252CHAPTER IVLEAR AND JULIET
Susan dismissed her admirers at the races with some difficulty, especially the tenacious marquis, who tenderly squeezed her hand, saying:
“Were I twenty years younger, I would not thus be set aside.”
“Fie, Marquis!” she returned. “These other people are dull, while you are charmingly wicked.”
“You flatter me,” he cackled, detaining her, to the impatience of the thick-set man who was waiting to escort the young woman back to town. “But do you notice the gentleman over there with the medals?”
“The distinguished-looking man?” asked Susan.
“Yes; that is the Count de Propriac. It was he who was one of the agents of Louis Philippe in the Spanish double marriage plot. It was arranged the queen should marry her cousin, and her sister the son of Louis Philippe. The queen and her cousin were not expected to have children––but had them, to spite us all, and Louis Philippe’s projects for the throne of Spain failed disastrously.”
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“How inconsiderate of the queen! Good afternoon, marquis! I have been vastly entertained.”
“And I”––kissing her hand––“enamored!” Then, chuckling: “A week ago my stupid doctors had me laid out in funereal dignity, and now I am making love to a fine woman. Pretty pouting lips!”––tapping her chin playfully––“Like rose-buds! Happy the lover who shall gather the dew! But we meet again, Mistress Susan?”
“That will depend upon you, marquis,” answered Susan, coquettishly, as a thought flashed through her mind that it would not be unpleasant to be called “Marquise,” or “Marchioness”––she did not quite know which would be the proper title. It was nearly vesper-time with the old nobleman; he seemed but a procrastinating presence in the evening of mortal life; a chateau and carriage––
“Then we will meet again,” said the marquis, interrupting these new-born ambitions.
“In that case you would soon get tired of me,” laughed Susan.
“Never!” Tenderly. “When may I see you?”
“How importunate you are! Call when you will.”
“But if you are out”––he insisted.
“That will make it the more delightfully uncertain,” she said gaily.
“So it will!” Rubbing his hands. “Delightfully uncertain!” he repeated. And he departed with many protestations, taking no more notice of the thick-set man than if he were a block of wood.
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“What an old ape!” growled the latter, viciously, as the marquis ambled from their stall.
“Do you think so?” answered Susan, tossing her head. “He has that air of distinction which only persons of rank and title can command.”
“Distinction!” said the other, who was but a well-to-do merchant. “I should call it bad manners.”
“Because he never noticed you!” laughed Susan, spitefully. “But why are we standing here? I believe you expect to take me home, don’t you?”
Although she chattered like a magpie on the road, he was silent and sullen, nursing his injured pride and wounded self-sufficiency. Susan, who was interested in him for the novel reason she disliked him so heartily, parted from him with the air of a duchess, and entered the hotel, holding her head so high that he swore under his breath as he drove away. And, as a result of the quarrel with the lad, he would probably have to risk being “pinked” for this jade! Susan, on the other hand, was as happy as a lark when she entered the dining-room of the St. Charles, that great eating-place and meeting-place of all classes of people.
As she seated herself at a table, a smile lurked around the corners of her mouth and flickered faintly upon the waiter who forthwith became a Mercury for expedition and a prodigal for variety. Her quarrel on the road with her companion had in nowise interfered with that appetite which the fresh air and the255lateness of the hour had provoked, nor were her thoughts of a character to deter from the zest of eating.
From the present to the past was but an instant’s flight of the mind––thus may the once august years swiftly and unceremoniously be marshaled by!––and she dwelt in not unpleasing retrospection on an endless field of investigation and discovery and the various experiences which had befallen her in arriving at the present period of mature knowledge; a proficiency which converted her chosen researches into an exact science.
Thus meditating and dining––counting on her fingers twice over the fair actresses who had become titled ladies, and enviously disbelieving she would join that triumphant company––Susan was still seated at the table some time later when the soldier glanced in. Imperatively she motioned him to her side and he obeyed with not entirely concealed reluctance, and was so preoccupied, she rallied him upon his reserve.
“I believe you and Constance had a quarrel on the road.” Maliciously. “I hope you were more amiable than my companion. He hardly spoke a word, and, when I left him”––her voice sank to a whisper––“I heard him swear.”
“He pleased you so much earlier in the day that a duel will probably be the outcome.”
Susan laughed gaily.
“A duel! Then my fortune is made. All the newspapers256will contain paragraphs. It is too good to be true.” And she clapped her hands. “When is it to take place? Tell me about it!”
