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Susan was tempted, gazing longingly at the table, with the fever burning in her.
“No,” she said, finally. “IthinkI would win, but, of course, Imightlose.”
“A wise reservation! Never place your fortune on the hazard of the die.”
“But I have! What’s the use of making good resolutions now? It’s like closing the barn-door after––”
“Just so!” he agreed. “But it might have been worse.”
“How?” In dismay. “Didn’t that stony-looking man rake in my last gold piece? He didn’t even look sorry, either. But what is the matter with your arm?” The land baron’s expression became ominous. “You shook hands with your left hand. Oh, I see; the duel!” Lightly.
“How did you hear about it?” asked Mauville, irritably.
“Oh, in a roundabout way. Murder will out! And Constance––she was so solicitous about Mr. Saint-Prosper, but rather proud, I believe, because he”––with a laugh––“came off victorious.”
Susan’s prattle, although accompanied by innocent glances from her blue eyes, was sometimes the most irritating thing in the world, and the land baron, goaded beyond endurance, now threw off his careless manner and swore in an undertone by “every devil in Satan’s calendar.”
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“Can you not reserve your soliloquy until you leave me?” observed Susan, sweetly. “Otherwise––”
“I regret to have shocked your ladyship,” he murmured, satirically.
“I forgive you.” Raising her guileless eyes. “When I think of the provocation, I do not blame you––so much!”
“That is more than people do in your case,” muttered the land baron savagely.
Susan’s hand trembled. “What do you mean?” she asked, not without apprehension regarding his answer.
“Oh, that affair with the young officer––the lad who was killed in the duel, you know––”
Her composure forsook her for the moment and she bit her lip cruelly.
“Don’t!” she whispered. “I am not to blame. I never dreamed it would go so far! Why should people––”
“Why?” he interposed, ironically.
Susan pulled herself together. “Yes, why?” she repeated, defiantly. “Can women prevent men from making fools of themselves any more than they can prevent them from amusing themselves as they will? To-day it is this toy; to-morrow, another. At length”––bitterly––“a woman comes to consider herself only a toy.”
Her companion regarded her curiously. “Well, well!” he ejaculated, finally. “Losing at cards doesn’t agree with your temper.”
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“Nor being worsted by Saint-Prosper with yours!” she retorted quickly.
Mauville looked virulent, but Susan, feeling that she had retaliated in ample measure, recovered her usual equanimity of temper and placed a conciliatory hand sympathetically on his arm.
“We have both had a good deal to try us, haven’t we? But how stupid men are!” she added suddenly. “As if you could not find other consolation!”
He directed toward her an inquiring glance.
“Some time ago, while I was acting in London,” resumed Susan, thoughtfully, “the leading lady refused to receive the attentions of a certain odious English lord. She was to make her appearance in a piece upon which her reputation was staked. Mark what happened! She was hissed! Hissed from the stage! My lord led this hostile demonstration and all his hired claqueurs joined in. She was ruined; ruined!” concluded Susan, smiling amiably.
“You are ingenious, Mistress Susan––not to say a trifle diabolical. Your plan––”
She opened her eyes widely. “I have suggested no plan,” she interrupted, hurriedly.
“Well, let us sit down and I will tell you about a French officer who––But here is a quiet corner, Mistress Susan, and if you will promise not to repeat it, I will regale you with a bit of interesting gossip.”
“I promise––they always do!” she laughed.
For such a frivolous lady, Susan was an excellent317listener. She, who on occasions chattered like a magpie, was now silent as a mouse, drinking in the other’s words with parted lips and sparkling eyes. First he showed her the letter François had brought him. Unmarked by postal indications, the missive had evidently been intrusted to a private messenger of the governor whose seal it bore. Dated about three years previously, it was written in a somewhat illegible, but not unintelligible, scrawl, the duke’s own handwriting.
“I send you, my dear marquis,” began the duke, “a copy of the secret report of the military tribunal appointed to investigate the charges against your kinsman, Lieut. Saint-Prosper, and regret the finding of the court should have been one of guilty of treason.
“Saint-Prosper and Abd-el-Kader met near the tomb of a marabout. From him the French officer received a famous ruby which he thrust beneath his zaboot––the first fee of their compact. That night when the town lay sleeping, a turbaned host, armed with yataghans, stole through the flowering cactuses. Sesame! The gate opened to them; they swarmed within! The soldiers, surprised, could render little resistance; the ruthless invaders cut them down while they were sleeping or before they could sound the alarm. The bravest blood of France flowed lavishly in the face of the treacherous onslaught; blood of men who had been his fastest friends, among whom he had been so popular for his dauntless courage and devil-may-care318temerity! But a period, fearfully brief, and the beloved tri-color was trampled in the dust; the barbarian flag of the Emir floated in its place.
