CHAPTER XVIIIREVELATIONS
“I COULD be very angry with you if I wished,” said Madame Ghita, presently, “at certain things your attitude has seemed to imply. It is true that I had never promised to give up the prince; but you have appeared to think that I would consent to share him.”
Selden was conscious that his cheeks were crimson.
“Madame,” he stammered, “madame....”
“I am not angry,” she said sadly; “only I regret that you do not know me better. Perhaps if you did, you would not have thought that of me.”
“Yes, I was a brute,” agreed Selden humbly, still hot with shame and contrition. “Can you forgive me?”
“Ah, yes!”
“But at least you will prescribe a penance,” he persisted; “a severe one!”
“Shall I?” she smiled at him. “Very well. Hereafter you will be my friend, yes?”
“All my life,” he promised. “But that is not a penance—that is a reward.”
“Ah, my friend,” she said, laughing, “do not be too sure! I can be very exacting, sometimes. So you may find it a penance—a very heavy one—before you have finished!”
“I am proud to take the risk,” he said, covering her hand for a moment with his own. “We must pledge this friendship!”
She nodded assent, and a waiter took the order and hurried away.
“What is it you propose to do with young Davis?” asked Selden, after a moment.
“Are you concerned for him also?” inquired Madame Ghita, drily.
“Not in the least—only curious. I suppose you know that they are planning to marry him to the Princess Anna?”
A flame of anger sprang into madame’s eyes.
“But he wants too much, that old king!” she cried. “He forgets that there are other people in the world. Well, in this he shall be disappointed!”
“You will marry Davis to Mlle. Fayard, I suppose?”
“It will not be my doing—he loves her.”
“Yes, I think he does,” Selden agreed.
“And she is a good girl, Cicette; not very clever, perhaps, but more clever than is he. She will make him a good wife. Between us, we will educate him. He is not bad at bottom, but he is very ignorant. It seems impossible that any man should be so ignorant; it is impossible except in America.”
“He has never had to learn anything; he has grown up with his eyes shut; he has been spoiled by a mother who is too fond of him.”
“Cicette is fond of him, but she will not spoil him—not in that way. He has one great virtue—he is kind hearted and generous.”
“Yes,” remarked Selden; “too much so, perhaps.I noticed that he was staking Mlle. Fayard at the table out yonder. That was not wise.”
“No, it was not,” agreed madame quickly. “I did not know it—I will see that it does not occur again. Every one seeing it would believe that they are lovers. But it is not true—I have taken care of that; and, indeed, he has never suggested such a thing. There is one point in the character of American men which I find truly admirable—which even gives me to marvel,” she added. “They are nice to women without demanding anything in return; they will help a girl, just for the pleasure of it, without expecting to be paid in any other way. No other men are like that. And Cicette—she is not silly. Do you know what is her dream? To marry a good man, to settle down, to have many children, and to be faithful to her husband. That is the dream, perhaps, of every woman,” she went on, musingly, “but many of us cannot bring ourselves to make the necessary sacrifices. We lack strength of character. Cicette is different. She understands things; she will be very good to him, and she will not expect too much. He will be very happy with her. She will not be exacting. She will guide him, without annoying him.”
“Heaven knows he needs guidance!” Selden agreed.
“You will not oppose it, then?” she asked, looking at him anxiously.
“Oppose it? What right have I to oppose it? But I don’t even wish to; on the contrary, I have half-promised to intercede for him with his mother.”
“That is good of you!” she said, and her eyes were shining again.
“Oh, come!” he protested. “I want to do it! You are absurdly grateful for little things!”
“They have always meant so much to me—the little things!” she said.
“Of course, if I had any sense,” he went on roughly, to hide his emotion, “I’d keep out of it, since it is no affair of mine.”
“Ah, well,” she began, and stopped.
“You were going to say that neither is his sister’s future any affair of mine. But it is, in a way, since without knowing it, I helped her to make up her mind; so I want the prince to treat her fairly. Where is the prince to-night?”
“He telephoned that his father is ill.”
“Very ill?”
“I do not think so. He has been exerting himself too much. He forgets that he has eighty years.”
“He is a wonderful old man,” said Selden. “It is a pity he did not pass on his qualities to his grandson.”
“Perhaps his great-grandson will inherit them,” suggested madame, “and some American ones, as well.”
“I confess,” said Selden, smiling, “that, absurd as it may sound, something like that has been in my mind.”
“How serious you are!” she commented. “Do you plan that far ahead for yourself also?”
“To my great-grandson? Oh, no; I haven’t even got to the children yet!”
“But you expect to marry?”
“Some day, perhaps. But not while I am merely a wandering newspaper man. It wouldn’t be fair to the woman. Some day, I suppose, I shall settle down. The trouble is I don’t want to settle down—not for a long time. You see, I’m like those women you spoke of—not willing to make the necessary sacrifices—without strength of character.”
