Such is the letter Edgar receives the second morning after the Lipinskis' soirée, while he is breakfasting with his brother in the latter's smoking-room.
"Zino?" asks Edmund, looking up from his 'Figaro,' the reading of which is as much a part of his breakfast as are the fragrant black coffee and the yellowish Viennese bread with Norman butter.
"Read it," Edgar replies, as he scribbles with a lead-pencil on a visiting-card, "I am quite at your disposal," and hands it to the waiting servant.
"He's a fool!" the elder Rohritz remarks, handing back the note to his brother. "He knows perfectly well that you do not dance."
"But one can talk through a cotillon," Edgar says, with as much indifference as he can assume.
"You have consented?"
"I could not do otherwise. Stella is a stranger in Paris: it might be a source of annoyance to her to have no partner for the cotillon. If at the last moment she should find a more desirable partner than myself, I am of course ready to retire.À propos, is Thérèse going to the ball? Her cold is better?"
"Yes."
"What kind of ball is it?"
"A kind of public ball in a wealthy private house, given by immensely wealthy Americans, who know nobody, whom nobody knows, and who arrange an entertainment from the Arabian Nights, that they may be talked of, mentioned in 'Figaro,' and laughed at in society. Only three weeks ago there was no end of ridicule heaped upon Mrs. and Mr. Fane, unknown grandees from California, when it was reported that they wished to give a ball. Nobody dreamed of accepting their invitation; but Mrs. Fane was clever enough to induce a couple of women of undeniable fashion to be her 'lady patronesses,' and when the rumour spread that the Duchess of ---- had accepted there was a perfect rage for invitations. Every one declared, 'Cela sera drôle!' Every one is going. With the best Parisian society there will of course be found people whom one sees nowhere else. I wonder how many of the guests will take sufficient notice of the host and hostess to recognize them in the street the next day? But it will certainly be a beautiful ball, and an amusing one. Stella is going with the Lipinskis, I believe. I am curious to see how she will look in a ball-dress,--charming, of course, but rather too thin."
In the course of the morning Edgar drops in upon Capito, and finds him, in half-merry, half-irritated mood, stretched upon a lounge which is covered by a bearskin, the head of the animal gnashing its teeth at the Prince's feet. Of course Capito's rooms form a tasteful chaos of Oriental rugs, Turkish embroideries, interesting bibelots, and charming pictures. Throughout their arrangement, from the antique silken hangings veined with silver that cover the walls, to the low divans and chairs, there runs a suggestion of effeminate, Oriental luxury, in whimsical contrast with the proverbially vigorous personality of the Prince, hardened as it has been by every species of manly sport and exercise. The atmosphere is heavy with the fragrance of a gardenia shrub in full bloom, the odour of cigarettes, and the aroma of some subtle Indian perfume. A tall palm lifts its leaves to the ceiling. Half a dozen French novels, two guitars, and a mandolin lie within Zino's reach. He wears a queer smoking-jacket of blue silk faced with red, and his foot is swathed in towels.
"I'm delighted to see you! Sit down. 'Tis most annoying, this sprain of mine. But what do you say to the pleasure to which you have fallen heir?"
"In fact, I never dance," Rohritz makes reply, "but, to oblige you----" Edgar's eyes are wandering here and there through the room, and suddenly rest upon a certain object.
"Ah, 'tis my Watteau that attracts you!" Capito observes. "A pretty little picture. I bought it at the Hôtel Drouot a while ago for a mere song,--five thousand francs."
"Five thousand francs! Ridiculous," says Rohritz. "The picture is really lovely. But it was not the Watteau alone that attracted my attention, but----" He points to two or three pictures which are turned with their faces to the wall.
"Ah! ah!" the Prince laughs. "You wish to know what led to that prudential measure? Well, I have had a visit from ladies."
"From whom?" Rohritz asks, absently.
"Unasked I should probably have told you, but in view of such ill-bred curiosity I am mute," Zino replies, still laughing.
"Hm!--evidently a woman of character," Rohritz observes, indifferently.
"Of course: 'tis the only kind with whom I can endure of late to associate. If you but knew how bored I was at the opera ball the other night! I was made ill by the bad air. The feminine element must always play a large part in my life; but, you see, of late I can tolerate none but the most refined, the most distinguished of the species. We are strange creatures, we men of the world: in the matter of cigars, wine, horses, we always require the best, while with regard to women we are sometimes satisfied with what----"
The arrival of a fresh caller, one of Capito's sporting friends, interrupts these interesting reflections. Rohritz takes his leave.
The same day he is driving by chance through the Rue d'Anjou, when his attention is attracted by a slender, graceful, girlish figure hurrying along, evidently anxious to reach her destination.
Is not that Stella? He leans out of the carriage window, but it is dark, and she is closely veiled. And yet he could swear that it is she. She vanishes in the Hôtel ----, in the house where he called upon Zino Capito this very day.
For one brief moment all the evil that Stasy said of Stella confuses his brain; then he compresses his lips: he cannot believe evil of her. A malicious chance has maligned her. She must have a double in Paris.
