14 
THE GUEST 
OF QUESNAY 
By Booth Tarkington 
Copyright, 1908, by the McClure Compan: 
y 
Copyright, 1907, 1908, by the Ridgway Company 
[CONTINUED.] 
“Ah, she likes your” he said so neart- 
ily and appearing meanwhile so satis- 
fied. with the completefess of his re- 
ply that I was fain to take some sat- 
isfaction in it myself. ‘What I want- 
ed most to say to you,” he went on, 
“is this: You remember you promised 
to tell me whatever you could learn 
about her and about her husband.” 
“JT remember.” 
“It’s different now; I don’t want you 
to,” he said. “I want only to know 
what she tells me herself. She has 
told me very little, but I know when 
the times comes she will tell me every- 
thing. But I wouldn’t hasten it. lL 
wouldn’t have anything changed from 
just this!” 
“You mean”’— 
“TJ mean the way it is. If I could 
hope to see her every day, to be in 
the woods with her or down by the 
shore—oh, I don’t want to know any- 
thing but that!” 
“No doubt you have told her,” I ven- 
tured, “a good deal about yourself,” 
and was instantly ashamed of myself. 
I suppose I spoke out of a sense of 
protest against Mrs. Harman’s strange 
lack of conventionality. 
“‘T’ve told her all I know,” he said 
readily, and the unconscious pathos 
of the answer smote me. “And all 
that. Keredec has let me know. You 
see I haven’t”— 
“But do you think,” I interrupted 
quickly, anxious, in my remorse, to 
divert him from that channel—“‘do you 
think Professor Keredec would ap- 
prove, if he knew?” 
“I think he would,” he responded 
slowly, pausing in his walk again. “I 
have a feeling that perhaps he does 
know, and yet I have been afraid to 
tell him. I think he knows everything 
in the world! I have felt tonight that 
he knows this, and—it’s very strange, 
but I—well, what was it that made 
him so glad?’ 
“The light is still burning in his 
room,” I said quietly. é 
“You’re right. I'll tell him tonight.” 
This came with sudden decision, but 
with less than marked what followed. 
“But he can't stop me now. No one 
on earth shall do that, except Mme. 
@ Armand herself—no one!”* 
I saw his hand groping toward me in 
the darkness, and, rising, 1 gave him 
mine. 
“Goud nizht.” he said. “Tin glid to 
NORTH SHORE BREEZE 
tell him. I’m giad to have Tola you. 
Ah, but isn’t this,” he cried, “a happy 
world!” 
” Turning, he ran to the gallery steps. 
At last ’'m glad,” he called back over 
his shoulder—“I’m glad that Ll was 
born’”— 
I heard his voice indistinctly, but 1 
thought, though I might bave been 
mistaken, that | caught a final word 
and that it was “again.” 
* * * * * * * 
It was one of those days when na- 
ture throws herself straight in your 
face and you are at a loss to know 
whether she has kissed you or slapped 
you, though you are conscious of the 
tingle—a day, in brief. more for laugb- 
ing than for painting, and the truth is 
that I suited its mood only too well 
and laughed more than | painted, 
though I sat with my easel before me 
and a picture ready upon my palette 
to be painted. 
No one could have understood bet- 
ter than I that this was setting a bad 
example to the acolyte who sat, like- 
wise facing an easel, ten paces to my 
left; a very sportsmanlike figure of a 
painter, indeed, in her short skirt and 
long coat of woodland brown, the fine 
brown of dead oak leaves: a “devastat- 
ing” selection of color that, being 
much the same shade as her hair, 
with brown for her hat. too, and the 
veil encircling the small crown there- 
of, and brown again for the stout, 
high, laced boots which protected her 
from the wet tangle underfoot. Who 
could have expected so dashing a 
young person as Anne Elliott to do any 
real work at painting? Yet she did, 
harrowing her eyes to the finest point 
of concentration and applying herself 
to the task in hand with a persistence 
which I found on that particular morn- 
mg far beyond my own powers. 
At her request I inspected her work. 
I stepped back several yards to see it 
better, though I should have had to 
retire about a quarter of the length of 
a city block to see it quite from her 
own point of view. 