“All these particulars, and the part Saint-Prosper played in the terrible drama, Abd-el-Kader, who is now our prisoner, has himself confessed. The necessity for secrecy, you, my dear Marquis, will appreciate. The publicity of the affair now would work incalculable injury to the nation. It is imperative to preserve the army from the taint of scandal. The nation hangs on a thread. God knows there is iniquity abroad. I, who have labored for the honor of France and planted her flag in distant lands, look for defeat, not through want of bravery, but from internal causes. A matter like this might lead to a popular uprising against the army. Therefore, the king wills it shall be buried by his faithful servants.”
As Mauville proceeded Susan remained motionless, her eyes growing larger and larger, until they shone like two lovely sapphires, but when he concluded she gave a little sigh of pleasure and leaned back with a pleased smile.
“Well?” he said, finally, after waiting some moments for her to speak.
“How piquantly wicked he is!” she exclaimed, softly.
“Piquantly, indeed!” repeated the land baron, dryly.
“And he carries it without a twinge! What a petrified conscience!”
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“I believe you find him more interesting than ever?” said Mauville, impatiently.
“Possibly!” Languidly. “An exceptional moral ailment sometimes makes a man more attractive––like a––an interesting subject in a hospital, you know! But I have always felt,” she continued, with sudden seriousness, “there was something wrong with him. When I first saw him, I was sure he had had no ordinary past, but I did not dream it was quite so––what shall we call it––”
“Unsavory?” suggested her companion.
“That accounts for his unwillingness to talk about Africa,” went on Susan. “Soldiers, as a rule, you know, like to tell all about their sanguinary exploits. But the tented field was a forbidden topic with him. And once when I asked him about Algiers he was almost rudely evasive.”
“He probably lives in constant fear his secret will become known,” said Mauville, thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, the law provides that no person is to be indicted for treason unless within three years after the offense. The tribunal did not return an indictment; the three years have just expired. Did he come to America to make sure of these three years?”
But Susan’s thoughts had flitted to another feature of the story.
“How strange my marquis should be connected with the case! What an old compliment-monger he was! He vowed he was deeply smitten with me.”
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“And then went home and took to his bed!” added Mauville, grimly.
“You wretch!” said the young woman, playfully. “So that is the reason the dear old molly-coddle did not take me to any of the gay suppers he promised? Is it not strange Saint-Prosper has not met him?”
“You forget the marquis has been confined to his room since his brief, but disastrous, courtship of you. His infatuation seems to have brought him to the verge of dissolution.”
“Was it not worth the price?” she retorted, rising. “But I see my sister and Adonis are going, so I must be off, too. So glad to have met you!”
“You are no longer angry with me?”
“No; you are very nice,” she said. “And you have forgiven me?”
“Need you ask?” Pressing her hand. “Good evening, Mistress Susan!”
“Good evening. Oh, by the way, I have an appointment with Constance to rehearse a little scene together this evening. Would you mind loaning me that letter?”
“With pleasure; but remember your promise.”
“Promise?” repeated the young woman.
“Not to tell.”
“Oh, of course,” said Susan.
“But if you shouldn’t––”
“Then?”
“Then you might say the marquis, your friend and321admirer, gave you the letter. It would, perhaps, be easier for you to account for it than for me.”
“But if the marquis should learn––” began the other, half-dubiously.
“He is too ill for anything except the grave.”
“Oh, the poor old dear!”
She looked at the gaming table with its indefatigable players and then turned to Kate and Adonis who approached at that moment. “How did you come out, Adonis?”
“Out,” he said, curtly.
“Lucky in love, unlucky at”––began Kate.
“Then you must be very unlucky in love,” he retorted, “for you were a good winner at cards.”
“Oh, there are exceptions to that rule,” said Kate lazily, with a yawn. “I’m lucky at both––in New Orleans!”
“I have perceived it,” retorted Adonis, bitterly.
“Don’t quarrel,” Susan implored. Regarding the table once more, she sighed: “I’m so sorry I came!”
