# Madame Claire/Chapter 24

Connie, of late, had been giving much thought to Petrovitch.
That gentleman was well aware that she avoided seeing him because her nephew had persuaded her to do so, and he was not pleased. There were other things that did not please him. His concerts had been less successful than they should have been—was it possible that his popularity was on the wane?—and his wealthy American wife, who, up till now, had been very prodigal with her money, had just obtained a divorce from him. He had believed all along that she would relent. However, the thing that most seriously disquieted him was the unsatisfactory condition of the box office returns. He accused his manager of failing to advertise. He said unkind things of the British public. He said there wasn't a decent hall in London, from the point of view of acoustics, and lastly he claimed that the food offered to him at the many houses where he was entertained, was abominable, and was ruining his digestion.
​He began writing letters to Connie, accusing her, tenderly and regretfully, of faithlessness. He wrote in French, as that language enabled him to use the endearing "tu" that Connie, he knew of old, found irresistible. As she had made no promises concerning letters, she felt free to exchange them with him as frequently as she desired.
"I am now," he wrote her one day, "a free man. My wife has seen fit to divorce me, and I do not regret it. Like most American and English women (to this rule, you, my beautiful Connie, are a notable exception) she must have her husband tied to her apron string. He must have no existence of his own. I—I with my talents, my work that is my life, I, if you please, must remain in America at her side! She could not share me with the world. It is not enough for her that she is the wife of Illiodor Petrovitch. He must be a tame bear to perform tricks for her. Ah, Connie, you understood! You, and only you, are a fit companion for a man like myself, a man who cannot, who must not, even when he would, be put in chains. Yet even you chained me once, but only with your love. And I worshiped those chains. I would have bound them round me the more closely, but my work was a cruel master ​and bade me leave you, and though my heart broke, I obeyed. Yet, knowing this, knowing that all my life I have regretted those sweet chains and longed for them again, knowing this, you keep aloof. You refuse to see me. You permit me to suffer at your hands. Why? Tell me why, my beautiful Connie? You are not indifferent to me. You were moved that first day. I saw all that. Well then, why?"
He wrote many such letters, and she answered them, and told him of promises made to her relations, of obligations. She never mentioned Noel. She said that life was very cruel, and that she did not want to hurt him. He would never know, she said, what it cost her to refuse to see him.
When she wrote him of Chiozzi's sudden end, he at once saw the finger of fate. They were both free. Here was the advertising he needed. In these days of vulgar competition such means were not to be despised. He would marry Connie. That old affair of theirs would be resurrected. So much the better. A romance if you like. Connie was now a Countess, and that also was to the good. The papers would seize upon it with joy. The news would travel before him to America and pave the way for his next concert tour there. ​His late wife would be chagrined at this speedy remarriage. Everything was for the best.
He wrote Connie an impassioned letter. He said that he lived but to make her his wife. That he longed to make up to her for any injustice his duty might have forced him to do her in the past. The way was clear now. It was written. He laid his name, his fame, the devotion of a lifetime, at her feet.
Connie was not of the stuff that could resist such an appeal. She was dazzled. Like many women who have once dispensed with the formality of marriage, she had an almost superstitious respect for it. It would reinstate her in the eyes of the world. It would prove that old affair to have been indeed a great love. Illiodor would never leave her again. They would grow old together. Not even Noel could raise the faintest objection to anything so peculiarly respectable.
Judy and Noel returned from Cornwall on the night train, and on Wednesday morning—they had been gone since Monday—Noel, fearing the worst, went straight to Connie and found that events had shaped themselves exactly as he had anticipated.
"Connie," he told Judy later, "looked like a cat who has eaten the canary."
​When Noel was very angry he was very concise, and he was now in a very fine anger indeed.
"It is quite true," he said, "that you made no promises about letters. What you promised me was to have nothing further to do with him. When you gave me your word to give him up, it meant just that. You did not give him up. You corresponded with him secretly. I thought you still had a spark of loyalty in you. I counted on that. It was my mistake. If you want to go to the devil, you may."
He picked up his hat. Connie, who had subsided into a chair, gave a wail of dismay, and running to the door put her back against it.
"Noel! What do you mean? You can't go away and leave me like this. I thought—I thought you would be—well, if not exactly pleased, at least reconciled. He is going to marry me. We are both free now. It was wrong of me to write to him. I didn't realize it at the time, but I do now. I am sorry!"
Noel stood looking at her as she leaned against the door. Was she worth making further efforts for? Poor old Connie! She would go to the devil now and no mistake! Those pretty, pale blue eyes and that weak mouth had defeated him.
​"There's nothing more to be said," he replied more gently. "You've made your choice. I'm leaving for Germany to-morrow, as you know. So, good-by, Connie."
Tears again. She wouldn't take his hand but clung instead to his arm, sobbing. There was a knock at the door. Noel opened it, expecting to see Petrovitch. But it was Madame Claire.
