The Azure Rose Part 2

"Then why not call him from the window in the back?"

"Because his quarters are at the front of the house, and he wouldn't hear."

"Would no one hear?"

"There's n.o.body in the garden at this time of day. You had really better let me call to the first person that goes along the street.

Somebody is always going along, you know."

He made two strides toward the front window.

"Come back!"

He turned to find her with her face scarlet. She had raised the knife.

"Break the lock," she said.

"But that will take time."

"Break the lock."

"All right; only why don't you want me to call for help?"

"And humiliate me still further?" One small foot, cased in an absurdly light patent-leather slipper with a flashing buckle, tapped the floor angrily. "I have been foolish, and your folly has made me more foolish, but I will not have it known to all the world _how_ foolish I have been. Break the lock at once--now--immediately."

Cartaret divined that this was eminently a time for silence: she was alive, she was real, and she was human. He opened a drawer in the table, dived under the divan, plunged behind a curtain in one corner, and at last found a shaky hammer and a nicked chisel with which he returned to the locked door.

"I'm not much of a carpenter," he said, by way of preparatory apology.

The girl said nothing.

He was angry at himself for having appeared to such heavy disadvantage. Consequently, he was unsteady. His first blow missed.

His strength turned to mere violence, and he showered futile blows upon the b.u.t.t of the chisel. Then a misdirected blow hit the thumb of his left hand. He swore softly and, having sworn, heard her laugh.

He looked up: the knife had disappeared. He was pleased at the change to merriment that her face discovered; but, as he looked, he realized that her mirth was launched against his efforts, and he was pleased no longer. His rage directed itself from him to her.

"I'm sorry you don't approve," he said sulkily. "For my part, I am quite willing to stop, I a.s.sure you."

If an imperious person may be said to have tossed her head, then it should here be said that this imperious person now tossed hers.

"Now, shall I go to the window and yell into the street?" he savagely inquired.

Her high-tilted chin, her crimsoned cheeks and the studiously managed lack of expression in her eyes were proofs that she had heard him.

Nevertheless, she persisted in her disregard of his suggestion.

Cartaret's mood became more ugly. He resolved to make her pay attention.

"I'll do it," he said, and turned away from the door.

That brought the answer. She looked at him in angry horror.

"And make us the laughing-stock of the neighborhood?" she cried. "Is it not enough that you have shut me in here, that you have insulted me, that----"

"Insulted you?" He stood with the hammer in one hand and the chisel in the other, a rather unromantic figure of protest. "I never did anything of the sort."

He made a flourish and dropped the hammer. When he picked it up, he saw that she stood there, looking over his bent head, with eyes sternly kept serene; but he saw also that her cheeks remained aglow and that her breath came short.

"I never did anything of the sort," he went on. "How could I?"

"How could you?" She clenched her hands.

"I don't mean that." He could have bitten out his tongue. He floundered in a marsh of confusion. "I mean--I mean--Oh, I don't know what I mean, except that I beg you to believe I am incapable of the impudence you charge! I came in here and found the most beautiful woman----"

She recoiled.

"You speak so to me?"

It was out: he had to go ahead now. He did not at all recognize himself: this was not American; it was wholly Gallic.

"I can't help it," he said, "you are."

"Go to work," said the girl.

"But I want you to understand----"

Two tears, twin diamonds of mortification, shone in her blue eyes.

"You have humiliated me, and mortified me, and insulted me!" she persisted. Her white throat swallowed the chagrin, and anger returned to take its place. "If you are what you pretend to be, you will go back to your work of opening that door. If I were the strong man that you are, I should have broken it open long ago."

She had a handsome ferocity. Cartaret put one broad shoulder to the door and both hands to the k.n.o.b. There was a tremendous wrenching and splitting: the door swung open. He turned and bowed.

"It's open," he said.

To his amazement, her mood had entirely changed. Whether his action had served as proof of his declared sincerity, or whether her brief reflection on his words had itself served him this good turn, he could not guess; but he saw now that her eyes had softened and that her underlip quivered.

"Good afternoon," said Cartaret.

"Good-by," said she.

She moved toward the door, then stopped.

"I hope that you will pardon me," she said, and she spoke as if she were not accustomed to asking pardon. "I have been too quick and very foolish. You must know that I am new to Paris--new to France--new to cities--and that I have heard strange stories of Parisians and of the men of the large towns."

Cartaret was more than mollified, but he took a grip upon his emotions and resolved to pursue this advantage.

"At least," he said, "you should have seen that I was your own sort."

"My own--my own sort?" She did not seem to comprehend.

"Well, of your own cla.s.s, then." This girl had an impish faculty for making him say things that sounded priggish: "You should have seen I was of your own cla.s.s."