"It was very nice of you," he whispered.  "To tell the truth, I wanted
you."

"Then I'm glad I came.  I shall sleep here, by the fire, if you don't
mind."

"You're not afraid of the damp?"

"I never take colds."

She smiled at the prostrate Cleofonte, whose stertorous breathing
shattered the silences.

"He is so much in earnest about everything," she laughed.

"Aren't you tired?" he asked.  "You've had a hard day."

"Yes--a little.  But I don't feel like sleeping."

"Nor I--but you'd better sleep, you've been up since dawn."

"What time is it?" she inquired.

He looked at his watch.  "There is no time in Vagabondia.  The birds
have been asleep a long while.  But if you must know--it's half-past
nine."

"Only that?" in surprise.  "We've turned time backward, haven't we?"

"Of life forward," he paused and then:  "You are still willing to go
on?" he asked.

She smiled into the fire.

"I am," quietly.  "I'm committed irrevocably."

"To me?"

"Oh, no.  To myself, _mon ami_.  You are merely my recording angel."

"A vagabond angel--"

"Or an angel vagabond.  I haven't disappointed you?"

He laughed softly, but made no reply.  Of a truth, she had not.

"I was just thinking what a pity it was that during all these years
your gifts have been so prodigally wasted.  You have, I think, the
greatest gift of all."

"And what is that?"

"The talent for living."

"Have I?  Then I've learned it to-day.  I _have_ lived to-day, John,"
she whispered.  "I _have_ lived every hour of it."  She watched the
yellow rope of smoke which rose from the damp log.  "The talent for
living!" she mused.  "I never thought of that."

"Yes, it's a talent, a fine art; but you've got to have your root in
the soil, Hermia--unless you're an orchid."

"That's it, I know.  But I'm not an orchid any longer."

Markham rose and knocked his pipe out.

"No," he smiled, "you're a night-blooming cereus--and so am I.  You
must remember that in this world the darkness was made for sleep, dawn
for waking.  The birds know that.  So does Cleofonte.  Therefore, you,
too, child, shall sleep--and at once."

He raised the tarpaulin, scraped the ground free of twigs and stones,
and then laid it back carefully, fetching his overcoat for a pillow.

"_Voilˆ_, Mademoiselle, your sheets have been airing all day.
I hope you fill find the mattress to your liking."

"But--where will you sleep?"

"Here; nearby--in Cleofonte's blanket."

She drew her long coat around her.

"You're a masterful person," she laughed.  "What would happen if I
refused to obey?"

"An immovable object would encounter an irresistible force."

She smiled and stretched herself out.  He bent forward and laid the
loose end of the cover over her.

"Good night, child.  As a reward of obedience, you shall dream of a
porcelain bath tub and a tooth brush."

She smiled, and, fishing in the pocket of her coat, drew out a small
object wrapped in paper.

"It's the only thing I've saved from the wreck of my
respectability--but the porcelain bath tub!  Don't temp me."

He turned away and picked up Fabiani's blanket.

"Good night, Hermia," he said.

"Good night."

"Pleasant dreams."

"And you--good night."

"Good night."


CHAPTER XV

DANGER

It seemed to Hermia that she had hardly closed her eyes before she
opened them again and found herself broadly awake.  A blue light was
filtering softly through the tops of the trees and the birds were
already calling.  She pushed her cover away and sat up, all her senses
acutely alive.  The fire was out, but the air was not chill.  She
glanced at Markham's recumbent figure, at Cleofonte and Luigi, and then
stealthily arose.  Tomasso, the bear, who of all the vagabond company
had alone kept vigil, eyed her whimsically from his small eyes and
moved uneasily in his chains.

On tiptoe she made her way to the stream, one of the dogs following
her, but she patted him on the head and sent him back to the wagon.  As
she reached the depths of the forest she relaxed her vigilance and went
rapidly down the stream, finding at last at some distance a quiet pool
in the deep shadows.  Here was her porcelain tub.  She quickly
undressed and bathed, her teeth chattering with the cold, but before
the caravaners were awake was back in camp, gathering wood for the fire.

Her activities, furtive as they were, awakened Markham, who sat up,
rubbing his eyes.

"Hello!" he said.  "Haven't you been asleep?"

For reply she pointed silently through the tree trunks to the rosy East.