How Stella has looked forward to this ball! how carefully and bravely she has cleared away all the obstacles which seemed at first to stand in the way of her pleasure! how eagerly and industriously she has gathered together her little store of ornaments, has tastefully renovated her old Venetian ball-dress! how she has exulted over Zino's note, in which with kindly courtesy he has begged her to accord to his friend Edgar Rohritz the pleasure he is obliged to deny himself! And now--now the evening has come; her ball-dress lies spread out on the sofa of the small drawing-room at the 'Three Negroes;' but Stella is lying on her bed in her little bedroom, in the dark, sobbing bitterly. For the second time she has lost theporte-bonheurwhich her dying father put on her arm three--nearly four years before, and which was to bring her happiness. She noticed only yesterday that the little chain which she had had attached to it for safety was broken, but the clasp seemed so strong that she postponed taking it to be repaired, and to-day as she was coming home, about five o'clock, fresh and gay, her cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of anticipation, and laden with all sorts of packages, she perceived that her bracelet was gone. In absolute terror, she went from shop to shop, wherever she had made a purchase, always with the same imploring question on her lips as to whether they had not found a littleporte-bonheurwith a pendant of rock-crystal containing a four-leaved clover,--a silly, inexpensive trifle, of no value to any one save herself. But in vain!
Almost beside herself, she finally returned to her home, and told her mother of her bitter distress; but the Baroness only shrugged her shoulders at her childish superstition, and went on writing with extraordinary industry. She has lately determined to edit an abstract of her work on 'Woman's Part in the Development of Civilization,' for a book-agent with whom she is in communication, and who undertakes to sell unsalable literature. It seems that the abstract will fill several volumes! In the midst of Stella's distress, the Baroness begins to bewail to her daughter her own immense superabundance of ideas, which makes it almost impossible for her to express herself briefly. And so Stella, after she has hearkened to the end of her mother's lament, slips away with tired, heavy feet, and a still heavier heart, to her bedroom, and there sobs on the pillow of her narrow iron bedstead as if her heart would break.
There comes a knock at the door.
"Who is it?" she asks, half rising, and wiping her eyes.
"Me!" replies a kindly nasal voice, a voice typical of the Parisian servant. Stella recognizes it as that of the chambermaid.
"Come in, Justine. What do you want?"
"Two bouquets have come for Mademoiselle,--two splendid bouquets. Ah, it is dark here; Mademoiselle has been taking a little rest, so as to be fresh for the ball; but it is nine o'clock. Mademoiselle ought to begin to dress: it is always best to be in time. Shall I light a candle?"
"If you please, Justine."
The maid lights the candles.
"Ah!" she exclaims in dismay when she sees Stella's sad, swollen face, "Mademoiselle is in distress! Good heavens! what has happened? Has Mademoiselle had bad news?--some one dead whom she loves?"
Any German maid at sight of the girl's disconsolate face would have suspected some love-complication; the French servant would never think of anything of the kind in connection with a respectable young lady.
"No, Justine, but I have lost aporte-bonheur,--aporte-bonheurthat my father gave me a little while before he died,--and it is sure to mean some misfortune. I know something dreadful will happen to me at the ball. I would rather stay at home. But there would be no use in that: my fate will find me wherever I am: it is impossible to hide from it."
"Ah," sighs Justine, "I am so sorry for Mademoiselle! But Mademoiselle must not take the matter so to heart: theporte-bonheurwill be found; nothing is lost in Paris. We will apply to the police-superintendent, and theporte-bonheurwill be found. Ah, Mademoiselle would not believe how many lost articles I have had brought back to me! Will not Mademoiselle take a look at the bouquets?" And the Parisian maid whips off the cotton wool and silver-paper that have enveloped the flowers. "Dieu! que c'est beau!" cries Justine, her brown, good-humoured face beaming with delight beneath the frill of her white cap. "Two cards came with the flowers; there----"
Stella grasps the cards. The bouquet of gardenias and fantastic orchids comes from Zino; the other, of half-opened, softly-blushing Malmaison roses and snowdrops, is Edgar's gift.
In their arch-loveliness, carelessly tied together, the flowers look as if they had come together in the cold winter, to whisper of the delights of spring and summer,--of the time when earth and sunshine, now parted by a bitter feud, shall meet again with warm, loving kisses of reconciliation.
Zino's orchids and gardenias lie neglected on the cold gray marble top of a corner table; with a dreamy smile, in the midst of her tears, Stella buries her face among the roses, which remind her of Erlach Court.
"Mademoiselle will find herporte-bonheuragain; I am sure of it; I have a presentiment," Justine says, soothingly. "But now Mademoiselle must begin to make herself beautiful. Madame has given me express permission to help her."
At this same hour a certain bustle reigns in the dressing-room of the Princess Oblonsky. Costly jewelry, barbaric but characteristically Russian in design and setting, gleams from the dark velvet lining of various half-opened cases in the light of numberless candles. In a faded sky-blue dressing-gown trimmed with yellow woollen lace, Stasy is standing beside a workwoman from Worth's, who is busy fastening large solitaires upon the Princess's ball-dress. The air is heavy and oppressive with the odour of veloutine, hot iron, burnt hair, and costly, forced hot-house flowers. Monsieur Auguste, the hair-dresser, has just left the room. Beneath his hands the head of the Princess has become a masterpiece of artistic simplicity. Instead of the conventional feathers, large, gleaming diamond stars crown the beautiful woman's brow. She is standing before a tall mirror, her shoulders bare, her magnificent arms hanging by her sides, in the passive attitude of the great lady who, without stirring herself, is to be dressed by her attendants. Her maid is kneeling behind her, with her mouth full of pins, busied in imparting to the long trailing muslin and lace petticoat the due amount of imposing effect.
Although half a dozen candles are burning in the candelabra on each side of the mirror, although the entire apartment is illuminated by the light of at least fifty other candles, a second maid, and Fräulein von Fuhrwesen, now quite domesticated in the Princess's household, are standing behind the Princess, each with a candle, in testimony of their sympathy with the maid at work upon the petticoat.
Yes, Sophie Oblonsky is going to the Fanes' ball: she knows that Edgar will be there.
