THE GUEST 
OF QUESNAY 
By Booth Tarkington 
Copyright, 1908, by the McClure Company 
Copyright, 1907, 1908, by the Ridgway Company 
[CONTINUED.] 
CHAPTER IT. 
WINGING out to pass us and 
then sweeping in upon the re- 
verse curve to clear the nar- 
row arch of the culvert were 
too much for the white car. In 
the middle of the road, ten feet from 
the culvert, the old woman struggled 
frantically to get her cart out of the 
way. The howl of the siren frightened 
her perhaps, for she went to the wrong 
gide. Then the shriek of the machine 
drowned the human scream as the au- 
tomobile struck. 
The great machine left the road for 
the fields on the right, reared, fell, 
leaped against the stone side of the 
culvert, apparently trying to climb it, 
stood straight on end, whirled back- 
ward in a half somersault, crashed 
over on its side, flashed with flame and 
explosion and lay hidden under a 
cloud of dust and smoke. 
The peasant’s cart, tossed into a 
clump of weeds, rested on its side. A 
The great machine reared, crashed over 
on its side and lay hidden. 
NORTH SHORE BREEZE 
pair of smashed goggles crunched be- 
neath my foot as I sprang out of 
Ward’s car, and a big brass lamp had 
fallen in the middle of the road, crum- 
pled like waste paper. Beside it lay a 
gold rouge box. 
The old woman had somehow saved 
herself, or perhaps her saint had help- 
ed her, for she was sitting in the 
grass by the roadside wailing hyster- 
ically and quite unhurt. The body of 
a man lay in a heap beneath the stone 
archway, and from his clothes I guess- 
ed that he had been the driver of the 
white car. I say “had been” because 
there were reasons for needing no sec- 
ond glance to comprehend that the 
man was dead. 
Ward meanwhile was dragging a wo- 
man out of the wreck, and after a mo- 
ment I went to help him carry her into 
the fresh air. She pushed our hands 
angrily aside and completed the untan- 
glement herself, revealing the scratch- 
ed and smeared face of Mariana, the 
dancer. 
“Oh, the pain!” she cried. “That im- 
becile! If he has let me break my leg! 
A pretty dancer I should be! I hope 
he is killed!” 
Another automobile had already come 
up, and the occupants were hastily 
alighting. Ward shouted to the fore- 
most to go for a doctor. 
“J am a doctor,” the man answered, 
advancing and kneeling quickly by the 
dancer. “And you—you may be of 
help yonder.” 
We turned toward the ruined car, 
where Ward’s driver was shouting for 
us. 
“What is it?’ called Ward as we ran 
toward him. 
“Monsieur,” he replied, “there is 
some one under the tonneau here!” 
From beneath the overturned ton- 
neau projected the lower part of a 
man’s leg clad in a brown puttee and 
a russet shoe. Ward’s driver haé 
brought his tools, had jacked up the 
ear as high as possible, but was still 
unable to release the imprisoned body. 
After considerable effort we rescued 
the imprisoned body, which stirred in 
pain. 
I found that I was looking almost 
straight down into the upturned face 
of Larrabee Harman, and I cannot bet- 
ter express what this man had come to 
be and what the degradation of his life 
had written upon him than by saying 
that the dreadful thing I looked upon 
now was 00 more horrible a sight than 
the face I had seen, fresh from the 
valet and smiling in ugly pride at the 
starers, as he passed the terrace of 
Larue on the day before the Grand 
Prix. 
We helped to carry him to the dec- 
tor’s car and to lift the dancer into 
Ward’s and to get both of them out 
again at the hospital at Versailles, 
where they were taken. 
“Did it seem to you,” said George 
finally, “that a man so frightfully in- 
jured could have any chance of getting 
well?” 
Na? TT anemencd 
665 theese tt b~ 
was dying as we carried him into the 
hospital.” 
“So did I. The top of his head seen- 
ed all crushed in. Whew!” After a 
pause he added thoughtfully, “Tt will 
be a great thing for Louise.” 
