VI

von Robert W. Chambers

Hastings woke the next morning with a quickened heartbeat, his mind immediately on Valentine.

The sun was already casting a golden glow on the towers of Notre Dame. The sound of workmen's wooden shoes echoed sharply in the street below, and a blackbird in a pink almond tree was singing its heart out.

He decided to wake Clifford for a brisk walk in the countryside, hoping to later persuade him to visit the American church for the sake of his soul. As he stepped outside, he found Alfred, the sharp-eyed concierge, washing the asphalt path that led to the studio.

“Monsieur Elliott?” Hastings asked, but Alfred replied flatly, “I don’t know.”

“And Monsieur Clifford?” Hastings inquired, somewhat taken aback.

“Monsieur Clifford,” the concierge said with a hint of sarcasm, “will be pleased to see you, as he retired early; in fact, he has just returned.”

Hastings hesitated while the concierge delivered a lengthy lecture on the virtues of those who didn’t stay out all night and then knocked on the lodge gate at hours even a gendarme respected for sleep. He also extolled the benefits of temperance, taking a showy sip from the fountain in the courtyard.

“I think I’ll pass,” Hastings said.

“Pardon, monsieur,” the concierge grumbled, “but perhaps it would be wise to check on Monsieur Clifford. He might need assistance. He drives me out with hairbrushes and boots. It’s a miracle he hasn’t set something on fire with his candle.”

Hastings hesitated for a moment, but swallowing his reluctance, he walked slowly through the ivy-covered alley and across the inner garden to the studio. He knocked. Silence. He knocked again, and this time something crashed against the door from inside.

“That,” the concierge remarked, “was a boot.” He fitted his spare key into the lock and let Hastings in. There sat Clifford, disheveled in evening attire, on the rug in the middle of the room. He held a shoe in his hand and didn’t seem surprised to see Hastings.

“Good morning! Do you use Pears’ soap?” he asked with a vague wave of his hand and an even vaguer smile.

Hastings felt a sinking feeling in his chest. “For heaven’s sake, Clifford, go to bed.”

“Not while that—Alfred—pokes his shaggy head in here and I still have a shoe left.”

Hastings blew out the candle, picked up Clifford’s hat and cane, and said, struggling to keep his emotions in check, “This is terrible, Clifford. I never knew you did this sort of thing.”

“Well, I do,” Clifford replied.

“Where’s Elliott?”

“Old chap,” Clifford said, becoming sentimental, “Providence that feeds—feeds—uh—sparrows and that sort of thing watches over the intemperate wanderer—”

“Where’s Elliott?”

But Clifford only shook his head and waved his arm around. “He’s out there—somewhere.” Then, suddenly wanting to see his missing friend, he lifted his voice and howled for him.

Hastings, thoroughly shocked, sat down on the lounge in silence. After shedding a few tears, Clifford perked up and stood with exaggerated caution.

“Old chap,” he said, “do you want to see a—uh—a miracle? Well, here goes. I’m going to begin.”

He paused, beaming at nothing in particular.

“A miracle,” he repeated.

Hastings assumed he was referring to the miracle of him managing to stay upright and said nothing.

“I’m going to bed,” Clifford announced. “Poor old Clifford’s going to bed, and that’s a miracle!”

And he did, with a careful calculation of distance and balance that would have earned enthusiastic applause from Elliott had he been there to assist. But he wasn’t. He hadn’t reached the studio yet. He was on his way, though, and smiled down at Hastings with a patronizing air when he finally found him lounging on a bench in the Luxembourg. He allowed himself to be roused, dusted off, and escorted to the gate. However, he refused any further help, giving Hastings a condescending bow before steering a fairly straight course toward rue Vavin.

Hastings watched him disappear from view and then slowly made his way back to the fountain. Initially, he felt gloomy and weighed down, but gradually the fresh morning air lifted the heaviness from his heart. He settled onto the marble seat beneath the shadow of the winged god.