At last every diamond is fastened upon the ball-dress, among its trimming of white ostrich-feathers. The task now is to slip the robe over the Princess's head without grazing her hair even with a touch as light as that of a butterfly's wing. This is the true test of the dressing-maid's art. The girl lifts Worth's masterpiece high, high in the air: the feat is successfully accomplished. In all Paris to-night there is no more beautiful woman than the Princess Oblonsky in her draperies of brocade shot with silver, the diamondrivièreon her neck, and the diamond stars in her hair. The Fuhrwesen kneels before her in adoration to express her enthusiasm, and Stasy exclaims,--
"You are ravishing! Do you know what I said in Cologne to little Stella, who, as I told you, was so desperately in love with Edgar Rohritz? 'Beside Sonja the beauty of other women vanishes: when she appears, we ordinary women cease to exist.'"
"Exaggerated nonsense, my dear!" Sonja says, smiling graciously, and lightly touching her friend's cheek with her lace handkerchief. "But now hurry and make yourself beautiful."
"Yes, I am going. I really cannot tell you how eagerly I am looking forward to this ball. I feel like a child again."
"So I see," Sonja rallies her. "Make haste and dress; when you are ready I will put the diamond pins in your hair, myself." And when Stasy has left the room the Princess says, turning to Fräulein von Fuhrwesen, "I only hope Anastasia will enjoy herself: it is solely for her sake that I have been persuaded to go to this ball; I would far rather stay at home, my dear Fuhrwesen, and have you play me selections from Wagner."
Yes, the Fanes' ball is a splendid ball, one of the most beautiful balls of the season, and fulfils every one's expectations. Not one of the artistic effects that puzzle newspaper-reporters and delight the public is lacking,--neither fountains of eau-de-cologne, nor tables of flowers upon which blocks of ice gleam from among nodding ferns, nor mirrors and chandeliers hung with wreaths of roses, nor the legendary grape-vine with colossal grapes. The crown of all, however, is the conservatory, in which, among orange-trees and magnolias in full bloom, gleam mandarin-trees full of bright golden fruit. There are lovely, secluded nooks in this Paradise, where has been conjured up in the unfriendly Northern winter all the luxuriance of Southern vegetation. Large mirrors here and there prevent what might else be the monotony of the scene.
The company is rather mixed. It almost produces the impression of the appearance at a first-class theatre of a troop of provincial actors, with here and there a couple of stars,--stars who scarcely condescend to play their parts. Most of the guests do not recognize the host; and those who suspect his presence in the serious little man in a huge white tie and with a bald head, whom they took at first for the master of ceremonies, avoid him. His entire occupation consists in gliding about with an unhappy face in the darkest corners, now and then timidly requesting some one of the guests to look at his last Meissonier. When the guest complies with the request and accompanies him to view the Meissonier, Mr. Fane always replies to the praise accorded to the picture in the same words: "I paid three hundred thousand francs for it. Do you think Meissoniers will increase in value?"
The hostess is more imposing in appearance than her bald-headed spouse. Her gown comes from Felix, and is trimmed with sunflowers as big as dinner-plates,--which has a comical effect. Thérèse Rohritz shakes her head, and whispers to a friend, "How that good Mrs. Fane must have offended Felix, to induce him to take such a cruel revenge!" But except for her gown, and the fact that she cannot finish a single sentence without introducing the name of some duke or duchess, there is nothing particularly ridiculous about her.
Yet, criticise the entertainment and its authors as you may, one and all must confess that rarely has there been such an opportunity to admire so great a number of beautiful women, and that the most beautiful of all, the queen of the evening, is the Princess Oblonsky. Anywhere else it would excite surprise to find her among so many women of unblemished reputation; but it is no greater wonder to meet her here than at a public ball. Anywhere else people would probably stand aloof from her; here they approach her curiously, as they would some theatric star whom they might meet at a picnic in an inn ball-room.
Perhaps her beauty would not be so completely victorious over that of her sister women were she not the only guest who has bestowed great pains on her toilette. All the other feminine guests who make any pretensions to distinction seem to have entered into an agreement to be as shabby as possible. As it would be hopeless to attempt to rival the Fane millions, they choose at least to prove that they despise them.
One of the shabbiest and most rumpled among many dowdy gowns is that worn by Thérèse Rohritz, who, pretty woman as she is, looks down with evident satisfaction upon her faded crêpe de Chine draperies, remarking, with a laugh, that she had almost danced it off last summer at the balls at the casino at Trouville.
Her husband is not quite pleased with such evident neglect of her dress on his wife's part, nor does he at all admire Thérèse's careless way of looking about her through her eye-glass and laughing and criticising. He must always be too good an Austrian to be reconciled to what is calledchicin Paris. There is the same difference between his Austrian arrogance and Parisian arrogance that there is between pride and impertinence. He thinks it all right to hold aloof from a parvenu, to avoid his house and his acquaintance; but to go to the house of the parvenu, to be entertained in his apartments, to eat his ices and drink his champagne, to pluck the flowers from his walls, and in return to ignore himself and to ridicule his entertainment, he does not think right. But whenever he expresses his sentiments upon this point to his wife, Thérèse answers him, half in German, half in French, "You are quite right; but what would you have? 'tis the fashion."
The only person at the ball who is honestly ashamed of her modest toilette is Stella, and this perhaps because the first object that her eyes encountered when she appeared with the Lipinskis, a little after eleven, was the Oblonsky in all her brilliant beauty and faultless elegance. By her side, her white feather fan on his knee, sits---- Edgar von Rohritz. Stella's heart stands still; ah, yes, now she knows why she has lost her bracelet. All the tender, child-like dreams that stole smiling upon her soul at sight of his flowers die at once, and Stasy's words at the Cologne railway-station resound in her ears: "Yes, it is ridiculous to think of rivalling the Princess: when she appears we ordinary women cease to exist."