She moved with me, both of us walk- 
fog backward. I began: 
“For a day like this, with all the 
color in the trees themselves and so 
very little in the air’— 
There came an interruption, a voice 
of unpleasant and wiry nasality, speak- 
ing from behind us. 
“Well, well!’ it said. “So here we 
are again!’ 
I faced about and beheld, just emerg- 
ed from a bypath, a fox faced young 
man whose light, well poised figure 
was jauntily clad in gray serge, with 
scarlet waistcoat and tie, white shoes 
upon his feet and a white hat gayly 
beribboned upon his head. A recollec- 
tion of the dusky road and a group of 
people about Pere Baudry’s lamplit 
door flickered across my mind. 
“The historical tourist!” | exclaimed. 
“The highly pedestrian tripper from 
Trouville!” 
“You got me right, m’dear friend,” 
PY Fetacet cx Nee k Foe teers eersieemn 88d trgace®. 
leck meetin’ you perfect.’ 
“And I was interested to learn,” said 
I, carefully observing the effect of my 
words upon him, “that you had been 
to Les Trois Pigeons, after all. Per- 
haps 1 might put it, you bad been 
through Les Trois Pigeons, for the 
maitre d’hotel informed me you had in- 
vestigated every corner—that wasn’t 
locked.” 
“Sure,” he returned, with rather less 
embarrassment than a brazen Vishnu 
would have exhibited under the same 
circumstances. ‘tHe showed me what 
pitchers they was in your studio. [ll 
luk ’em over again fer ye one of 
these days. Some of ’em was right 
gud.” 
“You will be visiting near enough 
for me to avail myself of the oppor- 
tunity ?”’ 
“Right in the Pigeon house, my 
friend. I’ve just come down t’put in 
a few days there,” he responded coolly. 
“They’s a young feller in this neigh- 
borhood [| take a kind o’ fam’ly inter- 
est in.”’ 
“Who is that?’ | asked quickly. 
For answer he produced the effect of 
a laugh by widening and lifting one 
side of his mouth, leaving the other 
meantime rigid. 
‘Don’ lemme int’rup’ the conv’sation 
with yer lady friend,’ he said win- 
ningly. ““‘What they call ‘talkin’ high 
arts,’ wasn’t it? I’d like to hear 
some.” 
CHAPTER IX. 
ISS BELLIOT’S expression, 
when I turned to observe the 
effect of the intruder upon 
her, «as found to be one of 
brilliant delight. With glowing eyes, 
her lips parted in a breathless ecstasy, 
she gazed upon the newcomer, evi- 
dently fearing to lose a syllable that 
fell from his lips. Moving closer to 
me, she whispered urgently: 
“Keep bim—oh, keep him!’ 
To detain him, for a time at least, 
was my intention, though my motive 
was not merely to afford her pleasure. 
The advent of the young man had pro- 
duced a singularly disagreeable im- 
pression upon me, quite apart from 
any antagonism I might have felt to- 
ward him as a type. Strange sus- 
picions leaped into my mind, formless 
—in the surprise of the moment—but 
rapidly groping toward definite outline, 
and following bard upon them crept 
a tingling apprehension. 
“Now, about how much,” he asked 
slowly. ‘“‘would you expec’ t’ git f’r a 
pitcher that size?’ 
“Tt isn’t mine,’ I informed him. 
“You don’t tell me it’s the little 
lady’s—what?’ He bowed = genially 
ana ITavored MISS HIllOLT Witn a stare 
of warm admiration. ‘Pretty a thing 
as 1 ever see,” he added. ; 
“Oh,” she cried, with an ardor that 
choked her slightly, ‘‘thank you!’ 
“Oh, I meant the pitcher!” he said 
hastily, evidently nonplused by a grat- 
isude sa fervent. 
anyways. But wuen it comes to tnese 
here ole, ancient curiosities’—he cac- 
kle@ again loudly—“‘well, 1 guess them 
clo’es 1 see that day kin hand it out t’ 
anything they got in the museums. 
