Man and Maid. Glyn Elinor
from the room. When I was alone, I used every bit of my will to calm myself—I analysed the situation. Miss Sharp loathes me—I cannot hold her by any means if she decides to go—. The only way I can keep her near me is by continuing to be the cool employer—And to do this I must see her as little as possible—because the profound disturbance she is able to cause in me, reacts upon my raw nerves—and with all the desire in the world to behave like a decent, indifferent man, the physical weakness won't let me do so, and I am so bound to make a consummate fool of myself.
When I was in the trenches and the shells were coming, and it was beastly wet and verminy and uncomfortable, I never felt this feeble, horrible quivering—I know just what funk is—I felt it the day I did the thing they gave me the V.C. for. This is not exactly funk—I wish I knew what it was and could crush it out of myself—.
Oh! if I could only fight again!—that was the best sensation in life—the zest—the zest!—What is it which prompts us to do decent actions? I cannot remember that I felt any exaltation specially—it just seemed part of the day's work—but how one slept! How one enjoyed any old thing—!
Would it be better to end it all and go out quite? But where should I go?—the me would not be dead.—I am beginning to believe in reincarnation. Such queer things happened among the fellows—I suppose I'd be born again as ugly of soul as I am now—I must send for some books upon the subject and read it up—perhaps that might give me serenity.
The Duchesse returned yesterday. I shall go and see her this afternoon I think—perhaps she could suggest some definite useful work I could do—It is so abominably difficult, not being able to get about. What did she say?—She said I could pray—I remember—she had not time, she said—but the Bon Dieu understood—I wonder if He understands me—? or am I too utterly rotten for Him to bother about?
The Duchesse was so pleased to see me—she kissed me on both cheeks—.
"Nicholas! thou art better!" she said—"As I told you—the war is going to end well—!"
"And how is the book?" she asked presently—"It should be finished—I am told that your work is intermittent—."
My mind jumped to Maurice as the connecting link—the Duchesse of course must have seen him—but I myself have seen very little of Maurice lately—how did he know my work was intermittent—?
"Maurice told you?" I said.
"Maurice?"—her once lovely eyes opened wide—she has a habit of screwing them up sometimes when she takes off her glasses.—"Do you suppose I have been on a partie de plaisir, my son—that I should have encountered Maurice—!"
I dared not ask who was her informant—.
"Yes, I work for several days in succession, and then I have no ideas. It is a pretty poor performance anyway—and is not likely to find a publisher."
"You are content with your Secretary?"
This was said with an air of complete indifference. There was no meaning in it of the kind Madame de Clerté would have instilled into the tone.
"Yes—she is wonderfully diligent—it is impossible to dislodge her for a moment from her work. She thinks me a poor creature I expect."
The Duchesse's eyes, half closed now, were watching me keenly—.
"Why should she think that, Nicholas—you can't after all fight."
"No——but—."
"Get well, my boy—and these silly introspective fancies will leave you—Self analysis all the time for those who sit still—they imagine that they matter to the Bon Dieu as much as a Corps d'Armée—!"
"You are right, Duchesse, that is why I said Miss Sharp—my typist—probably thinks me a poor creature—she gets at my thoughts when I dictate."
"You must master your thoughts——"
And then with a total change of subject she remarked.
"Thou art not in love, Nicholas?"
I felt a hot flush rise to my face—What an idiotic thing to do—more silly than a girl—Again how I resent physical weakness reacting on my nerves.
"In love!"—I laughed a little angrily—"With whom could I possibly be in love, chère amie?! You would not suggest that Odette or Coralie or Alice could cause such an emotion!"
"Oh! for them perhaps no—they are for the senses of men—they are the exotic flowers of this forcing time—they have their uses—although I myself abhor them as types—but—is there no one else?"
"Solonge de Clerté?—Daisy Ryven?—both with husbands—."
"Not as if that prevented things" the Duchesse announced reflectively—"Well, well—Some of my blessés show just your symptoms, Nicholas, and I discover almost immediately it is because they are in love—with the brain—with the imagination you must understand—that is the only dangerous kind—. When it is with a pretty face alone—a good dose and a new book helps greatly."
"There would be no use in my being in love, Duchesse—"
"It would depend upon the woman—you want sympathy and a guiding hand—Va!—"
Sympathy and a guiding hand!
"I liked ruling and leading when I was a man—"
"——We all have our ups and downs—I like my own bed—but last night an extra batch of blessés came in—and I had to give it up to one whose back was a mass of festers—he would have lain on the floor else—. What will you—hein?—We have to learn to accommodate ourselves to conditions, my son."
Suddenly the picture of this noble woman's courage came to me vividly, her unvarying resourcefulness—her common sense—her sympathy with humanity—her cheerfulness—I never heard her complain or repine, even when fate took her only son at Verdun—Such as these are the glory of France—and Coralie and Odette and Alice seemed to melt into nothingness—.
"The war will be finished this autumn—" she told me presently—"and then our difficult time will begin—. Quarrels for all the world—Not good fighting—But you will live to see a Renaissance, Nicholas—and so prepare for it."
"What can I do, dear friend—If you knew how much I want to do something!"
"Your first duty is to get well.—Have yourself patched together—finished so to speak, and then marry and found a family to take the place of all who have perished. It was good taste when I was young not to have too many—but now!—France wants children—and England too. There is a duty for you, Nicholas!"
I kissed her hand—.
"If I could find a woman like you!" I cried—"indeed then I would worship her—."
"So—so—! There are hundreds such as I—when I was young I lived as youth lives—You must not be too critical, Nicholas."
She was called away then, back to one of the wards, and I hobbled down the beautiful staircases by myself—the lift was not working. The descent was painful and I felt hot and tired when I reached the ground floor, it was quite dusk then, and the one light had not yet been lit. A slight wisp of a figure passed along the end of the corridor. I could not see plainly, but I could have sworn it was Miss Sharp—I called her name—but no one answered me so I went on out—the servant, aged ninety, now joining me, he assisted me into my one horse Victoria beyond the concierge's lodge.
Miss Sharp and the Duchesse!—? Why if this is so have I never been told about it?—The very moment Maurice returns I must get him to investigate all about the girl—In the meantime I think I shall go to Versailles—. I cannot stand Paris any longer—and the masseur can come out there, it is not an impossible distance away.
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