Читать книгу The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald - F. Scott Fitzgerald - Страница 208

Two days after this it came out in the papers—“War hero deserts wife en route to Paris,” I think, or “American Bride arrives penniless, Husbandless at Gare du Nord.” The police were informed, of course, and word was sent out to the provincial departments to seek an American named James Cooley who was without carte d’identité. The newspapers learned the story at the American Aid Society and made a neat pathetic job of it, because Milly was young and pretty and curiously loyal to her husband. Almost her first words were to explain that it was all because his nerves had been shattered in the war.

Young Driscoll was somewhat disappointed to find that she was married. Not that he had fallen in love at first sight—on the contrary, he was unusually level-headed—but after the moonlight rescue, which rather pleased him, it didn’t seem appropriate that she should have a heroic husband wandering over France. He had carried her to his own pension that night, and his landlady, an American widow named Mrs. Horton, had taken a fancy to Milly and wanted to look after her, but before eleven o’clock on the day the paper appeared, the office of the American Aid Society was literally jammed with Samaritans. They were mostly rich old ladies from America who were tired of the Louvre and the Tuileries and anxious for something to do. Several eager but sheepish Frenchmen, inspired by a mysterious and unfathomable gallantry, hung about outside the door.

The most insistent of the ladies was a Mrs. Coots, who considered that Providence had sent her Milly as a companion. If she had heard Milly’s story in the street she wouldn’t have listened to a word, but print makes things respectable. After it got into the “Franco-American Star,” Mrs. Coots was sure Milly wouldn’t make off with her jewels.

“I’ll pay you well, my dear,” she insisted shrilly. “Twenty-five a week. How’s that?”

Milly cast an anxious glance at Mrs. Horton’s faded, pleasant face.

“I don’t know—” she said hesitantly.

“I can’t pay you anything,” said Mrs. Horton, who was confused by Mrs. Coots’ affluent, positive manner. “You do as you like. I’d love to have you.”

“You’ve certainly been kind,” said Milly, “but I don’t want to impose—”

Driscoll, who had been walking up and down with his hands in his pockets, stopped and turned toward her quickly.

“I’ll take care of that,” he said quickly. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

Mrs. Coots’ eyes flashed at him indignantly.

“She’s better with me,” she insisted. “Much better.” She turned to the secretary and remarked in a pained, disapproving stage whisper, “Who is this forward young man?”

Again Milly looked appealingly at Mrs. Horton.

“If it’s not too much trouble I’d rather stay with you,” she said. “I’ll help you all I can—”

It took another half hour to get rid of Mrs. Coots, but finally it was arranged that Milly was to stay at Mrs. Horton’s pension, until some trace of her husband was found. Later the same day they ascertained that the American Bureau of Military Graves had never heard of Jim Cooley—he had no job promised him in France.

However distressing her situation, Milly was young and she was in Paris in mid-June. She decided to enjoy herself. At Mr. Bill Driscoll’s invitation she went on an excursion to Versailles next day in his rubberneck wagon. She had never been on such a trip before. She sat among garment buyers from Sioux City and school teachers from California and honeymoon couples from Japan and was whirled through fifteen centuries of Paris, while Bill stood up in front with the megaphone pressed to his voluble and original mouth.

“Building on our left is the Louvre, ladies and gentlemen. Excursion number twenty-three leaving tomorrow at ten sharp takes you inside. Sufficient to remark now that it contains fifteen thousand works of art of every description. The oil used in its oil paintings would lubricate all the cars in the state of Oregon over a period of two years. The frames alone if placed end to end—”

Milly watched him, believing every word. It was hard to remember that he had come to her rescue that night. Heroes weren’t like that—she knew; she had lived with one. They brooded constantly on their achievements and retailed them to strangers at least once a day. When she had thanked this young man he told her gravely that Mr. Carnegie had been trying to get him on the ouija board all that day.

After a dramatic stop before the house in which Landru, the Bluebeard of France, had murdered his fourteen wives, the expedition proceeded on to Versailles. There, in the great hall of mirrors, Bill Driscoll delved into the forgotten scandal of the eighteenth century as he described the meeting between “Louie’s girl and Louie’s wife.”

“Du Barry skipped in, wearing a creation of mauve georgette, held out by bronze hoops over a tablier of champagne lace. The gown had a ruched collarette of Swedish fox, lined with yellow satin fulgurante which matched the hansom that brought her to the party. She was nervous, ladies. She didn’t know how the queen was going to take it. After awhile the queen walked in wearing an oxidized silver gown with collar, cuffs and flounces of Russian ermine and strappings of dentist’s gold. The bodice was cut with a very long waistline and the skirt arranged full in front and falling in picot-edged points tipped with the crown jewels. When Du Barry saw her she leaned over to King Louie and whispered: ‘Royal Honeyboy, who’s that lady with all the laundry on that just came in the door?’

“‘That isn’t a lady,’ said Louie. ‘That’s my wife.’

“Most of the Court almost broke their contracts laughing. The ones that didn’t died in the Bastille.”

That was the first of many trips that Milly took in the rubberneck wagon—to Malmaison, to Passy, to St-Cloud. The weeks passed, three of them, and still there was no word from Jim Cooley, who seemed to have stepped off the face of the earth when he vanished from the train.

In spite of a sort of dull worry that possessed her when she thought of her situation, Milly was happier than she had ever been. It was a relief to be rid of the incessant depression of living with a morbid and broken man. Moreover, it was thrilling to be in Paris when it seemed that all the world was there, when each arriving boat dumped a new thousand into the pleasure ground, when the streets were so clogged with sight-seers that Bill Driscoll’s buses were reserved for days ahead. And it was pleasantest of all to stroll down to the corner and watch the blood-red sun sink like a slow penny into the Seine while she sipped coffee with Bill Driscoll at a café.

“How would you like to go to Château-Thierry with me tomorrow?” he asked her one evening.

The name struck a chord in Milly. It was at Château-Thierry that Jim Cooley, at the risk of his life, had made his daring expedition between the lines.

“My husband was there,” she said proudly.

“So was I,” he remarked. “And I didn’t have any fun at all.”

He thought for a moment.

“How old are you?” he asked suddenly.

“Eighteen.”

“Why don’t you go to a lawyer and get a divorce?”

The suggestion shocked Milly.

“I think you’d better,” he continued, looking down at the pavement. “It’s easier here than anywhere else. Then you’d be free.”

“I couldn’t,” she said, frightened. “It wouldn’t be fair. You see, he doesn’t—”

“I know,” he interrupted. “But I’m beginning to think that you’re spoiling your life with this man. Is there anything except his war record to his credit?”

“Isn’t that enough?” answered Milly gravely.

“Milly—” He raised his eyes. “Won’t you think it over carefully?”

She got up uneasily. He looked very honest and safe and cool sitting there, and for a moment she was tempted to do what he said, to put the whole thing in his hands. But looking at him she saw now what she hadn’t seen before, that the advice was not disinterested—there was more than an impersonal care for her future in his eyes. She turned away with a mixture of emotions.

Side by side, and in silence, they walked back towards the pension. From a high window the plaintive wail of a violin drifted down into the street, mingling with practice chords from an invisible piano and a shrill incomprehensible quarrel of French children over the way. The twilight was fast dissolving into a starry blue Parisian evening, but it was still light enough for them to make out the figure of Mrs. Horton standing in front of the pension. She came towards them swiftly, talking as she came.

“I’ve got some news for you,” she said. “The secretary of the American Aid Society just telephoned. They’ve located your husband, and he’ll be in Paris the day after tomorrow.”