But her feet fairly danced as she flew towards the St. Charles. She entered, airy as a saucy craft, with “all sails in full chase, ribbons and gauzes streaming at the top,” and, with a frou-frou of skirts, burst into Constance’s room, brimful of news and importance. She remained there for some time, and when she left, it was noteworthy her spirits were still high. In crossing the hall, her red stockings became a fitting color accompaniment to her sprightly step, as she322moved over the heavy carpet, skirts raised coquettishly, humming with the gaiety of a young girl who has just left boarding school.
“A blooming, innocent creature!” growled an up-the-river planter, surveying her from one of the landings. “Lord love me, if she were only a quadroon, I’d buy her!”
323CHAPTER IXA DEBUT IN THE CRESCENT CITY
A versatile dramatic poet is grim Destiny, making with equal facility tragedy, farce, burletta, masque or mystery. The world is his inn, and, like the wandering master of interludes, he sets up his stage in the court-yard, beneath the windows of mortals, takes out his figures and evolves charming comedies, stirring melodramas, spirited harlequinades and moving divertissement. But it is in tragedy his constructive ability is especially apparent, and his characters, tripping along unsuspectingly in the sunny byways, are suddenly confronted by the terrifying mask and realize life is not all pleasant pastime and that the Greek philosophy of retribution is nature’s law, preserving the unities. When the time comes, the Master of events, adjusting them in prescribed lines, reaches by stern obligation the avoidless conclusion.
Consulting no law but his own will, the Marquis de Ligne had lived as though he were the autocrat of fate itself instead of one of its servants, and therefore was surprised when the venerable playwright prepared324the unexpected dénouement. In pursuance of this end, it was decreed by the imperious and incontrovertible dramatist of the human family that this crabbed, vicious, antiquated marionette should wend his way to the St. Charles on a particular evening. Since the day at the races, the eccentric nobleman had been ill and confined to his room, but now he was beginning to hobble around, and, immediately with returning strength, sought diversion.
“François,” he said, “what is there at the theater to-night?”
“Comic opera, my lord?”
The marquis made a grimace. “Comic opera outside of Paris!” he exclaimed, with a shrug of the shoulders.
“A new actress makes her début at the St. Charles.”
“Let it be the début, then! Perhaps she will fail, and that will amuse me.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And, by the way, François, did you see anything of a large envelope, a buff-colored envelope, I thought I left in my secretary?”
“No, my lord.” But François became just a shade paler.
“It is strange,” said the marquis, half to himself, “what could have become of it! I destroyed other papers, but not that. You are sure, François, you did not steal it?”
By this time the servant’s knees began to tremble,325and, had the marquis’ eyesight been better, he could not have failed to detect the other’s agitation. But the valet assumed a bold front, as he asked:
“Why should I have stolen it?”
“True, why?” grumbled the marquis. “It would be of no service to you. No; you didn’t take it. I believe you honest––in this case!”
“Thank you, my lord!”
“After all, what does it matter?” muttered the nobleman to himself. “What’s in a good name to-day––with traitors within and traitors without? ’Tis love’s labor lost to have protected it! We’ve fostered a military nest of traitors. The scorpions will be faithful to nothing but their own ends. They’ll fight for any master.”
Recalled to his purpose of attending the play by François’ bringing from the wardrobe sundry articles of attire, the marquis underwent an elaborate toilet, recovering his good humor as this complicated operation proceeded. Indeed, by the time it had reached a triumphant end and the valet set the marquis before a mirror, the latter had forgotten his dissatisfaction at the government in his pleasure with himself.
“Too much excitement is dangerous, is it?” he mumbled. “I am afraid there will be none at all. A stage-struck young woman; a doll-like face, probably; a milk-and-water performance! Now, in the old days actors were artists. Yes, artists!” he repeated, as though he had struck a chord that vibrated in his memory.
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Arriving at the theater, he was surprised at the scene of animation; the line of carriages; the crowd about the doors and in the entrance hall! Evidently the city eagerly sought novelty, and Barnes’ company, offering new diversion after many weeks of opera, drew a fair proportion of pleasure-seekers to the portals of the drama. The noise of rattling wheels and the banging of carriage doors; the aspect of many fair ladies, irreproachably gowned; the confusion of voices from venders hovering near the gallery entrance––imparted a cosmopolitan atmosphere to the surroundings.
“You’d think some well-known player was going to appear, François!” grumbled the marquis, as he thrust his head out of his carriage. “Looks like a theater off the Strand! And there’s an orange-girl! A dusky Peggy!”
The vehicle of the nobleman drew up before the brilliantly-lighted entrance. Mincingly, the marquis dismounted, assisted by the valet; within he was met by alogedirector who, with the airs of a Chesterfield, bowed the people in and out.