Then noting his manner, she continued with an assumption of plaintiveness: “Now you are cross with me! You think me heartless. Is it my fault? I care nothing for either of them and I am not to be blamed if they are so foolish. It might be different if either had touched my heart.” And she assumed a coquettish demeanor, while Saint-Prosper coolly studied her through the wreaths of smoke from his weed.
“You are wondering what sort of a person I am!” she continued, merrily, raising her glass of wine with: “To unrequited passion!”
Her roguish face sparkled as he asked; “Whose?”
She drained the glass and set it down demurely. “Mine!”
The cigar was suspended; the veil cleared between them.
“For whom?” he said.
“You!” Offering him the limpid depths of her blue eyes. “Is my liking returned?”
“Liking? Perhaps!”
“My love?”
“Love? No.” Coldly.
“You do not fear a woman scorned?” Her lips curved in a smile, displaying her faultless teeth.
“Not when the avenging angel is so charming and so heartless!” he added satirically.
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Her lashes veiled the azure orbs.
“You think to disarm her with a compliment? How well you understand women!” And, as he rose, the pressure of the hand she gave him at parting was lingering.
Above in his room, Barnes, with plays and manuscripts scattered around him, was engaged in writing in his note and date book, wherein autobiography, ledger and journal accounts, and such miscellaneous matter mingled indiscriminately. “To-day she said to me: ‘I am going to the races with Mr. Saint-Prosper.’ What did I say? ‘Yes,’ of course. What can there be in common between Lear and Juliet? Naturally, she sometimes turns from an old fellow like me––now, if she were only a slip of a girl again––with her short frock––her disorder of long ringlets––running and romping––
“A thousand details pass through my mind, reminiscences of her girlhood, lightening a lonesome life like glimmerings of sunshine in a secluded wood; memories of her mother and the old days when she played in my New York theater––for Barnes, the stroller, was once a metropolitan manager! Her fame had preceded her and every admirer of histrionic art eagerly awaited her arrival.
“But the temple of art is a lottery. The town that had welcomed her so wildly now went Elssler-mad. The gossamer floatings of this Frenchdanseusepossessed258everyone. People courted trash and trumpery. Greatness gave way to triviality. This pitiful condition preyed upon her. The flame of genius never for a moment became less dim, but her eyes grew larger, brighter, more melancholy. Sometimes she would fall into a painful reverie and I knew too well the subject of her thoughts. With tender solicitude she would regard her daughter, thinking, thinking! She was her only hope, her only joy!
“‘The town wants dancers, not tragedians, Mr. Barnes,’ she said sadly one day.
“‘Nonsense,’ I replied. ‘The town wants a change of bill. We will put on a new piece next week.’
“‘It will be but substituting one tragedy for another,’ she retorted. ‘One misfortune for a different one! You should import a rival dancer. You are going down; down hill! I will leave you; perhaps you will discover your dancer, and your fortune is made!’
“‘And you? What would you do?’ I demanded. ‘And your child?’
“At this her eyes filled and she could not answer. ‘And now, Madam,’ I said firmly, ‘I refuse once and for all to permit you to break your contract. Pooh! The tide will change. Men and women are sometimes fools; but they are not fools all the time. The dancer will have had her day. She will twirl her toes to the empty seats and throw her kisses into unresponsive space. Our patrons will gradually return;259they will grow tired of wriggling and twisting, and look again for a more substantial diet.’
“Matters did, indeed, begin to mend somewhat, when to bring the whole fabric tumbling down on our heads, this incomparable woman fell ill.
“‘You see? I have ruined you,’ she said sadly.
“‘I am honored, Madam,’ was all I could reply.
“She placed her hand softly on mine and let her luminous eyes rest on me.
“‘Dear old friend!’ she murmured.
“Then she closed her eyes and I thought she was sleeping. Some time elapsed when she again opened them.
“‘Death will break our contract, Mr. Barnes,’ she said softly.
“I suppose my hand trembled, for she tightened her grasp and continued firmly: ‘It is not so terrible, after all, or would not be, but for one thing.’
“‘You will soon get well, Madam,’ I managed to stammer.
