CHAPTER VII
There was no difficulty in obtaining accommodation at another hotel. The choice rested with me, for I was not particular as to terms, I had no scruple in spending part of my capital, my intentions having always been to adopt a profession, and not to pass my days in idleness. My inclination was for literature; I was vain enough to believe that I had in me the makings of a novelist, and I had already in manuscript the skeleton of a work of fiction upon which I intended to set to work when I was settled down in life. Before our marriage I had confided my ambitious schemes to Barbara.
"Delightful!" she exclaimed. "My husband will be a famous author. What a proud woman I shall be when I hear people praise his books!"
I brought away from the hotel letters which had arrived for me, and Barbara carried the bouquet I had purchased for her on the previous night. The moment we were in our new quarters she called for a vase, and placed the flowers in water. The brooch I had purchased at the same time was still in my pocket; the device of two hearts entwined was a mockery now in its application to Barbara and myself.
"How sweet of you to buy these flowers," she said, with tender glances at me. "You will always love me, will you not – you will always buy flowers for me? I have heard people say that marriage acts upon love like cold water on fire – puts it out, but I should die with grief if I thought that would be so with us. What are your letters about, dear?"
They were from agents, giving me particulars of two houses, either of which would be a suitable residence for us when we returned to London, and set up housekeeping. Barbara and I had made many pleasant journeys in search of a house, and we had selected two in the neighborhood of West Kensington. One was unfurnished, the other had been the residence for a few months of a gentleman who had furnished it in good style, and was desirous of selling the furniture and his interest in the lease. I preferred the former, Barbara the latter, and I now gave her the letters to read. The furnished house was offered to me for a sum which I considered moderate, and an answer had to be given immediately, as another likely purchaser was making inquiries about it.
"Now sit down, like a good boy," said Barbara, "and send the agent a cheque, and settle it at once. It will be the dearest little home, and we shall be as happy as the day is long."
I had no heart to argue the matter; after the experiences of the last twenty-four hours one house was as good to me as another. A home we must have, and I earnestly desired to avoid contention, so for the sake of peace I did as Barbara wished, and wrote to the agent to close the bargain. While I was attending to my correspondence Barbara was bustling about and chatting with a chambermaid with whom she appeared to be already on confidential terms.
"What delightful rooms these are," she said, looking over my shoulder as I was writing, "and what a clever business man my dear boy is! I am ever so glad we moved from that disagreeable hotel. You must consult me in these things for the future; I have an instinct which always guides me right. The moment I entered the place I knew we should not be comfortable there. Go on with your letters while Annette assists me to unpack. You must not look on, sir; I shall not let you into the secrets of a lady's wardrobe till we have been married a year at least. When you have finished your letters you can arrange your private treasures while I am arranging mine, or if you are too tired you can lie on the sofa and smoke a cigar. Would it shock you very much if I smoked a cigarette? It is quite the fashionable thing for ladies to do."
I replied that I did not like to see women smoke.
"Then you shall not see me do it," she said, vivaciously. "I would die rather than give you one moment's annoyance."
Annette was the chambermaid, a tall, thin-faced, spare woman of middle age; and a stranger, observing her and my wife together, would have supposed they had been long acquainted. Barbara was given to sudden and violent likings and dislikings, and had once said to me, "I love impulsive people. They are ever so much better and so much more genuine than people who hum and ha, and want time to consider whether they are fond of you or not. They resemble spiders who, after watching for days and days, creep out of their corners when you least expect it, and bind you tight so that you can't move, and say, 'I have made up my mind; I am going to eat you bit by bit.'" I thought this speech very clever when I first heard it, and I became immediately a worshiper of impulsiveness. That Barbara should strike up a sudden friendship with the new chambermaid did not, therefore, surprise me. Together they proceeded with the unpacking of Barbara's wardrobe, Barbara darting in upon me now and then to give me a kiss, "on the sly," she whispered, "for she mustn't see." Then she would return to Annette, and they would laugh and talk. My letters written, I lit a cigar and took up a French newspaper. Once Barbara brought a peculiar flavor into the room, and I asked her what it was.
