
 She had to go West on a lecturing tour, and it was 
 some ntonths before I saw her again. When I did, my 
 first words were: 
 
 " Boadicea, I'm a free man." 
 "Are \o\i? Htw does it feel?" 
 " Not at all natural. I don't believe I'll ever be 
 satisfied till I'm chained to the car again. Boadicea, 
 do you remember those words you spoke that day we 
 met on the Garguantmm? Does your proposition 
 still hold good?" 
 
 "\^'hat proposition?" 
 
 " Let us unite our forces. Let us fight side by side. 
 Boadicea, will you not change your name to Madden? 
 You know mv sad history. Here then I offer vou the 
 fragments of my heart." 
 
 " Oh, don't. You make me feel like a cannibal." 
 " Here then I offer you my hand and name. I will 
 try to make you the most devoted of husbands." "* 
 
PRINCE OF DREAMERS 
 
 337 
 
 " I am .-.ure you will. Horace, we will work together 
 for the good of the Cause." 
 
 A month after we were married and spent our honey- 
 moon in London, chiefly in attending Suffragette meet- 
 ings. Very soon I began to discover that being wedded 
 to ft woman who is wedded to a Cause is like being 
 till' understudy of yrn/ wife's husband. And if that 
 latlior militant suffragette happens to be a millionair- 
 ess then one's negligibility is humiliatingly accentuated. 
 I WHS only a millionaire in francs, while Boadicea was 
 a niillionairess in dollars, and the disparity of values 
 in national currency began to become more and more a 
 painful fact to me. 
 
 I WHS not long, too, in discovering that my sympathy 
 with the Cause was only skin deep. Indeed, my sud- 
 flrnly discovered enthusiasm had surprised even my- 
 self. It was unlike me to become so interested in real, 
 vital questions, that more than once I suspected myself 
 of being a hypocrite. At long distance the idea of 
 Woman finding herself fascinated me just as socialism 
 fascinated mc. I could dream and idealise and let my 
 imagination paint wonderful pictures of a woman's 
 world, but once the matter became concrete, my en- 
 thusiasm took wings. Then it was I had my first tiff 
 with Boadicea. 
 
 " Boa, I don't want to march in the demonstration 
 on Sunday," I said peevishly. 
 
 "Why not, Horace.^" demanded Boadicea with dis- 
 pleasure. 
 
 " Oh, well, I don't like the male suffragettes. They 
 look so like fowls. They remind me of vegetarians 
 or temperance cranks. Some of the fellows in the club 
 chaffed me awfully the last time I marched with them." 
 
338 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 " Oh, very well, Horace. Please yourself. Only I'm 
 just a little disappointed in you." 
 
 " I wouldn't mind so much," I went on, " if the 
 women were inspiring, but they're not. In the last 
 demonstration I couldn't help remarking that nearly 
 all the women who marched were homely and unattrac- 
 tive, while those who watched the procession were often 
 awfully pretty and interesting. N^w, couldn't you re- 
 verse the thing — let the homely ones line up and let 
 the pretty ones march? Then I'd venture to bet you'd 
 convert half the men on the spot." 
 
 Boadicea stared. This was appalling heresy on my 
 part; but I went on bravely. 
 
 "Another thing: why don't they dress better? Do 
 they think that the inspiration of a great cause justi- 
 fies them in being dowdy? I tell you, well-fitting cor- 
 sets and dainty shoes will do more for the freedom of 
 woman than all the argimiont in the world. Coax the 
 Vote from the men; don't bully them. You'll get it if 
 you're chamiing enough. Therein lies your real 
 strength — not in your intellect, but in 3'our charm." 
 
 " Don't tell me, Horace, you're like all tlie rest of 
 the men. A woman with a pretty face can turn you 
 round her finger ! " 
 
 " I'm sadly like most men, I find. I prefer charm 
 and prettiness to character and intellect; just as in 
 my youth I preferred bad boys to good. But, in any 
 case, I refuse to march any more with these * vieux 
 tableaux.* Remember I have a se;.se of humour." 
 
 "But all your enthusiasm? Your boiling indigna- 
 tion? Your thought of our wrongs?" 
 
 " Has all been overwhelmed by my sense of humour. 
 
PRINCE OF DREAMERS 
 
 339 
 
 One can only afford to take trivial things seriously, 
 and sorious tilings trivially." 
 