The air was sweet with the scent of orange blossoms. Pigeons were everywhere, splashing water over their iridescent feathers, darting in and out of the spray, or nestling almost to their necks in the polished basin. The sparrows were out in force too, soaking their dusty feathers in the clear pool and chirping energetically. Under the sycamores surrounding the duck pond opposite Marie de Medici’s fountain, the waterfowl grazed on the grass or waddled in rows down the bank, embarking on some aimless, solemn cruise.

Butterflies, still a bit sluggish from a chilly night spent under the lilac leaves, crawled over the white phlox or took hesitant flights toward sun-warmed shrubs. The bees were already buzzing around the heliotrope, while a couple of gray flies with brick-colored eyes basked in a patch of sunlight beside the marble seat, chasing each other before returning to their sunny spot to rub their forelegs in delight.

The sentries marched briskly in front of the painted boxes, occasionally glancing toward the guardhouse, waiting for their relief.

Finally, the relief arrived with a shuffle of feet and the click of bayonets. The word was passed, and the new guards took their places, crunching across the gravel.

A warm chime floated from the clock tower of the palace, echoed by the deep bell of St. Sulpice. Hastings sat lost in thought in the shadow of the statue, and while he mused, someone sat down beside him. He didn’t look up at first, but when she spoke, he sprang to his feet.

“You! At this hour?”

“I was restless; I couldn’t sleep.” Then, in a low, happy voice, she added, “And you! At this hour?”

“I—I slept, but the sun woke me.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, her eyes momentarily clouded by an indefinable shadow. Then she smiled. “I’m so glad—I felt like I knew you were coming. Don’t laugh; I believe in dreams.”

“Did you really dream of me being here?”

“I think I was awake when I dreamed it,” she admitted. For a while, they sat in silence, savoring the happiness of being together. Their silence spoke volumes, filled with faint smiles and glances that exchanged unspoken thoughts, until their lips moved and words flowed, which felt almost unnecessary. What they said wasn’t particularly profound. Perhaps the most significant thing that fell from Hastings’ lips was about breakfast.

“I haven’t had my chocolate yet,” she confessed. “But what a material man you are.”

“Valentine,” he said impulsively, “I wish— I really wish you would—just for this once—give me the whole day—just for this once.”

“Oh dear,” she smiled, “not only material but selfish too!”

“Not selfish, just hungry,” he replied, looking at her intently.

“A cannibal too; oh dear!”

“Will you, Valentine?”

“But my chocolate—”

“Take it with me.”

“But breakfast—”

“Together, at St. Cloud.”

“But I can’t—”

“Together—all day—all day long; will you, Valentine?”

She fell silent.

“Only for this once.”

Again, that indefinable shadow crossed her eyes, and when it lifted, she sighed. “Yes—together, only for this once.”

“All day?” he asked, unsure of his happiness.

“All day,” she smiled. “And oh, I’m so hungry!”

He laughed, enchanted.

“What a material young lady you are.”

On Boulevard St. Michel, there’s a little creamery painted in white and blue, neat and tidy inside. The auburn-haired young woman, who spoke French like a native and went by the name of Murphy, smiled as they entered. She tossed a fresh napkin over the zinc tête-à-tête table and whisked two cups of chocolate and a basket of crisp, fresh croissants before them.

The primrose-colored pats of butter, each stamped with a shamrock, seemed infused with the fragrance of Normandy pastures.

“How delicious!” they exclaimed in unison, then laughed at the coincidence.

“With but a single thought,” he began.

“How absurd!” she cried, her cheeks flushed. “I’m thinking I’d like a croissant.”

“So am I,” he replied triumphantly. “That proves it.”

Then they had a playful quarrel, with her accusing him of behaving like a child, and he countering with his own accusations until Mademoiselle Murphy laughed in sympathy, and the last croissant was devoured under a truce. They stood up, and she took his arm, giving a bright nod to Mademoiselle Murphy, who called out a cheerful, “Bonjour, madame! Bonjour, monsieur!” as they hailed a passing cab and drove away. “Dieu! Qu’il est beau,” she sighed, adding after a moment, “Do they be married, I dunno—ma foi, ils ont bien l’air.”

