When I came out of the house, hurried and angrily flushing, I perceived clearly that my reluctance to break a habit and my desire for physical comfort, if not my attachment to the girl, had led me too far. I was conscious of humiliation. I despised myself. The fact was that I had quarrelled with Yvonne—Yvonne, who had been with me for eight years, Yvonne who had remained sturdily faithful during my long exile. Now the woman who quarrels with a maid is clumsy, and the woman who quarrels with a good maid is either a fool or in a nervous, hysterical condition, or both. Possibly I was both. I had permitted Yvonne too much liberty. I had spoilt her. She was fidelity itself, goodness itself; but her character had not borne the strain of realizing that she had acquired power over me, and that she had become necessary to me. So that morning we had differed violently; we had quarrelled as equals. The worst side of her had appeared suddenly, shockingly. And she had left me, demonstrating even as she banged the door that she was at least my mistress in altercation. All day I fought against the temptation to eat my pride, and ask her to return. It was a horrible, a deplorable, temptation. And towards evening, after seven hours of solitude in the hotel in the Avenue de Kleber, I yielded to it. I knew the address to which she had gone, and I took a cab and drove there, hating myself. I was received with excessive rudeness by a dirty and hag-like concierge, who, after refusing all information for some minutes, informed me at length that the young lady in question had quitted Paris in company with a gentleman.

The insolence of the concierge, my weakness and my failure, the bitter sense of lost dignity, the fact that Yvonne had not hesitated even a few hours before finally abandoning me—all these things wounded me. But the sharpest stab of all was that during our stay in Paris Yvonne must have had secret relations with a man. I had hidden nothing from her; she, however, had not reciprocated my candour. I had imagined that she lived only for me....

Well, the truth cannot be concealed that the years of wandering which had succeeded the fatal night at Monte Carlo had done little to improve me. What would you have? For months and months my ears rang with Frank’s despairing shout: ‘You’ve brought me to this, Carlotta!’ And the profound injustice of that cry tainted even the sad sweetness of my immense sorrow. To this day, whenever I hear it, as I do still, my inmost soul protests, and all the excuses which my love found for him seem inadequate and unconvincing. I was a broken creature. (How few know what it means to be broken—to sink under a tremendous and overwhelming calamity! And yet who but they can understandingly sympathize with the afflicted?) As for my friends, I did not give them the occasion to desert me; I deserted them. For the second time in my career I tore myself up by the roots. I lived the nomad’s life, in the usual European haunts of the nomad. And in five years I did not make a single new friend, scarcely an acquaintance. I lived in myself and on myself, nursing grief, nursing a rancour against fate, nursing an involuntary shame.... You know, the scandal of which I had been the centre was appalling; it touched the extreme. It must have nearly killed the excellent Mrs. Sardis. I did not dare to produce another novel. But after a year or so I turned to poetry, and I must admit that my poetry was accepted. But it was not enough to prevent me from withering—from shrivelling. I lost ground, and I was still losing it. I was becoming sinister, warped, peculiar, capricious, unaccountable. I guessed it then; I see it clearly now.

The house of the odious concierge was in a small, shabby street off the Boulevard du Montparnasse. I looked in vain for a cab. Even on the wide, straight, gas-lit boulevard there was not a cab, and I wondered why I had been so foolish as to dismiss the one in which I had arrived. The great, glittering electric cars floated horizontally along in swift succession, but they meant nothing to me; I knew not whence they came nor whither they went. I doubt if I had ever been in a tram-car. Without a cab I was as helpless and as timid as a young girl, I who was thirty-one, and had travelled and lived and suffered! Never had I been alone in the streets of a large city at night. And the September night was sultry and forbidding. I was afraid—I was afraid of the men who passed me, staring at me. One man spoke to me, and I literally shook with fear as I hastened on. What would I have given to have had the once faithful Yvonne by my side! Presently I came to the crossing of the Boulevard Raspail, and this boulevard, equally long, uncharitable, and mournful with the other, endless, stretching to infinity, filled me with horror. Yes, with the horror of solitude in a vast city. Oh, you solitary, you who have felt that horror descending upon you, desolating, clutching, and chilling the heart, you will comprehend me!