 " So you are going to throw us over? " 
 
 *' Not at all. I believe in the Cause, but I won't 
 march. The cause of woman would be all right if 
 thi-rc were no women — I mean the chief enemy to 
 women's suffrage is the suffragette. No woman has 
 more influence than the French woman. It is all the 
 more powerful because it is indirect. It is based on 
 love. A Frenchwoman knows that to coax is better 
 than to bully." 
 
 " Oh, you're always praising up the French women. 
 Why don't you go over to Paris to live, if you are so 
 fond of them?" 
 
 " I never want to set foot in Paris again.'* 
 
 " But what about me? I've never been there. Am 
 I never to see it ? " 
 
 " No ; I don't think you would like it." 
 
 " I think I would. I think we'd fcter go over there 
 for the Spring." 
 
 Any opposition on mv part made her determined, so 
 that if I wanted a thing very much I had to pretend 
 the very opposite. On the other hand, if I had ex- 
 pressed a keen wish to go to Paris she would have ob- 
 jected strenuously. Her nature was very antagonis- 
 tic. I admired her greatly for her intellect, for her 
 character; but she was one of those self-possessed, logi- 
 cal, clear-brained women who get on your nerves, and 
 every day she was getting more and more on mine. 
 
 We took an Italian Palace near the Pare Monceau, 
 bought a limousine, kept a dozen servants, moved in 
 the Embassy crowd and had our names in the Society 
 
340 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 column of the New York paper nearly every day. 
 Life became one beastly nuisance after another — 
 luncheons, balls, dinners, theatre parties. I, who had 
 a Bohemian hatred of dressing, had to dress every 
 evening. I, who dreaded making an engagement be- 
 cause it interfered with my liberty, found myself obliged 
 to keep a book in which I recorded my too numerous 
 engagements. I, who had so strenuously objected to 
 the constraints of company, was obliged to force smiles 
 and stroke people the right way for hours on end. 
 Was there ever such a slavery? It seemed as if I never 
 had a moment in which I could call my soul my own. 
 I was bored, heart-sick, goaded to rebellion. 
 
 " Why can't we be simple, even if we are rich ? ** I 
 remonstrated. ** It would be far less trouble and we'd 
 be far happier. I'm tired of trying to live up to my 
 valet. Let's cut out this society racket and live nat- 
 urally." 
 
 " We can't. We must live up to our position. It's 
 our duty. Besides, I like this * society racket * as you 
 so vulgarly call it. It gives me an opportunity to 
 impress people with my views. And really, Horace, 
 I think you're too ungrateful. You should be glad of 
 the opportunity of meeting so many nice people." 
 
 " Like Hades I should ! Do you call that Irish 
 countess we had for lunch nice? She had a long face 
 like a horse, blotched and covered with hair, and spoke 
 with the accent of a washerwoman. And that stiiF 
 Englishman — " 
 
 " You can't deny Sir Charles is awfully good form." 
 
 " (Jood form be hanged ! I think he's a pig-headed 
 a>s. I couldn't open my mouth without treading on 
 his traditional corns. American Spread-eagleism isn't 
 
PRINTE OF DREAMERS 
 
 341 
 
 in it with Britisli Lionrnmpantism. We have a sense 
 of humour that makes us laugh at our weaknesses, hut 
 the Englishman's are sacred. Tlmt Englishman actu- 
 ally believed that the masses were lK?ing educated be- 
 yond their station, believed that they should be kept 
 in the place they belonged." 
 
 " Really you're disgustingly democratic. What's 
 the use of having money if it doesn't make one better 
 than other people who haven't? As for Sir Charles; 
 I think he's perfectly charming.'* 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course. You're aping the English, like 
 all the Americans who come over here. Everything's 
 perfectly charming, or perfectly dreadful. You'll 
 soon be ashamed of your own nationality. Bah! of 
 all snobs the Anglo-American one's the most contempti- 
 ble. Of all poses the cosmopolitan one's the most dis- 
 gusting." 
 
 " Really your language is rather strong." 
 
 " It's going to be stronger before I'm finished. I've 
 been sitting quiet in my little corner taking notes on 
 you and your friends, and I've got the stuff for a book 
 out of our little splurflrc in society. There's a good 
 many of your friends in it. Madam. I fear they'll cut 
 you dead after they read it." 
 
 " If you publish such a work I'll get a divorce." 
 
 " Go and get one." 
 
 " Oh, you're a brute, a brute ! " 
 
 Here Boadicea stamped a number six shoe furiously 
 on the floor. 
 
