It never occurred to Septimus that he had done a quixotic thing in marrying Emmy, any more than to pat himself on the back for a monstrously clever fellow when he had completed a new invention.  At the door of the Registry Office he took off his hat, held out his hand, and said good-by.

“But where are you going?” Emmy asked in dismay.

Septimus didn’t know.  He waved his hand vaguely over London, and said, “Anywhere.”

Emmy began to cry.  She had passed most of the morning in tears.  She felt doubly guilty now that she had accepted the sacrifice of his life; an awful sense of loneliness also overwhelmed her.

“I didn’t know that you hated me like that,” she said.

“Good heavens!” he cried in horror.  “I don’t hate you.  I only thought you had no further use for me.”

“And I’m to be left alone in the street?”

“I’ll drive you anywhere you like,” said he.

“And then get rid of me as soon as possible?  Oh!  I know what you must be feeling.”

Septimus put his hand under her arm, and led her away, in great distress.

“I thought you wouldn’t be able to bear the sight of me.”

“Oh, don’t be silly!” said Emmy.

Her adjuration was on a higher plane of sentiment than expression.  It comforted Septimus.

“What would you like me to do?”

“Anything except leave me to myself ­at any rate for the present.  Don’t you see, I’ve only you in the world to look to.”

“God bless my soul,” said he, “I suppose that’s so.  It’s very alarming.  No one has ever looked to me in all my life.  I’d wander barefoot for you all over the earth.  But couldn’t you find somebody else who’s more used to looking after people?  It’s for your own sake entirely,” he hastened to assure her.

“I know,” she said.  “But you see it’s impossible for me to go to any of my friends, especially after what has happened.”  She held out her ungloved left hand.  “How could I explain?”

“You must never explain,” he agreed, sagely.  “It would undo everything.  I suppose things are easy, after all, when you’ve set your mind on them ­or get some chap that knows everything to tell you how to do them ­and there’s lots of fellows about that know everything ­solicitors and so forth.  There’s the man who told me about a Registrar.  See how easy it was.  Where would you like to go?”

“Anywhere out of England.”  She shuddered.  “Take me to Paris first.  We can go on from there anywhere we like.”

“Certainly,” said Septimus, and he hailed a hansom.

Thus it fell out that the strangely married pair kept together during the long months that followed.  Emmy’s flat in London had been rented furnished.  The maid Edith had vanished, after the manner of many of her kind, into ancillary space.  The theater and all it signified to Emmy became a past dream.  Her inner world was tragical enough, poor child.  Her outer world was Septimus.  In Paris, as she shrank from meeting possible acquaintances, he found her a furnished appartement in the Boulevard Raspail, while he perched in a little hotel close by.  The finding of the appartement was an illustration of his newly invented, optimistic theory of getting things done.

He came back to the hotel where he had provisionally lodged her and informed her of his discovery.  She naturally asked him how he had found it.

“A soldier told me,” he said.

“A soldier?”

“Yes.  He had great baggy red trousers and a sash around his waist and a short blue jacket braided with red and a fez with a tassel and a shaven head.  He saved me from being run over by a cab.”

Emmy shivered.  “Oh, don’t talk of it in that calm way ­suppose you had been killed!”

“I suppose the Zouave would have buried me ­he’s such a helpful creature, you know.  He’s been in Algiers.  He says I ought to go there.  His name is Hegisippe Cruchot.”

“But what about the flat?” asked Emmy.

“Oh, you see, I fell down in front of the cab and he dragged me away and brushed me down with a waiter’s napkin ­there was a cafe within a yard or two.  And then I asked him to have a drink and gave him a cigarette.  He drank absinthe, without water, and then I began to explain to him an idea for an invention which occurred to me to prevent people from being run over by cabs, and he was quite interested.  I’ll show you ­”

“You won’t,” said Emmy, with a laugh.  She had her lighter moments.  “You’ll do no such thing ­not until you’ve told me about the flat.”