“‘No! Do you care? It is pleasant to have one true, kind friend in the world; one who makes a woman believe again in the nobility of human nature. My life has been sad as you know. I should not regret giving it up. Nor should I fear to die. I can not think that God will be unkind to one who has done her best; at least, has tried to. Yet there is one thing that makes me crave for life. My child––what will she do––poor, motherless, fatherless girl––all alone, all alone––.
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“‘Madam, if I may––will you permit me to care for her? If I might regard her as my child!’
“How tightly she held my hand at that! Her eyes seemed to blaze with heavenly fire. But let me not dwell further upon the sad events that led to the end of her noble career. Something of her life I had heard; something, I surmised. Unhappy as a woman, she was majestic as an actress; the fire of her voice struck every ear; its sweetness had a charm, never to be forgotten. But only to those who knew her well were revealed the unvarying truth and simplicity of her nature. Even as I write, her spirit, tender and steadfast, seems standing by my side; I feel her eyes in the darkness of night, and, when the time comes––and often of late, it has seemed not far––to go from this mere dressing-room, the earth, into the higher life––”
A knock at the door rudely dispelled these memories. For a moment the manager looked startled, as one abruptly called back to his immediate surroundings; then the pen fell from his hand, and he pushed the book from him to the center of the table.
“Come in,” he said.
The door opened and Saint-Prosper entered.
“Am I interrupting you?” asked the soldier, glancing at the littered table.
“Not at all,” answered the manager, recovering himself, and settling back in his chair. “Make yourself at home. You’ll find some cigars on the mantel, or if you prefer your pipe, there’s a jar of tobacco on261the trunk. Do you find it? I haven’t had time yet to bring order out of chaos. A manager’s trunks are like a junk-shop, with everything from a needle to an anchor.”
Filling his pipe from the receptacle indicated, which lay among old costumes and wigs, the soldier seated himself near an open window that looked out upon a balcony. Through a door at the far end of the balcony a light streamed from a chandelier within, playing upon the balustrade. Once the figure of the young actress stepped for a moment out upon the balcony; she leaned upon the balustrade, looked across the city, breathed the perfume of the flowers, and then quickly vanished.
“Can you spare me a little time to-morrow morning––early––before rehearsal?” said Saint-Prosper, finally.
“Yes,” returned the manager, in surprise. “What is it?”
“A foolish piece of business! The patroon is in New Orleans.”
Barnes uttered an exclamation of annoyance and apprehension. “Here! What is he doing here?” he said. “I thought we had seen the last of him. Has he followed––Constance?”
“I don’t know. We met yesterday at the races.”
“It is strange she did not tell me about it,” remarked the manager, without endeavoring to conceal the anxiety this unexpected information afforded him.
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“She does not know he is here.” And Saint-Prosper briefly related the circumstances of his meeting with the land baron, to which the manager listened attentively.
“And so she must be dragged into it?” exclaimed Barnes at length, resentfully. “Her name must become public property in a broil?”
A frown darkened the soldier’s face, but he replied quickly: “Need any one know? The land baron has not been seen with her.”
“No; but you have,” returned the manager, suddenly pausing and looking down at the other.
The silence between them lasted for some moments. Barnes stood with his hands in his pockets, his face downcast and moody. He felt that events were happening over which he had no control, but which were shaping the destiny of all he loved best. In the dim light the rugged lines of his countenance were strongly, decisively outlined. Turning to the trunk, with a quick, nervous step, he filled a pipe himself. After he had lighted it, he once more contemplated the soldier, thinking deeply, reviewing the past.
“We have been together for some time, Mr. Saint-Prosper,” he said, at length. “We have gone through fair and rough weather, and”––he paused a moment before continuing––“should understand each other. You asked me when you came in if you were interrupting me, and I told you that you were not. As a matter of fact, you were.”
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And, walking to a table, Barnes took up the notebook.
“A garrulous, single man must tell his little secrets somewhere,” he continued. “Will you look at the pages I was writing when you came in?”
Saint-Prosper took the book, and, while he was turning the leaves that were hardly dry, the manager relighted his pipe, over which he glanced nervously from time to time at his companion. Finally, when the soldier had finished the perusal of the diary, Barnes turned to him expectantly, but the other silently laid down the little volume, and, after waiting some moments for him to speak, the manager, as though disappointed by his reticence, breathed a sigh. Then, clearing his throat, in a voice somewhat husky, he went on, simply:
“You will understand now why she is so much to me. I have always wanted to keep her from the world as much as possible; to have her world, her art! I have tried to keep the shadow of the past from her. An actress has a pretty face; and there’s a hue and cry! It is not notoriety she seeks, but fame; fame, bright and pure as sunlight!”