The cab swung around rue de Medici, turned onto rue de Vaugirard, followed it to where it crossed rue de Rennes, and finally pulled up in front of Gare Montparnasse. They arrived just in time for a train and hurried up the stairs to the platform as the last note of the starting gong rang through the arched station. The guard slammed the door of their compartment, a whistle sounded, answered by the screech of the locomotive, and the long train glided away from the station, faster and faster, into the morning sunshine. The summer wind blew in their faces from the open window, sending the soft hair dancing on the girl’s forehead.

“We have the compartment to ourselves,” said Hastings.

She leaned against the cushioned window seat, her eyes bright and wide, her lips slightly parted. The wind lifted her hat, sending the ribbons fluttering beneath her chin. With a swift motion, she untied them, pulling a long hat pin from her hat and laying it down beside her. The train was racing forward.

Color surged in her cheeks, and with each quick breath, her chest rose and fell beneath the cluster of lilies at her throat. Trees, houses, and ponds flashed by, interrupted only by the blur of telegraph poles.

“Faster! Faster!” she exclaimed.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her, but her gaze, wide and as blue as the summer sky, seemed fixed on something far ahead—something that remained just out of reach, always slipping away as they sped along.

Was it the horizon, now marked by the imposing fortress on the hill, now by the cross of a country chapel? Was it the summer moon, ghostly and elusive, drifting through the hazy blue above?

“Faster! Faster!” she cried again.

Her parted lips glowed a vivid scarlet.

The car shook and vibrated, and the fields rushed by like an emerald torrent. He felt her excitement, and his own face lit up.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, and without thinking, she grabbed his hand, pulling him to the window beside her. “Look! Lean out with me!”

He could only see her lips moving; her voice was drowned out by the roar of the trestle, but he held onto her hand and clung to the sill. The wind whistled in their ears. “Not too far out, Valentine, be careful!” he gasped.

Below, through the gaps in the trestle, a wide river flashed into view and then disappeared as the train thundered through a tunnel, emerging once more into the freshest green fields. The wind howled around them. The girl leaned far out of the window, and he caught her by the waist, shouting, “Not too far!” But she only murmured, “Faster! Faster! Away from the city, away from the land, faster, faster! Away from the world!”

“What are you saying?” he asked, but his voice broke, swallowed by the wind.

She heard him and turned from the window to look down at his arm around her. Then she raised her eyes to his. The car shook, and the windows rattled. They were speeding through a forest now, and the sun flickered through the dewy branches like flashes of fire. He gazed into her troubled eyes, pulled her close, and kissed her half-parted lips. She cried out, a bitter, desperate sound, “Not that—not that!”

But he held her tightly, whispering words of genuine love and passion. When she sobbed, “Not that—not that—I promised! You must know—I am not worthy—” her words were meaningless to him, lost in the purity of his own heart. Eventually, her voice faded, and her head rested against his chest. He leaned against the window, the furious wind rushing past, his heart in a joyful uproar. The forest was behind them, and the sun broke free from the trees, flooding the earth with light again. She raised her eyes and looked out at the world from the window. She began to speak, but her voice was faint, so he leaned closer to listen. “I can’t turn away from you; I’m too weak. You’ve long been my master—master of my heart and soul. I’ve broken my promise to someone who trusted me, but I’ve told you everything; what does the rest matter?” He smiled at her innocence, and she adored his. She spoke again, “Take me or cast me away; what does it matter? With a word, you could destroy me, and it might be easier to die than to face happiness as great as mine.”

He wrapped her in his arms. “Hush, what are you saying? Look—look at the sunlight, the meadows, the streams. We’ll be so happy in this bright world.”

She turned toward the sunlight. From the window, the world below looked beautiful to her.

Trembling with happiness, she sighed, “Is this the world? Then I’ve never known it.”

“Nor have I, God forgive me,” he murmured.

Perhaps it was our gentle Lady of the Fields who forgave them both.