“Oh! the flat,” said Septimus in a disappointed tone, as if it were a secondary matter altogether.  “I gave him another absinthe and we became so friendly that I told him that I wanted a flat and didn’t in the least know how to set about finding one.  It turned out that there was an appartement vacant in the house of which his mother is concierge.  He took me along to see it, and introduced me to Madame, his mother.  He has also got an aunt who can cook.”

“I should like to have seen you talking to the Zouave,” said Emmy.  “It would have made a pretty picture ­the two of you hobnobbing over a little marble table.”

“It was iron, painted yellow,” said Septimus.  “It wasn’t a resplendent cafe.”

“I wonder what he thought of you.”

“Well, he introduced me to his mother,” replied Septimus gravely, whereat Emmy broke into merry laughter, for the first time for many days.

“I’ve taken the appartement for a month and the aunt who can cook,” he remarked.

“What!” cried Emmy, who had not paid very serious regard to the narrative.  “Without knowing anything at all about it?”

She put on her hat and insisted on driving there incontinently, full of misgivings.  But she found a well-appointed house, a deep-bosomed, broad-beamed concierge, who looked as if she might be the mother of twenty helpful Zouaves, and an equally matronly and kindly-faced sister, a Madame Bolivard, the aunt aforesaid who could cook.

Thus, as the ravens fed Elijah, so did Zouaves and other casual fowl aid Septimus on his way.  Madame Bolivard in particular took them both under her ample wing, to the girl’s unspeakable comfort.  A brav’ femme, Madame Bolivard, who not only could cook, but could darn stockings and mend linen, which Emmy’s frivolous fingers had never learned to accomplish.  She could also prescribe miraculous tisanes for trivial ailments, could tell the cards, and could converse volubly on any subject under heaven; the less she knew about it, the more she had to say, which is a great gift.  It spared the girl many desolate and despairing hours.

It was a lonely, monotonous life.  Septimus she saw daily.  Now and then, if Septimus were known to be upstairs, Hegisippe Cruchot, coming to pay his filial respects to his mother and his mother’s bouillabaisse (she was from Marseilles) and her matelote of eels, luxuries which his halfpenny a day could not provide, would mount to inquire dutifully after his aunt and incidentally after the belle dame du troisième.  He was their only visitor from the outside world, and as he found a welcome and an ambrosial form of alcohol compounded of Scotch whiskey and Maraschino (whose subtlety Emmy had learned from an eminent London actor-manager at a far-away supper party), he came as often as his respectful ideas of propriety allowed.

They were quaint gatherings, these, in the stiffly furnished little salon:  Emmy, fluffy-haired, sea-shell-cheeked, and softly raimented, lying indolently on the sofa amid a pile of cushions ­she had sent Septimus out to “La Samaritaine” to buy some (in French furnished rooms they stuff the cushions with cement), and he had brought back a dozen in a cab, so that the whole room heaved and swelled with them; Septimus, with his mild blue eyes and upstanding hair, looking like the conventional picture of one who sees a ghost; Hegisippe Cruchot, the outrageousness of whose piratical kit contrasted with his suavity of manner, sitting with military precision on a straight-backed chair; and Madame Bolivard standing in a far corner of the room; her bare arms crossed above her blue apron, and watching the scene with an air of kindly proprietorship.  They spoke in French, for only one word of English had Hegisippe and his aunt between them, and that being “Howdodogoddam” was the exclusive possession of the former.  Emmy gave utterance now and then to peculiar vocables which she had learned at school, and which Hegisippe declared to be the purest Parisian he had ever heard an Englishwoman use, while Septimus spoke very fair French indeed.  Hegisippe would twirl his little brown mustache ­he was all brown, skin and eyes and close-cropped hair, and even the skull under the hair ­and tell of his military service and of the beautiful sunshine of Algiers and, when his aunt was out of the room, of his Arcadian love affairs.  She served in a wine shop in the Rue des Francs-Bouchers.  When was he going to get married?  At Emmy’s question he laughed, with a wave of his cigarette, and a clank of his bayonet against the leg of the chair.  On a sou a day?  Time enough for that when he had made his fortune.  His mother then would doubtless find him a suitable wife with a dowry.  When his military service was over he was going to be a waiter.  When he volunteered this bit of information Emmy gave a cry of surprise.  This dashing, swaggering desperado of a fellow a waiter!