“Your ticket, sir!” said this courteous individual, scraping unusually low.
The marquis waved his hand toward his man, and François produced the bits of pasteboard. Escorted to his box, the nobleman settled himself in an easy chair, after which he stared impudently and inquisitively around him.
And what a heterogeneous assemblage it was; of327how many nationalities made up; gay bachelors, representatives of the western trade and eastern manufacturers; a fair sprinkling of the military element, seeking amusement before departing for the front, their brass buttons and striking new uniforms a grim reminder of the conflict waging between the United States and Mexico; cotton brokers, banking agents, sugar, tobacco and flour dealers; some evidently English with their rosy complexions, and others French by their gesticulations! And among the women, dashing belles from Saratoga, proud beauties from Louisville, “milliner-martyred” daughters of interior planters, and handsome creole matrons, in black gowns that set off their white shoulders!
In this stately assemblage––to particularize for a moment!––was seated the (erstwhile!) saintly Madame Etalage, still proud in her bearing, although white as an angel, and by her side, her carpet knight, an extravagant, preposterous fop. A few seats in front of her prattled the lovelyingenue, little Fantoccini, a biting libeller of other actresses, with her pitiless tongue. To her left was a shaggy-looking gentleman, the Addison of New Orleans’ letters, a most tolerant critic, who never spoke to a woman if he could avoid doing so, but who, from his philosophical stool, viewed the sex with a conviction it could do no wrong; a judgment in perspective, as it were!
The marquis paid little attention to the men; it was the feminine portion of the audience that interested him, and he regarded it with a gloating leer, the328expression of a senile satyr. Albeit a little on the seamy side of life, his rank and wealth were such that he himself attracted a good deal of attention, matronly eyes being turned in his direction with not unkindly purport. The marquis perceived the stir his presence occasioned and was not at all displeased; on the contrary, his manner denoted gratification, smiling and smirking from bud to blossom and from blossom to bud!
How fascinating it was to revel in the sight of so much youth and beauty from the brink of the grave whereon he stood; how young it made him feel again! He rubbed his withered hands together in childish delight, while he contemplated the lively charms of Fantoccini or devoted himself to the no less diverting scrutiny of certain other dark-haired ladies.
While occupied in this agreeable pastime the nobleman became dimly conscious the debutante had appeared and was greeted with the moderate applause of an audience that is reserving its opinion. “Gad,” said one of the dandies who was keenly observing the nobleman, “it’s fashionable to look at the people and not at the actors!” And he straightway stared at the boxes, assuming a lackadaisical, languishing air. Having taken note of his surroundings to his satisfaction, the marquis at length condescended to turn his eye-glass deliberately and quizzically to the stage. His sight was not the best, and he gazed for some time before discerning a graceful figure and a pure, oval face, with dark hair and eyes.
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“Humph, not a bad stage presence!” he thought. “Probably plenty of beauty, with a paucity of talent! That’s the way nowadays. The voice––why, where have I heard it before? A beautiful voice! What melody, what power, what richness! And the face––” Here he wiped the moisture from his glasses––“if the face is equal to the voice, she has an unusual combination in an artist.”
Again he elevated the glass. Suddenly his attenuated frame straightened, his hand shook violently and, the glasses fell from his nerveless fingers.
“Impossible!” he murmured. But the melody of those tones continued to fall upon his ears like a voice from the past.
When the curtain went down on the first act there was a storm of applause. In New Orleans nothing was done by halves, and Constance, as Adrienne Lecouvreur, radiant in youth and the knowledge of success, was called out several times. The creoles made a vigorous demonstration; the Americans were as pleased in their less impulsive way; and in the loges all the lattices were pushed up, “a compliment to any player,” said Straws. To the marquis, the ladies in thelogeswere only reminiscent of the fashionable dames, with bare shoulders and glittering jewels, in the side boxes of old Drury Lane, leaning from their high tribunals to applaud the Adrienne of twenty years ago!
He did not sit in a theater in New Orleans now, but in London town, with a woman by his side who bent330beneath the storm of words she knew were directed at her. As in a dream he lingered, plunged in thought, with no longer the cynical, carping expression on his face as he looked at the stage, but awed and wonder-stricken, transported to another scene through the lapse of years that folded their shadowy wings and made the past to-day. Two vivid pictures floated before him as though they belonged to the present: Adrienne, bright, smiling and happy, as she rushed into the green room, with the plaudits of the multitude heard outside; Adrienne, in her last moments, betrayed to death!