She stood there smiling, observing Connie's tears and Noel's anger. She leaned with one hand upon her ebony stick. With the other hand she held about her the folds of a long, fur-trimmed cape.
"Claire!" exclaimed Noel. "You out, and at this time of day? This is marvelous!"
"I wanted to see Connie," said Madame Claire, kissing her daughter on the cheek. "Good morning, my dear. I hope you are properly flattered at such a visit. I don't often get out as early as this. In fact I don't often get out at all, these days. Were you going, Noel?"
"Yes," he answered. "Connie has just informed me of her approaching nuptials. I'll leave the congratulations to you."
"I can't bear him to leave me like this!" cried Connie. "He won't listen to me. I don't believe he wants me to be happy!"
​"Just a moment, Noel," said Madame Claire. "May I have a word in your private ear? You won't mind, will you, Connie?"
They went a few paces down the hall, away from the sitting room door.
"Connie wrote me about it last night," said Madame Claire. "I received her note this morning. I had an idea you would be here, and I meant to kill two birds with one stone if possible. I suppose she's serious about this . . . this marriage?"
"Oh, she means to marry him right enough," said Noel, "and I don't see any way of preventing it. Short of fighting a duel. Hang it all——!"
"I wonder," interrupted Madame Claire speaking very slowly and thoughtfully, "I wonder whatever became of that little German wife of his?"
"The one he had when he ran off with Connie? Dead, I suppose. Or divorced."
"I think neither," she replied.
"What do you mean?"
"I had some correspondence with her at the time," said Madame Claire, tracing a pattern on the carpet with her stick. "It was after Leonard Humphries was killed in South Africa. I wrote to her—by an odd coincidence I found out where ​she lived—and asked her if she would divorce Petrovitch. I have her answer here." She touched the bag she carried. "She lived in an obscure village in South Germany, was an ardent Roman Catholic, and of course had no intention of divorcing him. She went on to say that it was also extremely unlikely that she would die, as she came of a long-lived family and enjoyed excellent health. It was really quite an amusing letter. I think the woman had character. And I think she still has."
She looked up at him as she leaned on her stick.
"What do you think?"
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Noel. "A bigamist, eh? Claire, you're a double-eyed sorceress. I believe there's something in it. Will you give me the letter?"
"I will." She took it out of her bag and gave it to him.
"Don't say anything to Connie yet. I'm going to try a bit of bluff on old What's-His-Name. Of course she may be dead as mutton, but on the other hand she may not, as you say. Claire, you are——" Words failed him.
"It's very interesting," remarked Madame Claire. "Be careful of Petrovitch, and don't say anything libelous. See what you can find out. ​But I can trust you to manage the affair. By the way, is Judy——?"
Noel nodded, smiling.
"Bless her! That's really delightful! Stephen will be so pleased. I dare say I shall see her this afternoon."
She returned to Connie, and Noel, much excited, made his way with all speed to Claridge's, reading the letter as he went. At the hotel he wrote on his card:
"I would like to see you on a matter that concerns you and your immediate plans."
In a few moments he was shown upstairs to Petrovitch's rooms.
Petrovitch was standing frowning at the card in the middle of a large and beautifully furnished sitting room. He threw up his head as an animal does when Noel entered, and his protruding lips widened in an unpleasant smile.
"Ah! It is the nephew! The charming aunt's charming nephew. I guessed as much. Well? You have come to say, 'Hands off!' eh? Am I right?"
"Perfectly correct," said Noel. "That saves me a lot of trouble. I merely dropped in to let ​you know that the marriage will not take place."
"Ah!" cried Petrovitch, rubbing his hands. "That is good. That is excellent. You are—what do they say—the heavy father, eh? The Countess, you will say, is not of age. She does not know her mind." He laughed mirthlessly. "Well, I will risk all that, venerable sir!"
"You'll be risking more than that," said Noel evenly. "By the way, may I sit down? I think if we both sit down—thank you. As I said before, I simply came in to tell you that the marriage will not take place. I expect you to give me your word of honor before I leave this room that you will not attempt to see Countess Chiozzi again on any pretext whatsoever."
"My good young man," said Petrovitch, too much amused to be angry, "I will see your aunt, Countess Chiozzi, where and when I please, and I will marry her by special license the day after to-morrow. What have you to say to that?"
"Only that it will have to be a very special license."
"I do not know what you mean by that. But one thing I do know very well, and that is that even if I did not wish to marry your aunt before, I would do so now simply because you do not ​wish it. I do not speak English well, but I think I have made my meaning clear, eh?"
"Quite clear. I hope you are as well acquainted with the English law as you are with the English language."
"And why should I know English law?"
Was he looking the least bit uncomfortable? Noel prayed that no sign, no clue might escape him.