"Yes, it is ridiculous to think of rivalling the Princess," Stella repeats to herself, "particularly for such a stupid, awkward, insignificant thing as I am."
She cannot take her eyes off the beautiful woman. How she smiles upon him, bestowing her attention upon him alone, while a crowd of Parisian dandies throng about her, waiting for an opportunity to claim a word. There is no doubt in Stella's mind that he is reconciled with Sophie Oblonsky.
A man will forgive a very beautiful woman everything, even the evil which he has heard of her, nay, he may find a mysterious charm in her transgressions, if she takes pains to win his favour with intelligence, prudence, and the necessary degree of reserve. This piece of wisdom Stella has gained from the French romances of which she has read extracts out of pure ennui as they appear daily in 'Figaro' and the 'Gaulois.'
That a man must find it difficult to shake off an old friend who approaches him with imploring humility, that he cannot well refuse when she requests him to bring her an ice, and that should she hand him her fan he cannot possibly lay it down on a table with a proudly forbidding air and then take his leave with a formal bow,--all this Stella never takes into consideration; and this is why she is so wretchedly unhappy as she seats herself beside Natalie Lipinski on a plush ottoman, near a table of flowers.
A young Russian, a friend of the Lipinskis, begs Natalie for a waltz, and she takes his arm and goes into the adjoining dancing-room. Stella is left alone, beside old Madame Lipinski, who is just getting ready to relate something extremely entertaining about the Emperor Nicholas, when Rohritz suddenly perceives Stella. With a smiling remark he hands the white feather fan to a gentleman standing beside him, and hastens towards the young girl, paying his respects, of course, first to the elder lady, and then to her. If he has reckoned upon her old-time child-like, confiding smile, he is disappointed. She answers him stiffly, and thanks him for his flowers without cordiality. "How pale she looks!" he says to himself. "What can be the matter with her? Can she have cried her eyes out because she must dance the cotillon to-night with me instead of with Zino Capito?"
"'Tis very hard that poor Capito should be disabled just at this time," he remarks.
"Yes, because the burden of dancing the cotillon with me devolves upon you," Stella replies, betraying, for the first time since he has known her, a degree of sensitiveness that is almost ridiculous. "I am, of course, perfectly ready to release you from the obligation."
"That would be a readiness to rob me of a pleasure to which I had looked forward eagerly," he replies, gravely.
"You had looked forward to it?--really?" Stella asks, with genuine surprise in her eyes. "Really?" And she looks down with a shake of the head at her poor white dress, at her entire toilette, in which nothing is absolutely modern save the long gloves that reach to her shoulders.
It is rather remarkable that these gloves are the only thing about her with which Edgar Rohritz finds fault.
"What charming dimples that Swedish kid must hide!" he says to himself. A seat beside Stella hitherto occupied by an Englishwoman with very sharp red elbows is vacated. Edgar takes possession of it.
"Yes, I had looked forward to it," he says, "although I do not dance, and you will consequently be obliged to talk with me through the cotillon."
A pause ensues. She looks down; involuntarily he does the same. His eyes rest upon her foot that peeps out beneath the hem of her ball-dress. He recalls how once, on a meadow beneath a spreading oak, kneeling before her he had held that foot in his hands. What a charming, soft, warm little foot it was! She suddenly perceives that he is looking at it; she withdraws it hastily, and with a half-wayward, half-distressed air pulls her skirt farther over her knee. Of course he does not smile, but he wants to. And he could reproach this girl for accidentally in the outline of her features recalling a woman who from all that he could discover concerning her was more to be pitied than blamed. It was odious, cruel; more than that, it was stupid!
Leaning towards her, and speaking more softly than before, he says, gravely, "And I hope that during the cotillon you will confide to me, as an old friend, why you look so sad to-night."
Any other girl would have understood that these words from a man of Edgar's great reserve of character were to pave the way for a declaration.
Stella understands nothing of the kind.
"Why I am so sad?" she replies, simply. "Because----"
At this moment Natalie approaches on the arm of a blonde young man.
"Count Kasin wishes to be presented to you, Stella," she says.
The young man bows, and begs for a dance. Stella goes off upon his arm, not because she has any desire to dance, but because it would be disgraceful for a young girl to sit through an entire ball.
"Who is that young lady?" asks an Englishman of Edgar's acquaintance.
"She is an Austrian,--Baroness Stella Meineck."
"Strange how like she is to that famous Greuze in the Louvre,--'La Cruche cassée'! She is charming."
The words were uttered without any thought of evil, but nevertheless Edgar feels for a moment as if he would like to throttle the Hon. Mr. Harris.
And why is he suddenly reminded of the girl whom he had seen this afternoon in the twilight hurrying along the street to vanish in the house where Zino has his apartments? How very like she was to Stella!
An hour has passed. Stella has walked through two quadrilles, has walked and polked with various partners, as well as she could,--that is, conscientiously and badly, just as she learned from a dancing-master eight years before, and, try as she may, she is conscious that she never shall take any real pleasure in this hopping and jumping about. Now, when the rest are just beginning fairly to enjoy the ball, she is tired,--quite tired. With her last partner, a good-humoured, gentlemanly young Austrian diplomatist, she has become so dizzy that in the midst of the dance she has begged to be taken back to Madame Lipinski. But Madame Lipinski has left her place; some one says she has gone to the conservatory; and thither Stella and her partner betake themselves.
They do not find Madame Lipinski, but Stella feels decidedly better. The green, fragrant twilight of the conservatory has a soothing effect upon her nerves. The air is cool, compared with that of the ball-room; the roughened surface of the mosaic floor affords a pleasant change after the slippery smoothness of the dancing-room. Stella sinks wearily into an inviting low chair.