“The land baron will not cry abroad the cause of the meeting,” said the soldier, gravely. “These fashionable affairs need but flimsy pretexts.”
“Flimsy pretexts!” cried Barnes. “A woman’s reputation––her good name––”
“Hush!” said Saint-Prosper.
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From the door at the far end of the balcony Constance had again emerged and now approached their room. A flowing gown of an early period surrounded her like a cloud as she paused before Barnes’ apartment. At the throat a deep-falling collar was closely fastened; the sleeves were gathered in at elbow and wrist, and from a “coverchief,” set upon the dusky hair, fell a long veil of ample proportions. With the light shimmering on the folds of her raiment, she stood looking through the open door, regarding the manager and Saint-Prosper.
“Oh, you are not alone?” she said to the former. “You look as though you were talking together very seriously?” she added, turning to Saint-Prosper.
“Nothing of consequence, Miss Carew!” he replied, flushing beneath her clear eyes.
“Only about some scenery!” interposed the manager, so hastily that she glanced, slightly surprised, from the one to the other. “Some sets that are––”
“‘Flimsy pretexts!’ I caught that much! I only wanted to ask you about this costume. Is it appropriate, do you think, for the part we were talking about?” Turning around slowly, with arms half-raised.
“Charming, my dear; charming!” he answered, enthusiastically.
“If I only thought that an unbiased criticism!” Her dark lashes lowered; she looked toward the soldier, half shyly, half mockingly. “What do you think, Mr. Saint-Prosper?”
At that moment her girlish grace was irresistible.
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“I think it is not only appropriate, but”––looking at her and not at the costume––“beautiful!”
A gleam like laughter came into her eyes; nor did she shun his kindling gaze.
“Thank you!” she said, and courtesied low.
That same evening Spedella’s fencing rooms were fairly thronged with devotees of the ancient art of puncturing. The master of the place was a tall Italian, lank and lean, all bone and muscle, with a Don Quixote visage, barring a certain villainous expression of the eyes, irreconcilable with the chivalrous knight-errant of distressed Dulcineas. But every man with a bad eye is not necessarily a rascallion, and Spedella, perhaps, was better than he looked. With a most melancholy glance he was now watching two combatants, novices in feats of arms. Dejection sat upon his brow; he yawned over a clumsyfeinte seconde, when his sinister eyes fell on a figure that had just entered the hall. Immediately his melancholy vanished, and he advanced to meet the newcomer with stately cordiality.
“Well met, Mr. Mauville,” he exclaimed, extending a bony hand that had fingers like the grip of death. “What good fortune brought you here?”
“An ill wind, Spedella, rather!”
“It’s like a breath of the old days to see you; the old days before you began your wanderings!”
“Get the foils, Spedella; I’ll have a bout with the266master. Gad, you’re as ill-looking as ever! It’s some time since I’ve touched a foil. I want to test myself. I have a little affair to-morrow. Hark you, my old brigand; I wish to see if I can kill him!”
“A lad of spirit!” chuckled the master, a gleam of interest illumining his cavernous eyes. “Young!––frisky!––an affair of honor to-day is but nursery sport. Two children with tin swords are more diverting. The world goes backward! A counter-jumper thinks he can lunge, because he is spry, that he can touch a button because he sells them. And I am wasting my genius with ribbon-venders––”
“I see the wolf growls as much as ever!” said the patroon. “Here’s a quiet corner. Come; tell me what I’ve forgotten.”
“Good!” returned the other. “You can tell me about your travels as we fence.”
“Hang my travels!” replied the patroon, as they leisurely engaged. “They’ve brought me nothing but regrets.”
“Feinte flanconnade––well done!” murmured Spedella. “So it was not honey you brought home from your rambles?Feinte secondeand decisive tierce! It’s long since I’ve touched a good blade. These glove-sellers and perfume-dealers––”
“You are bitter against trade, my bravo,” remarked the land baron.
“I was spoiling with languor when you came. Not bad, that feint––but dangerous, because of the possibility of misjudging the attack. Learn the paroles he267affects to-morrow by quick, simple thrusts, and then you will know what feints to attack him with. Time in octave––you quitted the blade in a dangerous position. Cluck; cluck, my game cock! Intemperance has befogged your judgment; high-living has dimmed your––”
“You have it!” laughed the land baron.