‘Look here,’ I says to the waiter, ‘these 
must be’n left over f’m ole Jeanne 
a’Arec herself, 1 says. ‘Talk about 
yer relics,’ | says. Woosh: I’ like t 
died!” He laughed violently and con- 
cluded by turning upon me with a 
contemptuous flourish of his stick. 
“You think | d’know what makes you 
so raw?” 
The form of repartee necessary to 
augment his ill humor was, of course, 
a matter of simple mechanism for one 
who had not entirely forgotten his 
student days in the quarter, and I de- 
livered it airily, though 1 shivered 
inwardly that Miss Hlliott should 
hear. 
“Everything will be all right if when 
you dine at the inn you'll sit with your 
back toward me.” 
To my shamed surprise this roust- 
about wit drew a nervous, silvery gig- 
gle from her, and that completed the 
work with Mr. Percy, whose face 
grew scarlet with anger. 
“You're a hot one, you are!” he 
sneered, with shocking bitterness. 
“You’re quite the teaser, ain’t ye. 
s’long’s yer lady friend is lukkin’ on! 
I guess they’ll be a few surprises com- 
in’ your way before long. P’raps I 
cudn’t give ye one now ’f 1 had a 
mind to.” 
“Pshaw!” I laughed and, venturing 
at hazard, said, “1 know all you 
know.” 
“Oh, you do!” he cried seornfully. “I 
reckon you might set up an’ take a lit- 
tle notice, though, if you knowed ’at I 
know all you know!” 
“Not a bit of it!’ 
“No? Maybe you think I don’t know 
what makes you so raw with me; 
maybe you think I don’t know who 
ye’ve got so thick with at this here 
Pigeon house; maybe you think I don't 
know who them people are!” 
“No, you don’t. You have learned,” | 
said, trying to control my excitement, 
“nothing. Whoever hired you for a 
spy lost the money. You don’t know 
anything.” 
“] don’t!” Ané@ with that his voice 
went to a half shriek. “Maybe you 
think I’m down here f’r my health; 
maybe you think I come out fr a 
pleasant walk in the woods right now; 
maybe you think I ain’t seen no other 
lady friend o’ yours besides this’n to- 
day, and maybe I didn’t see who was 
with her—yes, an’ maybe you think 
I d’know no other times he’s be’n with 
her; maybe you think [| ain’t ben 
layin’ low over at Dives; maybe I 
don’t know a few real names in this _ 
neighborhood! Oh, no, maybe not!” 
“You know what the maitre d’hotel 
told you, nothing more.” 
“How about the name—Oliver Saf- 
fren?” he cried fiercely, and at that, 
though I had expected it, | uttered an 
Involuntary exclamation. 
“How about it?’ he shouted, ad- 
vaneing toward me_ triumphantly, 
bp ah EE aera cacao ak AE 
NORTH SHORE BREEZE 
juries my unkind words have inflict- 
ed,’’ 
He seemed upon the point of destroy- 
ing me physically, but, with a slight 
shudder, controlled bimself. Stepping 
close to me, be thrust bis head tfor- 
ward and measured the emphasis of 
his speech by bis right forefinger upon 
my shoulder as he said: 
“You paint this in. yer pitchers, 
m’'dear friend- they’s jest as much law 
in this country as they is on the cor- 
ner o' Iwenty-thoid street an’ if? 
avenoo! You keep out of the way of 
yt or you'll git runned over!” 
Delivering a final tap on my shoul- 
fler as a last warning he wheeled deft- 
ly upon his heel, addressed Miss El- 
liott briefly, “Glad t’ know you, lady,” 
and, striking into the bypath by which 
he had approached us, was soon fost 
to sight. 
The girl faced me excitedly. “What 
is it?’ she cried. “It seemed to me 
you insulted him deliberately.” 
Ties 
“You wanted to make him angry?” 
“Ves? 
“Oh, I thought so!’ she exclaimed 
breathlessly. ‘tI Knew there was some- 
thing serious underneath. It’s about 
Mr. Saffren.” 
“It is serious indeed, I fear.’ I said 
and, turning to my own easel, began 
to get my traps together. 
