<div><span class='pageno' title='102' id='Page_102'></span><h1>CHAPTER VII</h1></div>
<p class='noindent'><span class='dropcap'>W</span><span class='sc'>HEN</span> Martin returned to the hotel a couple
of hours later, he found that Monsieur Camille
Fargot had departed, and that Corinna
had entrenched herself in her room. On the wane of
the afternoon she sent word to any whom it might concern
that, not being hungry, she would not come down
for dinner. To Félise, anxious concerning her health,
she denied access. Offers of comforting nourishment
on a tray made on the outer side of the closed door
she curtly declined. Mystery enveloped the visit of
Camille Fargot.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Martin learned from a perturbed Bigourdin that
she had descended immediately after he had left the
vestibule and had led Fargot at once into the <span class='it'>Salon de
Lecture</span>, a moth-eaten and fusty cubby-hole in which
commercial travellers who found morbid pleasure in
the early stages of asphyxiation sometimes wrote their
letters. There they had remained for some time, at
the end of which Monsieur Fargot—“<span class='it'>il avait l’air
hébété</span>,” according to Baptiste, a witness of his exit—had
issued forth alone and jumped into his car and
sped away, presumably to Bordeaux. After a moment
or two Mademoiselle Corinne, in her turn, had emerged
from the <span class='it'>Salon de Lecture</span> and looking very haughty
with her pretty head in the air—(again Baptiste)—had
mounted to her apartment.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Those were the bare facts. Bigourdin narrated them
simply, in order to account for Corinna’s non-appearance
at dinner. With admirable taste he forbore to
question Martin as to the relations between the lady
and her visitor. Nor did Martin enlighten him. An
art-student in Paris like Corinna must necessarily have
a host of friends. What more natural than that one,
finding himself in her neighbourhood, should make a
passing call. Such was the tacit convention between
Martin and Bigourdin. But the breast of each harboured
the conviction that the visit had not been a
success of cordiality. Bigourdin exhibited brighter
spirits that night at the Café de l’Univers. He played
his game of backgammon with Monsieur le Maire and
beat him exultantly. Around him the coterie cursed
the Germans for forcing the three years’ service on
France. He paused, arm uplifted in the act of throwing
the dice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Never mind. They seek it—they will get it. <span class='it'>Vous
l’avez voulu, Georges Dandin.</span> The <span class='it'>bon Dieu</span> is on
our side, just as He is on mine in this battle here.
<span class='it'>Vlan!</span>”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The dice rattled out of the box and they showed
the number that declared him the winner. A great
shout arose. The honest burgesses cried miracle.
<span class='it'>Voyons</span>, it was a sign from heaven to France. “<span class='it'>In
hoc signo vinces!</span>” cried a professor at the <span class='it'>Ecole Normale</span>,
and the sober company had another round of
bocks to celebrate the augury.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Martin and Bigourdin walked home through the
narrow, silent streets and over the bridges. There was
a high wind sharpened by a breath of autumn which
ruffled the dim surface of the water; and overhead a
rack of cloud scudded athwart the stars. A light or
two far up the gloomy scaur shewed the Hôtel
des Grottes. Bigourdin waved his hand in the darkness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is beautiful, all this.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Martin assented and buttoned up his overcoat.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is beautiful to me,” said Bigourdin, “because it
is my own country. I was born and bred here and my
forefathers before me. It is part of me like my legs
and my arms. I don’t say that I am beautiful myself,”
he added, with a laugh, his French wit seeing whither
logic would lead him. “But you understand.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” said Martin. “I can understand in a way.
But I have no little corner of a country that I can call
my own. I’m not the son of any soil.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Périgord is very fruitful and motherly. She will
adopt you,” laughed Bigourdin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But I am English of the English,” replied Martin.
“Périgord would only adopt a Frenchman.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have heard it said and I believe it to be true,”
said Bigourdin, “that every English artist has two
countries, his own and France. And it is the artist
who expresses the national feeling and not the university
professors and philosophers; and all true men
have in them something of the artistic, something
which responds to the artistic appeal—I don’t know
if I make myself clear, Monsieur Martin—but you
must confess that all the outside inspiration you get
in England in your art and your literature is Latin.