"Cloves," she replied. "I dote on them." She popped one into my mouth, and said, "Now we are equal and you can't complain. Oh, John, promise me never, never to eat onions alone. I am passionately fond of them. You are beginning to find out all my little failings."
She ran into the bedroom to tell Annette the joke, and there was much giggling between them.
"How provoking!" she cried, darting in for the twentieth time. "I have mislaid the key of my small trunk. Lend me your keys; perhaps one of them will fit."
I gave her my bunch of keys, and she was a long time trying them. I took no notice of this, being engrossed in a feuilleton, and taking from the style in which the exciting incidents were described a lesson for the novel I contemplated writing.
"Not one of them will fit," said Barbara, throwing the keys into my lap. Shortly afterwards she called out, "Congratulate me, John, I have found my key. It was in my pocket all the time. See what a simple little woman you have married; and you thought me clever, you foolish boy!"
So far as I can recall my impressions I am endeavoring to describe them faithfully. I went through many transitions of feeling in those days, now hoping, now despairing, now accusing myself of doing my wife an injustice, now sternly convinced that I was right. On this day I was comforted, Barbara was so bright, so ingenuous, and I firmly believed she would keep the promise she had given me. She brought into play all the arts and fascinations by which she had beguiled me in our courting days. She ordered me to take her for a drive, to buy her violets, to drive to the Magazin de Louvre to make purchases (where she selected a number of things she did not need), to take her to a famous restaurant to dine – "it is so dull," she said, "to dine in a stuffy little room all by ourselves" – and, dinner over, she invited me to accompany her to a theatre where a comedy was being played which Annette had told her was very amusing.
"I can't live without excitement," she said. "I love theatres, I love bright weather, I love flowers, I love handsome men – why do you look so grave, sir? Do you not love handsome women? You are a ninny if you don't, and if you don't, sir, why did you marry me?"
"Barbara," I said gravely, "it is a strange question, I know, but do you think we are suited to one another?"
"It is a strange question," she replied, laughing. "My dear, we were made for one another. Fie, love! Do you forget that marriages are made in Heaven?"
"Ours, Barbara?"
"Certainly, ours."
Wonderful were the inconsistencies of her utterances; one moment questioning whether she had not made a mistake in marrying me, the next declaring that our marriage was made in heaven.
"I have not a secret from you," I said.
"Nor I from you," she returned. "I hope you agree with me, John, that there should be perfect confidence between man and wife, that they should hide nothing from one another."
"I do agree with you; not even the smallest matter should be hidden."
"Yes, John, love, not even the smallest matter. Little things are often very important, and it is so awkward to be found out. I am so glad we are of one mind about this. When we first engaged I said to Maxwell, 'John shall know everything about me – everything. All my faults and failings – nothing shall be hidden from him. Then he can't reproach me afterwards. I will be perfectly frank with him.' Maxwell called me a fool, and said there were lots of things people ought to keep to themselves, and that I should be horrified if I were told all the dreadful things you had done. He spoke of wild oats, and bachelors living alone, and the late suppers they had in their chambers with girls and all sorts of queer company. But I was determined. You might deceive me, but I would not deceive you. I would not have that upon my conscience."
"You really kept nothing from me, Barbara?"
"Nothing, love."
"And you are keeping nothing from me now?"
"Nothing, love."
I did not press her farther. Her smiling eyes looked into mine, and I had received incontestible proof that she was lying to my face.
CHAPTER VIII
I was an inveterate smoker, and at this period my favorite habit was a consolation to me. I smoked at all hours of the day, and Barbara had encouraged me, saying that she loved the smell of a cigar. But on the morning following the conversation I have just recorded she complained that my cigar made her ill, and I went into the boulevard to smoke it. When I had thrown away the stump I returned to the hotel to attend to my trunks, which were not yet unpacked. These trunks were in a small ante-room, the key of which I had put in my pocket. I had adopted this precaution in order that they should not be in Barbara's sight, that she should not be left alone with them, and that when I unpacked them she should not see what they contained. Upon my return to the hotel Barbara was in her bed-room, attending to her toilet, and Annette was with her. It was Barbara's first visit to Paris, and we had arranged to make the round of its principal attractions.