“You have not even a little friend?” she asked, quite simply.
“No. Oh, I don’t pose as a saint,” he added, hastily. “But I have been tremendously busy and tremendously interested in other things, which have kept my mind occupied. Besides, I am a coward—I’m afraid I’d marry her, if she was very nice to me!”
“There are women who like to wander too—who make good companions on the road.”
“I know it, but....”
“Confess,” she broke in, “the real reason is that you have never been in love.”
“Yes,” he said soberly, watching the waiter as he filled their glasses. “I am ashamed to confess it, because it proves that I am lacking somewhere—but I suppose that is the real reason.” He picked up his glass and touched it to hers. “To our new friendship, which will never grow old!”
“That is the nicest toast I ever drank,” she said, and raised her glass to her lips.
“Tell me,” he went on, after a moment, “you said something at lunch to-day which puzzled me.”
“What was it?”
“You said to the countess that you had alwaysunderstood she was Jeneski’s friend. What did you mean by that?”
She hesitated.
“Are you very fond of her?”
“I am not fond of her at all.”
“Is it true?”
“Quite true. She repels me.”
She took a quick little breath.
“All I know is what the prince has told me,” she said, “that Jeneski was living with a woman known as the Countess Rémond, whom he had met in America, and who had been married to Lappo’s illegitimate son, and that he had had a small estate restored to her.”
“She hates Jeneski now,” said Selden. “They quarrelled, I suppose.”
“Or perhaps he never was her lover—gossip like that starts easily.”
“Yes—she said something to me just to-night—what was it? Oh, yes, that he found women less fascinating than politics.”
“Well, so do you. So do most men—if not politics, then something else—we are always second to something. But that is as it should be—it is a sign of strength. Life has taught me that.”
“I wish you would tell me something about your life,” said Selden.
“You really wish it?”
“I have heard so many things....”
“Ah, well, you shall know the truth. I should like you to know—though there is really not much to tell. My father was a merchant of lace, a traveller,you understand, selling it to the shops in various towns. One of these shops was at Périgueux, and was managed by a young woman with whom my father fell in love. They married and moved to Paris, where they opened a magasin—not to sell to persons, but to other shops—you understand?”
“What we call a wholesaler.”
“Yes. They did very well and the business grew until it occupied the whole first floor of a building on the Rue de Rivoli near the Chatelet. My mother really managed it, but she found time nevertheless to have two children—two girls. My sister resembled her; but I resembled my father, and he was very fond of me. He still travelled from town to town, taking orders for the business; sometimes he would take me with him. He would wash and dress me in the morning, and comb my hair, and in the evening I would sit at the table with all the men, listening to their talk, and understanding more than they imagined. We were very happy together; but he was a strange man, and once he got an idea into his head, it never left him. For example, he had once lost a parcel through the carelessness of a porter at a railway station, and had made a vow that no porter should touch his baggage in future. So at every stop, he would send the porters away with dreadful insults and stagger along the platform with his great cases of lace on his back, and I would follow very much ashamed, for I could see that people were laughing at him. However it made no difference.
“But those good times did not last. My fatherbegan to gamble, and the habit grew so strong that in the end my mother could scarcely find the money to meet the bills each month. When he came home, there were scenes, terrible scenes, during which he sometimes threw all the dishes into the street. Then he would promise to reform; but always the habit was too much for him; it was like a disease, getting worse and worse. I do not know what happened at the end—I was only fourteen years old—but one evening I went to his room to call him to dinner. I knocked, but he did not answer. I opened the door and saw him sitting in his chair before his desk. I ran to him and threw my arms around him, and he fell over against me. He was dead. He had shot himself.”
She stopped for a moment, and passed her hand before her eyes.
“That was the end of the business,” she went on. “It was taken away from us to pay the debts—everything was sold. My sister and I were sent to England to a convent school—it was there I got such English as I have—and mother went to work again in a shop. It was very hard for her, but there was nothing else to be done. We were gone three years. When we came back, she had married again, a maître de danse at the Opéra. He was old and very eccentric and all that he wanted of my mother was that she should make a home for him; and she did, a very good one. It was not amusing, but it was better than working in a shop.
“Then came the war, and for a time there was no more dancing, so to amuse himself and keep himself occupied, he gave lessons to me and to my sister.With my sister he soon stopped and sent her to learn to be a typist; but with me he kept on all day, every day, until I dropped with fatigue—not dancing only, but many other things—how to walk, how to talk, how to acknowledge an introduction, how to hold my fork, how to eat from my spoon—he said the French are pigs because they take their soup from the end of the spoon instead of from the side. He was very clever—a little mad, perhaps. But to him I owe everything.