I say ‘outside,’ for naturally you draw from your own
noble wells; but for nearly a generation the <span class='it'>fin esprit
anglais</span>, in all its delicacy and all its subtlety and all
its humanity is in every way sympathetic with the <span class='it'>fin
esprit français</span>. Is not that true?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now I come to think of it,” said Martin, “I suppose
it is. I represent the more or less educated middle-class
Englishman, and, so far as I am aware of any
influence on my life, everything outside of England
that has moved me has been French. As far as I know,
Germany has not produced one great work of art or
literature during the last forty years.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Voilà!</span>” cried Bigourdin, “how could a pig of a
country like that produce works of art? I haven’t
been to Berlin. But I have seen photographs of the
Allée des Victoires. <span class='it'>Mon cher</span>, it is terrible. It is
sculpture hewn out by orders of the drill sergeant’s
cane. <span class='it'>Ah, cochon de pays!</span> But you others, you English—at
last, after our hundred years of peace, you
realise how bound you are to France. You realise—all
the noble souls among you—that your language is half
Latin, that for a thousand years, even before the Norman
conquest, all your culture, all the sympathies of
your poetry and your art are Roman—and Greek—<span class='it'>enfin</span>
are Latin. Your wonderful cathedrals—Gothic—do
you get them from Teutonic barbarism? No.
You get them from the Comacine masters—the little
band of Latin spiritualists on the shores of Lake
Como. I am an ignorant man, Monsieur Martin, but I
have read a little and I have much time to think and—<span class='it'>voilà</span>—those
are my conclusions. In the great war
that will come——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It can’t come in our time,” said Martin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No? It will come in our time. And sooner than
you expect. But when it does come, all that is noble
and spiritual in England will be passionately French
in its sympathies. <span class='it'>Tiens, mon ami</span>—” he planted himself
at the corner of the dark uphill road that led
to the hotel, and brought his great hands down on
Martin’s shoulders. “You do not yet understand.
You are a wonderful race, you English. But if you
were pure Frisians, like the German, you would not be
where you are. Nor would you be if you were pure
Latins. What has made you invincible is the interfusion
since a thousand years of all that is best in
Frisian and Latin. You emerged English after Chaucer—Saxon
bone and Latin spirit. That is why, my
friend, you hate all that is German. That is why you
love now all that is French. And that is why we, <span class='it'>nous
autres Français</span>, feel at last that England understands
us and is with us.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Having thus analysed the psychology of the Entente
Cordiale in terms which proceeding from the lips of a
small English innkeeper would have astounded Martin,
Bigourdin released him and together they mounted
homewards.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I was forgetting,” said he, as he bade Martin good-night.
“All of what I said was to prove that if you
were in need of a foster-mother, Périgord will take
you to her bosom.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll think of it,” smiled Martin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He thought of it for five minutes after he had gone
to bed and then fell fast asleep.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Early in the morning he was awakened by a great
thundering at his door. Convinced of catastrophe,
he leaped to his feet and opened. On the threshold the
urbane figure of Fortinbras confronted him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You?” cried Martin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Even I. Having embraced Félise, breakfasted,
washed and viewed Brantôme proceeding to its daily
labours, I thought it high time to arouse you from your
unlarklike slumbers.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Saying this he passed Martin and drew aside the
curtains so that the morning light flooded the room.
He was still attired in his sober black with the <span class='it'>avoué’s</span>
white tie which bore the traces of an all-night journey.
Then he sat down on the bed, while Martin, in
pyjamas and bare-foot, took up an irresolute position
on the cold boards.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I generally get up a bit later,” said Martin with an
air of apology.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So I gather from my excellent brother-in-law.
Well,” said Fortinbras, “how are you faring in Arcadia?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Capitally,” replied Martin. “I’ve never felt so
fit in my life. But I’m jolly glad you’ve come.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You want another consultation? I am ready to give
you one. The usual fee, of course. Oh, not now!”
As Martin turned to the dressing table where lay a
small heap of money, he raised a soft, arresting hand.
“The hour is too early for business even in France.
I have no doubt Corinna is equally anxious to consult
me. How is she?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Much the same as usual,” said Martin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“By which you would imply that she belongs to
the present stubborn and stiff-necked generation of
young Englishwomen. I hope you haven’t suffered
unduly.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I? Oh, Lord, no!” Martin replied, with a laugh.
