He wondered whether he would miss Cécile. Such things had happened. No matter how degraded, she had been a human thing to greet him on his return from his preposterous toil. Also, her needs had been an incentive; they had sharpened the hawk’s vision during the daily round of cafés and restaurants, and quickened his pounce upon the divined five-franc piece. Would he have the nerve, the unwearied patience, the bitter sense of martyrdom, wherewith to carry on his trade? Again, in days past his heavy heart had been uplifted by the love of a child like the wild flowers from which Alpine honey is made, away in the depths of old-world France. But now he had forfeited her love. She had written to him, all these weeks in Egypt, dutifully, irreproachably; had given him the news, such as it was, of Brantôme. She had told him of the state of her uncle’s health—invariably robust; of the arrivals and departures of elegant motorists; of the march through the town decorated for the occasion of a host of petits soldats, amid the enthusiasm and Marseillaise singing of the inhabitants; of the sudden death by apoplexy of the good Madame Chauvet, and the sudden development of business on the part of her daughters, who almost immediately had taken the next shop and launched out into iron wreaths and crosses, and artificial flowers and funeral inscriptions, touching and pious; of the purchases of geese; of the infatuation of the elderly Euphémie for the youthful waiter, erstwhile plongeur of the Café de l’Univers; of all sorts and conditions of unimportant happenings; finally of the betrothal of Monsieur Lucien Viriot and Estelle Mazabois, the daughter of the famous Mazabois who kept a great drapery establishment of Périgueux—“she has the dowry of a princess and the head of a rocking-horse, so they are sure to be happy,” wrote Félise. The manner of this last announcement shocked him. Félise had changed. She had given him all the news, but her letters had grown self-conscious and artificial. To avoid the old, artless expressions of endearment, she rushed into sprightly narrative, and signed herself “his affectionate daughter.” He had lost Félise.
Yes, he felt old and lonely, unnerved for the struggle. Even Martin had forsaken him.
He had encountered a stony-faced, wrong-headed young man on the terrace of Shepheard’s Hotel the noon before he sailed, and found all his nostrums for happiness high-handedly rejected. Martin had been an idle woman’s toy, a fiery toy as it turned out; and when she burned her fingers, she had dropped him. So much was obvious; most of it he had foreseen. He had counted on eventual declaration and summary dismissal; but he had not reckoned on a prelude of reciprocated sentiment. Contrary to habit, Martin gave him but a confused view of his state of mind. The unhappy lover would hear not a word against his peerless lady. On the other hand, his love for her had blasted his existence. This appalling fact, though he did not proclaim it so heroically, he allowed Fortinbras to apprehend. He neither reproached him for past advice nor asked for new. To the suggestion that he should return to Brantôme and accept Bigourdin’s offer, he turned a deaf ear. He had cut himself adrift; he must go whithersoever winds and tides should carry him, and they were carrying him far from Périgord.
“In what direction?” Fortinbras had enquired.
“Thank Heaven, I don’t know myself,” he had answered. “Anyhow, I am going to seek my fortune. I must have money and power so that I can snap my fingers at the world. That’s what I’m going to live for.”
And soon after that declaration he had wrung Fortinbras by the hand, and hailing an arabeah had driven off into the unknown. Fortinbras had felt like the hen who sees her duckling brood sail away down the brook. He had lost control of his disciple; he mattered nothing to the young man setting forth on his wild-goose chase after fortune. His charming little scheme had failed. He anticipated the reproaches of Bigourdin, the accusation in the eyes of Félise. “Why did you side with the enemy? Why did you drive Martin away?” . . .
He felt old and lonely, a pathetic failure; so he walked the second-class deck with listless shoulders and bowed head, his hands in his pockets.
“Tiens! Monsieur Fortinbras! who would have thought it?” cried a fresh voice.
He looked up and saw a dark-eyed girl, her head enveloped in a motor-veil, who extended a friendly hand.
“Mademoiselle . . .” he began uncertainly.