“I shall never understand this country!” she cried.

“When one has good introductions and knows how to comport oneself, one makes much” ­and he rubbed his thumb and fingers together, according to the national code of pantomime.

And then his hosts would tell him about England and the fogs, wherein he was greatly interested; or Septimus would discourse to him of inventions, the weak spot in which his shrewd intelligence generally managed to strike, and then Septimus would run his fingers through this hair and say, “God bless my soul, I never thought of that,” and Emmy would laugh; or else they talked politics.  Hegisippe, being a Radical, fiche’d himself absolutely of the Pope and the priests.  To be kind to one’s neighbors and act as a good citizen summed up his ethical code.  He was as moral as any devout Catholic.

“What about the girl in the Rue des Francs-Bouchers?” asked Emmy.

“If I were a good Catholic, I would have two, for then I could get absolution,” he cried gaily, and laughed immoderately at his jest.

The days of his visits were marked red in Emmy’s calendar.

“I wish I were a funny beggar, and had lots of conversation like our friend Cruchot, and could make you laugh,” said Septimus one day, when the taedium vitae lay heavy on her.

“If you had a sense of humor you wouldn’t be here,” she replied, with some bitterness.

Septimus rubbed his thin hands together thoughtfully.

“I don’t know why you should say that,” said he.  “I never heard a joke I didn’t see the point of.  I’m rather good at it.”

“If you don’t see the point of this joke, I can’t explain it, my dear.  It has a point the size of a pyramid.”

He nodded and looked dreamily out of the window at the opposite houses.  Sometimes her sharp sayings hurt him.  But he understood all, in his dim way, and pardoned all.  He never allowed her to see him wince.  He stood so long silent that Emmy looked up anxiously at his face, dreading the effect of her words.  His hand hung by his side ­he was near the sofa where she lay.  She took it gently, in a revulsion of feeling, kissed it, and, as he turned, flung it from her.

“Go, my dear; go.  I’m not fit to talk to you.  Yes, go.  You oughtn’t to be here; you ought to be in England in your comfortable home with Wiggleswick and your books and inventions.  You’re too good for me, and I’m hateful.  I know it, and it drives me mad.”

He took her hand in his turn and held it for a second or two in both of his and patted it kindly.

“I’ll go out and buy something,” he said.

When he returned she was penitent and glad to see him; and although he brought her as a present a hat ­a thing of purple feathers and green velvet and roses, in which no self-respecting woman would be seen mummified a thousand years hence ­she neither laughed at it nor upbraided him, but tried the horror on before the glass and smiled sweetly while the cold shivers ran down her back.

“I don’t want you to say funny things, Septimus,” she said, reverting to the starting point of the scene, “so long as you bring me such presents as this.”

“It’s a nice hat,” he admitted modestly.  “The woman in the shop said that very few people could wear it.”

“I’m so glad you think I’m an exceptional woman,” she said.  “It’s the first compliment you have ever paid me.”

She shed tears, though, over the feathers of the hat, before she went to bed, good tears, such as bring great comfort and cleanse the heart.  She slept happier that night; and afterwards, whenever the devils entered her soul and the pains of hell got hold upon her, she recalled the tears, and they became the holy water of an exorcism.

