All Roads Lead to Calvary [63]
You tell him from me that the next revolution has got to be against the Press. And it will be the stiffest fight Democracy has ever had."
The old lady had tired herself. Joan undertook the mission. She thought she would rather enjoy it, and Mrs. Denton promised to let her have full instructions. She would write to her friends in Paris and prepare them for Joan's coming.
Joan remembered Folk, the artist she had met at Flossie's party, who had promised to walk with her on the terrace at St. Germain, and tell her more about her mother. She looked up his address on her return home, and wrote to him, giving him the name of the hotel in the Rue de Grenelle where Mrs. Denton had arranged that she should stay. She found a note from him awaiting her when she arrived there. He thought she would like to be quiet after her journey. He would call round in the morning. He had presumed on the privilege of age to send her some lilies. They had been her mother's favourite flower. "Monsieur Folk, the great artist," had brought them himself, and placed them in her dressing-room, so Madame informed her.
It was one of the half-dozen old hotels still left in Paris, and was built round a garden famous for its mighty mulberry tree. She breakfasted underneath it, and was reading there when Folk appeared before her, smiling and with his hat in his hand. He excused himself for intruding upon her so soon, thinking from what she had written him that her first morning might be his only chance. He evidently considered her remembrance of him a feather in his cap.
"We old fellows feel a little sadly, at times, how unimportant we are," he explained. "We are grateful when Youth throws us a smile."
"You told me my coming would take you back thirty-three years," Joan reminded him. "It makes us about the same age. I shall treat you as just a young man."
He laughed. "Don't be surprised," he said, "if I make a mistake occasionally and call you Lena."
Joan had no appointment till the afternoon. They drove out to St. Germain, and had dejeuner at a small restaurant opposite the Chateau; and afterwards they strolled on to the terrace.
"What was my mother doing in Paris?" asked Joan,
"She was studying for the stage," he answered. "Paris was the only school in those days. I was at Julien's studio. We acted together for some charity. I had always been fond of it. An American manager who was present offered us both an engagement, and I thought it would be a change and that I could combine the two arts."
"And it was here that you proposed to her," said Joan.
"Just by that tree that leans forward," he answered, pointing with his cane a little way ahead. "I thought that in America I'd get another chance. I might have if your father hadn't come along. I wonder if he remembers me."
"Did you ever see her again, after her marriage?" asked Joan.
"No," he answered. "We used to write to one another until she gave it up. She had got into the habit of looking upon me as a harmless sort of thing to confide in and ask advice of--which she never took."
"Forgive me," he said. "You must remember that I am still her lover." They had reached the tree that leant a little forward beyond its fellows, and he had halted and turned so that he was facing her. "Did she and your father get on together. Was she happy?"
"I don't think she was happy," answered Joan. "She was at first. As a child, I can remember her singing and laughing about the house, and she liked always to have people about her. Until her illness came. It changed her very much. But my father was gentleness itself, to the end."
They had resumed their stroll. It seemed to her that he looked at her once or twice a little oddly without speaking. "What caused your mother's illness?" he asked, abruptly.
The question troubled her. It struck her with a pang of self- reproach that she had always been indifferent to her mother's illness, regarding it as more or less imaginary. "It was mental rather than physical, I think," she answered. "I never knew
The old lady had tired herself. Joan undertook the mission. She thought she would rather enjoy it, and Mrs. Denton promised to let her have full instructions. She would write to her friends in Paris and prepare them for Joan's coming.
Joan remembered Folk, the artist she had met at Flossie's party, who had promised to walk with her on the terrace at St. Germain, and tell her more about her mother. She looked up his address on her return home, and wrote to him, giving him the name of the hotel in the Rue de Grenelle where Mrs. Denton had arranged that she should stay. She found a note from him awaiting her when she arrived there. He thought she would like to be quiet after her journey. He would call round in the morning. He had presumed on the privilege of age to send her some lilies. They had been her mother's favourite flower. "Monsieur Folk, the great artist," had brought them himself, and placed them in her dressing-room, so Madame informed her.
It was one of the half-dozen old hotels still left in Paris, and was built round a garden famous for its mighty mulberry tree. She breakfasted underneath it, and was reading there when Folk appeared before her, smiling and with his hat in his hand. He excused himself for intruding upon her so soon, thinking from what she had written him that her first morning might be his only chance. He evidently considered her remembrance of him a feather in his cap.
"We old fellows feel a little sadly, at times, how unimportant we are," he explained. "We are grateful when Youth throws us a smile."
"You told me my coming would take you back thirty-three years," Joan reminded him. "It makes us about the same age. I shall treat you as just a young man."
He laughed. "Don't be surprised," he said, "if I make a mistake occasionally and call you Lena."
Joan had no appointment till the afternoon. They drove out to St. Germain, and had dejeuner at a small restaurant opposite the Chateau; and afterwards they strolled on to the terrace.
"What was my mother doing in Paris?" asked Joan,
"She was studying for the stage," he answered. "Paris was the only school in those days. I was at Julien's studio. We acted together for some charity. I had always been fond of it. An American manager who was present offered us both an engagement, and I thought it would be a change and that I could combine the two arts."
"And it was here that you proposed to her," said Joan.
"Just by that tree that leans forward," he answered, pointing with his cane a little way ahead. "I thought that in America I'd get another chance. I might have if your father hadn't come along. I wonder if he remembers me."
"Did you ever see her again, after her marriage?" asked Joan.
"No," he answered. "We used to write to one another until she gave it up. She had got into the habit of looking upon me as a harmless sort of thing to confide in and ask advice of--which she never took."
"Forgive me," he said. "You must remember that I am still her lover." They had reached the tree that leant a little forward beyond its fellows, and he had halted and turned so that he was facing her. "Did she and your father get on together. Was she happy?"
"I don't think she was happy," answered Joan. "She was at first. As a child, I can remember her singing and laughing about the house, and she liked always to have people about her. Until her illness came. It changed her very much. But my father was gentleness itself, to the end."
They had resumed their stroll. It seemed to her that he looked at her once or twice a little oddly without speaking. "What caused your mother's illness?" he asked, abruptly.
The question troubled her. It struck her with a pang of self- reproach that she had always been indifferent to her mother's illness, regarding it as more or less imaginary. "It was mental rather than physical, I think," she answered. "I never knew