Notwithstanding | Page 2

one stopped, with a little joyous exclamation. She was obliged to
raise her eyes and return his greeting.
She knew him, the eccentric, rich young Englishman who rode his own
horses under a French name which no one believed was his own. He
often came to her father's cabaret in the Rue du Bac.
"Good morning, mademoiselle."
"Good morning, M. Le Geyt."
He came and leaned on the parapet beside her.

"Are you not riding to-day?"
"Riding to-day! Ride on the Flat! Is it likely? Besides, I had a fall
yesterday schooling. My neck is stiff."
He did not add that he had all but broken it. Indeed, it was probable that
he had already forgotten the fact.
He looked hard at her with his dancing, irresponsible blue eyes. He had
the good looks which he shared with some of his horses, of extreme
high breeding. He was even handsome in a way, with a thin, reckless,
trivial face, and a slender, wiry figure. He looked as light as a leaf, and
as if he were being blown through life by any chance wind, the wind of
his own vagaries.
His manner had just the shade of admiring familiarity which to some
men seems admissible to the pretty daughter of a disreputable old
innkeeper.
He peered down at the river, and then at the houses crowding along its
yellow quays, mysterious behind their paint as a Frenchwoman behind
her pomade and powder.
Then he looked back at her with mock solemnity.
"I see nothing," he said.
"What did you expect to see?"
"Something that had the honour of engaging your attention
completely."
"I was looking at the water."
"Just so. But why?"
She paused a moment, and then said, without any change of voice--
"I was thinking of throwing myself in."

Their eyes met--his, foolhardy, inquisitive, not unkindly; hers, sombre,
sinister, darkened.
The recklessness in both of them rushed out and joined hands.
He laughed lightly.
"No, no," he said, "sweet Annette--lovely Annette. The Seine is not for
you. So you have quarrelled with Falconhurst already. He has managed
very badly. Or did you find out that he was going to be married? I knew
it, but I did not say. Never mind. If he is, it doesn't matter. And if he
isn't, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters."
"You are right. Nothing matters," said Annette. Her face, always pale,
had become livid.
His became suddenly alert, flushed, as hers paled. He sighted a possible
adventure. Excitement blazed up in his light eyes.
"One tear," he said, "yes,--you may shed one tear. But the Seine! No.
The Seine is made up of all the tears which women have shed for
men--men of no account, worthless wretches like Falconhurst and me.
You must not add to that great flood. Leave off looking at the water,
Annette. It is not safe for you to look at it. Look at me instead. And
listen to what I am saying. You are not listening."
"Yes, I am."
"I'm going down to Fontainebleau for a bit. The doctor says I must get
out of Paris and keep quiet, or I shan't be able to ride at Auteuil. I don't
believe a word he says, croaking old woman! But--hang it all, I'm
bound to ride Sam Slick at Auteuil. Kirby can look after the string
while I'm at Fontainebleau. I'm going there this afternoon. Come with
me. I am not much, but I am better than the Seine. My kisses will not
choke the life out of you, as the Seine's will. We will spend a week
together, and talk matters over, and sit in the sun, and at the end of it
we shall both laugh--how we shall laugh--when you remember this."
And he pointed to the swirling water.

A thought slid through Annette's mind like a snake through grass.
"He will hear of it. He is sure to hear of it. That will hurt him worse
than if I were drowned."
"I don't care what I do," she said, meeting his eyes without flinching. It
was he who for a moment winced when he saw the smouldering flame
in hers.
He laughed again, the old light, inconsequent laugh which came to him
so easily, with which he met good and bad fortune alike.
"When you are as old as I am," he said not unkindly, "you will do as I
am doing now, take the good the gods provide you, and trouble your
mind about nothing else. For there's nothing in the world or out of it
that is worth troubling about. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing."
"Nothing," echoed Annette hoarsely.

Chapter 2
"Et partout le spectre de l'amour, Et nullepart l'amour."
The train was crawling down to Fontainebleau. Annette sat opposite
her companion, looking not at him but