Romedek and his wife. He has been an enormous success here this year,
and society has taken him up. But the trouble is with Madame Romedek;
no one is sure she _is_ Madame Romedek, and a great many people are
sure she isn't. She is a pretty, rather common-looking person, with no
particular intelligence or _esprit_. I am told she is more
communicative _under_ the table than she is over it; and I know some
men are crazy about her. Of course, she isn't a woman any of us can
stand for a moment. If Romedek were a painter we should know she'd been
his model, and be awfully sorry for him. But Romedek is a musician (a
great one--I wish you could hear him); and they say she hasn't even the
social prestige or poetic license of having been an artist's model, but
of having been something quite wrong to begin with. Naturally, you see,
some of society won't have her at any price. Those that must have _him_
have difficulty in entertaining them. I hear one prominent woman who
was asked last week to dine and meet the Romedeks considered herself
insulted, and has struck her would-be hostess' name off her visiting
list. So you see it wasn't all plain sailing with the Westington's, and
I can hear them decide between themselves to give a "real Bohemian
dinner;" that is, ask people who "do things," and whom you sometimes do
meet out at houses where they are not particular about mixing--the kind
of people who would probably not take offense at being asked to meet
Mrs. Romedek without having her marriage certificate for their dinner
card. Of course, as you know, I don't mind being asked to meet anybody.
Thank goodness! I feel perfectly secure about my reputation, and also
about my position, which is quite good enough to please me. But there
is a difference in being asked to meet a questionable person because
that person is brilliant, or beautiful, or talented, and that therefore
you (belonging to the aristocracy of brains) will appreciate her, and,
on the other hand, being asked to meet her because you are an artist's
wife and don't mind that sort of thing. We _do_ mind it very much! We
don't even _care_ for it in geniuses--only we overlook it in a genius;
disregard it as not being our affair. But to be asked to meet a silly,
loose woman with the idea that I won't mind, almost as if I approved, I
resent that.
However, let me tell you who was there. On Mrs. Westington's right, of
course, sat Romedek, and he is very handsome and very charming, and I
think at least Mrs. Westington enjoyed her dinner if nobody else did.
On Mrs. W.'s left was Mr. ----, who is, you know, a great swell here
and who poses as being a fast patron of the arts and graces--especially
the graces--after the pattern of a Frenchman who has his _entrée_
behind the scenes of the opera. His wife never accepts invitations that
he does; they meet, you know, under their own roof, for the sake of the
children--but under their _own_ roof only. So in her place Belle
Carterson was asked, who has gone in for keeping a swell florist's
place, and they say is making money. She is independent, and I like
her, but of course it is considered by her friends in society that
since she went in for business she can't refuse to meet _anyone_. Dick
sat next to her, and had on the other side of him Mrs. ----, who likes
celebrities without the knack of selection, and whose invitations
nowadays I believe are never accepted at once, but are kept open as
long as possible to see if something better won't turn up. Then came
Mrs. Romedek and Mr. Westington; he looking bored to death, and she as
if she didn't know where she was at. Then Bobbie Lawsher, who writes
books and operettas and things--rather amusing he is, but becoming more
and more of a snob every day. It's bad enough to see a woman straining
every nerve to get into society, but when you see a man it's worse than
ridiculous. I met him at a smart party the other night, and he stuck by
me for hours, asking who everybody was till I lost my patience and told
him I couldn't be a Blue Book for him or anybody, and he would either
have to dance with me at once or go to some one else with his
questions. I never knew any one who could bring in the names of as many
smart people in one short remark as Bobbie can. If you happen to ask
him what time it is, you could make a wager that, in his answer, in a
perfectly natural way, he will mention familiarly three smart society
women (calling one at least by her first name). Of course he does get
asked a great deal, because he's little more than a snub-cushion--holds
any amount of them as easily as pins. Besides he goes to afternoon
bores, like Teas and At Homes and Days, for which free and untrammelled
men can only be obtained by subterfuge and trick or some extraordinary
bribe. To a young man like Bobbie Lawsher afternoon affairs are a sort
of happy hunting ground, a social grab bag, where he can never be sure
there isn't a dinner invitation, or one for the opera, or a luncheon,
to be secured if one is clever and careful. Why, when a woman has a man
guest back out at the last moment from a dinner, the first thing she
does is to rush off to any At Home, that's going on, with the fairly
confident expectation of finding Bobbie Lawsher and making him fill her
vacancy. Bobbie has accomplishments of a certain sort, can sing a
pretty little song in a pretty little way, and can pass a tea cup
without spilling, and drink tea himself, and can hang around when he's
wanted, and be got rid of easily when he isn't. He is a sort of society
errand boy, and very useful. I take it back about his having
accomplishments--a better word for them is _conveniences_!