He got to his feet, shaking himself, rubbed his eyes sleepily, and took
from her hand the dead branch which she was dragging to the fire.
Between them they awoke Cleofonte, who lumbered to his feet and stared
about with bleary eyes.

"_Bon giorno, Signora--Signor_.  I have slept--oh, what sleep!  Luigi!
Up with you.  _Dio_!  It is already day."

Immediately the camp was in commotion.  The Signora descended from the
wagon, and with Hermia's help prepared the breakfast while Stella held
the baby.  By sunrise the gray horse was hitched to the shafts of the
wagon, the bear hitched to its tail and the travelers were on their
way--the contents of one's valise is on one's back in Vagabondia.
Cleofonte had invited Hermia to sit with him upon the seat of the
wagon, but she had refused and taken her place by Markham's side behind
Clarissa, who, quite peacefully, followed in the trail of Tomasso, the
bear.

In this order the procession moved forward into the golden wake of the
morning.  Hermia was in a high humor--joyous, sparkling, satirical by
turns.  If yesterday she had found a talent for living, to-day it
seemed the genius for joy had gotten into her veins.  Her mood was
infectious, and Markham found himself carried along on its tide, aware
that she was drawing him by imperceptible inches from his shell,
accepting his aphorisms in one moment that she might the more readily
pick them to pieces in the next.  He couldn't understand her, of
course.  She hadn't intended that he should, and this made the game so
much the more interesting for them both.  He didn't mind her tearing
his dignity to taters--and this she did with a thoroughness which
surprised him, but he discarded the rags of it with an excellent grace,
meeting her humor with a gayety which left nothing to be desired.

"O Philidor!" she cried.  "What a delusion you are!"

"Me?  Why?"

"Your gravity, your dignity, your wise saws and maxims--your hatred of
women."

"Oh, I say."

"All pose!" she continued gaily.  "Politic but ineffective.  You love
us all madly, I know.  _Do_ they make love to you, Philidor?"

"Who?"

"Your beautiful sitters."

"No," he growled.  "That's not what they're in the studio for."

She smiled inscrutably.

"Olga did."

He gave Clarissa a prod.

"Olga?"

"Yes.  She told me so."

"Curious I shouldn't have been aware of it."

"And you weren't aware of it--er--in my perg--"

"Hermia!"

"Or of the face powder on your coat lapel?"

"No."

"It was there, you know.  You carried it quite innocently into the
glare of the smoking-room.  Poor Olga!  And she is always so careful to
cover her trails!  But I warned her.  She shall not trifle with your
young affections--"

"You warned her?" he said, with a startled air.

"Yes, that unless she intended to marry you she must leave you alone."

Markham flicked a fly from the donkey's ear.

"H--m," he said, and relapsed into silence.  She glanced at him
sideways before she went on.

"You know you're not really angry with me, Philidor.  You couldn't be.
It isn't my fault if I stumbled into the climacteric of your
interesting romance.  I wouldn't willingly have done it for worlds.
But I couldn't help seeing, could I?  And Olga was _so_ self-possessed!
Only a woman terribly disconcerted could be quite so self-possessed as
Olga was.  And then the next day you went away.  Flight is confession,
Philidor."

"H--m," said Markham.  "If there are any missing details that you'd
like me to supply, don't hesitate to mention them."

"I wouldn't--if there _were_ any."

"And you believe--"

"That you're madly in love with the most dangerous woman in New York,
and that only time and distance can salve your wounds and her
conscience."

He puffed at his pipe and shrugged a shoulder.

"That's why I say you're a fraud, Philidor," she went on, "a
delusion--also a snare.  Your beetling brows, your air of indifference,
your intolerance of the world, they're the defensive armor for your
shrinking susceptibilities--you a painter of beautiful women!  Every
sitter in your studio an enemy in the house--every tube of paint a
silent witness of your frailty--every brush stroke a delicious
pain--the agony of it!"

She tweaked Clarissa's ear and whispered into its tip.  "It's much
wiser to be just a donkey, isn't it, Clarissa?"

Markham grinned a little sheepishly, but like Clarissa refused to be
drawn into the discussion.  Indeed, his patience, like that of their
beast of burden, continued to be excellent.  Hermia's impish spirit was
not proof against such imperturbably good humor, and at last she
subsided.  Markham walked in silence for some moments, speaking after a
while with a cool assertiveness.

