The Breath of the Gods Part 36

Ronsard held it out. "Daudet might have done better in phrasing, but even he could have made the meaning no plainer."

Pierre at the window gave a sound of derision, and was still.

The count sipped daintily at his coffee, and offered some to the cat, who, mindful of recent indignity, turned her head. Lifting the diaphanous screed, he read it once more carefully, studying, it would seem, each separate word.

Pierre raised one delicate hand and tapped on the window-frame the rhythm of an air from Carmen. Still Ronsard gave no sign.

"Well, your Excellency, is this all you can remark?" he cried, whirling about as the strain threatened to become unbearable. "Has the father confessor nothing but the husks of literary comparison to offer?"

"Softly, my son. Another written communication will, in a moment, be with you. This time it will be a chit, a legitimate chit, in a bright new leather book."

"You are pleased to be enigmatic."

"Non,--you flatter. There should be no enigmas to a diplomat. This correspondent,--" here he waved the sheet airily,--"has been at work on his creation since the time of dawn. There are full three hours between his first ink and his last. Miss Onda, on the contrary, writes with ease and skill. Her letter of announcement went to Miss Todd. It will soon come to you."

"How, in G.o.d's name, do you think such things?" cried Pierre, in reluctant admiration.

"I seldom think them. They are obliging enough to come to me," said Ronsard, with a deprecating gesture, and sank back to an att.i.tude of waiting.

Pierre stared on, half fascinated. There was something sphinx-like about the man,--a gelatinous sphinx, not quite congealed into certainty.

Ronsard did not resent the stare. He met it once or twice, smiling, with slight twinkles, or, to be more accurate, slight blinks, of his small pale eyes. He looked now as if he might soon purr, like the cat.

"Ah," he murmured at length, with a slight upward gesture of one hand.

"The servant-bell again. Your chit, Monsieur. A hundred francs upon it."

"Done," said Pierre. He too listened eagerly.

As they wait, in listening silence, the reader may as well be initiated into the mysteries of the "chit."

In all foreign communities of the Far East, but particularly in those where English influence prevails, three hybrid words become part of the daily vocabulary. The first is "tiffin," the second "amah," the third and most important, "chit."

Doubtless there are persons who know the origin of the last. I do not.

Literally, it means a written message sent by a native runner. The foreign shops in the Far East abound in chit-books, made, most of them, in Manchester. They can be found in paper, cloth, or leather bindings.

The "elite" tend toward Russia leather with a crest or monogram stamped in gold. Chit-books are to social life what check-books are to fiscal.

The letter, note, or present comes accompanied by the inevitable "chit-book." The recipient is supposed to sign his name, and the hour, as in a telegram. This duty, in point of fact, is very soon relegated to the head butler, or the ingratiating "amah," a laxity which has produced more than one lawsuit and countless domestic scandals.

Tsuna, in due time, appeared with a large black leather book, aggressively and odorously new, a gold spread-eagle on the back. The envelope it accompanied was large and blue. It bore Pierre's name in the clear handwriting of Miss Todd.

The count signed the book and whispered Tsuna to remain just outside the door.

Before opening the new missive, Pierre threw himself into a chair, his face turned partly away from Ronsard. The latter picked up a rustling Paris newspaper, and over its quivering upper edge watched the smooth cheek of Pierre, his left ear, and the strip of pink neck showing over an immaculate collar.

Out of the folds of the blue letter fell a smaller one of white. This was addressed to Gwendolen. At sight of it the young man's heart gave a sick throb. He hid this in his coat, until the other should have been read.

"I send you this note of Yuki's in the original, because I want you to see more in the changed handwriting than in the formal words. I am not going to insult you by trying to say anything now, except that I am sorry. I sympathize with your trouble more deeply than you will, perhaps, believe. Come to me when you will. I shall say nothing but kind things. It is a wide gulf of race and of inherited ideals between you and Yuki. No love could hold the arch of a bridge quite so wide. But remember her poor little aching heart! There! I am, as usual, doing just what I vowed I wouldn't do. Oh, Pierre, I am sorry for you,--sorry, sorry! The world doesn't seem a very bright place, this morning, does it? I have been scolding a yama-buki bush that insists upon opening in our garden; but the flowers just laugh in my face. It is an unsympathetic universe! Your friend,

"GWENDOLEN."