"It might come in useful. We're a funny people. To run off with some one else's wife is not, of course, a criminal offense. But there is one thing that the law absolutely draws the line at. I wonder if you know what that one thing is?"
"I do not know," said Petrovitch looking at his watch, "and neither do I care. I am to meet your delightful aunt at her hotel at one o'clock, and it is now a quarter to that hour. If you will excuse me——"
"In connection with that thing that I have not yet named," went on Noel, "I want you to know that I am going to Germany at nine o'clock to-morrow morning. Here are my passports."
Touché! There was not the slightest doubt about it now. Petrovitch was on his feet, his heavy head down like that of a charging buffalo, his brows drawn together, his lips thrust out.
​"What do you mean, you——"
His hands gripped the chair back. Noel went on in that casual, calm way of his.
"Look here, Petrovitch, I'm not going to make a row if I can help it. I hate the whole business. You leave Connie alone, and you'll never hear of this again. Only—I know what I know, and if you force me to do it, I'll be obliged to produce all the necessary proofs, and you'll be—dished. It's an ugly affair, and it would mean I don't know how many years for you. Candidly now, is it worth it?"
Petrovitch went a queer color and sat down suddenly. He had evidently changed his mind about throwing anything. Noel felt drunk with the wine of complete and unexpected success. He wondered what he would have done in Petrovitch's place, and decided that he would have brazened it out to the very end. Not so Petrovitch, evidently. His rage had gone as quickly as it had come. But what Noel saw in his face was not fear. No, it was certainly not fear. What was it?
Petrovitch stared at him for some moments, and then said quite simply:
"She is alive, then?"
"Great snakes!" Noel said to himself. "Per​haps I've brought her to life!" But his brain worked quickly. He touched his pocket.
"I have a letter from her here," he said.
Petrovitch did not even ask to see it.
"Where is she?"
"In the same old place. She has never been out of it all these years. Why don't you go there and look her up the next chance you get? Do you know"—he drew his chair forward an inch or two—"I believe she's still fond of you?"
Petrovitch straightened himself and passed a hand over his forehead.
"I wrote her many letters. She has never replied. I thought she—I believed she was dead. During the war I could not go to Germany. I have not heard from her in twelve years."
"Well, you see," said Noel, "she hadn't every reason to be pleased with you, had she? You know what wives are."
The man was almost himself again. He shrugged his shoulders and thrust out his hands.
"I know what all women are."
Noel nodded.
"True. Perfectly true. Well . . . she's been a good wife to you, Petrovitch. She's let you go your own way, she's never bothered you. If you ​were to go back to her, I believe she'd welcome you with open arms."
"My poor Freda. . . . I believe she would. She was a good woman, a good wife. Little Freda! Some day, who knows?"
"Who knows?" echoed Noel. "You might do worse, Petrovitch. Think it over."
"Freda alive! Freda alive!" Petrovitch kept repeating. "My little Freda!" He turned to Noel. "You have saved me from crime. From crime against the law, and against that good woman who still loves me. I thank you."
"That's all right," said Noel, almost overcome by a variety of emotions. To himself he said:
"I'm beginning to like this fellow!"
He got up and held out his hand. Petrovitch also rose.
"Well, I'm afraid I must leave you now. Er . . . about Connie . . . she'll feel this, of course, but I think I can make all the necessary explanations. Will you trust me to break it to her as gently as possible? Naturally, I've said nothing to her about . . . Freda. I didn't feel I could until I'd seen you."
"Thank you. I will leave everything to you. Connie has a great heart, and I think she will not grieve too much if she knows that I but ​return to an old and faithful love. Soon I go to America to fulfill my engagements, and then——!"
"I understand," said Noel. "Well, good-by!"
"May I ask," inquired Petrovitch, retaining his hand, "how you came to hear that Freda——?"
"Certainly," Noel answered promptly. "You see, years ago, when you and Connie—well—just at that time, my grandmother ran across some one who knew her—knew Freda. Naturally, my grandmother was unhappy about Connie, her daughter, and thought that possibly a divorce—you understand——?"
"Perfectly."
"So she wrote to her."
"Ah! But my wife——"
"Exactly! She wasn't having any. Well, she kept my grandmother's address, and the other day, being anxious and unhappy about you, she naturally thought we might be able to tell her something, and so——"
Petrovitch made a gesture of the hands that showed a perfect comprehension, gratitude, sympathy, a yielding to fate, and a consciousness of his own power over women, wives and others. Noel envied him that gesture.
​"My poor little Freda!"
"And that's how it was," Noel concluded. They shook hands again, strongly.
"Well, good luck!" said Noel.
Petrovitch bowed.
They never saw each other again.
In the cab, driving back to Connie's quiet little hotel, Noel wanted to put his head out of the window and shout to the passers-by. He could hardly contain himself.
"Freda," he said aloud, "when I get to Berlin, whether you're alive or dead I'm going to send you the biggest box of chocolates I can buy!"