The Unspeakable Gentleman

by John P. Marquand

But she did not move.

"No," said Mademoiselle, "I prefer to stay where I am. I have seen too much of you and your father to leave you alone together."

"But surely, Mademoiselle," I protested, "you forget why we have come."

"Yes," she answered quickly, "yes, you are right. I do forget. I have seen too much of this, too much of utter useless folly—too many men dying, too many suffering for a hopeless cause. I have seen three men lying dead in our hall, and as many more wounded. I have seen a strong man turned into a blackguard. I have seen a son turned against his father, and all for a bit of paper which should never have been written. I hate it—do you hear me?—and if I forget it, it is because I choose. I forget it because—" She seemed about to tell me more, and then to think better of it. "Surely you see, surely you see you cannot. He is your father, Monsieur, the man who is coming here."

"Mademoiselle," I replied, "you are far too kind. I hardly think he or I have much reason to hold our lives of any particular value, but as you have said, my father was a gentleman once, and gentlemen very seldom kill their sons, nor gentlemen's sons their fathers. Pray rest assured, Mademoiselle, it will be a quiet interview. I beg you, be silent, for he is almost here."

I was not mistaken. A horse was on the path we followed, running hard, and crashing recklessly through the bushes. Before I had sight of him I heard my father's voice.

"Ives!" he called sharply. "Where the devil are you?"

And in an instant he was at the door, his horse breathing in hard, sobbing breaths, and he had swung from the saddle as I went forward to meet him.

"Here," he said, "take it, and be off. Those fools have run me over half the state. In fact," he continued in the calm tones I remember best, "in fact, I have seldom had a more interesting evening. I was fired on before I had passed the gate, and chased as though I carried the treasures of the Raj. I have your word never to tell where you got it. Never mind my reasons, or the thanks either. Take it Ives. It has saved me so many a dull day that it has quite repaid my trouble."

There he was, half a pace away, and yet he did not know me. I think it was that, more than anything else, which robbed me of my elation. To him the whole thing seemed an ordinary piece of business. I saw him test his girth, preparatory to mounting again, saw him slowly readjust his cloak, and then I took the paper he handed me and buttoned it carefully in my inside pocket. He turned to his horse again and laid a hand on his withers, but still he did not mount. I think he was staring into the night before him and listening, as I had been. Then he turned again slowly, and half faced me. On the wind, far off still, but nevertheless distinct, was the sound of voices.