"Are balls always so terribly fatiguing?" she asks her companion, with her usual frankness.
He bows.
"I did not mean to be rude," she hastily explains, "but you must confess that it is much pleasanter to talk comfortably here than to whirl about in there," pointing with her fan in the direction of the dancing-room.
The attaché, quite propitiated, takes his place upon a low seat beside her, and prepares for a sentimental flirtation. To his great surprise, Stella seems to have as little enthusiasm for flirting as for dancing.
"A charming spot!" he begins. "The fragrance of these orange-blossoms reminds me of Nice. You have been at Nice, Baroness?"
"I have been everywhere, from Madrid to Constantinople," Stella sighs; "and I wish I were at home. My head aches so!"--passing her hand wearily across her brow.
"Shall I get you an ice, or a glass of lemonade?" he asks, good-naturedly.
"I should be much obliged to you," Stella replies.
"Hm! it does not look as if she were very anxious for atête-à-têtewith me," he thinks, as he leaves her.
He has gone: she is alone among the fragrant flowers and the larged-leaved plants. Softened, but distinctly audible, the sound of hopping and gliding feet reaches her ears, while, now sadly caressing and anon merrily careless, the strains of a Strauss waltz float on the air. For a while she sits quite wearily, with half-closed eyes, thinking of nothing save "I hope the attaché will stay away a long time!" Mingling softly and tenderly with the music she hears the dreamy murmur of a miniature fountain. Why is she suddenly reminded of the melancholy rush of the Save, of the little canoe by the edge of the black water? Suddenly she hears voices in her vicinity, and, raising her eyes to a tall, broad mirror opposite, she beholds, framed in by the gold-embroidered hangings of a heavy portière, a striking picture,--the Princess Oblonsky and Edgar. They are in a little boudoir separated from the conservatory by an open door. Without stirring, Stella watches the pair in the treacherous mirror. Edgar sits in a low arm-chair, his elbow on his knee, his head propped on his hand, and the Princess is opposite him. How wonderfully beautiful she is!--beautiful although she is just brushing away a tear.
"It always makes me so ugly to cry!" Stella thinks, not without bitterness.
The Princess's gloves and fan lie beside her; her arms are bare. With an expression of intense melancholy, an expression not only apparent in her face and in the listless droop of her arms, but also seeming to be shared by every fold of her dress, she leans back among the soft-hued, rose-coloured and gray satin cushions of a small lounge.
"Strange, that we should have met at last!--at last!" she sighs. Stella cannot distinguish his reply, but she distinctly hears the Princess say, "Do you remember that waltz? How often its notes have floated towards us upon the breath of the roses in the long afternoons at Baden! How long a time has passed since then! How long----"
A black mist rises before Stella's eyes. She puts up her hands to her ears, and, thrilling from head to foot, springs up and hurries away,--anywhere, anywhere,--only away from this spot,--far away!
At the other end of the conservatory she is doing her best to regain her composure and to keep back the tears, when suddenly she hears a light manly tread near her and the clinking of glasses.
"Ah! 'tis Binsky: he has found me," Stella thinks, most unjustly provoked with the good-humoured attaché.
"I really believe, Baroness, you are playing hide-and-seek with me," the young diplomatist addresses her in a tone of mild reproof.
There is nothing for it but to turn round. Beside the attaché, in all the majestic gravity of his kind, stands a lackey with a salver, from which she takes a glass of lemonade.
After the servant has withdrawn, Count Binsky says, with a laugh, "I have been looking for you, Baroness, in every corner of the conservatory. I must confess to having made interesting discoveries during my wanderings. Look here,"--and he shows her a white ostrich-feather fan with yellow tortoise-shell sticks broken in two,"--I found this relic in the pretty little boudoir near the place where I left you. Now, did you ever see anything so mutely eloquent as this broken fan?--the tragic culmination of a highly dramatic scene! I should like to know what lady had the desperate energy to reduce this exquisite trifle to such a state."
"Perhaps there is a monogram on the fan," says Stella, her pale face suddenly becoming animated. "Look and see."
"To be sure. I did not think of that," the young man replies, examining the fan. "'S. O.' beneath a coronet."
"Sophie Oblonsky," says Stella.
"Of course,--the Oblonsky." The attaché is seized with a fit of merriment on the instant. "The Oblonsky,--the woman who had an affair with Rohritz long ago. She seemed to me this evening to have a strong desire to throw her chains about him afresh, but"--with a significant glance at the fan--"Rohritz evidently had no inclination to gratify her. Hm! she must have been in a bad humour,--the worthy Princess!" The attaché laughs softly to himself, then suddenly assumes a grave, composed air, remembering that he is with a young girl, before whom such things as he has alluded to should be forbidden subjects and his merriment suppressed. He glances at Stella. No need to worry himself; she does not look in the least horrified: her white teeth just show between her red lips, merry dimples play about the corners of her mouth, and her eyes sparkle like black stars.
She really does not understand how five minutes ago she could have wished the poor attaché at the North Pole. She now thinks him extremely amusing and amiable. She feels so well, too,--so very well. Is it possible that there may be no evil omen for her in the loss of her bracelet? Nevertheless, try as she may to hope that it may be averted, a shiver of anxiety thrills her at the recollection of her lost amulet.
"If the ball were only over!" she thinks.
The hour of rest before the cotillon has come; the dancing-room is almost empty. Only a few gentlemen are selecting the places which they wish reserved for themselves and their partners, and a couple of lackeys are clearing away from this battlefield of pleasure the trophies left behind, of late engagements, shreds of tulle and tarlatan, artificial and natural flowers, here and there a torn glove, etc. Edgar tells himself that his hour has come, the hour when he may indemnify himself for ennui hitherto so heroically endured. Meanwhile, he goes to the buffet to refresh himself with a glass of iced champagne, and in hopes of finding Stella.