“Corinna goes her way and I go mine. Occasionally
when there’s only one way to go—well, it isn’t hers.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You’ve put your foot down.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“At any rate Corinna hasn’t put her foot down on
me. I think,” said Martin, rubbing his thinly clad
sides meditatively, “my journey with Corinna has not
been without profit to myself. I’ve made a discovery.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He paused.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My dear young friend,” said Fortinbras, “let me
hear it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ve found out that I needn’t be trampled on unless
I like.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fortinbras passed his hand over his broad forehead
and his silver mane and regarded the young man
acutely. Whatever possibilities he might have seen
of a romantic attachment between the pair of derelicts
no longer existed. Martin had taken cool measure of
Corinna and was not the least in love with her. The
Dealer in Happiness smiled in his benevolent way.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Although in your present ruffled and unshorn state
you’re not looking your best, you’re a different man
from my client of two months ago.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thanks to your advice,” said Martin, “my three
weeks’ journey put me into gorgeous health and here
I’ve been living in clover.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And the environment does not seem to be unfavourable
to moral and intellectual development.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s Bigourdin and his friends,” cried Martin.
“He is a splendid fellow, a liberal education.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He’s an apostle of sanity,” replied Fortinbras with
an approving nod. “Meanwhile sanity would not recommend
your standing about in this chilly air with
nothing on. I will converse with you while you dress.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll have my tub at once,” said Martin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He disappeared into the famous bathroom and
after a few moments returned and made his toilet
while he gossiped with Fortinbras of the things he
had learned at the Café de l’Univers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s a funny thing,” said he, “but I can’t make
Corinna see it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She’s Parisianised,” replied Fortinbras. “In Paris
we see things in false perspective. All the little finnicky
people of the hour, artists, writers, politicians
are so close to us that they loom up like mountains.
You learn more of France in a week at Brantôme
than in a year at Paris, because here there’s nothing
to confuse your sense of values. Happy young man
to live in Brantôme!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He sighed and, seeing that Martin was ready, rose
and accompanied him downstairs. Félise, fresh and
dainty, with heightened colour and gladness in her eyes
due to the arrival of the adored father, poured out
Martin’s coffee. They were old-fashioned in the Hôtel
des Grottes, and drank coffee out of generous bowls
without handles, beside which, on the plate, rested
great spoons for such sops of bread as might be
thrown therein.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is as you like it?” she asked in her pretty, clipped
English.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s always the best coffee I have ever drunk,”
smiled Martin. He looked up at Fortinbras lounging
in the wooden chair usually occupied by Corinna.
“Do you know, Mr. Fortinbras, that Mademoiselle
Félise has so spoilt me with food and drink that I
shall never be able to face an English lodging-house
meal again?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fortinbras passed his arm round his daughter’s waist
and drew her to him affectionately.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She would spoil me too, if she had the chance. It
is astonishing what capability there is in this little
body.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Félise, yielding to the caress, touched her father’s
hair. “It’s like <span class='it'>mamman</span>, when she was young, <span class='it'>n’est-ce
pas</span>?” She spoke in French which came more readily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” said Fortinbras, in a deep voice. “Just
like your mother.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I try to resemble her. <span class='it'>Tu sais</span>, every time I feel
I am lazy or missing my duties, I think of <span class='it'>mamman</span>,
and I say, ‘No, I will not be unworthy of her.’ And
so that gives me courage.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ve heard so much of Mrs. Fortinbras,” said
Martin, “that I seem to know her intimately.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A smile of great tenderness and sadness crept into
Fortinbras’s eyes as he turned them on his daughter.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is good that you still think and speak so much
of her. Ideals keep the soul winged for flight. If it
flies away into the empyrean and comes to grief like
Icarus and his later fellow pioneers in aviation, at
least it has done something.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He released her and she sped away on her duties.
Presently she returned with a scared face.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Monsieur Martin, what has happened? Here is
Corinna going to leave us this morning.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Corinna going? Does she know I’m here?” asked
Fortinbras in wonderment.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her. I did not dream
that she was up—she generally rises so late. But she
has told Baptiste to take down her boxes for the omnibus
to catch the early train for Paris. <span class='it'>Mon Dieu</span>, what
has happened to drive her away?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Perhaps the visit yesterday of Monsieur Camille
Fargot,” said Martin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Eh?” said Fortinbras sharply. Then turning to
Félise. “Go, my dear, and lay my humble homage at
the feet of Mademoiselle Corinna and say that as I
have travelled for nearly a day and a night in order to
see her, I crave her courtesy so far as to defer her departure
until I can have speech with her. You can
also tell Baptiste that I’ll break his neck if he touches
those boxes. The omnibus might also anticipate its
usual hour of starting.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Félise departed. Fortinbras lit a cigarette, and
holding it between his fingers, frowned at it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Camille Fargot? What was that spawn of nothingness
doing here?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I fancy she sent for him,” said Martin. “I suppose
I had better tell you all about it. I haven’t as yet—because
it was none of my business.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Proceed,” said Fortinbras, and Martin told him
of the famous balance-striking and of Corinna’s subsequent
behaviour, including last night’s retirement
into solitude after her mysterious interview with the
spawn of nothingness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good,” said Fortinbras, when Martin had finished.