Septimus, unconscious of this landmark in their curious wedded life, passed tranquil though muddled days in his room at the Hotel Godet.  A gleam of sunlight on the glazed hat of an omnibus driver, the stick of the whip and the horse’s ear, as he was coming home one day on the impériale, put him on the track of a new sighting apparatus for a field gun which he had half invented some years before.  The working out of this, and the superintendence of the making of the model at some works near Vincennes, occupied much of his time and thought.  In matters appertaining to his passion he had practical notions of procedure; he would be at a loss to know where to buy a tooth-brush, and be dependent on the ministrations of a postman or an old woman in a charcoal shop, but to the place where delicate instruments could be made he went straight, as instinctively and surely as a buffalo heads for water.  Many of his books and papers had been sent him from time to time by Wiggleswick, who began to dread the post, the labor of searching and packing and dispatching becoming too severe a tax on the old villain’s leisure.  These lay in promiscuous heaps about the floor of his bedroom, stepping-stones amid a river of minor objects, such as collars and bits of india rubber and the day before yesterday’s Petit Journal.  The femme de chambre and the dirty, indeterminate man in a green baize apron, who went about raising casual dust with a great feather broom, at first stowed the litter away daily, with jackdaw ingenuity of concealment, until Septimus gave them five francs each to desist; whereupon they desisted with alacrity, and the books became the stepping-stones aforesaid, stepping-stones to higher things.  His only concern was the impossibility of repacking them when the time should come for him to leave the Hotel Godet, and sometimes the more academic speculation as to what Zora would say should some miracle of levitation transport her to the untidy chamber.  He could see her, radiant and commanding, dispelling chaos with the sweep of her parasol.

There were few moments in the day when he did not crave her presence.  It had been warmth and sunshine and color to him for so long that now the sun seemed to have disappeared from the sky, leaving the earth a chill monochrome.  Life was very difficult without her.  She had even withdrawn from him the love “in a sort of way” to which she had confessed.  The goddess was angry at the slight cast on her by his secret marriage.  And she was in California, a myriad of miles away.  She could not have been more remote had she been in Saturn.  When Emmy asked him whether he did not long for Wiggleswick and the studious calm of Nunsmere, he said, “No.”  And he spoke truly; for wherein lay the advantage of one spot on the earth’s surface over another, if Zora were not the light thereof?  But he kept his reason in his heart.  They rarely spoke of Zora.

Of the things that concerned Emmy herself so deeply, they never spoke at all.  Of her hopes and fears for the future he knew nothing.  For all that was said between them, Mordaunt Prince might have been the figure of a dream that had vanished into the impenetrable mists of dreamland.  To the girl he was a ghastly memory which she strove to hide in the depths of her soul.  Septimus saw that she suffered, and went many quaint and irrelevant ways to alleviate her misery.  Sometimes they got on her nerves; more often they made the good tears come.  Once she was reading a tattered volume of George Eliot which she had picked up during a stroll on the quays, and calling him over to her side pointed out a sentence:  “Dogs are the best friends, they are always ready with their sympathy and they ask no questions.”

“That’s like you,” she said; “but George Eliot had never met a man like you, poor thing, so she had to stick the real thing down to dogs.”

Septimus reddened.  “Dogs bark and keep one from sleeping,” he said.  “My next-door neighbor at the Hotel Godet has two.  An ugly man with a beard comes and takes them out in a motor car.  Do you know, I’m thinking of growing a beard.  I wonder how I should look in it?”

Emmy laughed and caught his sleeve.  “Why won’t you even let me tell you what I think of you?”

“Wait till I’ve grown the beard, and then you can,” said Septimus.

“That will be never,” she retorted; “for if you grow a beard, you’ll look a horror, like a Prehistoric Man ­and I sha’n’t have anything to do with you.  So I’ll never be able to tell you.”

“It would be better so,” said he.

They made many plans for settling down in some part of rural France or Switzerland ­they had the map of Europe to choose from ­but Septimus’s vagueness and a disinclination for further adventure on the part of Emmy kept them in Paris.  The winter brightened into spring, and Paris, gay in lilac and sunshine, held them in her charm.  There were days when they almost forgot, and became the light-hearted companions of the lame donkey on Nunsmere Common.

A day on the Seine, for instance, in a steamboat, when the water was miraculously turned to sparkling wine and the great masses of buildings were bathed in amber and the domes of the Pantheon and the Invalides and the cartouches and bosses of the Pont Alexandre III shone burnished gold.  There was Auteuil, with its little open-air restaurants, rustic trellis and creepers, and its friture of gudgeon and dusty salt and cutlery and great yards of bread, which Emmy loved to break with Septimus, like Christmas crackers.  Then, afterwards, there was the winding Seine again, Robinson Crusoe’s Island in all its greenery, and St. Cloud with its terrace looking over the valley to Paris wrapped in an amethyst haze, with here and there a triumphant point of glory.

