The little place was unexpectedly crowded when John entered, after
having handed his hat and coat to a _vestiaire_. A large supper-party
was going on at the further end, and the dancing space was smaller than
usual. The _maitre d'hotel_ was escorting John to a small table in a
distant corner, which had just been vacated, when the latter heard his
name suddenly called by a familiar voice. Sophy, who had been dancing,
abandoned her partner precipitately and came hurrying up to John with
outstretched hands.
"John!" she exclaimed. "You, of all people in the world! What do you
mean by coming here alone at this time of night? Fancy not telling me!
Is anything the matter?"
"Nothing," he replied. "I really don't exactly know why I am here. I
simply didn't want to go to bed."
She looked at him closely. It was clear that she was a little puzzled at
his appearance.
"If it were not you, John," she declared, "I should say that you had
been having more to drink than was good for you!"
"Then you would be very wrong," John assured her, "because I haven't had
anything at all. I have come here to get something. Can't you come and
sit with me?"
"Of course!" she assented eagerly. "The prince is giving a supper-party
at the other end of the room there. We all came on together from the
reception. Let us get away to your corner quickly, or they will see you
and make you go and join them. I would much rather have you to myself.
The people here seem so stupid to-night!"
John stood still, and made no movement toward the table which the
_maitre d'hotel_ was smilingly preparing for them.
"Where is the prince?" he asked.
Sophy, struck by something in his voice, swung around and looked at him.
Then she thrust both her arms through his, clasped her two hands
together, and led him firmly away. A glimmering of the truth was
beginning to dawn upon her.
"Tell me where you have been since you left the reception," she
insisted, when at last they were seated together.
"Wait till I have ordered some wine," he said.
A waiter served them with champagne. When John's glass was filled, he
drained its contents. Sophy watched him with surprise. She came a little
closer to him.
"John," she whispered, "you must tell me--do you hear? You must tell me
everything! Did you take Louise home?"
"Yes."
"What happened, then? You didn't quarrel with her?"
"Nothing at all happened," he assured her. "We parted the best of
friends. It wasn't that."
"Then what? Remember that I am your friend, John dear. Tell me
everything."
He poured himself more wine and drank it.
"I will tell you," he assented. "I went to a little club I belong to on
the Adelphi Terrace. I sat down in the smoking room. There was no one
there I knew. Some men were talking. They had been to the reception
to-night. They were comparing French actresses and English. They spoke
first of the French woman, Latrobe, and her lovers; then of Louise. They
spoke quite calmly, like men discussing history. They compared the two
actresses, they compared their lives. Latrobe, they said, had lovers by
the score--Louise only one."
Sophy's hand stole into his. She was watching the twisting of his
features. She understood so well the excitement underneath.
"I think I can guess," she whispered. "Don't hurt yourself telling me.
Something was said about the prince!"
His eyes blazed down upon her.
"You, too?" he muttered. "Does the whole world know of it and speak as
if it did not matter? Sophy, is it true? Speak out! Don't be afraid of
hurting me. You call yourself my friend. I've been down, looking at the
outside of her house. I dared not go in. There's a fire burning in my
soul! Tell me if it is true!"
"You must not ask me that question, John," she begged. "How should I
know? Besides, these things are so different in our world, the world you
haven't found out much about yet. Supposing it were true, John," she
went on, "remember that it was before you knew her. Supposing it should
be true, remember this--your idea of life is too absurd. Is one creed
made to fit human beings who may differ in a million different ways? A
woman may be as good as any ever born into the world, and yet take just
a little love into her life, if she be true and faithful in doing it. I
don't believe there is a dearer or sweeter woman breathing than Louise,
but one must have love. Don't I know it? A man may be strong enough to
live without it, but a woman--never!"
The skirts of the women brushed their table as they danced, the rhythm
of the music rose and fell above the murmur of laughter and
conversation. John looked around the room, and a sort of despair crept
in upon him. It was no good! He had come to London to understand; he
understood nothing. He was made of the wrong fiber. If only he could
change himself! If it were not too late! If he could make himself like
other men!
He turned and glanced at his companion. Sophy was looking very sweet and
very wistful. The warm touch of her fingers was grateful. Her sympathy
was like some welcome flower in a wilderness. His heart ached with a new
desire. If only he could make himself different! If only he could
stretch out his hand for the flowers which made the lives of other men
so sweet!