They were applauding now, or was it but the mocking echo of the past? The curtain had descended, but went up again, and the actress stood with flowers showered around her. Save that she was in the springtime of life, while the other had entered summer’s season; that her art was tender and romantic, rather than overwhelming and tragic, she was the counterpart of the actress he had deserted in London; a faithful prototype, bearing the mother’s eyes, brow and features; a moving, living picture of the dead, as though the grave had rolled back its stone and she had stepped forth, young once more, trusting and innocent.
The musical bell rang in the wine room, where the worshipers of Bacchus were assembled, the signal that the drop would rise again in five minutes. At the bar the imbibers were passing judgment.
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“What elegance, deah boy! But cold––give me Fantoccini!” cried the carpet knight.
“Fantoccini’s a doll to her!” retorted the worldly young spark addressed.
“A wicked French doll, then! What do you think?” Turning to the local Addison.
“Sir, she ‘snatches a grace beyond the reach of art’!” replied that worthy.
“You ask for a criticism, and he answers in poetry!” retorted the first speaker.
“’Tis only the expression of the audience!” interposed another voice.
“Oh, of course, Mr. Mauville, if you, too, take her part, that is the end of it!”
The land baron’s smile revealed withering contempt, as with eyes bright with suppressed excitement, and his face unusually sallow, he joined the group.
“The end of it!” he repeated, fixing his glance upon the captious dandy. “The beginning, you mean! The beginning of her triumphs!”
“Oh, have your own way!” answered the disconcerted critic.
Mauville deliberately turned his back. “And such dunces sit in judgment!” he muttered to the scholar.
“Curse me, Mauville’s in a temper to-night!” said the spark in a low voice. “Been drinking, I reckon! But it’s time for the next act!”
Punches and juleps were hastily disposed of, and the imbibers quickly sought their places. This sudden influx, with its accompanying laughter and chattering,332aroused the marquis from his lethargy. He started and looked around him in bewilderment. The noise and the light conversation, however, soon recalled his mind to a sense of his surroundings, and he endeavored to recover his self-possession.
Could it be possible it was but a likeness his imagination had converted into such vivid resemblance? A sudden thought seized him and he looked around toward the door of the box.
“François!” he called, and the valet, who had been waiting his master’s pleasure without, immediately appeared.
“Sit down, François!” commanded the marquis. “I am not feeling well. I may conclude to leave soon, and may need your arm.”
The servant obeyed, and the nobleman, under pretense of finding more air near the door, drew back his chair, where he could furtively watch his man’s face. The orchestra ceased; the curtain rose, and the valet gazed mechanically at the stage. In his way, François was asblaséas his master, only, of course, he understood his position too well to reveal that lassitude and ennui, the expression of which was the particular privilege of his betters. He had seen many great actresses and heard many peerless singers; he had delved after his fashion into sundry problems, and had earned as great a right as any of the nobility to satiety and defatigation in his old age, but unfortunately he was born in a class which may feel but not reveal, and mask alike content and discontent.
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Again those tones floated out from the past; musical, soft! The marquis trembled. Did not the man notice? No; he was still looking gravely before him. Dolt; did he not remember? Could he not recall the times beyond number when he had heard that voice; in the ivy-covered cottage; in the garden of English roses?
Suddenly the valet uttered an exclamation; the stolid aspect of his face gave way to an obvious thrill of interest.
“My lord!” he cried.
“An excellent actress, François; an excellent actress!” said the marquis, rising. “Is that my coat? Get it for me. What are you standing there for? Your arm! Don’t you see I am waiting?”
Overwrought and excitable, he did not dare remain for the latter portion of the drama; better leave before the last act, he told himself, and, dazed by the reappearance of that vision, the old man fairly staggered from the box.
The curtain fell for the last time, and Barnes, with exultation, stood watching in the wings. She had triumphed, his little girl; she had won the great, generous heart of New Orleans. He clapped his hands furiously, joining in the evidences of approval, and, when the ovation finally ceased and she approached, the old manager was so overcome he had not a word to say. She looked at him questioningly, and he who had always been her instructor folded her fondly to his breast.
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“I owe it all to you,” she whispered.
“Pooh!” he answered. “You stole fire from heaven. I am but a theatrical, bombastic, barnstorming Thespian.”
“Would you spoil me?” she interrupted, tenderly.
