VI

Prince Giovanni Della Robbia, known to his friends in Rome as Vanno,

went down early to dinner at the Paris. This, not because he was hungry,

but having come to the hotel because he knew that his Juliet of

Marseilles was there, he had no intention of missing a chance to look at

her. If she did not appear early, he would go on dining until it was

late, no matter how late.

Such a resolution, and just such an adventure as this into which he had

flung himself with characteristic impulsiveness and passion, were

strange for Prince Vanno, because since a first unhappy love, when he

was a mere boy, he had avoided women. Adventure and romance were in his

blood, the Italian blood of his father, the Irish-American blood of his

beautiful mother. But his adventures had not been love adventures, since

that first agony had driven him for comfort to the silence of the

desert. Since then he had gone back to the desert for desire of great

empty spaces, and the fire of eastern stars, needing comfort no longer

for a lost love. That had passed out of his heart years ago, leaving no

scar of which he was conscious.

He had just come back from the desert now, and an Arab astrologer who

was a friend of his had told him that December of this year would be

for him a month of good luck and great happenings, the star of his birth

being in the ascendant. Almost it began to look as if there might be

something in the prophecy; and Prince Vanno, laughing at himself (with

the dry sense of humour that came from the Irish-American side of his

parentage), was half inclined to be superstitious. Astronomy was his

love at present, not astrology, and last year he had discovered a small

blue planet which had been named after him and whose sapphire beauty had

been much admired. Still, because he had always had a passion for the

stars, and went to the east to see them at their brightest, he was

tolerant of those who believed in their influence upon earth-dwellers;

therefore he was ready to yield with confident ardour to sudden impulses

in this the month of his star. Mary Grant's eyes had looked to him like

stars, and he had followed them. Already he had had one stroke of luck

in the adventure, for he had been bound to Monte Carlo from Marseilles,

before he saw her, not to try his fortune at the tables, but to meet his

elder brother and sister-in-law who were to finish their honeymoon close

by, at Cap Martin, and to stay for an aviation week at Nice, when an

invention of his would be tried for the first time. But if Mary had gone

on beyond Monte Carlo, he too would have gone on. Having plunged into

the adventure, for a pair of eyes, he was prepared to pursue it to the

end wherever the end might be, even if he missed the flying week and

broke an engagement with the bride and bridegroom. But it was luck that

she should be getting out at the place where he had meant to stop for

his own reasons.

He supposed, of course, that she was travelling with relatives or

friends. Although he had seen her mounting the steps of a _wagon lit_

apparently alone, this did not argue that some one who belonged to her

was not inside. And when, from the window of the train whence he leaned

at every station, he saw her again at Monte Carlo, she was surrounded by

a crowd. One of the ladies shoulder to shoulder with her might be a

mother or aunt, one of the men a father or uncle; and it had been the

same when he followed, just in time to see her get into the Hôtel de

Paris omnibus. Already the vehicle was full. She was the last in. His

idea was that, being the youngest of her party, she had waited for them

to be placed before taking a seat herself.

He knew of her now, having examined the visitors' book at the Paris,

that she was "Miss M. Grant"; that the name was written in a very

pretty, rather old-fashioned hand; that after it came "London" in the

same writing. He was sure the name must be hers, because it was last on

the page before he wrote his own; and she had gone in last, after

everybody else, leaving the people she was with to do their name-signing

before her. Also, the other women on the page were all "Madame" or

"Frau" or "Mrs." He was rather surprised, somehow, to learn that she was

English. In spite of her unusually fair hair he had fancied that she

would turn out to be French, her type was so _spirituelle_, yet so

suggestive of "temperament."

If he had not been following a pair of eyes, Prince Vanno would have

gone to a quiet hotel in the Condamine, to be near the aviation ground,

for, being utterly unsnobbish, like all Italians of great families, he

rather disliked "smart" crowds, rich food, and gorgeous decorations. But

the only way not to lose the stars he followed was to keep near them. He

would not for a great deal have questioned the hotel people about "Miss

M. Grant," otherwise he might have learned for how long a time her room

was engaged, and, incidentally, that she was alone. But as it was, he

had to find out things for himself, and to do this must be in the same

hotel.

It was only seven o'clock when he came down from his little room at the

top of the house, not nearly as expensive as Mary's, and stopped at the

foot of the marble stairs, which he liked better than the lift, to look

round the big hall. There was no great crowd, for most people who had

come in from the Casino were dressing for dinner, and Prince Vanno saw

at a glance that Miss M. Grant was not there. He went on slowly through

the Louis Seize tea-room, to the gorgeous restaurant with its domed and

gilded ceiling, its immense wall paintings, and glass front.

