TWO LOVELY WOMEN
There was music at the Villa des Bougainvilleas. Miss Redmond sang;
not _Good-night, God Keep You Safe_, but other things. Ever since
her talk with Hammet Abou she had been, if not gay, in good spirits,
more like her old self, and the Marquise d'Esclignac began to think
that the image of Charles de Sabron had not been cut too deeply upon
her mind. The marquise, from the lounge in the shadow of the room,
enjoyed the picture (Sabron would not have added it to his
collection) of her niece at the piano and the Duc de Tremont by her
side. The Comtesse de la Maine sat in a little shadow of her own,
musing and enjoying the picture of the Duc de Tremont and Miss
Redmond very indifferently. She did not sing; she had no parlor
accomplishments. She was poor, a widow, and had a child. She was
not a brilliant match.
From where he stood, Tremont could see the Comtesse de la Maine in
her little shadow, the oriental decorations a background to her
slight Parisian figure, and a little out of the shadow, the bright
aigret in her hair danced, shaking its sparkles of fire. She looked
infinitely sad and infinitely appealing. One bare arm was along the
back of her lounge. She leaned her head upon her hand.
After a few moments the Duc de Tremont quietly left the piano and
Miss Redmond, and went and sat down beside the Comtesse de la Maine,
who, in order to make a place for him, moved out of the shadow.
Julia, one after another, played songs she loved, keeping her fingers
resolutely from the notes that wanted to run into a single song, the
music, the song that linked her to the man whose life had become a
mystery. She glanced at the Duc de Tremont and the Comtesse de la
Maine. She glanced at her aunt, patting Mimi, who, freshly washed,
adorned by pale blue ribbon, looked disdainful and princely, and with
passion and feeling she began to sing the song that seemed to reach
beyond the tawdry room of the villa in Algiers, and to go into the
desert, trying in sweet intensity to speak and to comfort, and as she
sat so singing to one man, Sabron would have adored adding that
picture to his collection.
The servant came up to the marquise and gave her a message. The lady
rose, beckoned Tremont to follow her, and went out on the veranda,
followed by Mimi. Julia stopped playing and went over to the
Comtesse de la Maine.
"Where have my aunt and Monsieur de Tremont gone, Madame?"
"To see some one who has come to suggest a camel excursion, I
believe."
"He chooses a curious hour."
"Everything is curious in the East, Mademoiselle," returned the
comtesse. "I feel as though my own life were turned upside down."
"We are not far enough in the East for that," smiled Julia Redmond.
She regarded the comtesse with her frank girlish scrutiny. There was
in it a fine truthfulness and utter disregard of all the barriers
that long epochs of etiquette put between souls.
Julia Redmond knew nothing of French society and of the deference due
to the arts of the old world. She knew, perhaps, very little of
anything. She was young and unschooled. She knew, as some women
know, how to feel, and how to be, and how to love. She was as honest
as her ancestors, among whose traditions is the story that one of
them could never tell a lie.
Julia Redmond sat beside the Comtesse de la Maine, whose elegance she
admired enormously, and taking one of the lady's hands, with a frank
liking she asked in her rich young voice:
"Why do you tolerate me, Madame?"
"_Ma chère enfant_," exclaimed the comtesse. "Why, you are adorable."
"It is terribly good of you to say so," murmured Julia Redmond. "It
shows how generous you are."
"But you attribute qualities to me I do not deserve, Mademoiselle."
"You deserve them and much more, Madame. I loved you the first day I
saw you; no one could help loving you."
Julia Redmond was irresistible. The Comtesse de la Maine had
remarked her caprices, her moods, her sadness. She had seen that the
good spirits were false and, as keen women do, she had attributed it
to a love-affair with the Duc de Tremont. The girl's frankness was
contagious. The Comtesse de la Maine murmured:
"I think the same of you, _ma chère, vous êtes charmante_."
[Illustration: Comtesse de la Main and Julia Redmond]
Julia Redmond shook her head. She did not want compliments. The
eyes of the two women met and read each other.
"Couldn't you be frank with me, Madame? It is so easy to be frank."
It was, indeed, impossible for Julia Redmond to be anything else.
The comtesse, who was only a trifle older than the young girl, felt
like her mother just then. She laughed.
"But be frank--about what?"
"You see," said Julia Redmond swiftly, "I care absolutely nothing for
the Duc de Tremont, nothing."
"You don't _love_ him?" returned Madame de la Maine, with deep
accentuation. "Is it possible?"
The girl smiled.
"Yes, quite possible. I think he is a perfect dear. He is a
splendid friend and I am devoted to him, but I don't love him at all,
not at all."
"Ah!" breathed Madame de la Maine, and she looked at the American
girl guardedly.
For a moment it was like a passage of arms between a frank young
Indian chief and a Jesuit. Julia, as it were, shook her feathers and
her beads.
"And I don't care in the _least_ about being a duchess! My father
made his money in oil. I am not an aristocrat like my aunt," she
said.
"Then," said the Comtesse de la Maine, forgetting that she was a
Jesuit, "you will marry Robert de Tremont simply to please your aunt?"
"But nothing on earth would induce me to marry him!" cried Julia
Redmond. "That's what I'm telling you, Madame. I don't love him!"
The Comtesse de la Maine looked at her companion and bit her lip.
She blushed more warmly than is permitted in the Faubourg
St.-Germain, but she was young and the western influence is
pernicious.
"I saw at once that you loved him," said Julia Redmond frankly.
"That's why I speak as I do."
The Comtesse de la Maine drew back and exclaimed.
"Oh," said Julia Redmond, "don't deny it. I shan't like you half so
well if you do. There is no shame in being in love, is
there?--especially when the man you love, loves you."
The Comtesse de la Maine broke down, or, rather, she rose high. She
rose above all the smallness of convention and the rules of her
French formal education.
"You are wonderful," she said, laughing softly, her eyes full of
tears. "Will you tell me what makes you think that he is fond of me?"
"But you know it so well," said Julia. "Hasn't he cared for you for
a long time?"
Madame de la Maine wondered just how much Julia Redmond had heard,
and as there was no way of finding out, she said graciously:
"He has seemed to love me very dearly for many years; but I am poor;
I have a child. He is ambitious and he is the Duc de Tremont."
"Nonsense," said Julia. "He loves you. That's all that counts. You
will be awfully happy. You will marry the Duc de Tremont, won't you?
There's a dear."
"Happy," murmured the other woman, "happy, my dear friend, I never
dreamed of such a thing!"
"Dream of it now," said Julia Redmond swiftly, "for it will come
true."