Well, on the other side of Bobbie was Mrs. ----, red in the face, so
angry she was asked to meet Madame Romedek, talking with poor Bobbie in
a sharp, spasmodic sort of way, as if she were carrying on the
conversation with her knife and fork, cutting the sentences into bits,
some ignoring and some eating,--and none agreeing with her, or she
agreeing with none. Then George Ringold asked, I suppose, for me. I am
quite aware that women who are indiscreet themselves think there is
"more than meets the eye" between George and me. I am very fond of him,
and so is Dick. And he has kissed me, and Dick knows it; but I am sure
I need not tell you that is all. On the other side was Romedek, and
perhaps I ought to feel complimented, but as, thanks to Mrs.
Westington, we didn't succeed in carrying on to a finish any single
conversation we started, I don't allow myself to be too flattered.
Mrs. W. talked music, of course--the commonplaces of it--such as any
well-bred, smart, educated woman of the world knows how to talk
nowadays, with perhaps just one good, big, absurd mistake thrown
in,--thus, by the grace of humor keeping banality from becoming
absolutely fatal. Madame Romedek was rather amusing. She tried to be
the lady--which, as she doesn't know how, and only succeeds in being
impossibly stupid, must have bored the men on each side of her
tremendously. That's where foolish women of that sort spoil their own
game. If they would make the best of the bargain, and be frankly a
common cocotte _gone right_, they would certainly be more amusing,
and might have something like success, at any rate with the men.
The food was excellent, the wine good, the house lovely! And as soon
after dinner as was at all decent, we left. We decided in the cab on
our way home, from no point of view had it paid,--financially least of
all; for our dinner in the restaurant, with all our jolly friends,
would have cost us only seventy-five cents, while our cab bill for the
evening was three dollars. As for having had a good time, there was
only one person there who had that--Mrs. Westington herself. I believe
even the servants must have been bored by the dinner, unless, perhaps,
Madame Romedek flirted with _them_; which I should think extremely
likely.
I am getting sleepy now, of which fact my letter undoubtedly bears
"internal evidence." So good night and sweet dreams to you, and none to
me--I don't like them!
Write me what you are doing in Paris. I am sure your husband will have
his usual great success in the Champ de Mars. We are all very proud of
him.
With love, dear Dora,
GUENNE BARROWS.
The Gamblers
I. Madame Eugenie Leblanche, veuve, age 62 years.
II. Mlle. Nina and Mlle. Fifi.
III. Mrs. Henry B. Gording and Mrs. Wm. H. Lane.
IV. Mme. Borté and Mme. Lautre.
I
_The Baccarat Table in the Villa des Fleurs, Aix-les-Bains._
MADAME EUGENIE LEBLANCHE, _veuve_.
(_A large, stout lady in black satin and brocade, violet-colored
face-powder, and a reddish blonde display underneath a questionable
bonnet. She wears a somewhat profuse and miscellaneous display of
jewels, principally diamonds dull as the eyes of dissipation. She holds
her chips in large loose white cotton gloves that reach to her elbow.