 " Yes, and Pm glad of it. To woman's duplicity let 
 us men oppose our brutality. When the worst comes 
 to the worst we can always fall back on the good old 
 system of * spanking.' " 
 
342 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 " Oh ! Oh ! 
 cally capable." 
 
 You dare not. You arc not physi- 
 
 " Is tliat so? You're a strong woman, Boa; but I 
 still think I could use the flat of a nice broad slipper on 
 
 »» 
 
 you 
 
 She was speechless with wrath. Then, with another 
 exclamation of *' brute," she marched from the room. 
 Soon after I heard her order the car and go out. 
 
 " Yes," I murmured bitterly to my cigarette, " seems 
 like you'd caught a Tartar this time. Aren't you 
 sorry you ever married again .^ How different it was 
 before. Let's see. What's on to-night?" 
 
 My little book showed me that I was due to dine with 
 an ambassador. 
 
 *' What a nuisance ! I've got to dress. I've got to 
 stoke my physical machine with food that isn't suited 
 to it. I've got to murmur inanities to some under- 
 dressed female. How I hate it all! There was my 
 old grandfather now. He died leaving a million, but 
 up to his death he lived as simpl}' as the day he began 
 working for wages. Ah ! there was a happy man. I 
 remember when he used to come home for supper at 
 night they would bring him two bowls, one full of hot 
 mashed potatoes, the other of sweet, fresh mi!k. He 
 would eat with a horn spoon, taking it half full of po- 
 tatoes, then loading up with milk. And how he en- 
 joyed it! What a glorious luxury it would be to sit 
 down to-night to a bowl of potatoes and a bowl of 
 milk ! " 
 
 I stared drearily round the great room which we had 
 sub-let from the mistress of a Grand Duke. Such 
 lavish luxury of mirror and marble, of silk and satin- 
 wood, furnished by an artist to satisfy an epicure! 
 
PRINCE OF DREAMERS 
 
 843 
 
 Sumptuous splendour I suppose j'ou would call it. 
 But oil, what would I not give to be back once more in 
 the garret of the rue Gracieuse! Ay, even there 
 with its calico curtains and its home-made furniture. 
 Or sitting down to a dinner of roast chicken and Veuve 
 Amiot with . . . Oh, I can't bear to mention even her 
 name! The thought of her brings a choke to my 
 throat and a mist to my eyes. . . . How happy I was 
 tlun, and I didn't know it! And how good she was! 
 just a good ' UIp girl. I didn't think half enough of 
 hir. What ^ mistake it's all been ! '* 
 
 I stared at the burnt out cigarette, reflecting bit- 
 terly. 
 
 " I should never have come back to this Paris. It 
 just makes me unhappy. At every turn of the street 
 I expect to suddenly come face to face with her. I 
 can't bear to visit the rive gaiiche. It's haunted for 
 me. I see myself as I was then, swinging my old 
 cherry-wood cane as I strode so buoyantly along the 
 quays. Every foot of that old Latin Quarter has its 
 memory. I can't go there again. It's too painful." 
 
 I rose and paced up and down the room. 
 
 " God ! wasn't I happy though ! Remember the 
 afternoons in the Luxembourg and the Bal Bullier, and 
 the Boul' Mich'. How I loved it all ! How I used to 
 linger gazing at the old houses ! How I used to dream, 
 and thrill, and gladden! Oh, the wonder of the Seine 
 by night, the work, the struggle, the visits to the Mont- 
 de-Piete, the careless God-given Bohemian days! It 
 hurts me now to think of them. ... It hurts 
 me. . . ." 
 
 Going over to the mantelpiece I leaned one elbow on 
 it, looking down drearily at the fire. 
 
d44 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 " Ah, Little Thing! How glad she always was when 
 I came home! I can fetl her arms round n>y neck as 
 she welcomed me, feel her soft kisses, sec the little room 
 all bright and cheery. Oh, if these days Would only 
 come again! Where is she now, I wonder? Poor, 
 poor Little Thing." 
 
 As I stood there like a man stricken, miserable be- 
 
 yond all words, suddenly 
 seemed to leave my heart, 
 the butler in the hall. 
 
 *' Is Madam in please.? 
 hem-hroderie she want see. 
 
 I started. All the blood 
 Some one was talking to 
 
 I have bring some leetle 
 She tell me to come now." 
 
