HOW strange is the romance of destiny! Four nights before he had lain in a cave in the hinterland of Corsica, listening to a brigand’s tale of blood, and now, behold, he was in Paris, walking the Boulevard Montparnasse, and searching for a certain number.
He found it, an old house sandwiched between two modern ones. Looking up to its mansarded roof he saw a window alight, a window with a small balcony. That must be her room. He had heard her speak of it so often, her “Mansard of Dreams” as she called it. His heart beat excitedly; then suddenly he saw a shadow on the blind. Yes, it was her shadow, Margot’s. Should he go up? He thought not. It was too late. She was probably very busy, preparing for the morrow, her marriage morn. No, he would not bother her to-night.
While he was thus arguing with himself, his feet were carrying him to the door. A fat concierge was giving a Pekinese spaniel an airing. Suddenly he heard himself asking.
“Does Mademoiselle Leblanc live here?”
“Yes, monsieur. Fifth floor. Door to the right.”
It sounded like an invitation to go up, and he accepted it. As he mounted the broken stairs, his heart beat faster. Very silly this! Why should making a call on her so excite him? It was hard to believe that she was there. It seemed years since he had seen her,—far back in a somewhat uncertain past.
He found himself at the door, knocking. How his confounded heart was knocking too! Damn! He could hear her moving about inside. Perhaps she thought it was some one else. Perhaps when she saw it was he, she would be disappointed. She was taking a long time to open the door. He felt a great longing come over him, a great tenderness. He would take her in his arms, kiss her, overwhelm her with passionate caresses.
He did none of these things. When the door opened, he was the punctilious, rather cold, young man she had always known.
“Good evening,” he said politely.
“You!”
She stood staring at him; her blue eyes big in her pale face; her hands up to her heart as if to still its tumult. She wore a loose black peignoir that showed off by contrast the pearly whiteness of her skin. Against the background of her pale gold hair her face was delicately sweet. For the hundredth time she reminded him of a lily.
“It is, indeed, you?”
She took both his hands and pulled him gently into the room. She had pinned up her hair rather hastily, and it came tumbling about her. As she raised her hands again to pile it about her head, he stopped her.
“No, leave it like that. It was like that the first time I saw you. I will always think of you that way.”
She let it fall, a shimmering cape around her.
“I’m sorry,” she said faintly, “to receive you in this poor shabby room. Please sit down on that chair. It’s my only one.”
He took it. She herself sat down on the edge of the bed, facing him.
“I hurried to get here,” he told her awkwardly. “I wanted to be present at the ceremony,—even if only as a spectator in the background.”
“What ceremony?”
“Your wedding, to-morrow.”
“Why, didn’t you know? I wrote to tell you I’d refused him.”
“I didn’t get the letter. You refused him.... Why?”
“I don’t know. I suppose I didn’t care enough for him. I don’t think shall ever marry.”
“And what are you doing now?”
“Working,—with Jeanne. We are taking a shop. I thought it was she when you knocked.”
“Are you happy?”
“Yes, happier than I have ever been in my life.”
“And I am more miserable.”
“You! Why?”
“Because ... I’m lonely. Look here, Margot, I want you. I only realized how much I needed you after you went away—how much you mean to me. I say, Margot, I suppose I’m a stiff, cold sort of a chap. I can’t do the sentimental stuff. I can’t make pretty speeches, but I really do care for you.”
“As a sister?”
“No, an awful lot more than that! I can’t do without you, dear. I know it now. I knew it the moment I’d thought I’d lost you. Don’t tell me I’ve lost you, Margot.”
He leaned forward, staring anxiously into her eyes. She sat quite still, her breath coming fast.
“Marry me, Margot,” he faltered, “Me!”
She seemed made of ice. “That’s very kind of you,” she said.
“Not at all, Margot. Believe me, I’m not kind. I’m humble. I’m pleading. I’ll get down on my knees if you like.”
“No, please don’t.”
“Look here....” He suddenly leaned forward. He took a handful of her shining hair and twisted it into a great golden rope, then wound it around her white throat.
“Margot,” he said savagely, “if you don’t say yes, I’ll strangle you right here. Say yes.”
“Is it to save my life I must say yes?”
“Your life—and mine.”
“Well, if it’s to save yours, too.... Yes!”
The tension was over. He rose. He was radiant. He laughed.
“I’ll see the British Consul to-morrow; and we’ll get hitched up in a few days. Now I’m going. I want to be alone, to realize my happiness, to sing to the stars. I want to celebrate, to get drunk. Margot, may I get drunk to-night?”
“What!”
“With joy I mean. I want to sit in a café by myself and let my happiness soak in gradually. I want to smile like an idiot over a café crême and have people look at me twice, and say, ‘Mais ... il est fou, ce gars la....’ I want to laugh loudly at the moon, and dance the can-can by the Carpeaux fountain. Oh Margot, Margot....”
Down in the street a passing sergent de ville who happened to look up at the lighted mansard window, saw two separate shadows on the blind. The masculine shadow reached out to the feminine one, then the two shadows became one.
“Ah! Ces amoureux!” he remarked with a shrug as he went on his way.