Her lips, compressed together, move constantly, with a sort of excited
switch-back motion._)
(_To herself._) I wonder who has the cards. Oh, it's that monsieur
there, I see. Not good! I will only place two louis. (_She asks the
gentleman in front of her to place them for her. He does so._) No, I am
wrong, I will put three. (_She asks the gentleman to place a third
louis for her. In doing so the chip rolls from his fingers; he
immediately recaptures it and places it properly._) Monsieur, monsieur,
if you please. Return me my louis, if you please! I never play a louis
that has rolled on the table. That would bring us bad fortune, you
would see! Thank you, thank you very much. (_To herself again._) I am
sorry I did not ask him to hand me back two. We are going to lose! Good
heavens! it is sure we lose! Ah, the cards! Bad, that's sure! O, what
emotion! O good heavens! Seven! But the bank! No, we gain! O---- O good
heavens! Good heavens! what emotion! We gain! What a misfortune I
didn't leave the extra louis! It is disgusting! I regret it now. O, I
regret it very much! But it is always like that with me! Are we going
to be paid? I don't think so! No, we won't be paid! It is always like
that; when one loses one is taken, and when one wins one is never paid!
O good heavens! Now he will pay our side. After all there ought to be
enough money. O yes, yes, we will be paid! All the better! Two louis
for me if you please, thank you. Monsieur, I am sorry to trouble you to
give me my four louis! No, no, you haven't given me enough! I put down
two louis. O yes, you are right. Pardon me, I didn't understand; yes, I
have four. Thank you very much. You are very kind. (_To herself
again._) I am paid! After all, I am paid! So much the better! What
emotion! I will play two louis again; no, three; no, two; no, one must
have courage. Monsieur, if you please, will you have the kindness to
place my four louis on the table? Thank you very much! (_To herself
again._) But, if I lose! and I will lose. Good heavens! O---- what
emotion! (_Etc., etc._)
II
MLLE. NINA.
(_Young, very beautiful, in an exquisite gown from Laferiere, with
gorgeous jewels and a wonderful hat._)
Who is the banker?
MLLE. FIFI.
(_Equally charming, as magnificently jeweled, and as exquisitely
gowned; also a chapeau of wonderful birds, such as never sang in any
wood._)
He? He is an old Russian. He has millions and millions, my dear!
MLLE. NINA.
(_Raising her eyebrows and regarding the banker affectionately._)
Really?
MLLE. FIFI.
Yes, yes; and he is a perfect gentleman. He gave Lala of the Vaudeville
three strings of pearls in two days. He is very generous and
altogether nice.
MLLE. NINA.
(_Jealously._) Do you know him?
MLLE. FIFI.
O no, my dear; he is not my style. You know I never like a gentleman
who parts his hair on the left side. It's my fad.
MLLE. NINA.
(_Very pleasantly._) Have you won to-night, dearie?
MLLE. FIFI.
Ah, yes, my dear! _Think!_ two thousand francs already!
MLLE. NINA.
(_Very sweetly, moving away._) So much the better. I've lost like the
devil. (_She very slowly makes a detour of the table in the direction
of the Russian banker. At the same time an elderly gentleman approaches
Mlle. Fifi and speaks to her._)
LE MONSIEUR.
Good evening, my dear!
MLLE. FIFI.
Good evening, my pig of a Prince!
LE MONSIEUR.
You have won?
MLLE. FIFI.
Oh, but _no_, my dear! I have lost _enormously_! It is _terrible_ what
I've done! I have lost nearly _all_ I have!
MLLE. NINA.
(_Who has just arrived behind the banker, leaning over his shoulder
and watching him win an enormous coup._) Ah, ha! You see, Monsieur,
I bring you good fortune always!
THE BANKER.
I didn't know you were behind me, mademoiselle. (_He looks up. She
smiles sweetly and innocently. He is pleased._)
MLLE. NINA.
Oh, yes, for a long time!
THE BANKER.
