The Guest of Quesnay | Page 7

them lay full length
on the ground peering beneath the wreck. "It is the head of monsieur,"
explained this one; "it is the head of monsieur which is fastened under
there."
"Eh, but you are wiser than Clemenceau!" said the chauffeur. "Get up,
my ancient, and you there, with the brushwood, let the fire go for a
moment and help, when I say the word. And you, monsieur," he turned
to Ward, "if you please, will you pull with me upon the ankle here at

the right moment?"
The carters, the labourers, the men from the other automobile, and I
laid hold of the car together.
"Now, then, messieurs, LIFT!"
Stifled with the gasoline smoke, we obeyed. One or two hands were
scorched and our eyes smarted blindingly, but we gave a mighty heave,
and felt the car rising.
"Well done!" cried the chauffeur. "Well done! But a little more! The
smallest fraction--HA! It is finished, messieurs!"
We staggered back, coughing and wiping our eyes. For a minute or two
I could not see at all, and was busy with a handkerchief.
Ward laid his hand on my shoulder.
"Do you know who it is?" he asked.
"Yes, of course," I answered.
When I could see again, I found that I was looking almost straight
down into the upturned face of Larrabee Harman, and I cannot better
express what this man had come to be, and what the degradation of his
life had written upon him, than by saying that the dreadful thing I
looked upon now was no more horrible a sight than the face I had seen,
fresh from the valet and smiling in ugly pride at the starers, as he
passed the terrace of Larue on the day before the Grand Prix.
We helped to carry him to the doctor's car, and to lift the dancer into
Ward's, and to get both of them out again at the hospital at Versailles,
where they were taken. Then, with no need to ask each other if we
should abandon our plan to breakfast in the country, we turned toward
Paris, and rolled along almost to the barriers in silence.
"Did it seem to you," said George finally, "that a man so frightfully
injured could have any chance of getting well?"

"No," I answered. "I thought he was dying as we carried him into the
hospital."
"So did I. The top of his head seemed all crushed in--Whew!" He broke
off, shivering, and wiped his brow. After a pause he added thoughtfully,
"It will be a great thing for Louise."
Louise was the name of his second cousin, the girl who had done battle
with all her family and then run away from them to be Larrabee
Harman's wife. Remembering the stir that her application for divorce
had made, I did not understand how Harman's death could benefit her,
unless George had some reason to believe that he had made a will in
her favour. However, the remark had been made more to himself than
to me and I did not respond.
The morning papers flared once more with the name of Larrabee
Harman, and we read that there was "no hope of his surviving." Ironic
phrase! There was not a soul on earth that day who could have hoped
for his recovery, or who--for his sake--cared two straws whether he
lived or died. And the dancer had been right; one of her legs was badly
broken: she would never dance again.
Evening papers reported that Harman was "lingering." He was
lingering the next day. He was lingering the next week, and the end of a
month saw him still "lingering." Then I went down to Capri, where--for
he had been after all the merest episode to me--I was pleased to forget
all about him.

CHAPTER III
A great many people keep their friends in mind by writing to them, but
more do not; and Ward and I belong to the majority. After my
departure from Paris I had but one missive from him, a short note,
written at the request of his sister, asking me to be on the lookout for
Italian earrings, to add to her collection of old jewels. So, from time to
time, I sent her what I could find about Capri or in Naples, and she

responded with neat little letters of acknowledgment.
Two years I stayed on Capri, eating the lotus which grows on that
happy island, and painting very little--only enough, indeed, to be
remembered at the Salon and not so much as knowing how kindly or
unkindly they hung my pictures there. But even on Capri, people
sometimes hear the call of Paris and wish to be in that unending
movement: to hear the multitudinous rumble, to watch the procession
from a cafe terrace