“You are your mother over again, my dear! If she were only here now! But where is Saint-Prosper? He has not yet congratulated you? He, our good genius, whose generosity has made all this possible!” And Barnes half-turned, when she placed a detaining hand on his arm.
“No, no!”
“Why, my dear, have you and he––”
“Is it not enough that you are pleased?” replied Constance, hastily, with a glance so shining he forgot all further remonstrances.
“Pleased!” exclaimed Barnes. “Why, I feel as gay as Momus! But we’ll sing Te Deum later at the festive board. Go now and get ready!”
335CHAPTER XLAUGHTER AND TEARS
A supper was given the company after the performance by the manager, to which representatives of the press––artful Barnes!––had been invited. Of all the merry evenings in the bohemian world, that was one of the merriest. Next to the young girl sat the Count de Propriac, his breast covered with a double row of medals. Of the toasts drunk to Constance, the manager, poets Straws and Phazma, etc., unfortunately no record remains. Of the recollections of the wiry old lady; the impromptu verse of the rhymsters; the roaring speech of Mr. Barnes; the song and dainty flower dance by Susan and Kate––only the bare facts have descended to the chronicler.
So fancy must picture the wreaths of smoke; the superabundance of flowers, the fragrance of cigars mingling with the perfume of fading floral beauties; the pale dark-eyed girl presiding, upon her dusky hair a crown of laurel, set there, despite her protestations, by Phazma and Straws; the devotion of the count to his fair neighbor; the almost superhuman pride of336noisy Barnes; the attention bestowed by Susan upon Saint-Prosper, while through his mind wandered the words of a French song:
“Adieu, la cour, adieu les dames;Adieu les filles et les femmes––”
Intermixed with this sad refrain the soldier’s thoughts reverted to the performance, and amidst the chatter of Susan, he reviewed again and again the details of that evening. Was this the young girl who played in school-houses, inns or town halls, he had asked himself, seated in the rear of the theater? How coldly critical had been her auditors; some of the faces about him ironical; the bored, tired faces of men who had well-nigh drained life’s novelties; the artificially vivacious faces of women who played at light-heartedness and gaiety! Yet how free from concern had she been, as natural and composed as though her future had not depended upon that night! When she won an ovation, he had himself forgotten to applaud, but had sat there, looking from her to the auditors, to whom she was now bound by ties of admiration and friendliness.
“Don’t you like her?” a voice next to him had asked.
Like her? He had looked at the man, blankly.
“Yes,” he had replied.
Then the past had seemed to roll between them: the burning sands; the voices of the troops; the bugle call! In his brain wild thoughts had surged and flowed––as they were surging and flowing now.
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“Is he not handsome, Constance’s new admirer?” whispered Susan. “What can he be saying? She looks so pleased! He is very rich, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know,” answered Saint-Prosper, brusquely.
Again the thoughts surged and surged, and the past intruded itself! Reaching for his glass, he drank quickly.
“Don’t you ever feel the effects of wine?” asked the young woman.
His glance chilled her, it seemed so strange and steely!
“I believe you are so––so strong you don’t even notice it,” added Susan, with conviction. “But you don’t have half as good a time!”
“Perhaps I enjoy myself in my way,” he answered.
“What is your way?” she asked quickly. “You don’t appear to be wildly hilarious in your pleasures.” And Susan’s bright eyes rested on him curiously. “But we were speaking about the count and Constance. Don’t you think it would be a good match?” she continued with enthusiasm. “Alas, my titled admirer got no further than the beginning. But men are deceivers ever! When theydoreach the Songs of Solomon, they pass on to Exodus!”
“And leave the fair ones to Lamentations,” said Straws, who had caught her last remarks.
“Or Revelations!” added Phazma.
At the sound of their laughter, Constance looked coldly their way, until a remark from the count at her right, and, “As I was saying, my dear,” from the old338lady at her left, engrossed the young girl’s attention once more. But finally the great enemy of joy––the grim guardian of human pleasure––the reaper whose iron hands move ever in a circle, symbolical of eternity––finally, Time reminded Barnes that the hour had surely arrived when the curtain should descend upon these festivities. So he roared out a last blithe farewell, and the guests departed one by one, taking with them flowers in memory of the occasion, until all had left save Constance, the count, Saint-Prosper and the manager. Barnes was talking somewhat incoherently, holding the soldier by the coat and plunging into successive anecdotes about stage folk, while Saint-Prosper, apparently listening, observed the diplomat and Constance, whose conversation he could overhear.