“He was mad about the drama—but the classics only. Whenever there was a great play at the Comédie or the Odéon, he took me to see it—fortunately he could get tickets, or we should have been ruined. When there was no performance, we spent the evening reading—Racine, Molière, Hugo—I know them all by heart. And then when at last the Opéra opened again, every day he took me with him to rehearsal, and before long I was in the ballet. A year later, the première danseuse fell ill one night and I took her place and did so well that I was given an engagement.
“You know, perhaps, what the life of the stage is—there are no reticences, no privacies. If you have ever been to the Opéra on the night of a ballet, you have noticed that the front row of seats is empty until the ballet is about to begin; then a number of old men come in and take the seats. Most of them have decorations; many of them are famous in art or literature or diplomacy—and each carries an opera-glass. They have come to see the girls—especially the particular girl each of them is protecting; and when the ballet is over, they come backand watch the girls dress and carry them off to supper somewhere.
“Well, it was from that my step-father protected me. He could not protect me from the knowledge of what was going on, from the loose talk and coarse jests; but at least I remained vierge. It was a greater merit on his part than on mine, for those old men disgusted me, but he could have made a little fortune. Perhaps he had something else in his mind for me—something greater. At any rate, in the end he made my mother come with me to watch over me better than he could, and every night I went home between them. Everybody called them the Dragons.
“And then, one night after I had danced very well, the director brought Danilo back and introduced him to my mother and to me. I thought him very handsome and distinguished. Then my step-father came and they talked together for many minutes, my step-father shaking his head all the time. Finally we went home, and my step-father was very silent all the way.
“After that, the prince came back almost every evening and talked to us, and brought me little gifts of flowers and bon-bons. Once he gave me a ring, but my mother made me return it. He scarcely glanced at the other girls, though they did all they could to attract him; and he had other talks with my step-father. At last one day my step-father took me to his study and bade me sit down.
“‘My child,’ he said, ‘you are twenty-two years old, and it is time you thought of your future. I shall not be able to watch over you much longer, forsome day my weak heart will stop beating, and before that I should like to see you range yourself. This prince, now—what do you think of him?’
“‘He is not bad,’ I said, ‘but he is too young.’
“‘You are right, and if it was merely the question of a protector, I would prefer an older man; he would know better how to value you, and you would have the benefit of his experience. But none of those old fellows would marry you.’
“‘Do you mean that the prince will marry me?’ I asked, astonished.
“‘You will not be his wife, exactly,’ said my step-father, ‘and yet you will be more than his mistress,’ and he explained to me as well as he could what a morganatic marriage is. ‘Some day he will have to marry again for reasons of state, but by that time you will have acquired a knowledge of the world, a certain position, and should be able to look out for yourself. He has not much money, but a prince does not lack money like an ordinary man, for there are always people willing to provide it just for the privilege of being seen with him. It will be a great education for you and I advise you to accept.’
“‘But my dancing,’ I objected.
“‘My child,’ he said, ‘I will speak to you frankly. You are a good dancer, but you will never be a great artist. No—your place is in the world.’
“‘But will his family consent?’ I asked.
“‘Yes. He has caused them many anxieties, and they wish him to settle down with some nice girl until they can find a very wealthy wife for him. That is not possible at present. Of course they will wish to see you. What do you say?’
“What could I say except yes? It was, as my step-father said, a great opportunity—much better than I could have hoped for. A few days later Baron Lappo came to see me. He approved of me, and so the marriage was arranged. Behold the result,” and she offered herself with a little gesture, as a showman might offer his wares.
“The result is wholly admirable,” said Selden. “Yes, you were right to accept. And your step-father?”
“His heart stopped beating one day as he had foretold,” she answered, her lips trembling. “He was the best man I ever knew.”
“But your mother is living?”
“Oh, yes; she lives with my sister. My sister married a little bourgeois shopkeeper. They manage the business much better than he could.”
“And Mlle. Fayard?”
“She is the daughter of my step-father’s younger sister. I promised him to look after her.”
Selden looked at her musingly. How far she had already travelled from her humble beginning! How interesting it would be to watch her future—to see what she made of herself, to what heights she rose.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I am thinking you will go far,” he said. “Some day a man will be prime minister because of you, or there will be a great poem, a great play, a great picture of which you were the inspiration; and I shall go to the minister or to the artist and congratulate him, and say, ‘Monsieur, I foretold this long ago, one evening at Monte Carlo!’”
Her eyes were shining again and she laid her hand lightly upon his.
“Perhaps you are right, my friend,” she said, “but it is not of that I am thinking.”
“What are you thinking?”
“That I hope to find love some day,” she said, and raised her hand for an instant to her eyes.