The supper-room is in the story below the ballroom. The different stories are connected by an extremely picturesque staircase, decorated with gorgeous exotics and ending in a vestibule, or rather an entrance-hall, hung round with antique Flemish draperies.
The buffet is magnificent, and the guests who are laying siege to it, especially the more distinguished among them, are conducting themselves after a very ill bred fashion. Edgar perceives that several of them have taken rather too much of Mr. Fane's fine Cliquot.
He looks around in vain for Stella. In one corner he observes the Oblonsky, with bright eyes and sweet smiles, surrounded by a throng of languishing adorers; farther on, Stasy, in pale blue, with rose-buds and diamond pins in her hair, in a state of bliss because an American diplomatist is holding her gloves and a Russian prince her fan; he sees Thérèse taking some bonbons for the children. Stella is nowhere visible. He thinks the champagne poor, doing it great injustice, and, irritated, goes to the smoking-room to enjoy a cigar. The first man whom he sees in the large room is Monsieur de Hauterive. His face is very red, and he is relating something which must be very amusing, for he laughs loudly while he talks. The men standing around him do not seem to enjoy his narrative as much as he does himself. A few offensive words reach Edgar's ears:
"La Cruche cassée--Stella Meineck--an Austrian--these Viennese girls--mistress of Prince Capito!--I have it all from the Princess Oblonsky!"
"Would you have the kindness to repeat to me what you have just been telling these gentlemen?" Rohritz says, approaching the group and with difficulty suppressing manifestation of his anger.
"I really do not know, monsieur, by what right you interfere in a conversation about what does not concern you," Cabouat manages to reply, speaking thickly. "May I ask who----"
Edgar hands him his card. The other gentlemen are about to withdraw, but Edgar says, "What I have to say to Monsieur de Hauterive all are welcome to hear: the more witnesses I have the better I shall be pleased. I wish to call him to account for a slander, as vile as it is absurd, which he has dared to repeat, with regard to a young lady, an intimate friend of my family. You said, monsieur----"
"I said what every one knows, what ladies of the highest rank will confirm, what the Princess Oblonsky has long been aware of, and the proof of which I obtained to-day."
"Might I beg to know in what this said proof consists?" Edgar asks, contemptuously.
Monsieur de Hauterive, with an evil smile upon his puffy red lips, draws from his vest-pocket a golden chain to which is attached a crystal locket containing a four-leaved clover.
With a hasty movement Edgar takes the trinket from him, and searches for the star engraved upon the crystal.
"You know the bracelet?" asks de Hauterive.
"Yes," says Edgar.
"I found it on the staircase of Prince Capito's lodgings. When I rang the Prince's bell his servant informed me that the Prince was not at home. As I was perfectly aware that he had been confined to a lounge for two days with a sprained ankle, I naturally supposed that the Prince had special reasons for wishing to receive no one. What conclusion do you draw?"
Edgar's tongue is very dry in his mouth, but he instantly rejoins, "My conclusion is that Mademoiselle de Meineck, visiting a friend, a lady, who, as I happen to know, has lodgings in that house, lost her bracelet on the landing, and that Prince Capito has no desire to receive Monsieur de Hauterive."
"Your judgment strikes me as kind, rather than acute," says Monsieur de Hauterive. "Will you kindly tell me the name of the friend lodging in Number ----?" he adds, with a sneer.
Edgar is silent.
"I thought so!" exclaims de Hauterive. "And you would debar me from mentioning what any unprejudiced person must admit, that----" But before he can utter another word his cheek burns from a blow from Edgar's open palm.
The next moment Rohritz leaves the smoking-room, and goes out into the vestibule, longing for solitude and fresh air.
There, among the antique hangings, the Australian ferns, and the Italian magnolias, among the bronze, white-toothed negroes that bear aloft lamps with ground-glass shades shaped like huge flower-cups, he stands, the little bracelet in his hand. He feels stunned; red and blue sparks dance before his eyes, and his throat seems choked. He would fain groan aloud, or dash his head against the wall, so great is his distress. He cannot believe it; and yet all a lover's jealous distrust assails him. He is perfectly aware that his defence of Stella was pitiably weak, his invention of a female friend lodging in Number ---- clumsy enough; he knows that everything combines to accuse her.
Has he been deceived for the second time in his life? Whom can he ever trust, if those grave, dark, child-like eyes have been false? And suddenly in the midst of his torment he is possessed by overwhelming pity.
"Poor child! poor child!" he says to himself. "Neglected, dragged about the world, without any one to care for her, fatherless, and the same as motherless!" Should he judge her? No, he will defend her, hide her fault, protect her from the whole world. But a stern voice within asks, "What protection do you mean? Will you--dare you offer her the only thing that can save her from the world,--your hand?" He is tortured. No, he cannot. And yet how desperately he loves her! Why did he not take her in his arms when she lay at his feet in the little skiff, and shield her next his heart forever? He must see her; an irresistible longing seizes him; yes, he must see her,--insult her, mistreat her, it may be,--but clasp her in his arms though he should kill her.
"Why are you standing here, like Othello with Desdemona's handkerchief?" he suddenly hears his brother ask, close beside him.
He starts, closes his fingers over the bracelet, and tries to assume an indifferent air.
"Where is Stella?" inquires Thérèse, who is with her husband.
"How should I know?" asks Edgar.