"It's rather curious, Hermia, if I'm the silly sentimental ass you've
been picturing me, that you'd care to trust yourself to what you are
pleased to call my shrinking susceptibilities."

"But you're in love with another woman," she said taking to cover
quickly.

"I'm in love with _all_ other women," he laughed.  "All--that
is--except yourself.  It must be a surprise to one who counts her
conquests daily to discover that, of all the women in the world, you
are the only female my shrinking susceptibilities are proof against."

Her eyes were turned on him in wide amazement, eyes now quite violent
and child-like.

"I never thought of that, Philidor.  It _is_ curious that I never
thought of that.  It isn't very flattering to me, is it?"

"No--especially as the opportunities for indulgence in my favorite
pursuit are so very obvious."

She laughed but looked away.  He had provided a sauce for the gander
which made him seem anything but a goose.

"But, of course, you--you _couldn't_ take advantage of them--under the
circumstances," she remarked.

He shook his head, doggedly whimsical.  "One never can tell just how
long one's defensive armor may hold out.  I'm sure my brows are
beetling much less than usual.  In fact, this morning in spite of
severe provocation they don't seem to be beetling at all.  And as for
my air of indifference--I challenge you to discover it.  If these are
forbidding symptoms, Hermia, take warning while there's time."

"Oh, I'm not in the least alarmed," she said demurely.

But she let him alone after that.  They followed slowly in the trail of
the _roulotte_.  Whether because of Clarissa's habitual drowsiness or
their own interest in other matters, the shaggy horse had gone faster
than they, and when presently they came to a long stretch of straight
road their hosts of the night had disappeared.

"Do you know where we're going?" asked Hermia then.

"No, I don't.  I never know where I'm going.  But I'm sure of one
thing.  We must make some money at once."

"We'll follow Cleofonte to Alenon then," said Hermia resolutely.

So Markham prodded the donkey and they moved forward at a brisker pace.

They had met few people upon the road this morning and these, as on the
day before, were farmers or those who worked for them, both men and
women.  The main line of traffic from Evreux, they had learned, lay
some miles to their right, and it was over this road, a much harder
one, that the motorists went if southward bound.  It was therefore with
some surprise that they heard behind them the sound of a motor horn.
Markham caught the donkey's bridle and drew to one side, the car came
even with them, running slowly, and stopped, its engine humming.

"This is the way to Verneuil?" asked the man at the wheel in French.

"I hope so," said Markham returning their salutation.  "For that's the
way we're going."

Something in Markham's manner and speech arrested the driver's eye,
which passed rapidly to Hermia, who stood silently at the side of the
road, suddenly aware of an unusual interest in her appearance.  The man
at the wheel turned to his companion and said something in a low tone.
Markham felt a warm color surge upward to his brows.

"Will you precede us, Monsieur," he said coolly, "we are already late
upon the way."

But the Frenchman showed no intention of moving at once and, ignoring
Markham, questioned Hermia gaily.

Mademoiselle was a _bohŽmienne_.  Perhaps she would condescend to read
their fortunes.

Hermia made a pretty courtesy and laughed.

"Unfortunately--Monsieur is mistaken," she said easily.  "I am not a
teller of fortunes.  But what does it matter since Monsieur's fortune
is so plainly written upon his face."

"And what is that?"

"The fortune of the fortunate.  _Bien sžr_.  The _bon Dieu_ cared well
for those who rode in automobiles."

The Frenchman smiled and glanced at Markham, who was busying himself
with the donkey's pack.

"Mademoiselle is very blonde for a _tsigane_," he ventured again.

"I come from the North country," said Hermia promptly.

The Frenchman's eyes which had never left her face wore a curious
expression.

"It is strange," he said, "but somewhere I have seen your face before."

"That is where I am accustomed to wear it, Monsieur," she said quickly.

He laughed.

"I can only say that it becomes your costume admirably."

Markham straightened, frowning.

"_Allons, Yvonne_," he muttered.

But Hermia only stood smiling and curtsied again.

"_Merci, Monsieur_.  You pay a high tribute to the skill of my hands.
I did the best I could--and as for the matter of that," pertly, "so did
the _bon Dieu_."

He laughed gaily.  Her ready tongue delighted him, but his face sobered
as he glanced at Markham, who stood with narrowed gazed fixed on the
road ahead of them.