“I want you to go to see Mrs. Har- 
man at once and tel! her not to leave 
Quesnay for at least two days. AS 
for myself, I must go now to look up 
Keredee and Oliver Saffren.”’ 
The girl started manfully upon her 
journey. 1 stared after her for a 
moment or more, watching the pretty 
prown dress flashing in and out of 
shadow among the ragged greeneries. 
Then I picked up my own pack and 
set out for the inn, 
As 1 went through the woods that 
day, breathless with haste and curi- 
ous fears, my brain became suddenly, 
unaccountably busy with a dream I 
had had two nights before. I had 
not recalled this dream on waking; the 
recollection of it came to me now for 
the first time. Yet I had been think- 
ing so constantly of Mrs. Harman that 
there was nothing extraordinary in he: 
worthless ex-husband being part of 
it. But, and yet, looking back upon 
that last, hurried walk of mine through 
the forest. I see how strange it was 
BUAKIDS ois roreunger im {uy lace. 
“Hey? That stings some, does it? 
Sounds kind o’ like a false name, does 
it? Got ye where the hair is short 
that time, didn’t 1? Your side’s where 
the trouble is. ‘That’s what’s eatin’ 
into you. An’ I tell you flatfoot you're 
gittin’ rough ’ith me and _ playin’ 
Charley the Show-orf in front o° yer 
lady friends ‘Il all go down in the bill. 
These people ye’ve got so chummy 
with—they’ll pay f’r it all right, don’t 
you shed no tears over that!” 
“You couldn’t by any possibility.” 1 
said deliberately, with as much satire 
as I could command—“you couldn’t 
possibly mean that any sum of mere 
money might be a salve for the in- 
15 
toat i cuuiu DOL quiet remempenug nuw 
in my dream I had gone motoring up 
Mount Pilatus with the man 1 had 
seen so pitiably demolished on the Ver- 
sailles road two years before—Larra- 
bee Harman. 
CHAPTER X. 
EREDEO was alone in his salon, 
extended at ease upon a long 
chair, an ottoman and a stool, 
when I burst in upon him. A 
portentous volume was in his lap and 
a prolific pipe, smoking up from his 
great cloud of beard, gave the final 
reality to the likeness he thus pre- 
sented of a range of hills ending in a 
volcano. 
“J feel that you know me at least 
well enough.” I began rather hesitat- 
ingly. “to be sure that J would not, 
for the world. make any effort to in- 
trude in your affairs or Mr. Saffren’s.” 
“You are our friend. We know it,” 
he answered. 
“Very well,’ I pursued; “then I 
speak with no fear of offending. When 
you first came to the inn I couldn’t 
help seeing that you took a great many 
precautions for secrecy, and wken you 
afterward explained these precautions 
to me—well. I could not help seeing 
that your explanation did not cover 
all the ground.” 
‘It is true—it did not.” He ran his 
huge hand through the heavy white 
waves of his hair and shook his head 
vigorously. ‘‘No; I knew it, my dear 
sir. This much I can say to you: We 
Famc ucic at @ 149K, NUL 1 cuvdsgul 
that with great care it might be made 
little.” 
“It was in connection with the risk 
you have mentioned that I came to 
talk,” I returned, with some emphasis, 
for I was convinced of the reality of 
Mr. Earl Percy. “I think it necessary 
that you should know’— 
» But the professor was launched. I 
might as well have swept the rising 
tide with a broom. He talked with 
magnificent vehemence for twenty 
minutes, his theme being some theory 
of his own that the individuality of a 
soul is immortal and that even in per- 
fection the soul cannot possibly merge 
into any Nirvana. 
(To BE CONTINUED.] J 
A man may get 
his picture in the 
papers for many 
things, and some- 
times it costs him 
a fortune to get it 
out again. 
All of us have 
H lots of ancestry, 
4) 7 and the great 
Uifff, Y thing to be thank- 
W, Vf, ful for is that 
Ls } most of us know 
nothing about 
them. 
3D 
Overcon fidence in our own ability is 
merely the complement of underesti- 
mation of other men and things, 