A day also in the woods of Bas Meudon, alone beneath the trees, when they talked like children, and laughed over the luncheon basket which Madame Bolivard had stuffed full of electrifying edibles; when they lay on their backs and looked dreamily at the sky through the leaves, and listened to the chirrup of insects awakening from winter and the strange cracklings and tiny voices of springtide, and gave themselves up to the general vibration of life which accompanies the working of the sap in the trees.

Days, too, in mid-Paris, in the Luxembourg Gardens, among the nursery maids and working folk; at cafes on the remoter boulevards, where the kindly life of Paris, still untouched by touristdom, passes up and down, and the spring gets into the step of youth and sparkles in a girl’s eyes.  At the window even of the appartement in the Boulevard Raspail, when the air was startlingly clear and scented and brought the message of spring from far lands, from the golden shores of the Mediterranean, from the windy mountain tops of Auvergne, from the broad, tender green fields of Central France, from every heart and tree and flower, from Paris itself, quivering with life.  At such times they would not talk, both interpreting the message in their own ways, yet both drawn together into a common mood in which they vaguely felt that the earth was still a Land of Romance, that the mystery of rebirth was repeating itself according to unchanging and perpetual law; that inconsiderable, forlorn human atoms though they were, the law would inevitably affect them too, and cause new hopes, new desires, and new happiness to bud and flower in their hearts.

During these spring days there began to dawn in the girl’s soul a knowledge of the deeper meaning of things.  When she first met Septimus and delightedly regarded him as a new toy, she was the fluffy, frivolous little animal of excellent breeding and half education, so common in English country residential towns, with the little refinements somewhat coarsened, the little animalism somewhat developed, the little brain somewhat sharpened, by her career on the musical-comedy stage.  Now there were signs of change.  A glimmering notion of the duty of sacrifice entered her head.  She carried it out by appearing one day, when Septimus was taking her for a drive, in the monstrous nightmare of a hat.  It is not given to breathing male to appreciate the effort it cost her.  She said nothing; neither did he.  She sat for two hours in the victoria, enduring the tortures of the uglified, watching him out of the tail of her eye and waiting for a sign of recognition.  At last she could endure it no longer.

“I put this thing on to please you,” she said.

“What thing?”

“The hat you gave me.”

“Oh!  Is that it?” he murmured in his absent way.  “I’m so glad you like it.”

He had never noticed it.  He had scarcely recognized it.  It had given him no pleasure.  She had made of herself a sight for gods and men to no earthly purpose.  All her sacrifice had been in vain.  It was then that she really experienced the disciplinary irony of existence.  She never wore the hat again; wherein she was blameless.

The spring deepened into summer, and they stayed on in the Boulevard Raspail until they gave up making plans.  Paris baked in the sun, and theaters perished, and riders disappeared from the Acacias, and Cook’s brakes replaced the flashing carriages in the grand Avenue des Champs Elysees, and the great Anglo-Saxon language resounded from the Place de la Bastille to the Bon Marche.  The cab horses drooped as if drugged by the vapor of the melting asphalt beneath their noses.  Men and women sat by doorways, in front of little shops, on the benches in wide thoroughfares.  The Latin Quarter blazed in silence and the gates of the great schools were shut.  The merchants of lemonade wheeled their tin vessels through the streets and the bottles crowned with lemons looked pleasant to hot eyes.  For the dust lay thick upon the leaves of trees and the lips of men, and the air was heavy with the over-fulfilment of spring’s promise.

Septimus was sitting with Hegisippe Cruchot outside the little cafe of the iron tables painted yellow where first they had consorted.

“Mon ami,” said he, “you are one of the phenomena that make me believe in the bon Dieu.  If you hadn’t dragged me from under the wheels of the cab, I should have been killed, and if I had been killed you wouldn’t have introduced me to your aunt who can cook, and what I should have done without your aunt heaven only knows.  I owe you much.”

“Bah, mon vieux,” said Hegisippe, “what are you talking about?  You owe me nothing.”

“I owe you three lives,” said Septimus.