He talked as if the Hermanns had been living all their life in a rural hamlet, and I alone had been capable, with my practice in life, of a large and indulgent view of certain occurrences.  That was what my diplomacy was leading me to.  I began suddenly to dislike it.

“I say, Falk,” I asked quite brusquely, “you haven’t already a wife put away somewhere?”

The pain and disgust of his denial were very striking.  Couldn’t I understand that he was as respectable as any white man hereabouts; earning his living honestly.  He was suffering from my suspicion, and the low undertone of his voice made his protestations sound very pathetic.  For a moment he shamed me, but, my diplomacy notwithstanding, I seemed to develop a conscience, as if in very truth it were in my power to decide the success of this matrimonial enterprise.  By pretending hard enough we come to believe anything—­anything to our advantage.  And I had been pretending very hard, because I meant yet to be towed safely down the river.  But through conscience or stupidity, I couldn’t help alluding to the Vanlo affair.  “You acted rather badly there.  Didn’t you?” was what I ventured actually to say—­for the logic of our conduct is always at the mercy of obscure and unforeseen impulses.

His dilated pupils swerved from my face, glancing at the window with a sort of scared fury.  We heard behind the blinds the continuous and sudden clicking of ivory, a jovial murmur of many voices, and Schomberg’s deep manly laugh.

“That confounded old woman of a hotel-keeper then would never, never let it rest!” Falk exclaimed.  “Well, yes!  It had happened two years ago.”  When it came to the point he owned he couldn’t make up his mind to trust Fred Vanlo—­no sailor, a bit of a fool too.  He could not trust him, but, to stop his row, he had lent him enough money to pay all his debts before he left.  I was greatly surprised to hear this.  Then Falk could not be such a miser after all.  So much the better for the girl.  For a time he sat silent; then he picked up a card, and while looking at it he said: 

“You need not think of anything bad.  It was an accident.  I’ve been unfortunate once.”

“Then in heaven’s name say nothing about it.”

As soon as these words were out of my mouth I fancied I had said something immoral.  He shook his head negatively.  It had to be told.  He considered it proper that the relations of the lady should know.  No doubt—­I thought to myself—­had Miss Vanlo not been thirty and damaged by the climate he would have found it possible to entrust Fred Vanlo with this confidence.  And then the figure of Hermann’s niece appeared before my mind’s eye, with the wealth of her opulent form, her rich youth, her lavish strength.  With that powerful and immaculate vitality, her girlish form must have shouted aloud of life to that man, whereas poor Miss Vanlo could only sing sentimental songs to the strumming of a piano.