Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald (Illustrated) (440 page)

It is blue — oh, the frailest blue. I’m getting afraid I won’t be able to get the tears out of the corner.

Later:

I did — and it is so lovely, hanging now in the closet with the door open. It’s now eight o’clock — you know
l’heure bleu
— when everything is really blue — and I’m going to walk up to the Opera along the Avenue de l’Opera and then back to the hotel.

Before I go to sleep I’ll think of you and thank you for the dress and the lovely year and the new life you’re giving me.

Your devoted, your loving,

TUDY.

P.S. I still think I should have stayed and gone with you to meet your mother in Marseilles. She —

Tom broke off and went back to the signature: “Your devoted, your loving.” Which was she? He read back over the letter pausing at any erasure, for an erasure often means an evasion, a second thought. And a love letter should come like a fresh stream from the heart, with no leaf on its current.

Then a second the next morning:

I’m so glad for your telegram — this will reach you just before you start down to Marseilles. Give your mother my dearest love and tell her how much I hate missing her and how I wish I could welcome her to Provence. (There were two lines crossed out and rewritten.) I will be starting back day after tomorrow. How funny it is to be buying things, when I never had any money like this to spend before — $225.00 — that’s what it was, after I’d figured the hotel bill and even thought of keeping enough cash in hand so I won’t arrive absolutely penniless.

I’ve bought two presents, I hope you won’t mind, one for your mother and one for somebody else and that’s you. And don’t think I’ve stinted myself and that I won’t be a pretty bride for you! In fact I haven’t waited until my wedding day to find out. I’ve dressed all up half a dozen times and stood in front of the mirror.

I’ll be glad when it’s over. Won’t you, darling? I mean I’ll be glad when it’s begun — won’t you, darling?

Meanwhile, on the morning after she left, Tom had run into Riccard in the street. He nodded to him coldly, still angry about the airplane stunt, but Riccard seemed so unconscious of any guilt, seemed to think of it merely as a trick as innocuous as the bulb under the plate, that Tom waived the matter and stood talking with him a while under the freckled poplar shadows.

“So you decided not to go,” he remarked.

“Oh, I shall go, but not until tomorrow after all. And how is Madame — I mean Tudy?”

“She’s gone up to Paris to do some shopping.”

He felt a malicious satisfaction in seeing Riccard’s face fall.

“Where does she stay there? I would like to send her a telegram of goodbye.”

No, you don’t, Tom thought. Aloud he lied:

“I’m not sure — the hotel where she was going to stay is full.”

“When does she come back?”

“She gets here day after tomorrow morning. I’m going to meet her with the car at Avignon.”

“I see.” Riccard hesitated for a moment. “I hope you will be very happy,” he said.

His face was sad and bright at once; he was a gallant and charming young man, and Tom was sorry for a moment that they had not met under other circumstances.

But next day, driving to Marseilles, a very different idea came to him. Suppose instead of going to the air base at Toulon today, Riccard should go to Paris. There were not an infinite number of good hotels and in a morning’s search he might find out which was Tudy’s. And in the inevitable emotion of a “last meeting,” who could tell what might happen.

The worry so possessed him that when he reached Marseilles he put in a telephone call for the Naval Aviation Depot at Toulon.

“I’m calling Lieutenant Riccard,” he said.

“I do not understand.”

“Lieutenant Riccard.”

“This is not Lieutenant Riccard, surely?”

“No. I want to
speak
to Lieutenant Riccard.”

“Ah.”

“Is he there?”

“Riccard — wait till I look in the orderly room book… Yes… he is here — or at least he
was
here.”

Tom’s heart turned over as he waited.

“He is here,” said the voice. “He is in the mess room. One minute.”

Tom put the receiver very gently on the hook. His first instinct was relief — Riccard could not make it now; then he felt ashamed of his suspicions. Strolling that morning around a seaport where so many graver things had happened, he thought again of Tudy in a key above jealousy. He knew, though, that love should be a simpler, kinder thing; but every man loves out of something in himself that cannot be changed, and if he loved possessively and jealously, he could not help it.