"But some one must know! some one must find her!" she exclaims, in a very bad humour. "The Lipinskis have gone home, and have placed her in my charge, and I must wait until she is found before we too can go home. Ah, do you want to dance the cotillon with her? Pray find her, and as soon as you have done so we must go home,--instantly! I do not want to stay another moment." And, in a state of evident nervous agitation, Thérèse suddenly turns to her husband, and continues, "I cannot imagine, Edmund, how you could bring me to this ball!"
"That is a little too much!" her husband exclaims, angrily. "Had I the faintest desire to come to this ball? Did I not try for two long weeks to dissuade you from coming? But you had one reply for all my objections: 'Marie de Stèle is going too.' Since you are so determined never, under any circumstances, to blame yourself, blame the Duchess de Stèle, not me."
"Marie de Stèle could not possibly know that a Russian diplomatist would bring that woman to this ball and present her as his wife."
"Neither could I," rejoins her husband.
"A man ought to know such things," Thérèse retorts; "but you never know anything that everybody else does not know, you never have an intuition; although you have been away from your own country for fifteen years, you are the very same simple-minded Austrian that you always were."
"And I am proud of it!" Edmund ejaculates, angrily.
"Be as proud as you please, for all I care," says Thérèse, as, at once angry and exhausted, she sinks into a leathern arm-chair. "But now, for heaven's sake, find Stella Meineck, that we may get away at last."
Edgar has already departed in search of her. He passes through the long suite of rooms, for the most part empty because all the guests are in the dining-rooms at present.
"They neither of them know anything yet," he says to himself, bitterly, and his heart beats wildly as he thinks, "If she can only explain it all!"
He searches for a while in vain. At last he enters the conservatory. A low sound of sobbing, reminding one of some wounded animal who has crept into some hiding-place to die, falls upon his ear. He hurries on. There, in the same little boudoir where he had lately been with the Princess Oblonsky, Stella is cowering on a divan in the darkest corner, her face hidden in her hands, her whole frame convulsed with sobs.
"Baroness Stella!" he says, advancing. She does not hear him. "Stella!" he says, more loudly, laying his hand on her arm. She starts, drops her hands in her lap, and gazes at him with such terrible despair in her eyes that for an instant he trembles for her reason. He forgets everything,--all that has been tormenting him; his soul is filled only with anxiety for her. "What is the matter? what distresses you?" he asks.
"I cannot tell it," she replies, in a voice so hoarse, so agonized, that he hardly knows it for hers. "It is something horrible,--disgraceful! It was in the dining-room I was sitting rather alone, when I heard two gentlemen talking. I caught my own name, and then--and then--I would not believe it; I thought I had not heard aright then the gentlemen passed me, and one of them looked at me and laughed, and then--and then--I saw an English girl whom I knew at the Britannia, in Venice--she was with her mother, and she came up to me and held out her hand with a smile, but her mother pulled her back,--I saw her,--and she turned away. And then came Stasy----" Her eyes encounter Rohritz's. "Ah! you have heard it too!" She moans and puts her hands up to her throbbing temples. Her cheeks are scarlet; she is half dead with shame and horror. "You too!" she repeats. "I knew that something would happen to me at this ball when I found I had lost my bracelet again, but I never--never thought it would be so horrible as this! Oh, papa, papa, I only hope you did not hear,--did not see; you could not rest peacefully in your grave." And again she buries her face in her hands and sobs.
A short pause ensues.
"She is innocent; of course she is innocent," an inward voice exclaims exultantly, and Rohritz is overwhelmed with remorse for having doubted her for an instant. He would fain fall down at her feet and kiss the hem of her dress.
"Be comforted: your bracelet is found," he whispers, softly. "Here it is!"
She snatches it from him. "Ah, where did you find it?" she asks, eagerly, her eyes lighting up in spite of her distress.
"I did not find it. Monsieur de Hauterive found it on the first landing of the staircase at Number ----, Rue d'Anjou," he says, speaking with difficulty.
"Ah, I might have known! I must have lost it when I went to see my poor aunt Corrèze, and when I dropped my bundles on the stairs!" She is not in the least embarrassed. She evidently does not even know that Zino's lodgings are in the Rue d'Anjou.
"Your aunt Corrèze?" asks Rohritz.
"Do you not know about my aunt Corrèze?" she stammers.
"Yes, I know who she is."
"She was very unhappy in her first marriage," Stella goes on, now in extreme confusion, "very unhappy, and--and--she did not do as she ought; but she married Corrèze four years ago,--Corrèze, who abused her, and who is now giving concerts in America. She recognized me in the street from a photograph of me which papa sent her from Venice. She was so sweet to me, and yet so sad and shy, and she had her little daughter with her, a beautiful child, very like her, only with black hair. Papa once begged me to be kind to her if I ever met her, for his sake. What could I do? I could not ask her to come to us, for mamma will not hear her mentioned, and has for years burned all her letters unanswered. Once or twice I arranged a meeting with her in the Louvre; then she was taken ill, and could not go out, and wanted to see me. I went to see her without letting mamma know. It was not right, but--papa begged me to be kind to her----" Her large, dark eyes look at him helpless and imploring.
"Poor child! your kind heart was sorely tried," he murmurs, very gently.
"I am so glad to be able to tell some one all about it," she confesses: she has quite forgotten her terrible, disgraceful trial, in the child-like sensation of delightful security with which Rohritz always inspires her. The tears still shine upon her cheeks, but her eyes are dry. She tries to fasten the bracelet on her wrist; Rohritz kneels down beside her to help her; suddenly he possesses himself of the bracelet.
"Stella," he whispers, softly and very tenderly, "there is no denying that you are very careless with your happiness. Let me keep it for you: it will be safer with me than with you."
She looks at him, without comprehending; she is only aware of a sudden overwhelming delight,--why, she hardly knows.