The button of his foil touched the old bravo’s breast; the steel was bent like a bow.
Spedella forgot his English and swore in soft and liquid Italian. “I looked around to see how those ribbon-venders were getting on,” he said after this euphonious, foreign prelude. “They pay me; I have to keep an eye on them. All the same,” he added, generously, “there isn’t another man in New Orleans could have stopped that stroke––except myself!”
“Will I do––for to-morrow?” asked the patroon, moodily.
The master cocked his head quizzically; his deep-set eyes were soft and friendly.
“The devil’s with him, if you don’t put your spur in him, my bantam!”
268CHAPTER VTHE MEETING BENEATH THE OAKS
The mist was lifting from the earth and nature lay wrapped in the rosy peace of daybreak as the sun’s shafts of gold pierced the foliage, illumining the historic ground of the Oaks. Like shining lances, they gleamed from the interstices in the leafy roof to the dew-bejeweled sward. From this stronghold of glistening arms, however, the surrounding country stretched tranquil and serene. Upon a neighboring bank sheep were browsing; in the distance cow-bells tinkled, and the drowsy cowherds followed the cattle, faithful as the shepherds who tended their flocks on the Judean hills.
Beneath the spreading trees were assembled a group of persons variously disposed. A little dapper man was bending over a case of instruments, as merry a soul as ever adjusted a ligature or sewed a wound. Be-ribboned and be-medaled, the Count de Propriac, acting for the land baron, and Barnes, who had accompanied the soldier, were consulting over the weapons, a magnificent pair of rapiers with costly steel guards,269set with initials and a coronet. Member of an ancient society of France which yet sought to perpetuate the memory of the old judicial combat and the more modern duel, the count was one of those persons who think they are in honor bound to bear a challenge, without questioning the cause, or asking the “color of a reason.”
“A superb pair of weapons, count!” observed the doctor, rising.
“Yes,” said the person addressed, holding the blade so that the sunlight ran along the steel; “the same Jacques Legres and I fought with!”
Here the count smiled in a melancholy manner, which left no doubt regarding the fate of the hapless Jacques. But after a moment he supplemented this indubitable assurance by adding specifically:
“The left artery of the left lung!”
“Bless my soul!” commented the medical man. “But what is this head in gold beneath the guard?”
“Saint Michael, the patron saint of duelists!” answered the count.
“Patron!” exclaimed the doctor. “Well, all I have to say is, it is a saintless business for Michael.”
The count laughed and turned away with a business-like air.
“Are you ready, gentlemen?”
At his words the contestants immediately took their positions. The land baron, lithe and supple, presented a picture of insolent and conscious pride, his glance270lighted by disdain, but smoldering with fiercer passions as he examined and tested his blade.
“Engage!” exclaimed the count.
With ill-concealed eagerness, Mauville began a vigorous, although guarded attack, as if asserting his supremacy, and at the same time testing his man. The buzzing switch of the steel became angrier; the weapons glinted and gleamed, intertwining silently and separating with a swish. The patroon’s features glowed; his movements became quicker, and, executing a rapid parry, he lunged with a thrust so stealthy his blade was beaten down only as it touched the soldier’s breast.
Mauville smiled, but Barnes groaned inwardly, feeling his courage and confidence fast oozing from him. Neither he nor the other spectators doubted the result. Strength would count but little against such agility; the land baron was an incomparable swordsman.
“Gad!” muttered the count to himself. “It promises to be short and sweet.”
As if to demonstrate the verity of this assertion, Mauville suddenly followed his momentary advantage with a dangerous lunge from below. Involuntarily Barnes looked away, but his wandering attention was immediately recalled. From the lips of the land baron burst an exclamation of mingled pain and anger. Saint-Prosper had not only parried the thrust, but his own blade, by a rapidriposte, had grazed the shoulder of his foe.
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Nor was the manager’s surprise greater than that of the count. The latter, amazed this unusual strategem should have failed when directed by a wrist as trained and an eye as quick as Mauville’s, now interposed.
“Enough!” he exclaimed, separating the contestants. “Demme! it was superb. Honor has been satisfied.”
“It is nothing!” cried the land baron, fiercely. “His blade hardly touched me.” In his exasperation and disappointment over his failure, Mauville was scarcely conscious of his wound. “I tell you it is nothing,” he repeated.
