Short Fiction · A Transaction In Hearts (10/12) (2/2)

“Yes, so he said. He told me something odd about him, too⁠—rather typical, I thought. The substance of it, I fancy, he must have obtained through the keyhole and his master’s correspondence⁠—a supposition which may account for his dismissal. But to come to the point. It appears that the young man, after the fashion of his kind, was smitten in a certain quarter. The object of his affections, poor, parenthetically, but presumably virtuous, would have none of him. In fact, she detested him as only a girl can who has nothing better to do. It may be⁠—”

Gonfallon had ceased to listen; his thoughts had wandered to the dinner-table, and then, returning, settled on the occupants of the sofa at his back. At the earliest possible moment he determined to take Claire and go.

“It may be,” Jones continued, “that the young fellow, in the vivacity which youth will cause, had played some little trick on her which she resented. Joseph⁠—my man⁠—described her as haughty as a Wittelsbach, and of course, as such, not one to take things lightly. Be that as it may, one afternoon our hero sauntered forth, his boots radiant though unboned, a flower in his coat, and the smell of iris on his linen. It was evident to Joseph that he intended to conquer or to die. An hour or so later our hero⁠—h’m, his name was⁠—er⁠—no, Joseph told me, but I have forgotten⁠—however, our hero returned, looking blacker than Cain, abused Joseph about the first thing that came in his head, and shut himself up in his room. Joseph, as a good servant should, loitered within call. Presently, a ring at the bell, a messenger and a note. No sooner did our hero read it than his face changed from Cain’s to Abel’s. It was then eight o’clock. Ten minutes later he was in evening dress. ‘I will dine at the Club,’ he said: ‘meanwhile, do you go to Klunder’s and get all the flowers he has in his shop cover the room with them, cover the carpet, fill the vestibule if you can.’ Joseph did as he was bid. He secured a hundred dozen roses, a basket of mignonette, and yards of smilax. When his master returned, the apartment had the breath of the Fortunate Isles. I mentioned that he lived in an apartment, didn’t I?”

At the question Gonfallon looked up. Jones seemed to be speaking less to him than to an audience behind his back. Mechanically he turned: apparently Claire and Yarde were talked out, for they sat as though listening to the novelist. Gonfallon felt for his watch and consulted it furtively: five minutes more and his cab would be at the door. “Yes, yes, of course,” he answered, absently. “Well, what then?”

“Then our hero dismissed Joseph for the night; but Joseph must have preferred to await developments. He declares that he had some brushing up to attend to, over which he fell asleep, and on awakening did not wish to make his presence known. But my own opinion is that during his master’s absence he found the note that had been brought, and that that note so piqued his curiosity that he hid in some closet in the hall. However, to make a long story short, just before midnight he heard the bell ring, and presently the sound of a girl’s voice. It was evident that she was excited. She entered the apartment like a tempest, and as she spoke her words came from her by jerks, as though wrenched by the effort of one whose patience or whose breath is gone. ‘See,’ said our hero, attempting to soothe her, ‘these roses are in welcome of you.’ ‘It is not for roses I come, but for money⁠—I am here.’ Then the door of the room which they entered was closed. For a moment there was a murmur, then an exclamation. Immediately the door reopened, and Joseph heard them pass out. This time the girl’s voice was assured. ‘Will you ever forgive me?’ she asked. ‘Will you think better of me than before?’ he answered. Seemingly⁠—”

Gonfallon, weary of Jones and of his tiresome tale, consulted his watch again. Down the room some of the guests had encircled Mrs. Fox. At the piano Miss Raritan was still seated, her exquisite face upturned to some man who was fingering a sheet of music. From behind, Gonfallon heard a rustle, Jones ceased speaking, and abruptly the room was in commotion.

Miss Raritan, rising from her seat, hurried forward, followed by Mrs. Manhattan, and in a moment by the other guests.

Gonfallon started and turned. On the sofa, Claire, her eyes closed, her head on her shoulder, her face but little less white than her frock, seemed to have sunk into a heap. “She’s fainted,” he heard Miss Raritan exclaim, and saw Mrs. Manhattan raise the girl up and beat her small hands with her own. Almost immediately the girl opened her eyes, and Gonfallon rushed to her aid. Yarde, who had stood up, glanced down at her and then over at Jones.

“There, I am right enough,” she lisped.

Again Yarde glanced at her, and then, as though assured of her well-being, he moved to where the novelist stood and looked him in the face. “You brute⁠—”

Jones caught him by the arm. “Listen to me, Trement. There, don’t struggle: she’s over it already. Besides, Gonfallon has his eye on you. Did you ever hear of Balzac? Of course not. Well, Balzac was a machine that blackened paper. One day, or rather one night, someone said to him, ‘There’s a pretty girl.’ He answered, ‘You mean a plot.’ Not a novel did he write that he had not dug from a woman’s heart. For a week I have been hunting for a climax. This evening I tried an experiment; it succeeded. I have my climax now. Call me a brute if you care to, but be good enough to understand that I am perfectly domesticated and thoroughly well trained. I always mask my heroine. There, Miss Bucholz is motioning to you.”

And with that Jones turned on his heel and adjusted his cravat. “I wonder,” he mused, “I wonder what that little imbecile would think of Vernet, who lashed himself to a masthead that he might study a storm?”