Trist smiled meekly, and moved away with the servant at his heels.
“Ce Trist,” continued the older writer, when he was out of earshot, “cannot come and go as we can—we who write but romances and idle paragraphs. It is a political power beneath that broad forehead, behind those woman’s eyes. He smells of war. It is the stormy petrel, my friends.”
“I will see him,” Trist had said to the servant as they crossed the room together. “But do not say who I am.”
Jules bowed in grave reproach at the implied possibility of an indiscretion.
“In the small room, monsieur?”
“Yes; in the small room.”
When the portier of the Hôtel Bristol entered the small room, he found a gentleman seated at a table writing.
“You seek Monsieur Trist?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“For a public or a private purpose?”
The portier had received his instructions.
“It is private, monsieur, quite private. It is but a small word from a lady in the hotel.”
“An English lady?”
“An English lady, monsieur; a widow, I believe. A Madame Huston, on the second floor.”
Trist held out his hand.
“Give it to me,” he said gently; “I am Theodore Trist. The answer shall be despatched presently. You need not wait.”
As the messenger left the room, Trist broke open the envelope and unfolded a dainty note. He read it carefully, and then leant back leisurely in his chair. There was a peculiar expression upon his face, half annoyed, half puzzled. And (why should it be withheld?) beneath the sunburn on his cheeks there was a slight change of colour. Theodore Trist experienced a strange sense of warmth in his countenance, and wondered what it meant. He was ignorant of the fact that his cheek was attempting to blush. From the expression of his eyes, however, this was not a sign of pleasure. He was ashamed of that note, and after the lapse of a few minutes he rose and threw it into the stove, the brass door of which he opened deftly with the toe of his boot.
There are times in our lives when we have cause to feel ashamed of human passions, and even of human nature. Even if we be optimists, we can scarcely pass through existence without finding that human nature is a sorry business after all. It is only right that we should experience a sense of shame when brought face to face with such passions as jealousy or hatred, but God forbid that we should ever be ashamed of love! There is not too much dignity in our daily lives, and therefore let us hold one factor of it sacred. Let us leave untouched the dignity of love. If there be one seed of shame in the flower, the disease will grow and flourish until the bloom dies away entirely. From the cradle to the grave we have but one pure and holy thing in life. We are never free from it—no spot is beyond its reach—no place is too sacred, and no hovel is too miserable for it to enter there. On the battlefield, and in church, while laughing, while weeping, while singing, while sighing, we think of love. And you, my young brother, my gentle sister, who have such thoughts as these, cherish them and keep them holy; fence them round with noble efforts; keep away the cankerworm of shame. In all truth these thoughts are better than great wealth, more profitable than fame, higher than exceeding great gifts. We, also, who are farther on the road, have known what such thoughts are, and in looking back now over the trodden path we see one sunny spot—one golden field where no great trees, no gaudy flowers grow, but where a holy peace has reigned; where Ambition found no resting-place and Covetousness no root. To have passed through that meadow was sufficient reason for the creation of a life. Its pathway was very pleasant, and the scent of its modest flowers reaches us now. Those who have once loved truly have not lived in vain, even though they pass quite away and leave no trace behind.
Theodore Trist was by nature a remarkably self-contained man, and his life of late years had brought this characteristic to an exceptional pitch. He had acquired the habit of thinking, of writing, of working with a sublime disregard to the chance of his environments. On the battlefield, and amidst the roar of artillery, it had been necessary for him to write details of a successful march through fertile valleys, where the very atmosphere breathed of peace alone. In the gorgeous apartment of an Emperor’s palace, seated in his rough, worn clothes, hat on head, booted, spurred, and armed, he had penned such a description of a battle, fought two days before, as will ever stand out unrivalled in the annals of warfare.
And now in the heart of gay Paris, in this neglected little room, he sat down before the glowing stove, while beneath his feet, like the pulse of an ocean steamer, the mighty press throbbed continuously, beating out its news, speaking great things and powerful words to all mankind. But these sounds he heeded not. He was thinking of other things. For half an hour he remained thus absorbed, and the result of those thirty minutes of thought went with him through life. At last he rose and looked at his watch.
“It will never do,” he said to himself, “to funk it. I must put a stop to this. If she makes it so plain to me, the inference is that Mrs. Wylie and Brenda know something about it, or, at the least, suspect. Whatever comes in the future, I want to save Brenda that.”
At seven o’clock that evening Theodore Trist presented himself at the Hôtel Bristol, and inquired for the private salon