Before he met his mother at the steamer he wired Tudy in Paris, asking an answer with a last thought that she might not be there. Bringing his mother back to the hotel for lunch he asked the concierge:

“Have you a telegram for me?”

It was there. His hands trembled as he opened it.

WHERE ELSE SHOULD I BE STOP LEAVING AT SIX TONIGHT AND REACHING AVIGNON TOMORROW MORNING AT FIVE A.M.

TUDY.

Driving up through Provence with his mother in the afternoon he said:

“You’re very brave to try to go around the world by yourself at seventy-eight.”

“I suppose I am,” she said. “But your father and I wanted to see China and Japan — and that was not to be — so I sometimes think I’m going to see them for him, as if he were alive.”

“You loved each other, didn’t you?”

She looked at him as if his question was a young impertinence.

“Of course.” Then she said suddenly: “Tom, is something making you unhappy?”

“Certainly not. Look what we’re passing, Mother — you’re not looking.”

“It’s a river — the Rhone, isn’t it?”

“It’s the Rhone. And after I’ve settled you at the Hotel des Thermes I’ll be following this same river up to Avignon to meet my girl.”

But he had a curious fear as he passed through the great gate of Avignon at four o’clock next morning that she would not be there. There had been a warning in the thin song of his motor, in the closed ominous fronts of the dark villages, in the gray break of light in the sky. He drank a glass of beer in the station buffet where several Italian emigrant families were eating from their baskets. Then he went out on the station platform and beckoned to a porter.

“There will be a lady with some baggage to carry.”

Now the train was coming out of the blue dawn. Tom stood midway on the platform trying to pick out a face at a window or vestibule as it slid to rest, but there was no face. He walked along beside the sleepers, but there was only an impatient conductor taking off small baggage. Tom went up to look at the luggage thinking maybe it was hers, that it was new and he hadn’t recognized it — then suddenly the train was in motion. Once more he glanced up and down the platform.

“Tom!”

She was there.

“Tudy — it’s you.”

“Didn’t you expect me?”

She looked wan and tired in the faint light. His instinct was to pick her up and carry her out to the car.

“I didn’t know there was another wagon-lit,” he said excitedly. “Thank heaven there was.”

“Darling, I’m so glad to see you. All this is my trousseau, that I told you about. Be careful of them, porter — the strings won’t hold probably.”

“Put this luggage in the car,” he said to the porter. “We’re going to have coffee in the buffet.”

“
Bien,
Monsieur.”

In the buffet Tudy took smaller packages from her purse.

“This is for your mother. I spent a whole morning finding this for her and I wouldn’t show it to you for anything.”

She found another package.

“This for you, but I won’t open it now. Oh, I was going to be
so
economical, but I bought two presents for you. I haven’t ten francs left. It’s good you met me.”

“Darling, you’re talking so much you’re not eating.”

“I forgot.”

“Well,
eat
— and drink your coffee. I don’t mean hurry — it’s only half-past four in the morning.”

They drove back through a day that was already blooming; there were peasants in the fields who looked at them as they went by, crawling up on one knee to stare over the tips of the young vines.

“What do we do now?” she said. “Oh, yes, now we get married.”

“We certainly do — tomorrow morning. And when you get married in France, you know you’ve been married. I spent the whole first day you were away signing papers. Once I had to forge your signature, but I gave the man ten francs — “

“Oh, Tom — “ she interrupted softly. “Don’t talk for a minute. It’s so beautiful this morning, I want to look at it.”

“Of course, darling.” He looked at her. “Is something the matter?”

“Nothing. I’m just confused.” She smoothed her face with her hands as if she were parting it in the middle. “I’m almost sure I left something, but I can’t think what.”

“Weddings are always confusing,” he said consolingly. “I’m supposed to forget the ring or something by the best traditions. Now just think of that — the groom has to remember to forget the ring.”

She laughed and her mood seemed to change, but when Tom saw her at intervals in the packing and preparations of the day, he noticed that the air of confusion, of vagueness, remained about her. But next morning when he called at her pension at nine, she seemed so beautiful to him with her white-gold hair gleaming above her frail blue frock that he remembered only how much he loved her.

“But don’t crush my bouquet,” she said. “Are you sure you want me?”