Louise was the name of his second 
cousin, the girl who had done battle 
with all her family and then run away 
from them to be Larrabee Harman’s 
wife. Remembering the stir that her 
application for divorce had made, I 
did not understand how Harman’s 
death could benefit her, unless George 
had some reason to believe that he had 
made a will in her favor. However, 
the remark had been made more to 
himself than to me, and I did not re- 
spond. 
The morning papers flared oLce 
more with the name of Larrabee Har- 
man, and we read that he was linger- 
ing. And the dancer had been right. 
One of her legs was badly broken. 
She would never dance again. 
A great many people keep their friends 
in mind by writing to them, but more 
do not, and Ward snd | belong -to the 
majority. After my departure from 
Paris 1 had but one missive from him, 
a short note written at the request of 
his sister, asking me to be on the 
lookout for Italian earrings to add 
to her collection of old jewels. So 
from time to time I sent her what [ ; 
could find about Capri or in Naples, 
and she responded with neat little 
letters of acknowledgment. 
Two years I stayed on Capri, eating 
the lotus which grows on that happy 
island and painting very little. But 
even on Capri people sometimes hear 
the call of Paris, so there came at last 
a fine day when I, knowing that the 
horse chestnuts were in bloom along 
the Champs Elysees, threw my rope 
soled shoes to a beggar, packed a 
rusty trunk and was off for the banks 
of the Seine. 
At the end of a fortnight I went 
over into Normandy and deposited 
that rusty trunk of mine in a corner 
of the summer pavilion in the court- 
yard of Mme. Brossard’s inn, Les Trois 
Pigeons, in a woodland neighborhood 
that is there. Here 1 had painted 
through a prolific suinmer of my youth, 
and I was glad to find, as I had hoped, 
nothing changed, for the place was 
dear to me. Mme. Brossard (dark, 
thin, demure as of yore, a fine looking 
woman with a fine manner and much 
the flavor of old Norman portraits) 
gave me a pleasant welcome, remem- 
bering me readily, but without sur- 
prise, while Amedee, the antique servi- 
tor, cackled over me and was as proud 
of my advent as if I had been a new 
egg and he had laid me. The simile 
is grotesque, but Amedee is the most 
henlike waiter in France. 
He is a white haired, fat old fellow, 
always well shaved, as neat as a bil- 
liard ball. In the daytime, when he 
is partly porter, he wears a black tie, 
a gray waistcoat broadly striped with 
searlet, ard from waist to feet a white 
apron like a skirt and so competently 
encircling that his trousers are of mere 
. science, tt! 
no real necessity. 
hecoming altogeth- 
convention, 
but after 4 
er a Maitre pe is clad 9s any 
other formajippan. 
Amedee’s ns aS to my re- 
past were ul, but insistent. 
His manner of a prime min- 
ister who @pugh. the ferm of 
convincing (eign. He greeted 
each of his 
loud “Bien” 
sions with a very 
artled by the bril- 
liancy of méffpns, and, the menu 
being concliggloded a whole vol- 
ley of “Biowiet off violently to 
instruct old@ithe cook. 
The inn ifray with age, the 
roof sagging 
and an old 
ly here and there, 
gallery runs the 
the guest cham- 
bers of theifory opening upon 
it like the is of a steamer, 
with boxes 
along the ¢! 
ledges for t 
ys and hyacinths 
ings and window 
of border lines. 
In the couffme and well with- 
in the brigigft Amedee spread 
the crisp wlifffand served me at 
ilion porch. He 
] should find cer- 
ich he knew were 
to my taste, but 
ended with fatu- 
hole meal that it 
to denounce at 
fauce or garnish- 
much mendacity 
nd I spared him 
feigned any 
tain dishes 
most delect 
was obvivu 
became a | 
least some 
and my The salad 
prepared : ‘ bubbling in 
the coffee ne favored me with 
a discourse 
Les Trois 
“Monsict 
They have 
pcline in glory of 
he automobiles. 
crmerly, as when 
painters came 
busy times and 
5 it was gay in 
remembers well. 
hink, the auto- 
ned away the 
what droll 
those days! 
painters. 