“Very good. And what had my excellent brother-in-law
to say to it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your excellent brother-in-law,” replied Martin,
with a smile, “seems to be a very delicate-minded gentleman.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fortinbras did not press the subject. Waiting for
Corinna, they talked of casual things. Martin, now a
creature of health and appetite, devoured innumerable
rolls and absorbed many bowls of coffee, to the outspoken
admiration of Fortinbras. But still Corinna
did not come. Then Martin filled a pipe of caporal
and, smoking it with gusto, told Fortinbras more of
what he had learned at the Café de l’Univers. He
expressed his wonder at the people’s lack of enthusiasm
for their political leaders.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The adventurer politician is the curse of this country,”
said Fortinbras. “He insinuates himself into
every government. He is out for plunder and his
hand is at the throat of patriotic ministers, and he
strangles France, while into his pockets through devious
channels filters a fine stream of German gold.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I can’t believe it,” cried Martin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh! He isn’t a traitor in the sense of being suborned
by a foreign Power. He is far too subtle. But
he knows what policy will affect the world’s exchanges
to his profit; and that policy he advocates.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A gangrene in the body politic,” said Martin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fortinbras nodded assent. “It will only be the
sword of war that will cut it out.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>On this, in marched Corinna dressed for travel, with
a little embroidered bag slung over her arm. She
crossed the room, her head up, her chin in the air,
defiant as usual, and shook hands with Fortinbras.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ve come as you asked,” she said. “But let us be
quick with the talking, as I’ve got to catch a train.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sit down,” said Fortinbras, setting a chair for
her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She obeyed and there the three of them were sitting
once more round a table in an empty dining room. But
this time it was a cloudy morning in early November,
in the heart of France, the distant mountains across
the town half-veiled in mist, and a fine rain falling.
Gusts of raw air came in through the open terrace window
at the end of the room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So, my dear Corinna,” said Fortinbras, “you have
not waited for the second consultation which was part
of our programme.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s your fault, not mine,” said Corinna. “I
expected you weeks ago.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Doubtless. But your expectation was no reason
for my coming weeks ago. My undertaking, however,
was a reason for your continuing to expect me
and being certain that sooner or later I should come.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All right,” said Corinna. “This is mere talk.
What do you want with me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To ask you, my dear Corinna,” replied Fortinbras,
in his persuasive tones, “why you have disregarded
my advice?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And what was your advice?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To do nothing headstrong, violent and lunatic until
we met again.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You should have come sooner. I find I am living
now on Martin’s charity and the time has come to put
all this rubbish aside and go home to my people with
my tail between my legs. It’s vastly pleasant, I assure
you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, young woman of little faith!—Why did you
not put your trust in me, instead of in callow medical
students with ridiculous mothers?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Corinna flushed crimson and her eyes hardened in
anger. “I suppose every gossiping tongue in this horrid
little hotel has been wagging. That’s why I’m going
off now, so that they can wag in my absence.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But my dear Penthesilea,” said Fortinbras soothingly,
“why get so angry? Every living soul in this
horrid hotel is on your side. They would give their
eyes and ears to help you and sympathise with you
and shew you that they love you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t want their sympathy,” said Corinna stubbornly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Or any human expression of affection or regret?
You want just to pay your bill like any young woman
in an automobile who has put up for the night and go
your way?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No. I don’t. But I’ve been damnably treated and
I want to get away back to England.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who has treated you damnably here?” asked Fortinbras.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Don’t be idiotic,” cried Corinna. “Everybody here
has been simply angelic to me—even Martin.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“On the whole I think I’ve behaved fairly decently
since we started out together,” Martin observed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“At any rate you act according to the instincts of
a gentleman,” she admitted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fortinbras leaned back in his chair and drew a
breath of relief.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’m glad to perceive that this hurried departure is
not an elopement.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Elopement!” she echoed. “Do you think I’d——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fortinbras checked her with his uplifted hand.
“Sh! Would you like me to tell you in a few words
everything that has happened?” He bent his intellectual
brow upon her and held her with his patient, tired
eyes. “Being at the end of your resources, not desiring
to share in the vagabond’s pool with Martin, and
losing faith in my professional pledge, you bethink
you of the young popinjay with whom, in your independent
English innocence, but to the scandal of his
French relatives, you have flaunted it in the restaurants
and theatres of Paris. <span class='it'>Il vous a conté fleurette.</span>
He has made his little love to you. All honour and no
blame to him. At his age”—he bowed—“I would have
done the same. You correspond on the sentimental
plane. But in all his correspondence you will find not
one declaration in form.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Corinna mechanically peeled off her gloves. Fortinbras
drew a whiff of his cigarette. He continued:—</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You think of him as a possible husband: I am frank—it
is my profession to be so. But your heart,”—he
pointed dramatically to her bosom—“has never had a
flutter. You don’t deny it. Good. In your extremity,
as you think, you send him an urgent telegram, such
as no man of human feeling could disregard. He borrows
his cousin’s husband’s motor-car and obeys your
summons. You interview him in yonder little fly-blown,
suffocating salon. You put your case before
him—with no matter what feminine delicacy. He perceives
that he is confronted with a claim for a demand
in marriage. He draws back. He cannot by
means of any quirk or quibble of French law marry
you without his parent’s consent. This they would
never give, having their own well-matured and irrefragable
plans. Marriage is as impossible as immediate
canonization. ‘But,’ says he, ‘we are both
young. We love each other, we shall both be in the
<span class='it'>quartier</span> for time indefinite’—time is never definite,
thank God, to youth—‘Why should we not set up
housekeeping together? I have enough for both—and
let the future take care of itself.’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Corinna rose and looked at him haggardly and
clutched him by the shoulder.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How, in the name of God, do you know that? Who
told you? Who overheard that little beast propose
that I should go and live with him as his mistress?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fortinbras patted the white-knuckled hand and
smiled, as he looked up into her tense face. “Do you
suppose, my dear child, that I have been the father
confessor of half the <span class='it'>Rive Gauche</span> for twenty years
without knowing something of the ways of the <span class='it'>Rive
Gauche</span>? without knowing something, not exactly of
international, but say of multi-national codes of social
observance, morality, honour, and so forth, and how
they clash, correspond and interact? I know the two
international forces—yours and Camille Fargot’s,
converging on the matrimonial point—and with simple
certainty I tell you the resultant. It’s like a schoolboy’s
exercise in mathematics.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She freed herself and sat down again dejectedly.
Everything had happened as Fortinbras declared. His
only omission, to repair which she had not given him
time, was the scene of flaming indignation incident to
Camille Fargot’s dismissal. And his psychology was
correct. The young man’s charming love-making had
flattered her, had indeed awakened foolish hopes; but
she had never cared a button for him. Now she loathed
him with a devastating hate. She thrummed with her
fingers on the table.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What is there left for me to do?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, now,” said Fortinbras genially, “we’re talking
sense. Now we come to our famous second professional
consultation.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go ahead then,” said Corinna.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I mentioned the word ‘professional,’ ” Fortinbras
remarked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Martin laughed and put a ten-franc piece into the
soft open palm.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll pay for both,” said he.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s like having your fortune told at a fair,” said
Corinna. “But hurry up!” she glanced at her watch.
“As it is, I shan’t have time to pay my bill. Will you
see after it?” she drew from her bag one of the borrowed
notes and threw it across to Martin. “Well, I
am all attention. I can give you three minutes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But just then a familiar sound of scrunching wheels
came through the open doors of the vestibule and
dining-room. She started.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s the omnibus going.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The omnibus gone,” said Fortinbras.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I’ll miss my train.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You will,” said Fortinbras.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My luggage has gone with it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It has not,” said Fortinbras. “I gave instructions
that it should not be brought down.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Corinna gasped. “Of all the cool impertinence——!”
She looked at her watch again. “And
the beastly thing has started long before its time!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“At my request,” said Fortinbras. “And now, as
there is no possibility of your getting away from
Brantôme for several hours, perhaps you might, with
profit, abandon your attitude of indignation and listen
to the voice of reason.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“By the way,” said Martin, “have you had your
<span class='it'>petit déjeuner</span>?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” said Corinna sullenly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good God!” cried Fortinbras, holding up his
hands, “and they let women run about loose!”</p>
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