“Perfectly sure.”

“Even if — even if I have been rather foolish?”

“Of course.”

“Even if — “

He kissed her lips gently.

“That’ll do,” he said. “I know you were a little in love with Riccard, but it’s all over and we won’t ever mention it again — is that agreed?”

Momentarily she seemed to hesitate. “Yes, Tom.”

So they were married. And it seemed very strange to be married in France. Afterward they gave a little breakfast for a few friends at the hotel and afterward Tudy, who had moved over from the pension the day before, went upstairs to change her clothes and do her last packing, while Tom went to his mother’s room and sat with her for a while. She was not starting off with them, but would rest here a day or two and then motor down to Marseilles to catch another boat.

“I worry about your being alone,” he said.

“I know my way about, son. You just think about Tudy — remember, you’ve given her her head for eight months and she may need a little firmness. You’re twelve years older than she is and you ought to be that much wiser — “ She broke off, “But every marriage works out in its own way.”

Leaving his mother’s room Tom went down to the office to pay his bill.

“Someone wishes to see Monsieur,” said the clerk.

It was a French railroad conductor carrying a package.

“
Bonjour,
Monsieur,” he said politely. “Is it you who has just been married to the young lady who traveled on the P. L. M. yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“I did not like to disturb Madame on such a morning, but she left this on the train. It is a cloak.”

“Oh, yes,” said Tom. “She just missed it this morning.”

“I had a little time off duty so I thought I’d bring it myself.”

“We’re very much obliged. Here’s a fifty — no, here’s a hundred francs.”

The conductor looked at the size of Tom’s tip and sighed.

“I cannot keep all this. This is too generous.”

“Nonsense! I’ve been married this morning.”

He pressed the money into the man’s hand.

“You are very kind, Monsieur.
Au revoir,
Monsieur. But wait — “ He fumbled in his pocket. “I was so full of emotion at your generosity that I almost forgot. This is another article I found — it may belong to Madame or to her brother who got off at Lyons. I have not been able to figure what it is.
Au revoir
again, Monsieur, and thank you. I appreciate an American gentleman — “

He waved goodbye as he went down the stairs.

Tom was holding in his hands two bulbs of an apparatus that were connected by a long tube. If you pressed one bulb the air went through the tube and inflated the other.

When he came into Tudy’s room she was staring out the window in the direction of the University.

“Just taking a last look at my finishing school,” she said. “Why, what’s the matter?”

He was thinking faster than he ever had in his life.

“Here’s your cloak,” he said. “The conductor brought it.”

“Oh, good! It was an old cloak but — “

“And here’s this — “ He showed her what he held in his hand. “It seems your brother left it on the train.”

The comers of her mouth fell and her eyes pulled her young forehead into a hundred unfamiliar lines. In one moment her face took on all the anguish in the world.

“All right,” she said, after a minute. “I knew I should have told you. I tried to tell you this morning. Riccard flew up to Paris in time to meet me in the station and ride south with me. I had no idea he was coming.”

“But no doubt you were pleasantly surprised,” he said dryly.

“No, I wasn’t, I was furious. I didn’t see how he knew I was coming south on that train. That’s all there was to it, Tom — he rode down as far as Lyons with me. I started to tell you but you were so happy this morning and I couldn’t bear to.”

Their eyes met, hers wavered away from his out into the great soft-shaking poplar trees.

“I know I can never make you believe it was all right,” she said dully. “I suppose we can get an annulment.”

The sunlight fell on the square corners of her bags, parked and ready to go.

“I was just getting on the train when I saw him,” she said. “There was nothing I could do. Oh, it’s so awful — and if he just hadn’t dropped that terrible trick you’d never have known.”

Tom walked up and down the room a minute.

“I know you’re through with me,” Tudy said. “Anyhow, you’d just reproach me all the rest of my life. So we’d better quit. We can call it off.”

…We can die, too, he was thinking. He had never wanted anything so much in his life as he wanted to believe her. But he had to decide now not upon what was the truth, for that he would never know for certain, but upon the question as to whether he could now and forever put the matter out of his mind, or whether it would haunt their marriage like a ghost. Suddenly he decided: