“In the event of your accepting my proposition,” said Bigourdin, after a pause, “have you ever thought of the possibility of becoming a naturalised Frenchman? Like that, perhaps, business might roll more smoothly. We have already spoken, you and I, of your becoming a good Périgordin.”
Martin, hands in pockets and shoulders hunched so as to obtain ear-shelter beneath the upturned collar of his great coat, was silent for a few moments. Then—
“Nationality is a strange thing,” said he. “The more I live in France, the more proud I am of being an Englishman.”
Bigourdin sprang a pace apart, wounded to the quick. “Mais non par exemple! You of all men,” and it was the “vous” of formality, “ought not to say that.”
“Mais que tu es bête! You misunderstand me. You don’t let me proceed,” cried Martin, halting before him in the semi-darkness of the quay. “In France I have learned the meaning of the word patriotism. I have been surrounded here with the love of country, and I have reflected. This impulse is so strong in all French hearts, ought it not to be as strong in the heart of an Englishman? France has taught me the finest of lessons. I am as loyal a Frenchman as any of our friends at the Café de l’Univers, but—” adapting a vague reminiscence of the lyric to Lucasta—“I should not love France so much, if I did not love England more.”
“Mon brave ami!” cried Bigourdin, holding out both hands, in a Frenchman’s instinctive response to a noble sentiment adequately expressed, “Pardon me. Let us say no more about it. The true Englishman who loves France is a better friend to us than the Englishman who has lost his love for England.”
Martin went to bed in a somewhat tortured frame of mind. He was very simple, very honest, very conscientious. It was true that the flame of French patriotism had kindled the fire of English patriotism within him. It was true that he had learned to love this sober, intense, kindly land of France. It was true that here was a generous bosom of France willing to enfold him, an alien, like one of her own sons. But it was equally true that in his ears rang a clarion call sounded not by mother England, not by foster-mother France, but by une petite sorcière Américaine, a fair witch neither of England nor of France, but from beyond the estranging seas. And the day after to-morrow he was journeying to Paris to take the advice of Fortinbras, Marchand de Bonheur. What would the dealer in happiness decide? To wait until some turn of Fortune’s wheel should change his career and set him free to wander forth across the world, or to invest his all in an inglorious though comfortable future? Either way there would be heart-racking.
But Bigourdin, as he secured the Hôtel des Grottes with locks and bolts, whistled “Malbrouck s’en va-t-en guerre,” a sign of his being pleased with existence. He had no doubt of Fortinbras’s decision. Fortinbras had practically given it in a letter he had received that afternoon. For he had told Fortinbras his proposal, which was based on the certainty of a marriage between Félise and Martin, as soon as the latter should find himself in a position that would warrant a declaration up to now impossible to a man of delicate honour. “They think I am an old mole,” he had written, “but for certain things I have the eyes of a hawk. Why did Félise suddenly refuse Lucien Viriot? Why has Martin during her last absence been in a state of depression lamentable to behold? And now that Félise has returned, changed from a young girl into that thing of mystery, a woman, why are their relations once so fraternal marked by an exquisite politeness? And why must Martin travel painful hours in a train in order to consult the father of Félise? Tell me all that! When it comes to real diplomacy, mon vieux Daniel, trust the solid head of Gaspard Bigourdin.”
Which excerpt affords a glimpse into the workings of a subtle yet ingenuous mind. He hummed “Malbrouck s’en var-t-en guerre” as he went upstairs. The little American witch never crossed his thoughts, nor did a possible application of the line “Ne sais quand reviendra.”