At one of these window tables--a very small one--sat a lovely creature,

alone. A good many heads were turning to look at her, so probably she

had not long ago arrived. For an instant Vanno's eyes were fixed upon

the glittering figure, and the bowed face shadowed by an eccentric hat,

without recognizing it. But it was only for an instant. Then, with a

shock of surprise which was almost horror, he realized that this lovely,

low-necked bird of Paradise creature was the same gentle girl he had

followed.

"Dio!" he said to himself, and bit his lip. He felt the blood rush up to

his face, as if some one had given him an insulting blow, which he could

not avenge because his hands were tied.

There were two or three other young and beautiful women alone, dressed

with equal extravagance, their gowns as low, their hats as big; only

she, his Juliet, was more beautiful than any. That was the difference

between them. But was it the only difference? The young man, whose eyes

still reflected the golden light of vast desert spaces, asked himself

the question with a sick sinking of the heart. He had followed an angel,

and found her--what? Because about those two or three others there was

no question at all. And why was she here alone, dressed like them,

if--but he would not finish the sentence in his mind. He resolved to

study the girl, and give her the full benefit of the doubt, so long as

there was a ray of hope.

Vanno had not gone so far as to fall in love at first sight; yet coming

back from the desert with his heart open to beauty and romance, he had

been willing to let himself go to the brink, or over it, if it were

worth while, else he would not have followed Juliet's eyes. But he

wished to have nothing to do with the white angel if she were a fallen

angel. Such a one would be easy to know, to walk with and talk with,

whereas he might have found it difficult to make the acquaintance of a

conventionally brought up girl. Some men might have been glad to find

the heroine of a romantic adventure dining alone at a fashionable hotel

at Monte Carlo, in a sheath-like, low-cut dress and a hat of to-morrow's

fashion. But Prince Vanno Della Robbia was sick at heart, and dazed as

by a blow.

His father, Duca di Rienzi, had a strain of stern asceticism in his

nature, and even the impulsive, warm-hearted American mother could not

wholly redeem from gloom the cold palace in Rome and the dark fourteenth

century castle at Monte Della Robbia. Each of these natures had given

something to Vanno, and the differences were so strongly marked that his

elder brother had said, "to know Vanno was like knowing two men of

entirely opposite characters, each struggling for mastery over the

other." But even in his asceticism he was ardent. Whatever he did, he

did with passion and fervour, which he could laugh at as if from a

distance sometimes, but could not change. And his ideas of the right

life for women were not unlike the ideas of eastern men. Women should be

guarded, kept apart from all that was evil or even unpleasant. So the

lovely American mother had been guarded, somewhat against her will, by

the Duke, and she had died while she was still young. She had never

talked to Vanno of women's life and girls' life in her own country, for

she had gone to the unseen land while he was still a boy. If she had

stayed, perhaps he would not have had to go to the desert for comfort,

when he at twenty loved a woman of twenty-eight, who flirted with him

until he was half mad, and then married an American millionaire.

The table nearest Mary was not engaged, for it was too early in the

evening for a crowd in the Paris restaurant. Vanno signified to a waiter

his desire for this table, and was taken to it. He sat down facing Mary,

and pretended to study the menu. He hardly knew what he ordered. A

waiter was bringing the girl a small bottle of champagne, in an

ice-pail. The man cut the wires, and extracted the cork neatly, but with

a slight popping sound. Mary started a little, and glancing up at the

waiter smiled at him gayly, with a dimple in each cheek. Her big hat was

placed jauntily on one side, and the deep blue velvet brim, with the

gauzy gold of the soft crown, was extremely striking on the silver-gold

waves of her hair. In her wonderful dress, which showed a good deal of

white neck, she looked so fashionably sophisticated that Vanno feared

the start she gave at the popping of the cork might be affected. He

gazed across at her with mingled disapproval and admiration which gave

singular intensity to his deep-set, romantic eyes as Mary met them.

She was in a mood to be delighted with everything that happened, and it

seemed a charming happening that the handsome young man from Marseilles

should have chanced to come to this hotel. It did not occur to her that

his coming might not be an accident, and she was pleased to see him

again.

Her bringing up, in all that concerned her treatment of men, had been

neglected; rather, it had not been given at all. As a schoolgirl she had

never met any men except a few mild youths when visiting Lady MacMillan,

and then she had never seen them alone. She had thought herself a child,

and had behaved as a child, in those days. Then had come her years as a

postulant and as a novice. Men had ceased to exist as influences in her

life. It had not been necessary to teach her what to do when in their

society, for it had seemed improbable that she ever would be. When, at

the last moment, she had decided that after all she "had not the

vocation," there had been little or no time to prepare her for the

world. And she had come out of the convent with no social wisdom except

the wisdom of kindness and courtesy to all fellow-beings.