At the corner, of the two boulevards was a glowing cafe, the CafÉ du Dome, with a row of chairs and little tables in front of its windows. And at one of these little tables sat a man, gazing absently at a green glass in a white saucer. I had almost gone past him when some instinct prompted me to the bravery of looking at him again. He was a stoutish man, apparently aged about forty-five, very fair, with a puffed face and melancholy eyes. And then it was as though someone had shot me in the breast. It was as if I must fall down and die—as if the sensations which I experienced were too acute—too elemental for me to support. I have never borne a child, but I imagine that the woman who becomes a mother may feel as I felt then, staggered at hitherto unsuspected possibilities of sensation. I stopped. I clung to the nearest table. There was ice on my shuddering spine, and a dew on my forehead.

‘Magda!’ breathed the man.

He had raised his eyes to mine.

It was Diaz, after ten years.

At first I had not recognised him. Instead of ten, he seemed twenty years older. I searched in his features for the man I had known, as the returned traveller searches the scene of his childhood for remembered landmarks. Yes, it was Diaz, though time had laid a heavy hand on him. The magic of his eyes was not effaced, and when he smiled youth reappeared.

‘It is I,’ I murmured.

He got up, and in doing so shook the table, and his glass was overturned, and scattered itself in fragments on the asphalte. At the noise a waiter ran out of the cafe, and Diaz, blushing and obviously making a great effort at self-control, gave him an order.

‘I should have known you anywhere,’ said Diaz to me, taking my hand, as the waiter went.

The ineptitude of the speech was such that I felt keenly sorry for him. I was not in the least hurt. My sympathy enveloped him. The position was so difficult, and he had seemed so pathetic, sitting there alone on the pavement of the vast nocturnal boulevard, so weighed down by sadness, that I wanted to comfort him and soothe him, and to restore him to all the brilliancy of his first period. It appeared to me unjust and cruel that the wheels of life should have crushed him too. And so I said, smiling as well as I could:

‘And I you.’

‘Won’t you sit down here?’ he suggested, avoiding my eyes.

And thus I found myself seated outside a cafe, at night, conspicuous for all Montparnasse to see. We never know what may lie in store for us at the next turning of existence.

‘Then I am not much changed, you think?’ he ventured, in an anxious tone.

‘No,’ I lied. ‘You are perhaps a little stouter. That’s all.’

How hard it was to talk! How lamentably self-conscious we were! How unequal to the situation! We did not know what to say.

‘You are far more beautiful than ever you were,’ he said, looking at me for an instant. ‘You are a woman; you were a girl—then.’

The waiter brought another glass and saucer, and a second waiter followed him with a bottle, from which he poured a greenish-yellow liquid into the glass.

‘What will you have?’ Diaz asked me.

‘Nothing, thank you,’ I said quickly.

To sit outside the cafe was already much. It would have been impossible for me to drink there.

‘Ah! as you please, as you please,’ Diaz snapped. ‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Poor fellow!’ I reflected. ‘He must be suffering from nervous irritability.’ And aloud, ‘I’m not thirsty, thank you,’ as nicely as possible.

He smiled beautifully; the irritability had passed.

‘It’s awfully kind of you to sit down here with me,’ he said, in a lower voice. ‘I suppose you’ve heard about me?’

He drank half the contents of the glass.

‘I read in the papers some years ago that you were suffering from neurasthenia and nervous breakdown,’ I replied. ‘I was very sorry.’

‘Yes,’ he said; ‘nervous breakdown—nervous breakdown.’

‘You haven’t been playing lately, have you?’

‘It is more than two years since I played. And if you had heard me that time! My God!’

‘But surely you have tried some cure?’

