I.AN IROQUOIS IN TROUVILLE.
FromLiverpool Austin May went to London; from London to Paris; from Paris by the special mail to Constantinople; thence to Athens and Alexandria; and thence to Bombay and Calcutta and Hong Kong; and the impetus of his flight had almost carried him over the Pacific and back to America again, but that he held back on the shore of Japan. He travelled in that country, then in Thibet or in Turkestan. Three years were spent by him in the acquisition of strange drugs, curious pipes, and embroideries, wild songs, and odd languages. He lived in Damascus, Samarcand, Morocco, possibly in Timbuctoo. History records not nor does May Austin, how often he wrote to her. But the summer of 1879 saw him alight at the Gare de Lyon, in Paris. The heat and solitudeof that city were equally oppressive, and he fled to the nearest coast. That evening he was seated, robed in soft cloth and starched linen, on the wide veranda of the greatHôtel des Rochers Noirs, at Trouville.
No one who pines for outdoor life, primitive conditions, and barbarism—and May was one of the wildest of these—but must admit that the trammels, conventions, and commodities which so annoy him are, after all, the result of infinite experiments of the human race, conducted through all time; and as such, presumably, each one was deemed successful when made, and adopted accordingly. No question but that men had flannel shirts before starched linen, women flowing robes and sandals before corsets and high-heeled shoes; and the prehistoric “masher†knocked down his lady-love with a club before he learned to court her with a monocle and a bunch of unseasonable roses. But all these changes were, at the time, deemed improvements; and one who has lived three years in Thibet or Crim-Tartary, and arrives suddenly at Trouville, is in a fair position to judge impartially. And it is not to be denied thatMay was conscious of a certain Capuan comfort, of an unmanly, hot-house luxury, as he sat before the little table with his carafe of ice, brandy, and seltzer, felt the cool stiffness of his linen shirt, smoked his pressedregalia, and watched the ladies with their crisp and colored dresses and their neat and silken ankles as they mounted in their landaus for their evening drive. A full string-orchestra was stationed among the electric lights near by, which dispensed, with much verve, the light-hearted rhythms of the latest opera bouffe; and beyond the planes and lindens shone the moonlit sea, as if it also were highly civilized, and part of the decoration of the place. May knocked the ashes from his cigar as who should say, “I, too, am a Parisian of the nineteenth century;†quaffed a few sparkles from the iced carafe and bottle, and pretended to be interested in the latest Faits-Paris ofFigaro. He was beginning to realize the delights of youth and riches and free travel; he had been nothing but a school-boy in America, and a sort of wild man since.
And as he so sat, there came to a table next him two people, and sat down. Onewas a middle-aged man, with an iron-gray imperial, a tight white waistcoat, and the rosette of the legion of honor at his button-hole. The other was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was dressed in the most delicate and languorous cloud of violet and gray, strengthened here and there by black lace; no ribbon, jewel, or flower was on her lustrous black hair, or about the soft and creamy neck; and she was evidently much absorbed in what her companion was saying, for May could see that she clinched her fan in her hand that was beneath the table until the delicate ivory broke. They talked very rapidly, in French; but May, whose acquaintance with unknown oriental dialects was so manifold and various, knew hardly French enough “to last him over night.†And it is of especial importance that one’s French should last over night.
Whatever they were saying, they were reiterating it with continually increasing force. The man in the tight frock-coat began hissing it between his pointed teeth, and the pretty woman crushed the last fragment of the fan to ivory slivers on thefloor. At last, the gentleman rose, and with apardieuwhich even May’s untrained ear could recognize, upset a champagne glass, and strode hastily away; the lady eyed him until he disappeared, and then drooped her long lashes, and hid her eyes in her pretty hand. Her bosom rose and fell convulsively, and May’s chivalric heart beat sympathetically in the same time. Suddenly her deep eyes opened, and opened full on Austin May’s.
“Sir,†said she, in English, “you are a gentleman—save me!†Save her? Aye, Austin May would have saved her from the devil or the deep sea, and with no thought of salvage. All he said was, “Why, certainly.†It afterward occurred to him that he should have said, “Pray, command me, madam.†But this seemed to satisfy her, for she unbosomed herself directly.
“I know I may trust an American,†said she. “Listen—I will confide to you my true name. That man—thatmouchard—with whom you saw me, sinks I am ze Comtesse Polacca de Valska. Well, I am ze Comtesse Polacca de Valska. Now you know all.â€
Unfortunately, Austin May knew very little. But evidently the Comtesse Polacca de Valska was a personage of European reputation. He bowed.
“What can I do?†said he, earnestly. “Madam de Valska has but to command.†(This was better.)
“Hist!†said she, mysteriously. “Polacca de Valska—never mention ze name. Eet ees a spell, in Poland; even now my noble Polacco languishes in Siberia; but in France, in Russia—eet ees a doom. Say zat I—say zat I am your compatriot—Mrs. Walkers—anysing.†And the nerve which the unhappy countess had shown throughout the interview suddenly collapsed. She burst into tears. As she dissolved, the American congealed, all the blue blood of Boston rigid in his veins. When the little Frenchman appeared, May offered his arm to the countess; and together they swept proudly to the door of the hotel.
“Arrêtez,†cried the Frenchman. “Connaissez-vous—do you know, sare, who it is?â€
“It is my friend—my friend, Mrs. Peter Faneuil, of Boston,†said May, with a readiness that charmed him at the time.
“Mais, monsieur——â€
“Do you dare, sir, to——â€
May glared at him for a moment, and the latter recoiled, like any Frenchman, before his Anglo-Saxon attitude. They entered the hall of the hotel; the countess pressed his arm convulsively in her gratitude, her heart too full for words. “Merci, chevalier,†said she, simply. May’s heart bounded at the compliment, and with satisfaction that he understood her French. “I have a carriage here,†said she; and they found the elegant landau still at the door.
“Where shall we go?â€
“I will tell you later,†said she.
May got in, and a footman closed the door of the carriage. The liveried coachman whipped up the horses, and the pair rolled forth into the darkness of the summer night.
At this point in his recollections, May looked at his glass of claret and re-lit his cigar; and though he did not know it, this was precisely the course of action that had been adopted at the time by the Frenchman with the rosette. He drew his chair up to the table where the countess hadbeen sitting, with a slight shrug of his padded shoulders, and more imperturbability of manner than would have flattered the valiant defender of oppressed beauty, had he been there to see it.
But at this period May was whirling along in the countess’s carriage, through the darkness of the night, close by the sea-beach and the pale shining of the long, slow surf.