“T should that we should 
be happier many like mon- 
sieur,” welli@dee. “But it ig 
early in (h@@® despair. Then, 
too, our bes@iPcady engaged.” 
“By who 
“Two nGihce who arrive 
next week. 
Brossard i 
preat man. Mme. 
at he is coming 
to Les rom but I tell her it 
is only. nat@@?'es now for the 
first time |B es the quiet.” 
“Who is 
Sant A 
nin, Amedee?” 
€_ professor of 
H inember of the 
jnstitute. bust have heard 
of that gre Keredee?” 
“The nig... Who is the 
other?” 
“A friciiMm™@® Lot know, All 
the upper “ast wing they 
Suit—those twa 
Ambre, * 
a That is 
a times—the 
men,” 
nly the painters 
Amedee laugh- 
and their 
truly the 
ed cunningly. 
see that monsieur amuses himself only 
with his painting.” 
“Thank you, Amedee,” I responded. 
“T have amused other people with it, 
too, I fear.”’ 
“Monsieur remembers the Chateau de 
Quesnay, at the crest of the hill on the 
road north of Dives?’ 
“T remember.” 
“It is occupied this season by some 
rich Americans.” ; 
“How do you know they are rich?’ 
“Dieu de Dieu!’ The old fellow ap- 
pealed to heaven. “But they are Amer- 
icans!” 
“And therefore millionaires. Perfect 
ly, Amedee.” 
“Perfectly, monsieur. 
sieur knows them.” 
“Yes, I know them.” 
“Truly!? He affected dejection. 
“And poor Mme. Brossard thought 
monsieur had returned to our old hotel 
because he liked it and remembered 
our wine of Beaune and the good beds 
and old Gaston’s cooking?!’ 
“Do not weep, Amedee,” I said. “I 
have come to paint, not because I 
know the people who have taken 
Quesnay.” And I added, “I may not 
see them at all.” 
Miss Elizabeth had mentioned in one 
of her notes that Ward had leased 
Quesnay, but I had not sought quar- 
ters at Les Trois Pigeons because it 
stood within walking distance of the 
chateau. In my industrious frame of 
mind that circumstance seemed almost 
a drawback. .Miss Elizabeth, ever 
hospitable to those whom she noticed 
at all, would be doubly so in the coun- 
try, and I wanted all my time to my- 
self since my time was not conceiy- 
ably of value to any one else. I 
thought it wise to leave any encoun- 
ter with the lady to chance. George 
himself had just sailed on a business 
trip to America, and until his return 
I should put in all my time at paint- 
ing and nothing else, though I liked 
his sister, as I have said, and thought 
of her often. 
Amedee laughed incredulously. “But 
monusieur will call at the chateau in 
the morning,’ the complacent varlet 
prophesied. “Monsieur is not at all 
an old man—no, not yet. Even if he 
were—aha—no one could possess the 
friendship of that wonderful Mme. 
d’Armand and remain away from the 
chateau.” 
Perhaps mon- 
“Mme. d’Armand!” I said. “That is 
not the name. You mean Mlle. 
Ward.” 
“No, no!” His fat cheeks bulged 
with a smile. “Mlle. Ward’—he pro- 
nounced it “Ware’—“is magnificent. 
Every one must fly to obey when she 
opens her mouth. It needs ‘only a 
glance to perceive that Mile. Ward is 
a great lady, but Mme. d’Armand— 
aha!’ He rolled his round eyes to an 
effect of unspeakable admiration. “But 
monsieur knows very well for him- 
self.” 
“We were speaking of the present 
chatelaine of Quesnay, Mlle. Ward. I 
have neyer heard of Mme, d’Armand,” 
NORTH SHORE BREEZE. 
“Monsieur is serious?” 
“Truly!? I answered, making bold to 
quote his shibboleth. 
“Then monsieur has truly much to 
live for. Truly!” he chuckled openly. 
He had cleared the table. 
“Amedee,”’ I said, “who is Mme. 
d@’ Armand?” 
“A guest of Mile. Ward at Quesnay. 
In fact, she is in charge of the cha- 
“Then monsicur has truly much to live 
for.. Truly!” 
teau, since Mile. Ward is, for the time, 
away.” 
