Page:The Popular Magazine v72 n1 (1924-04-20).djvu/154

 see, he wasn't poisoned; he thinks it was island fever or the salad that gave him the most frightful cramp in his bread basket. You know these southern French shout like anything if anything's the matter with them. Well, before a doctor could get to him the fonda people had cured him with brandy and they gave him so much that he slept there all night, and so missed seeing us go. He never suspects that we suspected him of being a crook out to do us in. It was all that damn' fool James—excuse me.”

“Don't mention it. I quite agree with you. Well, I'm glad. He has made me feel quite different.”

“How?”

“I can't tell you how—he's just so jolly and so friendly and so pleasant to meet that he has made the whole place seem different.”

It was a fact, there was a warmth and radiance about Bompard, a human kindliness better than wine to her flagging soul; he was just the same as at Teneriffe, but at Teneriffe she was not feeling lonely, dispirited and lost in a strange land.

Dicky had got the British consul's address from Bompard and they called at the consulate but found the office closed for the day.

“We'll call in the morning,” said Dicky. Then they dined at a café in the Plaza Bombita, went to a cinema and returned to the hotel at ten o'clock.

Dicky, sitting by his open window and smoking a pipe before going to bed, watched the great sultry southern moon as she stood casting a rosy light on the white house walls opposite.

Something new had come to him with the adventures of the day, something new and strange and heart stirring—Sheila.

Up to this she had been a jolly companion, a sister, almost a brother, but now, away from the Baltrum, thrown together and with her entirely depending on him, Sheila was another person.

His heart went out to her. He saw her as she was; steadfast and brave, fearless, patient as she had always been, but with an added charm, a mysterious something that turned her at a stroke from a woman to the only woman in the world.

Then he put out his pipe and went to bed and tried to put her out of his mind. He had no right to think of her, no right to think of anything till the great business in hand was through, and yet she returned in pictures that dissolved at last and faded in the darkness of sleep.

  O man is so well known as he thinks he is,” once said Enrico Caruso. “While motoring in New York State, the automobile broke down and I sought refuge in a farmhouse while the car was being repaired. I became friendly with the farmer, who asked my name, and I told him it was Caruso. The farmer leaped to his feet and seized me by the hand. 'Little did I think I would see a man like you in this here humble kitchen, sir!' he exclaimed. 'Caruso! The great traveler, Robinson Caruso!'”

  REATER than all other honors, to the Frenchman's way of thinking, is membership in the French Academy. Soldiers, statesmen, and captains of industry may come—and they may go—but the academician lives forever. He and his colleagues of this august brotherhood are, in fact, known as “the immortals.” It is hardy Frenchman, indeed, who would take the name of the academy in vain or make of it a jest.

Yet such Frenchmen have been known. One of them was the late lamented poet, Theodore de Banville. Renowned for the style and beauty of his verses, he was equally noted for the mordant irony of his sudden wit.

Upon one occasion his admiring friends were pressing him to advance his candidacy for election to the academy. He scoffed at the idea.

“But look here,” said one of his interlocutors; “supposing we put you up for it. Supposing you had nothing to do with it and one day they brought you your election on a silver platter. What would you do?”

“Do?” said De Banville, with the utmost gravity. “Why, I'd take the platter!” 