The first trunk I opened was that in which I had deposited the five bottles of brandy I had found among Barbara's dresses. To my astonishment they were gone.
I was positive I had placed them there, but to make sure I searched my second trunk, with the same result. The bottles had been abstracted. By whom, and by what means?
The cunning hand was Barbara's.
What kind of a woman was I wedded to who spoke so fair and acted so treacherously, who could smile in my face with secret designs in her heart against my peace and happiness? I could go even farther than that, and say against my honor. Fearful lest my indignation might cause me to lose control over myself and lead to a scandalous scene, I locked the trunk and left the hotel. In the open air I could more calmly review the deplorable position into which I had been betrayed.
It is the correct word to use. Treacherously, basely, had I been betrayed.
It was long before I was sufficiently composed to apply myself to the consideration of the plan by means of which Barbara obtained the bottles of brandy. The lock of the trunk had not been tampered with, and no force had been used in opening it. She must have had a duplicate key. How did she become possessed of it?
I examined my keys, and I fancied I discerned traces of wax upon them. I inquired my way to the nearest locksmith, and giving him the bunch asked whether an impression in wax had been taken of any of them.
"Of a certainty, monsieur," he said, "else I could not have made them."
"It is you, then, who made the duplicates?"
"Assuredly, it is I, monsieur."
"Of how many?"
"Of two, monsieur."
"Of these two?" indicating the keys of my two trunks.
"Exactly, monsieur."
"From impressions in wax which you received."
"Yes, yes, monsieur," he said, redundantly affirmative. "Have you come to ask for them? But they were delivered and paid for last night."
"By a thin-faced, middle-aged woman, with gray eyes and a white face?"
"The description is perfect. I trust the keys are to your satisfaction, and that they fit the locks."
"They fit admirably," I said, and I gave him good morning.
Annette! She was in my wife's pay; together they had conspired against me. The first practical step towards obtaining access to my boxes was taken when Barbara informed me that she had mislaid one of her keys, and borrowed my bunch; then the impressions in wax, and Annette going to the locksmith to give the order; then the packet containing the keys which Annette had secretly conveyed to my wife while my back was turned; then Barbara's complaint this morning that my cigar made her ill, and my going out to smoke. During my absence my trunk was opened and rifled. The petty little mystery was solved.
It was late when I returned to the hotel. I expected a stormy scene, it being now two hours after the time I had appointed to take Barbara to see the sights of Paris; but she was not in our rooms to reproach me. In the bedroom I noticed that two padlocks had been newly fixed to each of her trunks. I went into the office to make inquiries.
"Madame is out," said the manager.
"On foot?"
"No, monsieur; in the carriage that was ordered."
"Did she go alone?"
"No, monsieur; Annette accompanied her."
"Annette!" I exclaimed. "Has she not her duties to attend to here?"
"She is no longer in our service," was the reply. "She is engaged by madame. It was sudden, but she begged to be allowed to leave. Your wife implored also, monsieur, and as another woman who had been with us before as chambermaid was ready to take her place, we consented – to oblige madame."
"Is Annette a good servant?"
"An excellent domestic."
"Trustworthy, honest, and sober?"
"Perfectly. Madame could not desire a better."
Every word he spoke was in Annette's favor, and I felt that another burden was on my life. If I could not cope with Barbara alone, how much less able was I to cope with her now that she had such an ally as this sly creature?
At five o'clock they came in together, my wife flushed and elated, Annette quiet and placid as usual.
"I have had a lovely day," said Barbara, as Annette assisted her to disrobe. "I suppose my dear boy has been running all over the city in search of me."
