# The President's Daughter (Britton)/Chapter 97

In Dijon, Madame Daillant's little garden behind the house provided a gathering place for her boarder-guests as they dropped in for meals, but the evening of August 1st, 1923, it was conspicuously deserted. I found it so when I, going on ahead of Helen Anderson, entered; so I threw myself down into one of the empty chairs and picked up a newspaper. It was very warm and I fanned myself with the paper before opening it. A curious country this, I thought, looking around at the graveled walks, the rickety benches, and the walls surmounted by overturned glass jars on sticks. In parts of the country where I had been it was very beautiful, and it had proven rather diverting. But oh, where could one find a country to equal our own United States! How really shabbily the middle classes here lived! The daughter of Mme. Daillant, a pretty girl, with abundant dark hair and creamy skin, and cheeks pinked by nature to an enviable glow, a pianist, too, of marked ability—what prospects had she in ​this place? An American girl of her class might rise to fame with like beauty and equal talent. But, it seemed to me, I could see this pretty creature growing old and fat like her mother, with nothing save a drab fate awaiting her. One of the young men in our Armstrong party who also dined at Mme. Daillant's pension had pleaded with me to stay close by when Mlle. Daillant was in the vicinity for, he said, she attached herself to him with leechlike persistency, and he knew how these French people tried to rope one in. Poor girl! No doubt my American friend provided for her the most romance she had ever known.
I opened the paper. My heart stopped; then pounded. My head swam and I went limp. "Harding Has Pneumonia, but Worst Fears Allayed." I read the headlines over and over—over and over again. As the words gradually sunk meaningfully into my consciousness an indescribable terror seized me. I crushed the paper in my hands and let myself out the little gate into the wider, freer space beyond the garden. My lips were dry; I put my hand to my forehead to steady myself. I wondered why I did not faint. I never fainted, no matter how badly I felt. I have never to this day fainted. So I did not faint then. I only paced up and down, experiencing a mental anguish I had hitherto never known. A thousand suggestions of action came to me. They tumbled about in my poor brain in utter confusion, but from among them I was able to choose the first to be acted upon: I would rush back to Paris immediately, and thence to America by the first boat . . . . No, that would not do . . . . I must "act natural" before these people and get out of the city without arousing any suspicions. "Now is the time to summon all your courage, Nan," Mr. Harding had said to me over the telephone when I pleaded with him to see me in New York shortly after the baby's birth. I seemed to hear him say it now. I tried to shake myself into common sense; to tell myself everything was all right; he was ill but he would recover!
I seemed to go over, during those brief moments, my years with Mr. Harding—our whole love-life together, even up to the time I had seen him last, suffering from a terrible cold and look​ing, oh, so tired and miserable. I remembered hearing Mrs. Harding one time tell how "Warren" was pathetically afraid of pneumonia, above all other ills. I remembered so dearly the things that had seemed to throw such an atmosphere of finality over our last visit in the White House—his little parting advises, our lingering kisses, his general despair. And vividly did I recall my forebodings just five evenings before in Geneva. And the memory of each dark thought added terror to my heart.
Miss Anderson found me a few minutes later, having followed the lead of the open gate. I read the headlines to her through dry lips and held the partially crushed paper up for her to see. "All paper talk," she said shortly. She bade me come in, as dinner was being served. I could not tell her why I was so vitally concerned over the illness of the President of the United States, and she, of course, thought it was but natural sympathy for a man who had been a family friend. "You're silly to take paper talk so seriously," she reproved. I followed her into the house and found my place at the table. "'Just paper talk,' as Helen says," I told myself in desperate hope. "Now go on and eat your dinner or you'll be ill yourself from worry and lack of food." So I forced food down and passed dishes to and fro and listened to voiced speculations from those around the table, particularly those in our American party, about the probable severity of President Harding's illness.
Mlle. Daillant was endeavoring as usual to dazzle the American at her right with charms and conversation, and part of me listened apathetically to this babble of French while the other part continued the contemplation of the newspaper report and an advisable course of action . . . . the Italian shot solicitous glances my way throughout the meal, but I could only raise dull eyes to him . . . . maybe I ought to marry him, I thought . . . . he was a nice fellow . . . . maybe if I married him, or somebody, it might relieve Mr. Harding's mind of much worry even though we both would suffer in other ways as a consequence of such marriage . . . the Norwegian professor's wife looked as though she had been weeping, though her eyes were always red, ​I thought . . . . a cold, maybe, for she kept wiping her nose . . . . what did these people know of tears, anyway! Mlle. Daillant's laugh rang out and she repeated in rapid French to the rest of the boarders something her American had said which had amused her . . . . I wondered how it would seem to have no care beyond an ardent wish to capture an attractive blond American boy . . . . Good heavens! I hadn't even enough money left for a passage! . . . . I would borrow . . . . yes, I must go . . . . these meals were interminable . . . . I looked at Helen Anderson and she understood. I excused myself, and I even had enough presence of mind to nod to my hostess and murmur the customary "Bonsoir, Madame; à demain!" as I passed out.
It seemed good to be able to walk fast, and as I directed my steps toward Mme. Lachat's, I tried to reason sanely with myself. Why, Mr. Harding had a superb constitution! It was only the physical drag of responsibility and worry which had overcome him. Maybe he did not even have pneumonia! When he was inaugurated Brigadier-General Sawyer, Mrs. Harding's personal physician, had issued a statement something like this: "President Harding represents the finest there is today in America—morally and physically and mentally." Although I did not credit Dr. Sawyer with being a particularly good physician, I knew that Mr. Harding's general health had been excellent before he went into the presidency, except for a few minor ailments now and then. I remembered how strong he was, how he used to pick me up and carry me about the room in his arms. I remembered how I grew to think he was made of iron and was surprised if he expressed a wish to sleep occasionally! I expected him to stay awake and talk with me all night.
I remembered one night how he had come into New York from a speaking engagement up in New England somewhere and had closed his eyes almost as soon as he touched the pillow, and how I, piqued to tears, had lain away from him, silently, wordlessly, hurt, until he whispered, "Nan, darling, come close to me! Why, Nan, you're not crying?" And how sweetly he had gathered me into his arms, and how ashamed I had been when he ​confessed, with his usual embarrassment over indisposition of any character, "I have a ripping headache, dearie; please forgive me!" And I had rubbed his head with my finger-tips until he went off to sleep, and then I had stayed very close to him and just looked at his dear face and worshipped him. Oh, God, how sweet he was! How I wished now I might fly to him over this hopeless space between us, and take him away from everybody, and nurse him to strength and smiles again!
That night I dreamed fitfully. I arose in the morning, unrested, and hastened immediately to the Dijon railroad station, where I knew I could obtain the latest papers from Paris.