The next night Sophy acted as showman. Her part was over at the end of
the first act, and a few minutes later she slipped into a seat by John's
side behind the curtain.
"What do you think of it so far?" she asked, a little anxiously.
"It seems quite good," John replied cheerfully. "Some very clever lines,
and all that sort of thing; but I can't quite see what it's all leading
to."
Sophy peered around the house from behind the curtain.
"There isn't standing-room anywhere," she declared. "I don't suppose
there ever was a play in London that was more talked about; and then
putting it off for more than three months--why, there have been all
sorts of rumors about. Do you want to know who the people in the
audience are?"
"Not particularly," John answered. "I shouldn't know them, if you told
me. There are just a few familiar faces. I see the prince in the box
opposite."
"Did you telephone to Louise to-day?" Sophy asked.
John shook his head.
"No. I thought it better to leave her alone until after to-night."
"You are going to the supper, of course?"
"I have been asked," John replied, a little doubtfully. "I don't quite
know whether I want to. Is it being given by the prince or by the
management?"
"The management," Sophy assured him. "Do come and take me! It's going to
be rather fun."
The curtain went up upon the second act. John, from the shadows of the
box, listened attentively. The subject was not a particularly new one,
but the writing was brilliant. There was the old _Marquis de Guy_, a
roue, a degenerate, but still overbearing and full of personality, from
whose lips came some of Graillot's most brilliant sayings; Louise, his
wife; and Faraday, a friend of the old marquis, and obviously the
intended lover of his wife.
"I don't see anything so terrible in this," John remarked, as the
curtain went down once more and thunders of applause greeted some
wonderful lines of Graillot's.
"It's wonderful!" Sophy declared. "Try and bear the thread of it all in
your mind. For two acts you have been asked to focus your attention upon
the increasing brutality of the marquis. Remember that, won't you?"
"Not likely to forget it," John replied. "How well they all act!"
There was a quarter of an hour's interval before the curtain rose again.
Rumors concerning the last act had been floating about for weeks, and
the house was almost tense with excitement as the curtain went up. The
scene was the country _chateau_ of the _Marquis de Guy_, who brought a
noisy crowd of companions from Paris without any warning. His wife
showed signs of dismay at his coming. He had brought with him women whom
she declined to receive.
The great scene between her husband and herself took place in the square
hall of the _chateau_, on the first floor. The marquis is on the way to
the room of one of his guests. Louise reaffirms her intention of
leaving the house. Her husband laughs at her. Her position is helpless.
"What can you do?" he mocks.
She shrugs her shoulders and passes into her room. The marquis sinks
upon a settee, and presently is joined by one of the ladies who have
traveled with him from Paris. He talks to her of the pictures upon the
wall. She is impatient to meet the _Marquis de Guy_.
The marquis knocks at his wife's door. Her voice is heard clearly, after
a moment's pause.
"In a few minutes!" she replies.
The marquis resumes his flirtation. His companion becomes impatient--the
marquis has pledged his word that she should be received by his wife. An
ancient enmity against the _Marquis de Guy_ prompts her to insist.
The marquis shrugs his shoulders and knocks more loudly than ever at his
wife's door. She comes out--followed by Faraday.
"You asked me what I could do," she says, pointing to her lover. "You
see now!"
There was a moment's breathless silence through the house. The scene in
itself was a little beyond anything that the audience had expected.
Sophy, who had been leaning over the edge of the box, turned around in
no little anxiety. She heard the door slam. John had disappeared!
He left the theater with only his hat in his hand, turning up his coat
by instinct as he passed through the driving rain. All his senses seemed
tingling with some nameless horror. The brilliance of the language, the
subtlety of the situation, seemed like some evil trail drawn across that
one horrible climax. It was Louise who had come from that room and
pointed to Faraday! Louise who confessed herself a--
He broke out into language as he walked. The desire of Samson burned in
his heart--to stride back into the theater, to smash the scenery, to
throw the puppets from the stage, one by one, to end forever this
ghastly, unspeakable play. And all the time the applause rang in his
ears. He had read with one swift glance the tense interest--almost
lascivious, it seemed to him--on the faces of that great audience. The
scene had tickled their fancies. It was to pander to such base feelings
that Louise was upon the stage!
He reached his rooms--he scarcely knew how--and walked up-stairs. There
he threw off some of his dripping garments, opened the window wide, and
stood there.
He looked out over the Thames, and there was a red fire before his eyes.
Stephen was right, he told himself. There was nothing but evil to be
found here, nothing but bitter disappointment, nothing but the pain
which deepens into anguish. Better to remain like Stephen, unloving and
unloved, to draw nearer to the mountains, to find joy in the crops and
the rain and the sunshine, to listen stonily to the cry of human beings
as if to some voice from an unknown world.
He leaned a little further from the window, and gazed into the court at
a dizzy depth below. He had cut himself adrift from the peace which
might have been his. He would never know again the joys of his earlier
life. It was for this that he had fought so many battles, clung so
tightly to one ideal--for Louise, who could show herself to any one who
cared to pay his shilling or his half-guinea, glorying in her dishonor;
worse than glorying in it--finding some subtle humor in the little
gesture with which she had pointed, unashamed, to her lover.
John bent a little lower from the window. A sudden dizziness seemed to
have come over him. Then he was forced to turn around. His door had been
quickly opened and shut. It was Sophy who was crossing toward him, the
rain streaming from her ruined opera-cloak.
"John!" she cried. "Oh, John!"
She led him back to his chair and knelt by his side. She held his hands
tightly.
"You mustn't feel like this," she sobbed; "you mustn't, John, really!
You don't understand. It's all a play. Louise wouldn't really do
anything like that!"
He shivered. Nevertheless, he clutched her hands and drew her closer to
him.
"Do, please, listen to me," she begged. "It's all over. Louise is
herself again--Louise Maurel. The _Marquis de Guy_ never lived except
upon these boards. It is simply a wonderful creation. Any one of the
great actresses would play that part and glory in it--the very greatest,
John. Oh, it's so hard to make you understand! Louise is waiting for
you. They are all waiting at the supper-party. You are expected. You
must go and tell her that you think it was wonderful!"
He rose slowly to his feet.
"Wonderful!" he muttered. "Wonderful! But, child, it is damnable!"
"Don't be foolish," she answered. "Go and put on another dress coat, tie
your tie again, and brush your hair. I have come to take you to the
supper."
He caught at her hands roughly.
"Supposing I won't go?" he whispered hoarsely. "Supposing--I keep you
here instead, Sophy?"
She swayed for a moment. Something flashed into her face and passed
away. She was paler than ever.
"Dear John," she begged, "pull yourself together! Remember that Louise
is waiting for you. It's Louise you want--not me. Nothing that she has
done to-night should make her any the less worthy of you and your love."
He strode away into the farther room. He reappeared in a moment or two,
his hair smoothly brushed, his tie newly arranged.
"I'll come, little girl," he promised. "I don't know what I'll say to
her, but I'll come. There can't be any harm in that!"
"Of course not," she answered cheerfully. "You're the most terrible
goose, John," she added, as they walked down the corridor. "Do, please,
lose your tragical air. The whole world is at Louise's feet to-night.
You mustn't let her know how absurdly you have been feeling. To-morrow
you will find that every paper in London will be acclaiming her genius."
John squared his shoulders.
"All the same," he declared grimly, "if I could burn the theater and the
play, and lock up Graillot for a month, to-night, I'd do it!"