"You are mistaken," I replied. "I have not searched for you at all."
"I am not going to believe everything you say, you bad boy," she said, darting into the bedroom.
I divined the reason; it was to ascertain whether the padlocks on her boxes had been tampered with. Reassured on this point, she resumed her chatter.
"How lonely my dear boy must have been! I declare he has been smoking. Annette, give me my cloves. Will you have one, John? No? Is it not good of Annette to accept the situation I offered her? She will travel with us to Switzerland and Italy, and will tell us all we want to know about the hotels there, and what is worth seeing, and what not. She will save you no end of money. And what a perfect lady's maid she is! I wonder what possessed me to leave England without one; but I am glad now that I did not engage one there, for I could not have got anybody half so handy and clever as Annette."
While my wife was speaking Annette made no sign, and nothing in her manner indicated that she understood what was being said in her praise. Had she been a stone image she could not have shown less interest. This was carrying acting too far, for her name being frequently mentioned, she would naturally have exhibited some curiosity.
"And only thirty-five pounds a year," my wife continued, and would have continued her prattle had I not interrupted her.
"I should like to speak to you alone, Barbara."
"We are alone, you dear boy." I looked towards the imperturbable woman she had engaged. "Oh, do you object to Annette? What difference can she make? She understands no language but her own."
"I should prefer to be alone with you."
"To say disagreeable things, I suppose, when there are no witnesses present. Oh, I know you. She shall not go."
"Do you think it right to oppose me in such a small matter? Surely we ought to keep our quarrels to ourselves."
"Who is quarreling?" she retorted. "I am not. And as to what is right and wrong, I am as good a judge as you."
"Annette," said I, addressing the woman in French, "leave the room."
"Oui, monsieur," she replied, with perfect submissiveness, and was about to go when my wife said:
"Annette, remain here."
"Oui, madame," she replied, without any indication of surprise at these contradictory orders. To outward appearance she was an absolutely passive agent, ready at a word to go hither or thither, to say yea or nay, without the least feeling or interest in the matter; but any one who judged her by this standard would have found himself grievously at fault.
"Very well," I said. "I will postpone speaking of a very serious subject till I can do so out of the hearing of strangers. I will only say now that you should not have engaged this woman without consulting me."
"Indeed, I shall not consult you," returned Barbara, "upon my domestic arrangements, and I am astonished at your interference. It is I who have to attend to them, and I will not be thwarted and ordered to do this or that. You think a wife is a slave; I will show you that she is not." She paused a moment, and then shrugged her shoulders. "What you have to say had best be said at once, perhaps. In heaven's name let us get it over." She stepped to Annette's side, and whispered a word or two in her ear; the next moment we were alone. "Now, John, what is it?"
"With the connivance of that woman you have had false keys made, with which, in my absence – artfully contrived by yourself – you have opened my trunks."
"Go on."
"You admit it."
"I admit nothing. Go on."
"With those false keys you ransacked my trunks, and stole certain articles from them."
"Stole?" she cried with a scornful laugh. "A proper word for you to use."
"Never mind the word – "
"But I shall mind the word. You will be dictating to me next how I shall express myself. If there is a thief here, it is you. I call you thief to your face. You ought to feel flattered that I followed your example, but nothing seems to please you. And you should consider, my dear – what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. You opened my trunks on the sly; I opened yours on the sly, and took possession of my property which you had stolen from me."
"I admit," I said, speaking without passion, "that I was wrong – "
"Oh, indeed! And that admission justifies you?"
"The end justified me; what I found justified me."
"In your opinion, because you can do no wrong. Seriously, my love, do you look upon me as a child, and do you think I will allow myself to be spied upon and robbed with impunity?"
"What I did was for your good."
"Allow me, if you please, to be the judge of what is good for me. Will it offend you to hear me say that no gentleman would act as you have done?"
It would have been wiser, perhaps, had I refrained from uttering the retort that rose to my lips.
"Would any lady act as you have