You don't play?
MLLE. NINA.
(_With a manner altogether modest, and a soft, low voice._) Oh, no;
never! I have nothing to risk; besides, it doesn't amuse me very much.
I never play.
THE BANKER.
Put on that hundred francs just to try your fortune.
MLLE. NINA.
(_Leaning over, takes the note from the pile._) If you wish it. (_She
plays and wins; brushes his cheek and shoulder with her arm as she
reaches over to take up her money._)
(_The play continues._)
MLLE. NINA.
(_Still winning._) You know you are very nice. (_She plays again with a
note from the banker's pile._)
III
MRS. HENRY B. GORDING, _of Rochester, New York._
Do you play?
MRS. WM. H. LANE, _of Brooklyn_.
No, not really. I don't quite approve of it, but I just try my luck
once in awhile for amusement.
MRS. HENRY B. GORDING.
Yes, that's exactly the way I feel. So long as you don't go in for it
seriously I don't see any harm.
MRS. WM. H. LANE.
And if you stop as soon as you begin to lose.
MRS. HENRY B. GORDING.
Yes, indeed! Oh my! are you putting one down?
MRS. WM. H. LANE.
Yes, I think that man looks lucky over there with the glasses; besides
I like him because his wife sits right by him all the evening.
MRS. HENRY B. GORDING.
(_Smiling nervously and fumbling in her glove where she has concealed
the money to have it conveniently ready._) Put one down for me, too;
will you? (_She smiles hysterically._) Dear me, I wonder what my
husband would say if he could see me?
MRS. WM. H. LANE.
I don't know a single thing about the game; do you?
MRS. HENRY B. GORDING.
(_With two small red spots coming into her cheeks._) Not the slightest.
It's finished! I wonder who's won!
MRS. WM. LANE.
(_After a long excited sigh._) I don't know. I never can tell till I
see them either taking up our chips, or else paying us!
MRS. HENRY B. GORDING.
(_Breathlessly._) If I lose, I shall go.
MRS. WM. H. LANE.
So shall I! We've won!
MRS. HENRY B. GORDING.
Ah! -- -- -- --.
MRS. WM. H. LANE.
(_Looking at least ten years older than she did two minutes before._)
No, we've lost!
MRS. HENRY B. GORDING.
O! -- -- -- --.
MRS. WM. H. LANE.
I'm not going. I shall try once more!
MRS. HENRY B. GORDING.
So shall I.
MRS. WM. H. LANE.
And I don't believe the woman is that man's wife after all. If she had
been we wouldn't have lost our dollars!
IV
MME. BORTÉ.
(_Leaning over a man's right shoulder for some gold on the table._) I
beg pardon; that is my two louis!
MME. LAUTRE.
(_Leaning over the man's left shoulder._) But no, madame, it is mine! I
put a louis down there!
MME. BORTÉ.
No, no! That is where I put mine. Give me my louis!
MME. LAUTRE.
But you are wrong, madame; it is my louis, and I shall keep it!
MME. BORTÉ.
But no, madame!
MME. LAUTRE.
But yes----!
THREE WOMEN BESIDE MME. BORTÉ.
Yes, madame is right. She certainly put a louis down there.
THE SAME NUMBER OF WOMEN BESIDE MME. LAUTRE.
No, it is the other madame who put the money down there.
A MAN ON THE OPPOSITE SIDE OF THE TABLE.
Ssss----
UN MONSIEUR.
Oh, the women! the women!--always rowing!
CROUPIER.
Make your plays, gentlemen!
MME. LAUTRE AND MME. BORTÉ.
(_Together; each to her own coterie._) You know perfectly it is my
louis; isn't it? Oh, never in my life! Never! never!
(_The game continues, and so does the discussion._)
PRINTED AT THE LAKESIDE PRESS,
CHICAGO, FOR THE PUBLISHERS,
HERBERT S. STONE & CO. CHICAGO, U.S.A.