CHAPTER LX

When he had gone a few hundred paces he whirled about and hurried back

to the hotel; asked for Monsieur _et_ Madame Enslee; sent up his card;

wished he had it back; received a summons to come up; cursed the

slowness of the Parisian _ascenseur_; wished it would fall and kill him;

moved toward Persis' door as to his execution; and was ushered in by

Nichette, who was cloaked and bonneted for an evening out. She left him

a moment, then came back and rattled off a string of French, from which

he gleaned that he was _voulez-vous'd_ to seat himself and attend a

little moment. Then Nichette left him and hastened to the corner of the

street, where a little waiting _piou-piou_ shivered in his uniform.

The hostility Forbes read in Nichette's look was merely her impatience

at being kept a few moments longer from her sergeant after having been

detained an hour by a quarrel of the Enslees--a quarrel ending in a

defiant announcement from Willie that he was going to see the wickedest

show he could find in Paris, and from Persis an hilarious "_Bonne

chance!_ I hope you find somebody to take you off my hands for a while!"

This had horrified Willie as a sacrilege, and he had regretted his vow.

But in the court of the hotel he found two Americans who had typically

arrived in Paris, and bibulously prepared for a night of social

investigation without having taken the trouble to learn a word of

French, the distinction of coins, or the system of cab fares and tips.

They welcomed Enslee as a life-saver, embraced him, and bade him confirm

their worst suspicions of Paris.

This Forbes did not know, and he misinterpreted Nichette's brusquerie.

His own thoughts were brusque. He loathed himself, and hated Persis and

blamed her as if she had cast down a net from her window and dragged him

to her feet.

He paced the lavishly furnished reception-room of the suite and resolved

to escape before it was too late. The thought of the cold loneliness of

the streets, of the town, of the world, held him back. He was

unutterably forlorn. He sank into a chair and clenched his hands

together.

Then he heard Persis' voice. It came through the glistening portieres

masking the doors to the room adjoining, a kind of living-room. Music

and welcome and all of Persis' beauty were in the little hospitable

words:

"Come in here, Harvey, won't you? I can't budge, and I'm all by myself."

Wondering where she was and how he should find her, he pushed through

the curtains timidly, as timidly as Joseph entering Potiphar's wife's

boudoir.

He found Persis cuddled up on a chaise longue of gold and satin. She was

almost lost in a jumble of parcels and toys and knickknacks. She had

been writing addresses, and the fingers she gave into his were smudged

with ink.

She sat like a sultana, with her feet curled under her. She wore a light

confection of a house-gown of some astonishingly attractive hue, with

plentiful display of white lace and arms and bosom and a good deal of

stocking. She wore a boudoir-cap fetchingly awry.

Forbes put her hand up to his lips and laughed as he kissed the smudge

of ink. It was the first laugh he had known for days. It was like the

first chuckle of rain after a drought. It brought moisture to his eyes.

He clung to her hand. It was now a rescuing hand put out to lift him

from the dry well of gloom. He dropped to his knee, and without any

coquetry she put her arms around him and huddled him close. His hot

cheek knew the ineffable comfort of her silken shoulder; his brow felt

her lips upon them. He was at home.

All the strength that had sustained him, all his ideas of duty and

honor, were blown away like the down of a dandelion puff by the mere

breath of her lips. And now the tears his eyes had refused broke from

them in flood. He wept because he was happy and because he had found

contentment and refuge. He wept as great heroes and fierce warriors used

to weep before tears went out of fashion for men and began to fall into

disuse even among women.

Persis mothered him, wondering at his childishness. She did not weep

with him. She smiled. She laughed the low, thorough laughter of the

victorious Delilah getting her Samson back. She loved him though she

betrayed him. She loved the triumph of her beauty, the victory of her

soft bosom, over all the hateful inconveniences of law and justice and

piety.

By and by he was smiling, too, with shame at his humanity and his return

to boyhood, and with the revel of her companionship. She humiliated him

deliciously by drying his wet eyelids with her fragrant tiny

handkerchief and by the silly baby talk she lavished on him. But it was

the only comfortable shame he had felt in the past black days.

And now they were indeed acquainted with each other. She had seen him

weep. When a woman has gained that advantage over a man, what dignity

has he left? She can make a face at him, and all his pride becomes a

laughing-stock.

At length, to avoid the reefs of more important talk, he asked her how

she came to be alone, and what all the bundles were for. She explained

that she had been shopping betimes for Christmas presents and had been

making the things ready for the morrow's American mail; Willie had

mutinied and gone vaudevilling; his man had taken the English maid of a

neighbor in the hotel to a dance at the Red Mill; and Nichette had

refused to miss her soldier's evening out.

Persis made Forbes help her with the remaining packages, and they

laughed like youngsters over the knots she tied, and the blots she made,

and the things she had bought for all the people she had to buy things

for--her father, her mother-in-law, her sister, her sister's children,

and an army of servants. When finally the last address was inscribed she

felt that she had done enough duty for a month, and voted herself a

vacation--also a cigarette. She told Forbes where Willie's cigars were

kept, but he made a punctilio of not smoking them, though he had none of

his own and would not order any from the hotel.

They talked small talk and love talk; they laughed and cooed. They were

congenial to the infinitesimal degree. The world outside was dank and

cheerless. They shut it away with great curtains. They forgot that there

was any curse upon their rapture. They shut out all their obligations as

things clammy and odious.