"You pass through Verneuil, Mademoiselle?" the motorist went on.
"Perhaps Monsieur your companion would not object if we carried you
there."

"You are very kind, Monsieur, but riding in such state is not for me."

"_Allons_!  You will be doing us the favor of your company."

"I should be frightened at the great speed."

"Oh, I will run very slowly, I promise you."

She seemed to hesitate and Markham's head slowly turned toward her, a
wonder growing in his eyes.  Could she?  Did she really think of going?
She looked at the machine and then at Markham and Clarissa.

"I will go--upon one condition," she announced.

"Mademoiselle has but to name it."

"And that is, Monsieur, that you will also carry in your automobile
Monsieur Philidor and the donkey."

He looked at her a moment as if he hadn't believed his own ears, while
his companion burst into wild laughter.

"_TouchŽ, mon ami_," he cried, clapping the chauffeur on the back.
"My faith, but she has a pretty wit--the donkey and Monsieur
Philidor--_par exemple_!"  And he roared with laughter again.

The man at the wheel flecked his cigarette into the bushes, smiling
with as good grace as he could command.

"You have many chaperons, Mademoiselle," he said.  "It is too bad.  I
shall remember your _beaux yeux_, just the same."

He waved a hand, then, opening the cutout, drove the machine forward
and in a moment was out of sight in a cloud of dust.

Markham grinned at the departing vehicle and then, turning, met
Hermia's gleaming eyes.

"O _mon ami_, it is to laugh!" she cried.  "Imagine Clarissa seated in
the tonneau of that machine entering the gates of Verneuil!  If you
have any doubt about getting the better of a Frenchman just set him up
to ridicule."

She began laughing again, her eyes on Markham.

"My poor Philidor!  Did you think I was about to desert you--and
Clarissa?  You were really quite angry for a moment."

"He was impertinent," growled Markham.

"To Hermia--but not to Yvonne."

"You're both."

"Oh, this will never do at all!  You mustn't fly at the throat of every
man who takes a fancy to me."

"I don't--but the man--is what is called a gentleman.  There's a
difference."  And while she hesitated for a reply.

"What did he mean by saying that he had seen you before?" he asked.

"Just that.  He _had_.  I remembered him perfectly.  He's the Marquis
de Folligny."

"Pierre de Folligny!" in amazement.  "Not _Olga's_ Pierre de Folligny?"

"The same.  I knew him instantly.  I met him in London, at an evening
garden party.  That is why I didn't want you to make any trouble."

"De Folligny!  I have met him.  He used to wear a beard."

"Yes, when _you_ didn't."

"I see."  And then after a pause.  "I thought he was one of that
Trouville crowd."

"He is, I think.  How lucky I hadn't seen him there!"

They walked along for some moments in silence, Markham slowly stuffing
tobacco into his pipe, his gaze upon the ground.

"Hermia," he said briefly at last, "you'll have to be careful."

"Well--aren't I?" reproachfully.

"I'm not sure it's wise of us to pass through the larger towns."

"Why not?"

"You might be recognized."

"I'll have to take that chance.  If you remove the element of danger
you take away half the charm of our pilgrimage."

"I'd rather the danger were mine--not yours," he said soberly.

She laughed at his uneasiness.  "I've absolved you from all
responsibility.  You are merely my Oedipus, the _vade mecum_ of my
unsentimental journey."

But he didn't laugh.

"I'll warrant you De Folligny doesn't think that," he said.

"Well--suppose he doesn't.   Are you and I responsible for the
unpleasant cast of other people's thoughts?  My conscience is clear.
So is yours.  _You_ know how unsentimental our journey is.  So do I.
Why, Philidor, can't you see?  It wouldn't be quite right if it
_wasn't_ unsentimental."

"And how about my--er--my shrinking susceptibilities?" he asked.

"Oh, that!  You are losing your sense of humor," she said promptly.
"The worst of your enemies or the best of your friends would hardly
call you sentimental.  I could not feel safer on that score if I were
under the motherly wing of Aunt Harriett Westfield!"

She was a bundle of contradictions and said exactly what came into her
head.  He examined her again, not sure whether it were better to be
annoyed or merely amused, and saw again the wide violet gaze.  He
looked away but he didn't seem quite happy.