“What do you say, Mr. Saint-Prosper?” asked the count.
“I am satisfied,” returned the young man, coldly.
“But I’m not!” reiterated the patroon, restraining himself with difficulty. “It was understood we should continue untilbothwere willing to stop!”
“No,” interrupted the count, suavely; “it was understood you should continue, if both were willing!”
“And you’re not!” exclaimed the land baron, wheeling on Saint-Prosper. “Did you leave the army because––”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen! let us observe the proprieties!” expostulated the count. “Is it your intention, sir”––to Saint-Prosper––“not to grant my principal’s request?”
A fierce new anger gleamed from the soldier’s eyes, completely transforming his expression and bearing. His glance quickly swept from the count to Mauville272at the studied insult of the latter’s words; on his cheek burned a dark red spot.
“Let it go on!”
The count stepped nimbly from his position between the two men. Again the swords crossed. The count’s glance bent itself more closely on the figure of the soldier; noting now how superbly poised was his body; what reserves of strength were suggested by the white, muscular arm! His wrist moved like a machine, lightly brushing aside the thrusts. Had it been but accident that Mauville’s unlooked-for expedient had failed?
“The devil!” thought the count, watching the soldier. “Here is a fellow who has deceived us all.”
But the land baron’s zest only appeared to grow in proportion to the resistance he encountered; the lust for fighting increased with the music of the blades. For some moments he feinted and lunged, seeking an opening, however slight. Again he appeared bent upon forcing a quick conclusion, for suddenly with a rush he sought to break over Saint-Prosper’s guard, and succeeded in wounding the other slightly in the forehead. Now sure of his man, Mauville sprang at him savagely.
But dashing the blood from his eyes with his free hand, and without giving way, Saint-Prosper met the assault with a wrist of iron, and the land baron failed to profit by what had seemed a certain advantage. The wound had the effect of making the soldier more cautious, and eye, foot and hand were equally true.273Mauville was breathing heavily from his exertions, but the appearance of both men, the supple movements of the one contrasting with the perfect precision of the other, would have delighted those members of the count’s society, who regarded these matches as leading to a renaissance of chivalry.
In his fury that his chance had slipped away, after wounding, and, as he supposed, blinding his opponent, Mauville, throwing prudence to the winds, recklessly attempted to repeat his rash expedient, and this time the steel of his antagonist gleamed like quicksilver, passing beneath his arm and inflicting a slight flesh wound. Something resembling a look of apprehension crossed the land baron’s face. “I have underestimated him!” he thought. “The next stroke will be driven nearer home.”
He felt no fear, however; only mute, helpless rage. In the soldier’s hand the dainty weapon was a thing of marvelous cunning; his vastly superior strength made him practically tireless in this play. Not only tireless; he suddenly accelerated the tempo of the exercise, but behind this unexpected, even passionate, awakening, the spectators felt an unvarying accuracy, a steely coldness of purpose. The blades clicked faster; they met and parted more viciously; the hard light in Saint-Prosper’s eyes grew brighter as he slowly thrust back his antagonist.
Mauville became aware his own vigor was slowly failing him; instead of pressing the other he was now obliged to defend himself. He strove to throw off274the lethargy irresistibly stealing over him; to shake the leaden movements from his limbs. He vainly endeavored to penetrate the mist falling before his eyes and to overcome the dizziness that made his foeman seem like a figure in a dream. Was it through loss of blood, or weariness, or both?––but he was cognizant his thrusts had lost force, his plunges vitality, and that even an element of chance prevailed in his parries. But he uttered no sound. When would that mist become dark, and the golden day fuse into inky night?
Before the mist totally eclipsed his sight he determined to make one more supreme effort, and again sprang forward, but was driven back with ease. The knowledge that he was continuing a futile struggle smote him to the soul. Gladly would he have welcomed the fatal thrust, if first he could have sent his blade through that breast which so far had been impervious to his efforts. Now the scene went round and round; the golden day became crimson, scarlet; then gray, leaden, somber. Incautiously he bent his arm to counter an imaginary lunge, and his antagonist thrust out his rapier like a thing of life, transfixing Mauville’s sword arm. He stood his ground bravely for a moment, playing feebly into space, expecting the fatal stroke! When would it come? Then the slate-colored hues were swallowed in a black cloud. But while his mind passed into unconsciousness, his breast was openly presented to his antagonist, and even the count shuddered.