 Just a tired, quiet, colourless voice, interrupted by 
 a sudden cough, yet oh, how sweet, how heaven-sweet 
 to me! Again I listened. 
 
 " Oh, she have gone out. I am so sorry. She have 
 made appointment wiz me for now and I have not much 
 time. I will leave my hem'-broderie for Madam to re- 
 gard. Then I will call again to-morrow." 
 
 She was going, but I could not restrain myself. 
 
 " Thomas," I said to the man, " call her back. I 
 will make a selection of her work for Madam." 
 
 As I stood there by the mantelpiece with head bent, 
 waiting, I saw in the mirror the crimson curtains 
 parted, and there stood a little, grey figure, shrinking, 
 shabby, surprised. Then I turned slowly and once 
 again we were face to face. 
 
 "Little Thing!" 
 
 She started. Her hand in its shabby, cotton glove 
 went up to her throat, and she made a step as if she 
 would throw herself in my arms. 
 
 "You?" 
 
PIUNCE OF DREAMERS 
 
 345 
 
 " Ve«," I sftid inisfrably. " I never thought to set- 
 It would 
 
 you. 
 
 you again. 
 
 " And I did not sink I evaire see 
 liave been better not." 
 
 " It would ; but I'm glad, I'm glad.'* 
 
 " Yes, I am glad too, for I want to say how sorry 
 I am I leave you like that. I was mad wiz jealousy. I 
 could not help it. After, I want very much keel my- 
 self, but I have promised you I do not." 
 
 " So, no, it was my fault. I could have explained 
 everything so easily. But after all, it's too late. 
 What does it matter now? " 
 
 " No, it does not mattaire much now. I am so glad 
 for you you have got divorce from me. I am very bad 
 womans. Please excuse me." 
 
 " Yes, yes ; but forgive me. I never cared enough 
 for you — or at least I never showed I cared. Now 
 I know." 
 
 " You care now. Oh, that will make me so happy. 
 You know there is not much longer for me. The doc- 
 tor tell me so. I am poitrinaire." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders with a resigned little 
 grimace. 
 
 " But," she went on, " now I shall be so glad. I 
 don't care for myself. You remember for laughing 
 you used to call me * Poor leetle Sing,' and I say : ♦ No, 
 I am not poor leetle sing, I am very, very, 'appy leetle 
 sing.' Ah ! but now I am poor leetle sing indeed." 
 
 " Can I not help you? I must." 
 
 •' No, I will take nussing from you. And anyway it 
 would not help much. I make enough from my hem- 
 broderie to leeve, and I don't want any pleasure some 
 
346 
 
 THE PRETENDER 
 
 more. Just to lecve. The sisters at the convent are 
 very good to me. I see them often, and when I am sick 
 at the last I know they will care for me. Really 1 am 
 very well. Now I must go ; I must work ; I lose time." 
 
 " Oh, for Heaven's sake, let me do something ! " 
 
 " No, I am very good. I sink at you always, and I 
 bless you. You see I have the good souvenirs." 
 
 From the breast of her threadbare jacket she took a 
 worn- silver locket and showed me a little snapshot of 
 myself. 
 
 " There, I have the souvenir of happy days. Now 
 I must go." 
 
 She looked very frail, and of a colour almost trans- 
 parent. She tried hard to smile. Then she swayed as 
 if she would faint, but recovered herself by clutching at 
 a chair. 
 
 « Little Thing," I said, « it's too late, but we must 
 at least shake hands." 
 
 She pulled off a grey cotton glove and held out a 
 hand all toilworn and needle-warped. 
 
 " Good-bye," she said wearily. 
 
 I seized the little thin hand, conscious that my hot 
 tears were falling on it. Looking up, I saw that her 
 eyes too were a-stream with tears. 
 
 " Good-bye," I said chokingly. 
 
 " Good-bye, darlecn, good-bye for evaire . . ." 
 
 That was all. She turned and left me standing 
 there. I heard her coughing as she went downstairs. 
 Sinking down I sobbed as if my heart would 
 break. . . , 
 
 • ♦••••• 
 
 "What's the mnttairo, darlecn?" 
 
 It seemed as if some one was shaking me violently. 
 
PRINCE OF DREAMERS 
 
 847 
 
 My pillow was wet with tears and the sobs still con- 
 vulsed me. I opened staring eyes, eyes that fell on 
 a dretting table of walnut, an armoire vith mirror 
 doort, and cretonne curtains, with a design of little 
 roset. Yet I stared more, for Anastasia, fresh and 
 dainty, but with a face of great concern, was bending 
 over nic. 
 
