He was so driven by his renewed ambition and desire to complete this work and prove its import that he could scarcely permit himself to rest, at Pryor’s Cove or anywhere else.
And so, for the next few months, there were directors’ meetings, discussions with interested and important investors, engineering problems, and private sessions, sometimes in the evenings, with Lord Stane and Elverson Johnson.
Finally, there arose the necessity of making a trip to Vienna, in order to examine an electric motor device invented by a man named Ganz, which promised to reduce the cost of underground operation by a very considerable sum.
After seeing the motor and observing its operation, he was convinced of its value, and at once wired several of his engineers to come to Vienna to confirm his opinion.
On his way back to London, he stopped off at the Ritz Hotel, in Paris.
On his first evening there he met an old colleague in the lobby of the hotel, one Michael Shanley, a one-time employee of his in Chicago, who suggested that they go to hear a concert at the Paris Opera House. There was much talk of the compositions of a Pole by the name of Chopin that were to be played there.
The name was only vaguely familiar to Cowperwood, and even less so to Shanley, but they went; and Cowperwood was so entranced by the music that on reading in the program notes that Chopin was buried at Pere-Lachaise, he suggested they visit that world-famous burial ground next day.
Accordingly, the following morning he and Shanley went to Pere-Lachaise, where they engaged a guide, who, in English, furnished them with much information as they walked along the cypress-bordered avenues of the cemetery.
Thus they learned that here, under this shaft, lay Sarah Bernhardt, who, in past days in Chicago, had so moved him with her golden voice.
A little farther on was the tomb of Balzac, of whose works he knew only that they were considered great.
As he paused and gazed, he once again became sensible of the fact that his own particular labors had barred him from knowledge of the intellectual and artistic significance of genius in many other fields.
They passed the tombs of Bizet, de Musset, Moliere, and at last they came to Chopin’s resting place, which they found to be strewn with ribbon-tied bouquets of roses and lilies.
“Think of that now!” exclaimed Shanley.
“To be sure, he’s a great musician, but he’s been dead for more than half a century, and here are all these flowers!
Be gorra, no one will ever do that for me, I know!”
Which thought caused Cowperwood to question the likelihood of flowers being strewn over his own grave, even a year after his death—an idea which amused more than it irritated him, for he well knew there were few graves anywhere, earnest labors or no earnest labors, strewn with flowers after so many years.
However, before leaving Pere-Lachaise, he was destined for one more surprise.
For as they turned south toward an exit, they suddenly came upon the lovely double tomb of Abelard and Heloise, concerning which their guide proceeded to recite the well-known tragic romance of the ill-starred pair.
Heloise and Abelard!
The love of a young girl for the spiritually brilliant monk, and the savage brutality of her father, the cruel member of a bishop’s council of a cathedral of the eleventh century!
Cowperwood, up to this hour, had never heard of these lovers.
But now, as he stood listening to the guide, an obviously refined and very attractive woman, carrying a basket filled with flowers, approached the tomb and began to strew the multicolored blossoms upon and around it.
Both Cowperwood and Shanley were so moved by this that they removed their hats, and, catching her eye, respectfully bowed. She acknowledged their interest by saying:
“Merci beaucoup, messieurs,” and walked away.
But this colorful and moving incident set up a train of thought in Cowperwood’s mind which related to himself and the Aileen of his earlier days.
For, after all, when he, at one point of his career, had been imprisoned in Philadelphia, it was she who, in face of all his enemies, including her father, had visited him faithfully to declare her unchanging love and ease his lot in any way she could.
Like Heloise with Abelard, she had wanted him and no one else, and still did so, as he knew.
Suddenly there flashed into his mind the idea of a tomb for the two of them, a beautiful and enduring resting place.
Yes, he would employ an architect, secure designs, he would build a beautiful tomb which would commemorate the fact that at least at one time he had cared for her as much as she cared for him.
Chapter 59
On Cowperwood’s return to London, Berenice was startled by the change in his appearance. He seemed utterly weary, and had obviously lost weight.
She complained to him about his lack of consideration of his own physical welfare and the fact that she saw so little of him.
“Frank, dear,” she began, in an affectionate tone, “why do you let these things take so much of your time and energy?
You seem so strained and nervous.
Don’t you think you should see a doctor and have a thorough examination before you go any further?”
“Bevy, dear,” he said putting his arm around her waist, “there’s no need for you to be so concerned.
I know I’m working too hard, but this will soon be over and I won’t have to bother with so many business angles any more, for the present, anyhow.”
“But do you really feel all right?”
“Yes, dear, I think I’m all right.
Anyhow, this particular phase of development is so important that I feel I must give it my personal attention.”
But even as he said this, he stooped forward as if stricken by a sudden pain.
She ran to his side, exclaiming: “Frank, what is it? What’s the matter? Have you ever had anything like this before?”
“No, dear, I certainly haven’t,” he said.
“But it can’t be anything serious, I’m sure.”
And he partially recovered himself.
“Of course,” he continued, “there must be something to cause such a sharp pain.
Maybe you’d better call Dr. Wayne and ask him to come over and take a look at me . . .” a suggestion that sent Berenice at once to the telephone.
When the doctor arrived, he was surprised to find Cowperwood looking so drawn, and after partially examining him and writing a prescription to be filled at once, he asked him to come to his office next morning for a thorough check-up, which Cowperwood agreed to do.
However, within a week, after two of the best specialists in London had been called in by Dr. Wayne and reported to him their conclusions, he was shocked to learn that severe kidney condition had developed that might end fatally within a comparatively short time.
He ordered Cowperwood to rest and take the prescribed drugs that were meant to induce less activity.