The Price She Paid [42]
madame had not been in the shop and that, if she should come in, no business would be negotiated without the general's express consent. She all but fainted at the narrowness of her escape and fled round into the boulevard. She entered a taxi and told the man to drive to Foyot's restaurant on the left bank --where the general would never think of looking for her.
When she had breakfasted she strolled in the Luxembourg Gardens, in even better humor with herself and with the world. There was still that horrid-faced future, but it was not leering into her very face. It was nearly four thousand francs away--``and if I hadn't been so stupid, I'd have got eight thousand, I'm sure,'' she said. But she was rather proud of a stupidity about money matters. And four thousand francs, eight hundred dollars--that was quite a good sum.
She had an instinct that the general would do something disagreeable about the French and English ports of departure for America. But perhaps he would not think of the Italian ports. That night she set out for Genoa, and three days later, in a different dress and with her hair done as she never wore it, sailed as Miss Mary Stevens for America on a German Mediterranean boat.
She had taken the whole of a cabin on the quieter deck below the promenade, paying for it nearly half of what was left of the four thousand francs. The first three days she kept to her cabin except at the dinner-hour, when she ventured to the deck just outside and walked up and down for exercise. Then followed four days of nasty weather during which she did not leave her bed. As the sea calmed, she, wretched and reckless, had a chair put for herself under her window and sat there, veiled and swathed and turning her face away whenever a rare wandering passenger happened to pass along. Toward noon a man paused before her to light a cigarette. She, forgetting for the moment her precautions, looked at him. It chanced that he looked at her at exactly the same instant. Their glances met. He started nervously, moved on a few steps, returned. Said she mockingly:
``You know you needn't speak if you don't want to, Stanley.''
``There isn't a soul on board that anybody ever knew or that ever knew anybody,'' said he. ``So why not?''
``And you look horribly bored.''
``Unspeakably,'' replied Baird. ``I've spoken to no one since I left Paris.''
``What are you doing on this ship?'' inquired she.
``To be perfectly honest,'' said he, ``I came this way to avoid you. I was afraid you'd take passage on my steamer just to amuse yourself with my nervousness. And--here you are!''
``Amusing myself with your nervousness.''
``But I'm not nervous. There's no danger. Will you let me have a chair put beside yours?''
``It will be a charity on your part,'' said she.
When he was comfortably settled, he explained his uneasiness. ``I see I've got to tell you,'' said he, ``for I don't want you to think me a shouting ass. The fact is my wife wants to get a divorce from me and to soak me for big alimony. She's a woman who'll do anything to gain her end, and--well, for some reason she's always been jealous of you. I didn't care to get into trouble, or to get you into trouble.''
``I'm traveling as Mary Stevens,'' said Mildred. ``No one knows I'm aboard.''
``Oh, I'm sure we're quite safe. We can enjoy the rest of this voyage.''
A sea voyage not merely induces but compels a feeling of absolute detachment from the world. To both Stanley and Mildred their affairs--the difficulties in which they were involved on terra firma--ceased for the time to have any reality. The universe was nothing but a vast stretch of water under a vast stretch of sky; the earth and the things thereof were a retrospect and a foreboding. Without analyzing it, both he and she felt that they were free--free from cares, from responsibilities--free to amuse themselves. And they proceeded to enjoy themselves in the necessarily quiet and limited way imposed by the littleness of their present world and the meagerness of the resources.
When she had breakfasted she strolled in the Luxembourg Gardens, in even better humor with herself and with the world. There was still that horrid-faced future, but it was not leering into her very face. It was nearly four thousand francs away--``and if I hadn't been so stupid, I'd have got eight thousand, I'm sure,'' she said. But she was rather proud of a stupidity about money matters. And four thousand francs, eight hundred dollars--that was quite a good sum.
She had an instinct that the general would do something disagreeable about the French and English ports of departure for America. But perhaps he would not think of the Italian ports. That night she set out for Genoa, and three days later, in a different dress and with her hair done as she never wore it, sailed as Miss Mary Stevens for America on a German Mediterranean boat.
She had taken the whole of a cabin on the quieter deck below the promenade, paying for it nearly half of what was left of the four thousand francs. The first three days she kept to her cabin except at the dinner-hour, when she ventured to the deck just outside and walked up and down for exercise. Then followed four days of nasty weather during which she did not leave her bed. As the sea calmed, she, wretched and reckless, had a chair put for herself under her window and sat there, veiled and swathed and turning her face away whenever a rare wandering passenger happened to pass along. Toward noon a man paused before her to light a cigarette. She, forgetting for the moment her precautions, looked at him. It chanced that he looked at her at exactly the same instant. Their glances met. He started nervously, moved on a few steps, returned. Said she mockingly:
``You know you needn't speak if you don't want to, Stanley.''
``There isn't a soul on board that anybody ever knew or that ever knew anybody,'' said he. ``So why not?''
``And you look horribly bored.''
``Unspeakably,'' replied Baird. ``I've spoken to no one since I left Paris.''
``What are you doing on this ship?'' inquired she.
``To be perfectly honest,'' said he, ``I came this way to avoid you. I was afraid you'd take passage on my steamer just to amuse yourself with my nervousness. And--here you are!''
``Amusing myself with your nervousness.''
``But I'm not nervous. There's no danger. Will you let me have a chair put beside yours?''
``It will be a charity on your part,'' said she.
When he was comfortably settled, he explained his uneasiness. ``I see I've got to tell you,'' said he, ``for I don't want you to think me a shouting ass. The fact is my wife wants to get a divorce from me and to soak me for big alimony. She's a woman who'll do anything to gain her end, and--well, for some reason she's always been jealous of you. I didn't care to get into trouble, or to get you into trouble.''
``I'm traveling as Mary Stevens,'' said Mildred. ``No one knows I'm aboard.''
``Oh, I'm sure we're quite safe. We can enjoy the rest of this voyage.''
A sea voyage not merely induces but compels a feeling of absolute detachment from the world. To both Stanley and Mildred their affairs--the difficulties in which they were involved on terra firma--ceased for the time to have any reality. The universe was nothing but a vast stretch of water under a vast stretch of sky; the earth and the things thereof were a retrospect and a foreboding. Without analyzing it, both he and she felt that they were free--free from cares, from responsibilities--free to amuse themselves. And they proceeded to enjoy themselves in the necessarily quiet and limited way imposed by the littleness of their present world and the meagerness of the resources.