With his blade at guard, Saint-Prosper remained275motionless; the land baron staggered feebly and then sank softly to the earth. That fatal look, the expression of a duelist, vanished from the soldier’s face, and, allowing the point of his weapon to drop to the ground, he surveyed his prostrate antagonist.
“Done like a gentleman!” cried the count, breathing more freely. “You had him at your mercy, sir”––to Saint-Prosper––“and spared him.”
A cold glance was the soldier’s only response, as without a word he turned brusquely away. Meanwhile the doctor, hastening to Mauville’s side, opened his shirt.
“He is badly hurt?” asked Barnes, anxiously, of the surgeon.
“No; only fainted from loss of blood,” replied that gentleman, cheerfully. “He will be around again in a day or two.”
The count put away his blades as carefully as a mother would deposit her babe in the cradle.
“Another page of history, my chicks!” he observed. “Worthy of the song of Pindar!”
“Why not Straws or Phazma?” queried the surgeon, looking up from his task.
“Would you have the press take up the affair? There are already people who talk of abolishing dueling. When they do they will abolish reputation with it. And what’s a gentleman got but his honor––demme!” And the royal emissary carefully brushed a crimson stain from the bespattered saint.
By this time the land baron had regained consciousness,276and, his wounds temporarily bandaged, walked, with the assistance of the count, to his carriage. As they were about to drive away the sound of a vehicle was heard drawing near, and soon it appeared followed by another equipage. Both stopped at the confines of the Oaks and the friends of the thick-set man––Susan’s admirer––and the young lad, on whom she had smiled, alighted.
“Ha!” exclaimed the doctor, who had accompanied the count and his companion to the carriage. “Number two!”
“Yes,” laughed the count, as he leaned back against the soft cushions, “it promises to be a busy day at the Oaks! Really”––as the equipage rolled on––“New Orleans is fast becoming a civilized center––demme!”
277CHAPTER VIA BLOT IN THE ’SCUTCHEON
The land baron’s injuries did not long keep him indoors, for it was his pride rather than his body that had received deep and bitter wounds. He chafed and fumed when he thought how, in all likelihood, the details of his defeat could not be suppressed in the clubs andcafés. This anticipated publicity he took in ill part, fanning his mental disorder with brandy, mellow and insidious with age. But beneath the dregs of indulgence lay an image which preyed upon his mind more than his defeat beneath the Oaks: a figure, on the crude stage of a country tavern; in the manor window, with an aureole around her from the sinking sun; in the grand stand at the races, the gay dandies singling her out in all that seraglio of beauty.
“I played him too freely,” he groaned to the Count de Propriac, as the latter sat contemplatively nursing the ivory handle of his cane and offering the land baron such poor solace as his company afforded. “I misjudged the attack, besides exposing myself too much. If I could only meet him again!”
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The visitor reflectively took the handle of the stick from his lips, thrust out his legs and yawned. The count was sleepy, having drowned dull care the night before, and had little sympathy with such spirited talk so early in the day. His lack-luster gaze wandered to the pictures on the wall, the duel between two court ladies for the possession of the Duc de Richelieu and an old print of the deadly public contest of François de Vivonne and Guy de Jarnac and then strayed languidly to the other paraphernalia of a high-spirited bachelor’s rooms––foils, dueling pistols and masks––trappings that but served to recall to the land baron his defeat.
“It would be like running against a stone wall,” said the count, finally; “demme if it wouldn’t! He could have killed you!”
“Why didn’t he do it, then?” demanded the land baron, fiercely.
The count shrugged his shoulders, drank his brandy, and handed the bottle to his companion, who helped himself, as though not averse to that sort of medicine for his physical and mental ailments.
“What’s the news?” he asked abruptly, sinking back on his pillow.
“The levees are flooded.”
“Hanged if I care if it’s another deluge!” said Mauville. “I mean news of the town, not news of the river.”
“There’s a new beauty come to town––a brunette; all the bloods are talking about her. Where did she279come from? Who is she? These are some of the questions asked. But she’s a Peri, at any rate! shy, hard to get acquainted with––at first! An actress––Miss Carew!”
The glass trembled in the patroon’s hand. “Do you know her?” he asked unsteadily.
Smiling, the visitor returned the cane to his lips and gazed into vacancy, as though communing with agreeable thoughts.