"I suppose that would be the truth," he said slowly.  "Unfortunately
our vulgar conventions make no such nice distinctions."

"But what is the difference if _we_ make them?"

"None, of course.  But I would much prefer it if we gave Verneuil a
wide berth."

"Oh, I'm not afraid.  Fate is always kind to the utterly
irresponsible.  That's their compensation for being so.  What does it
matter to-morrow so long as we are happy to-day?"

His expression softened.

"You are still contented then?"

"Blissfully so.  Don't I look it?"

"If you didn't I wouldn't dare to ask you."

By ten o'clock Hermia was hungry again and when they came to a small
village she vowed that without food she would walk no more.

"Very well then," said Markham.  "We must earn the right to do it."

They found a small _auberge_ before which Hermia unpacked her orchestra
and played.  A crowd of women and children soon surrounded them, and
the sounds of the drum brought the curious from the fields and more
distant houses.  The _patronne_ came out and Philidor offered to do her
portrait for ten sous.

They were lucky.  When the hat was passed they found the total returns
upon their venture, including the portrait, were one franc and thirty
centimes.  This paid for their share of the _ragožt_, some cheese,
bread and a liter of wine.  When they got up to go, such was the
immediate fame of Philidor's portrait, that two other persons came with
the money in their hands to sit to him.  But he shook his head.  He
would be back this way, perhaps--but now--no--they must be upon their
way.  And so amid the farewells of their latest friends, the cries of
children and the barking of dogs they took to the road again.


CHAPTER XVI

MANET CICATRIX

Olga Tcherny sat at a long window in the villa of the Duchesse d'Orsay
and looked out over the sparkling sands upon the gleaming sea.
Trouville was gay.  The strand was flecked with the bright colors of
fashionable pilgrims who sat or strolled along the margin of the waves,
basking in the warm sun, recuperating from the rigors of the Parisian
spring.  White sails moved to and fro upon the horizon and a mild air
stirred the lace curtains in Olga's window, which undulated lightly,
their borders flapping joyously with a frivolous disregard for the
somber mood of the guest of the house.

Olga's gaze was afar, quite beyond the visible.  Her horizon was inward
and limitless, and though she looked outward she saw nothing.  Her
brows were tangled, the scarlet of her lips was drawn in a thin line
slightly depressed at the outer corners and the toe of her small
slipper tapped noiselessly upon the rug.  It was nothing, of course, to
be bored, for when she was not gay she was always bored; but there was
a deeper discontent in her whole attitude that that which comes from
mere ennui, an aggressive discontent, sentient rather than passive, a
kind of feline alertness which needed only an immediate incentive to
become dangerous.  Upon the dressing-table beside her was Hermia
Challoner's telegram, explaining her failure to reach Trouville; in her
fingers a letter from a friend in Rouen telling her of John Markham's
visit to that city and of his departure.  Both the telegram and the
letter were much crumpled, showing that they had been taken out and
read before.  There seemed no doubt about it now.  John Markham had
received her letters announcing her arrival in Normandy and had in
spite of them fled from Havre, from Rouen, to parts unknown, where
neither Olga's rosily tinted notes nor Olga's rosily tinted person
could reach him.  She had hoped that Hermia's arrival from Paris would
have made existence at Trouville at least bearable, but Hermia's change
of mind explained by the belated telegram had made it evident that Fate
was conspiring to her discomfort and inconvenience.  To make matters
the worse the Duchesse had taken upon herself an attack of the gout
which made her insupportable, and Pierre de Folligny, Olga's usual
refuse in hours like these, had gone off for a week of shooting at the
Ch‰teau of a cousin of the Duchesse's, the Comte de Cahors.

Hermia's change of plans had disappointed her; for, jealous as she was
of the years between them, Hermia always added a definite note of color
to her surroundings, or a leaven of madness--which made even sanity
endurable.  There seemed just now nothing in her prospect but a dreary
waste of the usual--the beach, the inevitable sea, the Casino, tea,
more beach, with intervals of fretful _piquet_ with the Duchesse, an
outlook both gloomy and disheartening.  Indeed it had been some weeks
now since things had gone quite to her liking, and her patience, never
proof against continued disappointment, was almost at the point of
exhaustion.  The letters she had written John Markham, one from New
York telling of her immediate departure, another from Paris hoping to