‘Cure!’ he repeated after me. ‘There’s no cure. Here I am! Me!’

His glass was empty. He tapped on the window behind us, and the procession of waiters occurred again, and Diaz received a third glass, which now stood on three saucers.

‘You’ll excuse me,’ he said, sipping slowly. ‘I’m not very well to-night. And you’ve—Why did you run away from me? I wanted to find you, but I couldn’t.’

‘Please do not let us talk about that,’ I stopped him. ‘I—I must go.’

‘Oh, of course, if I’ve offended you—’

‘No,’ I said; ‘I’m not at all offended. But I think—’

‘Then, if you aren’t offended, stop a little, and let me see you home. You’re sure you won’t have anything?’

I shook my head, wishing that he would not drink so much. I thought it could not be good for his nerves.

‘Been in Paris long?’ he asked me, with a slightly confused utterance. ‘Staying in this quarter? Many English and Americans here.’

Then, in setting down the glass, he upset it, and it smashed on the pavement like the first one.

‘Damn!’ he exclaimed, staring forlornly at the broken glass, as if in the presence of some irreparable misfortune. And before I could put in a word, he turned to me with a silly smile, and approaching his face to mine till his hat touched the brim of my hat, he said thickly: ‘After all, you know, I’m the greatish pianist in the world.’

The truth struck me like a blow. In my amazing ignorance of certain aspects of life I had not suspected it. Diaz was drunk. The ignominy of it! The tragedy of it! He was drunk. He had fallen to the beast. I drew back from that hot, reeking face.

‘You don’t think I am?’ he muttered. ‘You think young What’s-his-name can play Ch—Chopin better than me? Is that it?’

I wanted to run away, to cease to exist, to hide with my shame in some deep abyss. And there I was on the boulevard, next to this animal, sharing his table and the degradation! And I could not move. There are people so gifted that in a dilemma they always know exactly the wisest course to adopt. But I did not know. This part of my story gives me infinite pain to write, and yet I must write it, though I cannot persuade myself to write it in full; the details would be too repulsive. Nevertheless, forget not that I lived it.

He put his face to mine again, and began to stammer something, and I drew away.

‘You are ashamed of me, madam,’ he said sharply.

‘I think you are not quite yourself—not quite well,’ I replied.

‘You mean I am drunk.’

‘I mean what I say. You are not quite well. Please do not twist my words.’

‘You mean I am drunk,’ he insisted, raising his voice. ‘I am not drunk; I have never been drunk. That I can swear with my hand on my heart. But you are ashamed of being seen with me.’

‘I think you ought to go home,’ I suggested.

‘That is only to get rid of me!’ he cried.

‘No, no,’ I appealed to him persuasively. ‘Do not wound me. I will go with you as far as your house, if you like. You are too ill to be alone.’

At that moment an empty open cab strolled by, and, without pausing for his answer, I signalled the driver. My heart beat wildly. My spirit was in an uproar. But I was determined not to desert him, not to abandon him to a public disgrace. I rose from my seat.

‘You’re very good,’ he said, in a new voice.

The cab had stopped.

‘Come!’ I entreated him.

He rapped uncertainly on the window, and then, as the waiter did not immediately appear, he threw some silver on the table, and aimed himself in the direction of the cab. I got in. Diaz slipped on the step.

‘I’ve forgotten somethin’,’ he complained. ‘What is it? My umbrella—yes, my umbrella—pÉpin as they say here. ‘Scuse me moment.’

His umbrella was, in fact, lying under a chair. He stooped with difficulty and regained it, and then the waiter, who had at length arrived, helped him into the cab, and he sank like a mass of inert clay on my skirts.

‘Tell the driver the address,’ I whispered.

The driver, with head turned and a grin on his face, was waiting.

‘Rue de Douai,’ said Diaz sullenly.

‘What number?’ the driver asked.

‘Does that regard you?’ Diaz retorted crossly in French. ‘I will tell you later.’

‘Tell him now,’ I pleaded.

