The Pretty Lady | Page 7

both been shot through the arm with the
same bullet. It was near Aerschot. The young woman also told her....
No, she could not relate that to an Englishman. Happily it did not rain.
But the wind and the cold! In the morning the rouquin put her on to a
fishing-vessel. She had nothing but her bonds of the City of Paris and

her American cheques. The crush was frightful. The captain of the
fishing-vessel, however, comprehended what discipline was. He made
much money. The rouquin would not come. He said he was an
American citizen and had all his papers. For the rest, the captain would
not let him come, though doubtless the captain could have been bribed.
As they left the harbour, with other trawlers, they could see the quays
all covered with the disappointed, waiting. Somebody in the boat said
that the Germans had that morning reached--She forgot the name of the
place, but it was the next village to Ostend on the Bruges road. Thus
Christine parted from the rouquin. Mad! Always wrong, even about the
German submarines. But chic. Truly chic.
What a voyage! What adventures with the charitable people in England!
People who resembled nothing else on earth! People who did not
understand what life was.... No understanding of that which it is--life!
In fine ...! However, she should stay in England. It was the only
country in which one could have confidence. She was trying to sell the
furniture of her flat in Paris. Complications! Under the emergency law
she was not obliged to pay her rent to the landlord; but if she removed
her furniture then she would have to pay the rent. What did it matter,
though? Besides, she might not be able to sell her furniture after all.
Remarkably few women in Paris at that moment were in a financial
state to buy furniture. Ah no!
"But I have not told you the tenth part!" said Christine.
"Terrible! Terrible!" murmured the man.
All the heavy sorrow of the world lay on her puckered brow, and
floated in her dark glistening eyes. Then she smiled, sadly but with
courage.
"I will come to see you again," said the man comfortingly. "Are you
here in the afternoons?"
"Every afternoon, naturally."
"Well, I will come--not to-morrow--the day after to-morrow."

Already, long before, interrupting the buttoning of his collar, she had
whispered softly, persuasively, clingingly, in the classic manner:
"Thou art content, chéri? Thou wilt return?"
And he had said: "That goes without saying."
But not with quite the same conviction as he now used in speaking
definitely of the afternoon of the day after to-morrow. The fact was, he
was moved; she too. She had been right not to tell the story earlier, and
equally right to tell it before he departed. Some men, most men, hated
to hear any tale of real misfortune, at any moment, from a woman,
because, of course, it diverted their thoughts.
In thus departing at once the man showed characteristic tact. Her recital
left nothing to be said. They kissed again, rather like comrades.
Christine was still the vessel of the heavy sorrow of the world, but in
the kiss and in their glances was an implication that the effective,
triumphant antidote to sorrow might be found in a mutual trust. He
opened the door. The Italian woman, yawning and with her hand open,
was tenaciously waiting.
Alone, carefully refolding the kimono in its original creases, Christine
wondered what the man's name was. She felt that the mysterious future
might soon disclose a germ of happiness.
Chapter 6
THE ALBANY
G.J. Hoape--He was usually addressed as "G.J." by his friends, and
always referred to as "G.J." by both friends and acquaintances--woke
up finally in the bedroom of his flat with the thought:
"To-day I shall see her."
He inhabited one of the three flats at the extreme northern end of the
Albany, Piccadilly, W.I. The flat was strangely planned. Its shape as a

whole was that of a cube. Imagine the cube to be divided
perpendicularly into two very unequal parts. The larger part, occupying
nearly two-thirds of the entire cubic space, was the drawing-room, a
noble chamber, large and lofty. The smaller part was cut horizontally
into two storeys. The lower storey comprised a very small hall, a fair
bathroom, the tiniest staircase in London, and G.J.'s very small
bedroom. The upper storey comprised a very small dining-room, the
kitchen, and servants' quarters.
The door between the bedroom and the drawing room, left open in the
night for ventilation, had been softly closed as usual during G.J.'s final
sleep, and the bedroom was in absolute darkness save for a faint grey
gleam over the valance of the window curtains. G.J. could think. He
wondered whether he was in love.