“I have met her,” he said finally. “Yes; I may say I have met her. Ged! Next to a duel with rapiers is one with eyes. They thrust at you; you parry; they return, and, demme! you’re stabbed! But don’t ask me any more––discretion––you understand––between men of the world––demme!”––and the count relapsed into a vacuous dream.
“What a precious liar he is!” commented the land baron to himself. But his mind soon reverted to the duel once more. “If I had only followed Spedella’s advice and studied his favorite parades!” he muttered, regretfully.
“It would have been the same,” retorted the count, brutally. “When you lost your temper, you lost your cause. Your work was brilliant; but he is one of the best swordsmen I ever saw. Who is he, anyway?”
“All I know is, he served in Algiers,” said Mauville, moodily.
“A demmed adventurer, probably!” exclaimed the other.
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“I’d give a good deal to know his record,” remarked the patroon, contemplatively. “You should be pretty well acquainted with the personnel of the army?”
“It includes everybody nowadays,” replied the diplomat. “I have a large acquaintance, but I am not a directory. A person who knows everybody usually knows nobody––worth knowing! But it seems to me I did know of a Saint-Prosper at the military college at Saumur; or was it at theEcole d’application d’état-major? Demmed scapegrace, if I am not mistaken; sent to Algiers; must be the same. A hell-rake hole!––full of German and French outcasts! Knaves, adventureres, ready for plunder and loot!”
Here the count, after this outburst, closed his eyes and seemed almost on the point of dropping off, but suddenly straightened himself.
“Let’s get the cards, or the dice, Mauville,” he said, “or I’ll fall into a doze. Such a demmed sleepy climate!”
Soon the count was shuffling and the land baron and he were playing bezique, but in spite of the latter’s drowsiness, he won steadily from his inattentive companion, and, although the noble visitor had some difficulty in keeping his eyes open, what there was of his glance was vigilantly concentrated on his little pile of the coin of the realm. His watchfulness did not relax nor his success desert him, until Mauville finally threw down the cards in disgust, weary alike of such poor luck and the half-nodding automaton confronting him; whereupon the count thrust every piece of281gold carefully away in his pocket, absently reached for his hat, drawled a perfunctory farewell and departed in a brown study.
The count’s company, of which he had enjoyed a good deal during the past forty-eight hours, did not improve Mauville’s temper, and he bore his own reflections so grudgingly that inaction became intolerable. Besides, certain words of his caller concerning Saint-Prosper had stimulated his curiosity, and, in casting about for a way to confirm his suspicions, he had suddenly determined in what wise to proceed. Accordingly, the next day he left his rooms, his first visit being to a spacious, substantial residence of stone and lime, with green veranda palings and windows that opened as doors, with a profusion of gauzy curtains hanging behind them. This house, the present home of the Marquis de Ligne, stood in the French quarter, contrasting architecturally with the newer brick buildings erected for the American population. The land baron was ushered into a large reception room, sending his card to the marquis by the neat-appearing colored maid who answered the door.
If surroundings indicate the man, the apartments in which the visitor stood spoke eloquently of the marquis’ taste. Eschewing the stiff, affected classicalism of the Empire style, the furniture was the best work of André Boule and Riesener; tables, with fine marquetry of the last century, made of tulip wood and mahogany; mirrors from Tourlaville; couches with tapestry woven in fanciful designs after Fragonard,282in the looms of Beauvais––couches that were made for conversation, not repose; cabinets exemplifying agreeable disposition of lines and masses in the inlaid adornment, containing tiny drawers that fitted with old-time exactness, and, without jamming, opened and shut at the touch. The marquis’ character was stamped by these details; it was old, not new France, to which he belonged.
Soon the marquis’ servant, a stolid, sober man, of virtuous deportment, came down stairs to inform the land baron his master had suffered a relapse and was unable to see any one.
“Last night his temperature was very high,” said the valet. “My master is very ill; more so than I have known him to be in twenty years.”
“You have served the marquis so long?” said the visitor, pausing as he was leaving the room. “Do you remember the Saint-Prosper family?”
“Well, Monsieur. General Saint-Prosper and my master were distant kinsmen and had adjoining lands.”
“Surely the marquis did not pass his time in the country?” observed Mauville.
“He preferred it to Paris––when my lady was there!” added François, softly.
In spite of his ill-humor, the shadow of a smile gleamed in the land baron’s gaze, and, encouraged by that questioning look, the man continued: “The marquis and General Saint-Prosper were always together. My lady had her own friends.”