“As I said to the Royal Infanta of Spain, flattery flies before truth in your presence, Mademoiselle,” sighed the count. And then raising her hand to his lips, “Ah, ma chere Mademoiselle, que je vous adore!” he whispered.
She withdrew it hastily, and, ogling and gesticulating, he bowed himself out, followed by the manager.
Leaning against the chair, her figure outlined by the glow from the crystal chandelier, her face in shadow, the hand the diplomat had pressed to his lips resting in the exposed light on the mahogany, the gaiety went out of her face, and the young girl wearily brushed the hair from her brow. As if unaware of the soldier’s presence, she glanced absently at the table339in its wrecked glory, and, throwing her lace wrap over her arm, was moving toward the door, when he spoke.
“Miss Carew!”
She paused, standing with clasped hands before him, while the scarf slipped from her arm and fell at her feet.
“May I not also tell you how glad I am––that you succeeded to-night?”
“I dislike congratulations!” she said, indifferently.
He looked at her quickly, but her eyes expressed only apathy. In his a sudden gleam of light appeared.
“From me, you mean?” The light became brighter.
She did not answer. His self-control was fast ebbing.
“You underestimate your favors, if you fancy they are easily forgotten!”
A crimson flush extended to her brow; the unconcern died out of her eyes.
“I do not understand,” she answered, slowly.
“When a woman says ‘I do not understand,’ she means ‘I wish to forget’.”
Her wide-open glance flashed ominously to his; she clasped and unclasped her fingers.
“Forget what?” she said, coldly.
“Nameless nothings!” he returned. “A smile––a glance––nothing to you, perhaps, but”––the set expression of his face giving way to abrupt passion!––“everything to me! Perhaps I had not meant to say this, but it seems as though the words must come out to-night.340It may be”––his voice vibrating with strange earnestness––“for once I want to be myself. For weeks we have been––friends––and then suddenly you begin to treat me––how? As though I no longer existed! Why did you deceive me––let me drift on? Because I was mute, did you think I was blind? Why did I join the strollers––the land baron accused me of following you across the country. He was right; I was following you. I would not confess it to myself before. But I confess it now! It was a fool’s paradise,” he ended, bitterly.
She shrank back before his vehement words; something within her appeared violated; as though his plea had penetrated the sanctity of her reserve.
“Would it not be well to say nothing about deception?” she replied, and her dark eyes swept his face. Then, turning from him abruptly, she stepped to the window, and, drawing aside the lace curtains mechanically, looked out.
The city below was yet teeming with life, lights gleaming everywhere and shadowy figures passing. Suddenly out of the darkness came a company of soldiers who had just landed, marching through the streets toward the camping ground and singing as they went.
The chorus, like a mighty breath of patriotism, filled her heart to overflowing. It seemed as though she had heard it for the first time; had never before felt its potency. All the tragedy of war swept before her; all that inspiring, strange affection for country, kith and kin, suddenly exalted her.
341
Above the tramping of feet, the melody rose and fell on the distant air, dying away as the figures vanished in the gloom. With its love of native land, its expression of the unity of comradeship and ties stronger than death, the song appeared to challenge an answer; and, when the music ceased, and only the drum-beats still seemed to make themselves heard, she raised her head without moving from her position and looked at him to see if he understood. But though she glanced at him, she hardly saw him. In her mind was another picture––the betrayed garrison; the soldiers slain!––and the horror of it threw such a film over her gaze that he became as a figure in some distressing dream.
An inkling of her meaning––the mute questioning of her eyes––the dread evoked by that revolting vision of the past––were reflected in his glance.
“Deceived you?” he began, and his voice, to her, sounded as from afar. “How––what––”
“Must it be––could it be put into words?”
The deepest shadows dwelt in her eyes; shadows he could not penetrate, although he still doggedly, yet apprehensively, regarded her! Watching her, his brow grew darker.
“Why not?” he continued, stubbornly.
Why? The dimness that had obscured her vision lifted. Now she saw him very plainly, indeed; tall342and powerful; his face, harsh, intense, as though by the vigor of physical and mental force he would override any charge or imputation.
Why? She drew herself up, as he quickly searched her eyes, bright with the passions that stirred her breast.
“You told me part of your story that day in the property wagon,” she began, repugnance, scorn and anger all mingling in her tones. “Why did you not tell me the rest?”
His glance, too, flashed. Would he still profess not to understand her? His lips parted; he spoke with an effort.
“The rest?” he said, his brow lowering.