Nature had selected them for each other. Nature mated them and wooed for

them, and did not know or did not care what other plans they had made,

what contracts or pledges had been assumed. The true damnation was in

the earlier crime: that solemn marriage in the church before the world.

The wickedness was begun at the altar: the violation of duty, the breach

of the seventh "Thou shalt not." It was there that Persis' feet took

hold on hell.

Yet the world had made a jubilee of that occasion. People had put on

their best clothes and were proud to be asked to assist. Rather, they

should have hidden their eyes from the abomination; they should have

resented the request to play accomplice to that indecency. Instead, they

celebrated the crime with flowers, and music, and with surplices in a

church.

There would be resentment enough, but belated, when the consequences of

that impious sacrifice were reaped, when nature demanded restitution and

scoffed at the mortgage. If this night's rite were ever heard of it

would be cried out against, the celebrants would be shunned, banished.

None of this is to say that faith should not be kept, however rashly

pledged, or that people should make a virtue of refusing to pay the

debts they run and repudiating the laws that shelter them.

Persis' earlier crime did not justify or cancel the latter, but added

another to it. She had entered with open eyes into her compact with

Enslee; she auctioned herself off; he was the highest bidder, and she

knocked herself down. She was in honor bound to stay sold. But the very

readiness to commit that infamy, the yielding to that temptation, was

instruction for the next. Easy bind, easy break.

Her only safety was in keeping away from Forbes. That was the

Ambassador's wisdom. He feared the very proximity of Persis and Forbes.

He foresaw that, while nature would hold cheap the laws of mankind,

mankind would not accept nature as an excuse for lawlessness.

In spite of him Persis and Forbes were reunited. The withes that

marriage had bound about her were as nothing to the great changes it had

made in her soul. It had taken away the enormous power that exists in

maidenhood, with its self-awe and its fierce defense of integrity. That

instinct of self-preciousness that had made Persis hide her lips from

Forbes' kisses on a far-off day was annulled, for her lips had been

Willie Enslee's for more than half a year. Her body had been his toy. He

had schooled her to maturity, made a woman of the girl.

And now in the presence of the bridegroom selected by nature and love

what protection had she? She had no harem walls to inclose her, no

guardians to keep the suitor away or to threaten exposure. She had lost

the fawn-like girlishness that would take flight; there was no

nun-spirit within her now to cry "Help me!"

What remorse there was was the man's. He blamed himself for overpowering

where he was overpowered and decoyed. With the traditional mistake of

the man he accused himself of a ruthless conquest when he was really the

prey of ancient guile and wile. And this again is not to blame Persis.

She was herself the mere puppet of world-old impulses along the wires of

sense. She was a victim, too. But her remorse was hardly remorse at all,

rather amazement or dismay. It was Forbes that condemned himself for

dishonor.

Man is the maker of laws, the upholder of laws, the punisher of those

who violate the majesty of the law.

But law for law's sake has little or no meaning for woman. She has her

own codes and reads them within. The complex tissue of her loves and

hates is her attorney, always plaintiff or defendant, not often referee.

She has her glories, and perhaps they are greater than any of man's; but

the creation of laws and constitutions and codes is not one of them. She

is timid, she is brave, she is merciful, she is ruthless. She may

reproach herself for indiscretion, for folly, for misplaced trust, for

misguided emotion; but did any woman ever honestly reproach herself for

a breach of honor as honor? A disloyalty to religion, yes; to faith,

yes; to love, oh yes; but to honor?

Persis was dumfounded at the completeness of her success by surrender

and at its rashness. She was afraid that Forbes might despise her; but

she felt also the barbaric primeval perfection of the triumph of nature.

She had achieved her destiny. She had been female to the male of her

choice. She would fight the consequences; she would deny the fact, but

she felt that she could never regret it.

Immediately having made conquest of Forbes, she began to own him. She

began to resent his other obligations, his other codes; her jealousy

began to function.

She implored him to postpone his return to America; to follow the

Ambassador's body on a later steamer; not to go, at least, on the

steamer Mildred took--anything to escape the breaking of the rose-chains

wherewith she withed him. But his almost filial love for his benefactor

overcame even his passion. Nothing could move him from that last

foothold on self-respect.

The triumph of love wound up in a war, a downright quarrel, with all the

brutality of a married couple. And that came to an abrupt end with the

tinkle of a clock sounding the hour. Both of them blenched. It was as if

rats fighting heard the bell of the cat.

"You must hurry," she gasped, "Willie is long past due."

Forbes needed no urging. He fled so precipitately that he hardly paused

for a farewell kiss. They had time for no future plans. He sneaked along

the corridors of the hotel. He feared to summon the elevator lest Willie

step out of it. He went down by the stairways. From the entresol he

studied the lobby of the hotel to make sure of not meeting Enslee. A

detective might have suspected him for a thief had not his manner been

the immemorial stealth of clandestine lovers. Love had belittled him

thus in one evening.

Little Willie Enslee could have put him to flight, have struck him

without resistance, have shot him down without provoking an answering

shot.

So Forbes had coerced and terrified soldiers of his who were far

superior to him in bulk and brawn. They saw his shoulder-straps and

respected them, took a pride in being humble before them. Back of them

was the whole power and dignity of the nation.

Willie Enslee wore the shoulder-straps of the husband. He wore that

authority, and back of it was arrayed the decency and the safety of

human society.