‘Well, to oblige you, I will. Twenty-seven. But what I can’t stand is the impudence of these fellows.’

The driver winked at me.

‘Just so,’ I soothed Diaz, and we drove off.

I have never been happier than in unhappiness. Happiness is not joy, and it is not tranquillity. It is something deeper and something more disturbing. Perhaps it is an acute sense of life, a realization of one’s secret being, a continual renewal of the mysterious savour of existence. As I crossed Paris with the drunken Diaz leaning clumsily against my shoulder, I was profoundly unhappy. I was desolated by the sight of this ruin, and yet I was happier than I had been since Frank died. I had glimpses and intimations of the baffling essence of our human lives here, strange, fleeting comprehensions of the eternal wonder and the eternal beauty.... In vain, professional writer as I am, do I try to express myself. What I want to say cannot be said; but those who have truly lived will understand.

We passed over the Seine, lighted and asleep in the exquisite Parisian night, and the rattling of the cab on the cobble-stones roused Diaz from his stupor.

‘Where are we?’ he asked.

‘Just going through the Louvre,’ I replied.

‘I don’t know how I got to the other s-side of the river,’ he said. ‘Don’t remember. So you’re coming home with me, eh? You aren’t ‘shamed of me?’

‘You are hurting me,’ I said coldly, ‘with your elbow.’

‘Oh, a thousand pardons! a thous’ parnds, Magda! That isn’t your real name, is it?’

He sat upright and turned his face to glance at mine with a fatuous smile; but I would not look at him. I kept my eyes straight in front. Then a swerve of the carriage swung his body away from me, and he subsided into the corner. The intoxication was gaining on him every minute.

‘What shall I do with him?’ I thought.

I blushed as we drove up the Avenue de l’Opera and across the Grand Boulevard, for it seemed to me that all the gay loungers must observe Diaz’ condition. We followed darker thoroughfares, and at last the cab, after climbing a hill, stopped before a house in a street that appeared rather untidy and irregular. I got out first, and Diaz stumbled after me, while two women on the opposite side of the road stayed curiously to watch us. Hastily I opened my purse and gave the driver a five-franc-piece, and he departed before Diaz could decide what to say. I had told him to go.

I did not wish to tell the driver to go. I told him in spite of myself.

Diaz, grumbling inarticulately, pulled the bell of the great door of the house. But he had to ring several times before finally the door opened; and each second was a year for me, waiting there with him in the street. And when the door opened he was leaning against it, and so pitched forward into the gloom of the archway. A laugh—the loud, unrestrained laugh of the courtesan—came from across the street.

The archway was as black as night.

‘Shut the door, will you?’ I heard Diaz’ voice. ‘I can’t see it. Where are you?’

But I was not going to shut the door.

‘Have you got a servant here?’ I asked him.

‘She comes in the mornings,’ he replied.

‘Then there is no one in your flat?’

‘Not a shoul,’ said Diaz. ‘Needn’t be ‘fraid.’

I’m not afraid,’ I said. ‘But I wanted to know. Which floor is it?’

‘Third. I’ll light a match.’

Then I pushed to the door, whose automatic latch clicked. We were fast in the courtyard.

Diaz dropped his matches in attempting to strike one. The metal box bounced on the tiles. I bent down and groped with both hands till I found it. And presently we began painfully to ascend the staircase, Diaz holding his umbrella and the rail, and I striking matches from time to time. We were on the second landing when I heard the bell ring again, and the banging of the front-door, and then voices at the foot of the staircase. I trembled lest we should be over-taken, and I would have hurried Diaz on, but he would not be hurried. Happily, as we were halfway between the second and third story, the man and the girl whose voices I heard stopped at the second. I caught sight of them momentarily through the banisters. The man was striking matches as I had been. ‘C’est ici,’ the girl whispered. She was dressed in blue with a very large hat. She put a key in the door when they had stopped, and then our matches went out simultaneously. The door shut, and Diaz and I were alone on the staircase again. I struck another match; we struggled on.

