“Moze—Audrey Moze,” she answered, for she had not dared to acquaint Mr. Foulger with her widowhood, and his cheques were made out to herself.
The clerk vanished, and in a moment reappeared, silently wrote something on a little form, and pushed it to her under the grille. She read:
/* “73,065 frs. 50c.” */
The fact was that in six months she had spent little more than the amount which she had brought with her from London. Having begun in simplicity, in simplicity she had continued, partly because she had been too industrious and too earnest for luxurious caprices, partly because she had never been accustomed to anything else but simplicity, and partly from wilfulness. It had pleased her to think that she was piling tens of thousands upon tens of thousands—in francs.
But in the night she had decided that the moment had arrived for a change in the great campaign of seeing life and tasting it.
She timorously drew a cheque for eleven thousand francs, and asked for ten thousand in notes and a thousand in gold. The clerk showed no trace of either astonishment or alarm; but he insisted on her endorsing the cheque. When she saw the gold, she changed half of it for ten notes of fifty francs each.
Emerging with false but fairly plausible nonchalance from the crowded establishment, where other clerks were selling tickets to Palestine, Timbuctoo, Bagdad, Berlin, and all the abodes of happiness in the world, she saw at the newspaper kiosk opposite the little blue poster of an English daily. It said: “More Suffragette Riots.” She had a qualm, for her conscience was apt to be tyrannic, and its empire over her had been strengthened by the long, steady course of hard work which she had accomplished. Miss Ingate’s arguments had not placated that conscience. It had said to her in the night: “If ever there was a girl who ought to assist heartily in the emancipation of women, that girl is you, Audrey Moze.”
“Pooh!” she replied to her conscience, for she could always confute it with a sharp word—for a time.
And she crossed to the grand boulevard, and turned westward along the splendid, humming, roaring thoroughfare gay with flags and gleaming with such plate-glass as Nick the militant would have loved to shatter. Certainly there was nothing like this street in the Quarter. The Quarter could equal it neither in shops, nor in cafés, nor in vehicles, nor in crowds. It was an exultant thoroughfare, and Audrey caught its buoyancy, which could be distinctly seen in the feather on her hat. At the end of it she passed into the cool shade of a music-shop with the name “Durand” on its façade. She had found the address, and another one, in the telephone book at the Café de Versailles that morning. It was an immense shop containing millions of pieces of music for all instruments and all tastes. Yet when she modestly asked for the Caprice for violin of Roussel, the morceau was brought to her without the slightest hesitation, together with the pianoforte accompaniment. The price was twelve francs.
Her gloved hand closed round the slim roll with the delicate firmness which was actuating all her proceedings on that magnificent afternoon. She was determined to save Musa not merely from himself, but from Miss Thompkins and everybody. It was not that she was specially interested in Musa. No! She was interested in a clean, neat job—that was all. She had begun to take charge of Musa, and she intended to carry the affair through. He had the ability to succeed, and he should succeed. It would be ridiculous for him not to succeed. From certain hints, and from a deeply sagacious instinct, she had divined that money and management were the only ingredients lacking to Musa’s triumph. She could supply both these elements; and she would. And her reward would be the pride of the workman in his job.