“Ts she a Frenchwoman?”’ 
‘Tt seems not. In fact, she is an 
American, though she dresses with so 
much of taste. Ah, Mme. Brossard ad- 
mits it, and Mme. Brossard knows the 
art of dressing.” 
“Mme. d’Armand’s name is French,” 
I observed. 
“Yes; that is true,’ said Amedee 
thoughtfully. “No one can deny it; it 
is a French name.’ He rested the 
tray upon a stump near by and scratch- 
ed his head. “I do not understand how 
that can be,” he continued slowly. 
‘Jean Ferret, who is chief gardener at 
the chateau, is an acquaintance of 
mine, and Jean Ferret has told me 
that she is an American.” 
“I believe,” said I, “that if I strug- 
gled a few days over this puzzle I 
might come to the conclusion that 
Mme. d’Armand is an American lady 
who has married a Frenchman.” 
The old man uttered an exclamation 
of triumph. 
“Ha! Without doubt! ‘Truly she 
must be an American lady who has 
married a Frenchman. Monsieur has 
already solved the | puzzle. ‘Truly, 
truly!’ And he betook himself across 
the darkness to emerge in the light of 
the open door of the kitchen with the 
word still rumbling in his throat. 
J rose from the chair on my little 
13 
a 
porch to goto bed, Dut I was remind- 
ed of something and calied to him. 
“Monsieur?” his voice came briskly. 
“Tow often do you see your friend, 
Jean Ferret, the gardener of Ques- 
nay ?”’ 
“Rrequently, monsieur. Tomorrow 
morning I could easily carry a mes- 
sage if’— ; 
“That is precisely what I do not 
wish. And you may as well not 
mention me at all when you meet 
him.” 
“Tt ig understood—perfectly.” 
“If it is well understood there will 
be a beautiful present for a good 
maitre d’hotel some day.” 
“Thank you, monsieur.” 
: {To BE CONTINUED. ] J 
Self Restraint. 
Ellen stopped scrubbing the veranda 
steps leng enough to cast an admiring 
eye on her employer’s garden. “Sure 
they are fine posies ye have, doctor,” 
she said. ‘I’ve a neat little house I 
bought with the money I’d put by, and 
an elegant garden it had last year, too, 
but now there’s neither stick nor stalk 
ine 
“What was it, hens or dogs?’ asked 
the doctor, sympathetically mentioning 
his own aversions. 
“Sure, me neighbor—bad luck to her 
-had a ditch dug in her land, and the 
water ran down into me garden and 
washed all me seeds away.” 
“And what did you do about it?” 
“What could a poor lone body like 
me do?” 
“Well, didn’t you at least say some- 
thing to the woman, complain or tell 
her that you wouldn’t stand it?’ 
“Now, doctor, dear, hard words just 
leads to bad feeings among neighbors, 
and that ye know as well as I do, and 
it’s not me that would be using them. 
So I only said to her, ‘1 hope I'll live 
to see the floods flowing over your 
grave as your ditch waters have flowed 
over me garden,’ and I let it go at 
that.”,—Youth’s Companion, 
Couldn’t Stand Satire. 
A burglar while attempting to rob a 
bloated bondholder of Maryville by 
mistake got into the humble residence 
of an editor next door. After unsuc- 
cessfully fumbling about for suitable 
assets for some time he was disgusted 
to observe the tenant of the house sit- 
ting up in bed and laughing at him. 
“Arn’t you old Skindersen, the eapi- 
talist?’ inquired the housebreaker. 
“Nary time,” chuckled the journalist. 
“I’m the editor of the Screaming Wa- 
gle.” 
“Jerusalem!” said the burglar, look- 
ing at his stemwinder. ‘And here l’ve 
been wasting four precious hours on 
this branch almshouse. I say, old 
quill driver, you never poke fun at 
your subscribers, do you?’ 
“Not the cash ones.” 
“Exactly,” said the burglar, taking 
out his wallet. “Here’s six months’ 
subscription to call this thing square. 
If there’s one thing on earth I can’t 
stand, it’s satire.’—London Tit-Bits, 