Pierre held Yuki's letter long before reading it. A breath of her subtle personality must have clung to the sc.r.a.p, for he inhaled from it a new bitterness, a new anguish. With a groan as of physical suffering he threw himself forward, put elbows on his knees, and deliberately forced himself to read, in rigid silence, the following note:

"MY DEAR GWENDOLEN, who has been my only sister,--Your telegram having arrived, and Prince Hagane having come to me in person to speak of my duties and the opportunity he could give me at once in this time of trouble and war, I have myself willingly consented to be his wife. I am forced by n.o.body. You do not think badly of me for this, but some other will think very badly. Oh, please to speak kind and soothing things to that other. His grief is my aching always sorrow. I care not at all for my own, but I care very much for his. He will think me wicked and unfaithful to have broke so solemn pledge, but at the time of breaking I did not seem to myself wicked. We do not know how things sometimes have happened. But this has now happened to me. Ask him to forgive me. The marriage is to be held very soon; in fact, on Wednesday of the coming week. According to j.a.panese custom I must now be very secluded until that ceremony, not even seeing my sister, which is you. I believe Prince Hagane is to take me after to Kamakura. I do not care where he take me. Oh, Gwendolen, love your Yuki and pray for her to be strong. Always before I have been weak at a crisis. I must not now ever be weak. If pity can be held toward me in Pierre's heart, beseech him to leave Nippon. Your strangely feeling but loving,

"YUKI."

He let the sheet flutter sidewise to the floor, his eyes absently following. When it was quite still, the address being uppermost, he leaned nearer. "Miss Gwendolen Todd, American Legation, Azabu, Tokio,"

he read, his lips moving as he formed the words. "Miss Gwendolen Todd,"

he began, directly, reading again and again. A hand fell gently on his shoulder. "Is there to be an answer, Pierre?"

Pierre shook his head.

"You will retain the enclosed letter?"

Pierre nodded.

The count went tip-toeing to the door, and returned to Tsuna the pretentious chit-book. Pierre was apparently fixed in an att.i.tude of melancholy.

"Can these letters have told you anything worse?" questioned the gentle voice.

"Yes," said Pierre, dully. "It is worse. She is to be married next Wednesday,--and with her own consent. She wishes it. Next Wednesday."

Ronsard did not answer. He was trying to look sad.

"Wednesday, I tell you," repeated Pierre, now lifting bloodshot eyes.

"Next Wednesday! Five days! This is Friday, is it not? Yes." He stopped now to count the days on shaking fingers. "Five more days and she will be his wife. That woman I love,--that pure flower to whom even my honorable devotion seemed desecration! She will lie in that old man's arms,--she will be his wife! G.o.d! _G.o.d!_ Man!" he screamed, striking the table with one frantic fist, and then rising to hurl himself in torment about the room, "don't stand there s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g into my brain with your fishy eyes! Have you ever known love--do you understand jealousy--have you heard of--h.e.l.l?"

"At your age I knew all three," said Ronsard, calmly. "I went through all, and I live, I eat, I intrigue, I am happy. So shall it be with you, madman!"

Pierre threw back his head in a rude clamor, meant for laughter. He was pa.s.sing near Ronsard at the instant. The elder man reached out and caught his wrist. "Now, Pierre Le Beau, stand still and hear what I have to say!"

At the tone of command, rather than the physical detention, Pierre stood still, wondering.

"This is the best thing that could possibly happen to you. Yes, be quiet. You shall listen. I've endured sufficient childish railing for one day! It is infinitely the best thing for you--for your mother--for me--for France! I have a diplomatic secret to whisper. That old man Hagane--for once in his life a fool--may be sent at any moment to review the campaign in Manchuria. He and his generals may be great, but Kuropatkin is greater. Do you know what that may mean to you? Ah, I thought so; at the hope of some personal reward you flicker back to sanity. What are the honor and glory of France to such effete sensualists as you? Bah,--it sickens me! And yet, since some day you may become men, you must be dealt with. Hagane, in his supreme self-confidence, urged on, doubtless, by Onda, dares marry this young girl, though he knows her to be in love with you! Will you destroy her love, fool, by smothering it in her contempt? Hagane goes to Manchuria.

His young wife mourns,--helas! I see her weeping in his absence. There are secrets spoken in the nuptial chamber,--doc.u.ments left in charge of the pretty chatelaine. Pierre, Pierre, celestial revenge hangs like ripe fruit to your hand, let her marry Hagane,--let her love you! Do not revile or scorn her. Wait--wait!"

His eyes, twinkling like those of a snake, crawled up Pierre's face to his shrinking gaze. His fat hand still clutched with a grasp that burned. Pierre tried to draw away. Again the repulsion, the fascination in this man battled for his reason. "Wait!" whispered Ronsard once again, and turned.

Pierre felt himself released. He stood motionless. His wrist stung as if a sea nettle had lashed it. He looked helplessly around as though searching for something he could not recall. His eyes fell on Yuki's letter. He staggered toward it, s.n.a.t.c.hed it from the floor, pressed it against parched lips, and then, falling on his knees beside the chair, burst into a pa.s.sion of grief.

"Come," whispered Ronsard to the cat. "Come, cherie. We will leave poor Pierre awhile. It is more delicate, n'est-ce pas?"

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It was inevitable that a lady of Mrs. Todd's social and confidential temperament should already have acquired an inseparable friend. Mrs.

Todd had a perpetual thirst for what she called "sympathetic comprehension," by which she meant, in reality, abject flattery. Her husband sometimes treated her deepest emotions with levity. Gwendolen often turned to her complaints a bright indifference more irritating than the husband's soothing smile.