“Yes,” she answered quickly; “the stain upon your name!––the garrison sold!––the soldiers killed!––murdered!––”
She had turned to him swiftly, fiercely, with her last words, but before the look of sudden shame and dread on his face, her eyes abruptly fell as though a portion of his dishonor had inexplicably touched her. He made no attempt to defend himself––motionless he stood an instant––then, without a word, he moved away. At the threshold he paused, but she did not look up––could not! A moment; an eternity!
“Why don’t you go?” she cried. “Why don’t you go?”
The door opened, closed; she was alone.
Pale as the dying lilies on the table, she stepped toward the threshold, when Barnes, chipper and still343indefatigable, entered by another door. He was too inspired with festal intoxication to observe her agitation.
“What, my dear!” he exclaimed cheerily. “Has he gone? Did you make up your little differences? Did you settle your quarrel before he leaves for Mexico?”
“For Mexico!” she repeated, mechanically.
“Of course. He has his commission in the army and leaves early in the morning. But you look tired, my dear. I declare you are quite pale”––pinching her cheek––“rest will bring back the roses, though.”
Impulsively she threw her arms around his neck.
“Why, why, what’s this?” he said, patting her head.
“I only care for you,” she whispered. “My dear! My dear!”
344CHAPTER XITHE PASSING OF A FINE GENTLEMAN
“‘Perhaps she will fail, and that will amuse me,’” ruminated François on his high seat next to the coachman, repeating the marquis’ words, as they drove home after the nobleman’s precipitous retreat from the theater. “Well, he didn’t look as though he had been particularly amused. But no wonder he was startled! It even”––reviewing the impression first made upon him at sight of the actress––“sent a shiver through me!” Here the carriage drew up sharply before the marquis’ home, and François, hastily alighting, threw open the door.
“Eh? What? Are we here?” muttered the marquis, starting from the corner where he had been reclining.
He arose with some difficulty; traversed the sidewalk and the shell-strewn path to the house which loomed darkly before them; paused at the foot of the stairs where he breathed heavily, complaining of the oppressiveness of the air; and finally, with the assistance of the valet, found himself once more in his345room, the sick chamber he had grown to detest! Here alone––having dismissed the servant as soon as possible––he moved restlessly to and fro, pondering deeply. Since the moment when he had seen and recognized his daughter, all the buoyancy which had given his wasted figure a sort of galvanic vitality seemed to vanish. It was like the exhaustion of a battery, the collapse of the sustaining power.
“That resemblance can not be coincidence!” he thought. “Oh, errors of the past, you come home in our old age when the limbs are faltering and life is failing!”
Going to thesecrétaire, he took out a box that had not been opened in years, and, with trembling fingers, turned over many papers. He shivered, and, thinking it was cold, stirred the fire. Returning to the secretary, he took from the box a package tied with a ribbon still, after the lapse of these many years, slightly fragrant, and he breathed that perfume, so faint, so subtle, while recollections smote him like a knife.
Its scent was familiar to him; it seemed to bring life to the dead, and for the moment in his mind’s eye he saw her glowing figure, the love of his youth, with flashing, revengeful eyes and noble mien. He cowered over the desk, as if shrinking from an avenging spirit, while the perfume, like opium, filled his brain with strange fantasies. He strove to drown remembrance, but some force––it seemed not his own!––drove him irresistibly to untie that ribbon, to scrutinize346many old theater programs and to gaze upon a miniature in ivory depicting a woman in the loveliness of her charms, but whose striking likeness to the young actress he had just seen filled his heart with strange fear. Some power––surely it could not have been his will which rebelled strenuously!––impelled him to open those letters and to read them word for word. The tenderness of the epistles fell on his heart as though to scorch it, and he quivered like a guilty wretch. His eyes were fascinated by these words in her last letter: “Should you desert me and your unborn child, your end will be miserable. As I believe in retribution, I am sure you will reap as you have sown.”
Suddenly the reader in a frenzy threw the letter to the floor and trampled on it. He regarded the face in the miniature with fear and hatred, and dashing it into the drawer, called down maledictions on her. He ceased abruptly, weak and wavering.
“I am going insane,” he said, laughing harshly. “Fool! To let that woman’s memory disturb me. So much for her dire prophecy!” And he snapped his fingers and dropped the letter in the fire.
“What can her curse avail?” he said aloud. “She is gone, turned to ashes like that paper and there is no life after this one. All then is nothing––emptiness––a blank! I need rest. It is this cursed dyspepsia which has made me nervous. Something to compose me, and then to bed!”