"Stella, my darling, my treasure, could you consent to marry me?--could you learn to enjoy life at my side?"
"Learn to enjoy?" she repeats, with a smile that is instantly so deeply graven in his heart that he remembers it all his life afterwards. "Learn to enjoy?" She puts out her hands towards him; but just as he is about to clasp her to his heart she withdraws them, trembling, and turns pale. "Would you marry a girl at whom all Paris will point a scornful finger to-morrow?" she sobs.
"Point a scornful finger at my betrothed?" he cries, indignantly. "Have no fear, Stella; I know the world better than you do: that finger will be pointed at the worthless woman whose wounded vanity invented the monstrous slander. There is still someesprit de corpsamong the angels. Those in heaven do not permit evil to be wrought against their earthly sisters. One kiss, Stella, my star, my sunshine, my own darling."
For an instant she hesitates, then shyly touches his temple with her soft warm lips.
"One upon your gray hair," she murmurs.
They suddenly hear an approaching footstep. Rohritz starts to his feet, but it is only his brother, who says, as he advances towards them,--
"Where the deuce are you hiding, Edgar? My wife is frantic with impatience."
"Thérèse must be merciful," Edgar replies, with a smile. "When for once one finds the flower of happiness in his pathway, one cannot say, 'I have no time to pluck you; my sister-in-law is waiting for me.'"
"Aha!" Edmund exclaims, with a low bow. "Hm! Thérèse will be vexed because I was right, and not she; but I rejoice with all my heart, not because I was right, but because I could wish you no better fortune in this world."
Stella's betrothal to Edgar is now a week old. Thérèse was vexed at first at her own want of penetration, but it was an irritation soon soothed. She is absorbed in providing the most exquisite trousseau that money and taste combined can procure in Paris.
Zino, too, was vexed, first that Stella should have been subjected to annoyance on his account, and in the second place because his temporary lameness prevented his challenging de Hauterive. "It was tragic enough not to be able to dance the cotillon with our star, but not to be able to fight for the star is intolerable."
Thus Capito declares in a long congratulatory epistle to Edgar, adding, in a postscript, "The ladies in whose honour certain pictures were turned, as you lately observed, with their faces to the wall, were the Lipinskis, mother and daughter. I am betrothed to Natalie."
The Princess Oblonsky has left Paris for Naples; the Fuhrwesen accompanied her. Monsieur de Hauterive is said to have followed her. Stasy is left behind in Paris, where she meditates sadly upon the ingratitude of human nature. She is no longer an ardent admirer of the Oblonsky.
And the lovers?
The scene is the little drawing-room with the blue furniture and bright carpet at the "Three Negroes." The Baroness is sitting at her writing-table, scribbling away with all her wonted energy at something or other which is never to be finished; the floor around her is strewn with torn and crumpled sheets of paper.
From without come the sound of heavy and light wheels, the echo of heavy and light footsteps. But through all the noise of the streets is heard a dreamy, monotonous murmur, the slow drip of melting snow. A thaw has set in, and the water is dripping from the roofs. Sometimes the Baroness pauses in her writing and listens. There is something strangely disturbing to her in the simple sound: she does not clearly catch what the water-drops tell her; she no longer understands their speech.
Beside the fire sit Edgar and Stella. His left arm is in a sling. In the duel with small-swords which took place a couple of days after the Fanes' ball he received a slight wound. Therefore there is an admixture of grateful pity in Stella's tenderness for him. They are sitting, hand clasped in hand, devising schemes and building airy castles for the future,--the long, fair future.
"One question more, my darling," Rohritz whispers to his beautiful betrothed, who still conducts herself rather shyly towards him. "How do you mean to arrange your life?"
"How do I mean--have I any decision to make?"
"Indeed you have, dearest," he says, smiling. "My part in life is to see you happy."
"How good and dear you are to me!" Stella murmurs. "How could you torment me so long,--so long?"
"Do you suppose I was happy the while, dear love?" he whispers. Her reproach touches him more nearly than she thinks. How could he hesitate so long, is the question he now puts to himself. What has he to offer her, he with his weary, doubting heart, in exchange for her pure, fresh, untouched wealth of feeling? "But to return to my question," he begins afresh. "Will you live eight months in society and four months in the country?--or just the other way?"
"Just the other way, if I may."
"Jack Leskjewitsch wrote me at the close of his note of congratulation--the most cordial of any which I have had yet--that his wife wishes to sell Erlach Court, and thus deprive him of all temptation to retire for a second time to that Capua from a military life. Shall I buy Erlach Court for you, Stella,--for you?--for your special property?"
"It would be delightful," she murmurs.
"Let us be married, then, here in Paris at the embassy, and meanwhile have everything in readiness for us at Erlach Court. We can then make a tour through southern France to our home for our wedding journey."
But Stella shakes her head: "No, our wedding journey must be to Zalow, to visit papa's grave. You see, when he gave me the four-leaved clover that you have round your neck now he said, 'And if ever Heaven sends you some great joy, say to yourself that your poor father prayed the dear God that it might fall to your share!' So I must go to him first to thank him: do you not see?"
Edgar nods. Then, looking at the girl almost mournfully, he says,--
"Is the joy really so great, my darling?"
She makes no reply in words, but gently, almost timidly, she puts her rounded arm about him and leans her head on his breast.
Meanwhile, the Baroness looks round. 'Tis strange how the monotonous melody of the falling water-drops interferes with her work. A kind of wondering melancholy possesses her at sight of the lovers: she turns away her head and lays her pen aside.
"The world was all before them where to choose their place of rest, and Providence their guide," she murmurs to herself. "'Tis strange how well the words suit the beginning of every young marriage. And yet they are the last words of 'Paradise Lost.'"