"I must not ask you any more questions, Sophy," he said. "You are her
friend, and you have spoken very sweetly. To-morrow I will go and see
her."
"And to-night, forget it all," she pleaded. "Wipe it out of your memory.
Louise and your future belong to to-morrow. To-night she is not here,
and I am. Even if you are furiously in love with her, there isn't any
harm in your being just a little nice to me. Give me some champagne; and
I want some caviar sandwiches!"
"I wonder why you are so good to me, Sophy!" he exclaimed, as he gave
the order to a waiter. "You ought either to marry your young man down at
Bath, or to have a sweetheart of your own, a companion, some one quite
different."
"How different?"
"Some one who cared for you as you deserve to be cared for, and whom you
cared for, too."
"I cannot take these things as lightly as I used to," she answered a
little sadly. "Something has come over me lately--I don't know what it
is--but I seem to have lost my taste for flirtations. John, don't look
up, don't turn round! I have been afraid of the prince all the evening.
When you came in, I fancied that you had been drinking. When the prince
asked me something about you, an hour or so ago, I knew that he had. I
saw him like it once before, about a year ago. Don't take any notice of
him! Don't talk to him, if you can help it!"
John was scarcely conscious of her words. A new glow of excitement
seemed to be taking entire possession of him, to be thrilling his blood,
to be shining out of his eyes. He rose slowly to his feet. It was as if
he were being drawn forward out of himself to meet some coming
challenge.
Toward their table the prince was slowly making his way, skilfully
avoiding the dancers, yet looking neither to the right nor to the left.
His eyes were fastened upon John. If he had been drinking, as Sophy
suggested, there were few signs of it. His walk was steady; his bearing,
as usual, deliberate and distinguished.
He came to a standstill beside them. Sophy's fingers clutched at the
tablecloth. The prince looked from one to the other.
"You have robbed me of a guest, Mr. Strangewey," he remarked; "but I
bear you no ill-will. It is very seldom that one sees you in these
haunts of dissipation."
"It is a gala night with me," John replied, his tone raised no more than
usual, but shaking with some new quality. "Drink a glass of wine with
me, prince," he invited, taking the bottle from the ice-pail and filling
a tumbler upon the table. "Wish me luck, won't you? I am engaged to be
married!"
"I wish you happiness with all my heart," the prince answered, holding
his glass up. "May I not know the name of the lady?"
"No doubt you are prepared for the news," John told him. "Miss Maurel
has promised to become my wife."
The prince's hand was as steady as a rock. He raised his glass to his
lips.
"I drink to you both with the greatest pleasure," he said, looking John
full in the face. "It is a most remarkable coincidence. To-night is the
anniversary of the night when Louise Maurel pledged herself to me in
somewhat different fashion!"
John's frame seemed for a moment to dilate, and fire flashed from his
eyes.
"Will you be good enough to explain those words?" he demanded.
The prince bowed. He glanced toward Sophy.
"Since you insist," he replied. "To-night, then, let me tell you, is the
anniversary of the night when Louise Maurel consented to become my
mistress!"
What followed came like a thunder-clap. The prince reeled back, his hand
to his mouth, blood dropping upon the tablecloth from his lips, where
John had struck him. He made a sudden spring at his assailant. Sophy,
shrieking, leaped to her feet. Every one else in the place seemed
paralyzed with wonder.
John seized the prince by the throat, and held him for a moment at
arm's length. Then he lifted him off his feet as one might lift a child
from the floor. Holding his helpless victim in a merciless grip, he
carried him across the room and deliberately flung him over the table
toward his empty chair.
There was a crash of glass and crockery which rang through the
momentarily hushed room. The dancers had stopped in their places, the
bow of the violinist lay idle upon the strings of his instrument. The
waiters were all standing about like graven images. Then, as the prince
fell, there was a shout, and all was pandemonium. They rushed to where
he was lying motionless, a ghastly sight, across the wreck of his
flower-strewn supper-table.
Sophy held John by the arm, clutching it hysterically, striving to drag
him away. But to John the room was empty. He stood there, a giant,
motionless figure, his muscles still taut, his face tense, his eyes
aflame, glaring down at the prostrate figure of the man on whom he had
wreaked the accumulated fury of those last days and weeks of madness.