 "What's the mottairc, darlecn? For ten minutes 
 I try to wake you up. You have been having bad 
 dream. You cry dreadful." 
 
 "Dream! Dream! Am I mad? . . . Where am I 
 now? . . . Tell me quick." 
 
 " Oh, darleen, what's the mattaire ? You afTrighten 
 me . . ." 
 
 " No, no; what's the address of this house? " 
 
 " Passage d'Enfcr." 
 
 "And the date . . .? What's the date?*' 
 
 " The twelve Novembre." 
 
 " But the year, the year ? '* 
 
 " Why the year is Nineteen hundred thirteen." 
 
 " Thank God ! I thought it was nineteen fourteen." 
 Then the whole truth flashed on me. Prince of Dream- 
 ers! In a night I had dreamed the events of a whole 
 year of life. Yesterday was the day of my accident, 
 and this morning — why, I had to pass my examina- 
 tion for a chauffeur's licence; this morning at nine 
 o'clock, and it was now eleven. Too late. 
 
 Yet I did not care then for a thousand Inspectors. 
 I was not married to Boadicea. I still had Little 
 Thing. I vow I was the happiest man in the world. 
 
 "Pack everything up," I said. "We leave for 
 America to-morrow." 
 
 • •••••• 
 
3i8 
 
 THE PRETKNDER 
 
 Oncv more I sat in the favourite ehnir of my fjivour- 
 itr club, suneying the incredible bank book. Figures! 
 Figures! More formidably than ever they loomed up. 
 r'seless indeed to try and cope with this flood of for- 
 tune. 
 
 And now that I had two reputations to keep up, the 
 flood was more insistent than ever. Not only were 
 there the best-sellers of Norman Dane to bargain with, 
 but also the best-sellers of Silenus Starset. And for 
 my own modest needs, with Anastasia's careful manage- 
 ment, my little patrimony more than sufl'iced. What 
 then was I going to do with these senseless figures that 
 insisted so in piling up, and yet meant nothing to me? 
 Suddenly the solution flashed on me, and as if it were 
 an illuminated banner I saw the words: 
 
 James Horace Maddex, Philaxthropist. 
 
 That was it. This wonderful gift of mine that made 
 the acquisition of money so easy, what should I do 
 with it but exercise it for the good of humanity." 
 
 Yes, I would be a philanthropist ; but on whom would 
 I philanthrope." 
 
 The answer was easy. Who better desened my help 
 than my fellow-scribes who had failed, those high and 
 delicate souls who had scorned to commercialise their 
 art, who were true to themselves and fought for all that 
 was best in literature." Even as there was a home for 
 old actors, so I would found one for old authors, bat- 
 tered, beaten veterans of the pen, who in their declining 
 years would find rest, shelter, sympathy under a gen- 
 erous roof. 
 
 Yes, writing popular fiction had become a habit with 
 
PRINCE OF DREAMERS 
 
 349 
 
 uio, almost a vice. I was afraid I could never give it 
 up. But here would be my extenuation. The money 
 the public gave me for pleasing them I would spend on 
 those others who, because they were artists, failed to 
 ploHse. And in ihis way at least I would indirectly 
 he of some use to literature. 
 
 Then again; what a splendid example it would be to 
 my brother best-seller makers, turning out their three 
 books a year and their half dozen after they are dead. 
 Let them, too, show their zeal for literatun by de- 
 voting the bulk of their ill-gotten gains to its encour- 
 itgenient. 
 
 The club had changed very little. "^ saw the same 
 nieinbers, looking a little more mutinous «bout the waist 
 line. There was Vane and Quince, qualifying perhaps 
 for my home. I greeted them cordially, aglow with 
 altruism. After all, it was a day of paltry achieve- 
 ment. We were all small men, and none of us weighed 
 on the scale. I felt very humble indeed. Quince had 
 been right. I would never be one of those writers 
 whom all the world admires — and doesnH read. 
 Truly I was one of the goats. 
 
 But that night at dinner in the Knickerbocker 1 
 threw back my head and laughed. And Anastasia in 
 .1 new evening gown looked at me in surprise and de- 
 manded what was the matter. I surveyed her over a 
 brimming glass of champagne. 
 
 "Extraordinary thing," I thought; "isn't it ab- 
 surd.* I'm actually falling in love with my own wife." 
 
 TII£ END