Man was decidedly a fellow-being, and Mary, to whom he was interesting

because entirely new, was inclined to be very kind to him, especially

when he had the handsome, almost tragic dark face of a Romeo or a young

Dante, and eyes like wells of ink into which diamonds had fallen.

She was feeling childishly pleased with herself in her new dress, for

she loved beautiful things, and knew next to nothing of suitability,

provided the colours were right. By day, one had blouses and skirts,

and high-necked frocks. At night, if one were in the world, one wore low

gowns. She had learned this from Peter and other girls at school, and

also from Lady MacMillan. When there were entertainments at the convent

for the pupils, as there were several times each year, the girls put on

their prettiest clothes. They had low-necked gowns for the dances, at

which their partners were, of course, invariably girls, and they said

that, when they "came out," they would have their dresses cut lower and

made more fashionably. Of this, the sisters quite approved for their

girls, whom they trusted never to do, never to wear, anything immodest.

At Lady MacMillan's, Mary had worn simple evening dress, before she

resolved to become a nun; and in London even Aunt Sara and Elinor, with

their thin necks, had considered it necessary to display more than their

collarbones each night at dinner.

Mary, having little money in her schoolgirl days, had never owned

anything very pretty, and now she thought it right and pleasant to make

up for lost time. The "Madame" of the shop in the Galerie Charles Trois

had earnestly recommended this gown and this hat for dinner and the

Casino; therefore Mary was sure that her costume must be as suitable as

it was beautiful, and that she was quite "in the picture," in this

magnificent room. She admired the lovely, perfumed ladies with wonderful

complexions and clothes, at neighbouring tables, and was thankful that

she looked not too unlike them. She hoped that she might become

acquainted with at least one or two of the prettiest before long,

because it must be pleasant to make friends in hotels with other people

who were alone like one's self. Peter also had admired the lovely ladies

with wonderful complexions and clothes who chose to live in the best

hotels at Monte Carlo; but she admired them in a different way, with a

kind of fearful fascination. And she had never talked of them to Mary.

One did not talk to Sister Rose of such things.

Mary was glad that the Dante young man (she began to call him thus, for

his profile really was like the poet's, and after all too stern for

Romeo) could see her in this dress and hat, after having a sight of her

first in the tweed, which she had now grown to detest. It really did

seem as if he remembered, for he looked at her with a straight look,

almost as if he were asking a grave, important question. She was afraid

that he must be unhappy, for certainly his eyes were tragic, if they

were not reproachful; and of course they couldn't be reproachful, as he

didn't know her, and had nothing to be reproachful about.

The waiter who served her was a charming person, with delightful

manners, almost like those of the Frenchman who had been kind to her on

the way to Paris. He recommended things on the menu, which turned out to

be exquisite. They were the most expensive, also, but Mary did not know

that. It seemed quite odd that one should have to pay for food at all,

for always it had appeared to come as a matter of course, like the air

one breathed. When he advised her sympathetically to try a little

champagne, refreshed with ice, she would have been grieved to hurt his

feelings by refusing, even if she had not rather wanted to know what

champagne was like. People in books drank it when they wished to be

merry and enjoy themselves, and it made their eyes bright and their

cheeks red. Mary had had the chance of reading very few novels, but she

recalled this bit of useful knowledge concerning champagne.

She tasted it, and found it nice, deliciously cold and sparkling. No

wonder it made the eyes bright! But after all, she could not drink much,

though it seemed a shame to waste anything so good. "You can have the

rest," she said to the waiter, when she had finished her first glass. He

was surprised, for most ladies, he noticed, could finish two or three

glasses, or even more.

Again the man with the profile of a young Dante was looking at her with

the grave, anxious look that puzzled her. She met his eyes for the third

or fourth time, and was so sorry for his apparent unhappiness where

every one else seemed merry, that she half smiled, very sweetly and

gently, as one would smile at a gloomy child.

The man did not return her kindness. An angry flash lit his eyes, and he

looked extremely haughty and unapproachable, no longer a lonely figure

needing sympathy, but a high personage. Mary lowered her lashes,

abashed; and when she did this Vanno, who was on the point of hating

her because she was not the white angel he had thought, doubted again,

and was more bewildered than ever. Her friendly smile had been sweet,

and he, who was here only because of her, had quenched its light! He

regretted passionately his own ungraciousness, no matter what the girl

might be. And she looked so young, her eyes so full of sea and heaven!

On what errand had she come alone to this place? He determined that he

would know, and soon.