“‘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.”
IV
When Jim Cooley, the war hero, left the train at the small town of Evreux, he walked very fast until he was several hundred yards from the station. Then, standing behind a tree, he watched until the train pulled out and the last puff of smoke burst up behind a little hill. He stood for several minutes, laughing and looking after the train, until abruptly his face resumed his normal injured expression and he turned to examine the place in which he had chosen to be free.
It was a sleepy provincial village with two high lines of silver sycamores along its principal street, at the end of which a fine fountain purred crystal water from a cat’s mouth of cold stone. Around the fountain was a square and on the sidewalks of the square several groups of small iron tables indicated open-air cafés. A farm wagon drawn by a single white ox was toiling toward the fountain and several cheap French cars, together with a 1910 Ford, were parked at intervals along the street.
“It’s a hick town,” he said to himself with some disgust. “Reg’lar hick town.”
But it was peaceful and green, and he caught sight of two stockingless ladies entering the door of a shop—and the little tables by the fountain were inviting. He walked up the street and at the first café sat down and ordered a large beer.
“I’m free,” he said to himself. “Free, by God!”
His decision to desert Milly had been taken suddenly—in Cherbourg, as they got on the train. Just at that moment he had seen a little French girl who was the real thing, and he realized that he didn’t want Milly “hanging on him” anymore. Even on the boat he had played with the idea, but until Cherbourg he had never quite made up his mind. He was rather sorry now that he hadn’t thought to leave Milly a little money, enough for one night—but then somebody would be sure to help her when she got to Paris. Besides, what he didn’t know didn’t worry him, and he wasn’t going ever to hear about her again.
“Cognac this time,” he said to the waiter.
He needed something strong. He wanted to forget. Not to forget Milly, that was easy, she was already behind him; but to forget himself. He felt that he had been abused. He felt that it was Milly who had deserted him, or at least that her cold mistrust was responsible for driving him away. What good would it have done if he had gone on to Paris anyways? There wasn’t enough money left to keep two people for very long—and he had invented the job on the strength of a vague rumor that the American Bureau of Military Graves gave jobs to veterans who were broke in France. He shouldn’t have brought Milly, wouldn’t have if he had had the money to get over. But, though he was not aware of it, there was another reason why he had brought Milly. Jim Cooley hated to be alone.
“Cognac,” he said to the waiter. “A big one. Très grand.”
He put his hand in his pocket and fingered the blue notes that had been given him in Cherbourg in exchange for his American money. He took them out and counted them. Crazy-looking kale. It was funny you could buy things with it just like you could do with the real mazuma.
He beckoned to the waiter.
“Hey!” he remarked conversationally. “This is funny money you got here, ain’t it?”
But the waiter spoke no English and was unable to satisfy Jim Cooley’s craving for companionship. Never mind. His nerves were at rest now—body was glowing triumphantly from top to toe.
“This is the life,” he muttered to himself. “Only live once. Might as well enjoy it.” And then aloud to the waiter, “’Nother one of those big cognacs. Two of them. I’m set to go.”
He went—for several hours. He awoke at dawn in a bedroom of a small inn, with red streaks in his eyes and fever pounding in his head. He was afraid to look in his pockets