When I had taken his key from Diaz’ helpless hand, and opened his door and guided him within, and closed the door definitely upon the outer world, I breathed a great sigh. Every turn of the stair had been a station of the cross for me. We were now in utter darkness. The classical effluvium of inebriety mingled with the classical odour of the furnished lodging. But I cared not. I had at last successfully hidden his shame. No one could witness it now but me. So I was glad.

Neither of us said anything as, still with the aid of matches, I penetrated into the flat. Silently I peered about until I perceived a pair of candles, which I lighted. Diaz, with his hat on his head and his umbrella clasped tightly in his hand, fell into a chair. We glanced at each other.

‘You had better go to bed,’ I suggested. ‘Take your hat off. You will feel better without it.’

He did not move, and I approached him and gently took his hat. I then touched the umbrella.

‘No, no, no!’ he cried suddenly; ‘I’m always losing this umbrella, and I won’t let it out of my sight.’

‘As you wish,’ I replied coldly.

I was standing by him when he got up with a surprising lurch and put a hand on my shoulder. He evidently meant to kiss me. I kept him at arm’s length, feeling a sort of icy anger.

‘Go to bed,’ I repeated fiercely. ‘It is the only place for you.’

He made inarticulate noises in his throat, and ultimately achieved the remark:

‘You’re very hard, Magda.’

Then he bent himself towards the next room.

‘You will want a candle,’ I said, with bitterness. ‘No; I will carry it. Let me go first.’

I preceded him through a tiny salon into the bedroom, and, leaving him there with one candle, came back into the first room. The whole place was deplorable, though not more deplorable than I had expected from the look of the street and the house and the stairs and the girl with the large hat. It was small, badly arranged, disordered, ugly, bare, comfortless, and, if not very dirty, certainly not clean; not a home, but a kennel—a kennel furnished with chairs and spotted mirrors and spotted engravings and a small upright piano; a kennel whose sides were covered with enormous red poppies, and on whose floor was something which had once been a carpet; a kennel fitted with windows and curtains; a kennel with actually a bed! It was the ready-made human kennel of commerce, which every large city supplies wholesale in tens of thousands to its victims. In that street there were hundreds such; in the house alone there were probably a score at least. Their sole virtue was their privacy. Ah the blessedness of the sacred outer door, which not even the tyrant concierge might violate! I thought of all the other interiors of the house, floor above floor, and serried one against another—vile, mean, squalid, cramped, unlovely, frowsy, fetid; but each lighted and intensely alive with the interplay of hearts; each cloistered, a secure ground where the instincts that move the world might show themselves naturally and in secret. There was something tragically beautiful in that.

I had heard uncomfortable sounds from the bedroom. Then Diaz called out:

‘It’s no use. Can’t do it. Can’t get into bed.’ I went directly to him. He sat on the bed, still clasping the umbrella, one arm out of his coat. His gloomy and discouraged face was the face of a man who retires baffled from some tremendously complicated problem.

‘Put down your umbrella,’ I said. ‘Don’t be foolish.’

‘I’m not foolish,’ he retorted irritably. ‘Don’t want to loosh thish umbrella again.’

‘Well then,’ I said, ‘hold it in the other hand, and I will help you.’

This struck him as a marvellous idea, one of those discoveries that revolutionize science, and he instantly obeyed. He was now very drunk. He was nauseating. The conventions which society has built up in fifty centuries ceased suddenly to exist. It was impossible that they should exist—there in that cabin, where we were alone together, screened, shut in. I lost even the sense of convention. I was no longer disgusted. Everything that was seemed natural, ordinary, normal. I became his mother. I became his hospital nurse. And at length he lay in bed, clutching the umbrella to his breast. Nothing had induced him to loose it from both hands at once. The priceless value of the umbrella was the one clearly-defined notion that illuminated his poor devastated brain. I left him to his inanimate companion.