The final curtain had fallen upon the first performance of the new drama
at the Grand Treteau.
The night had been one long triumph for Valgrand, and although it was
very late the Baronne de Vibray, who plumed herself on being the great
tragedian's dearest friend, had made her way behind the scenes to lavish
praise and congratulations on him, and have a little triumph of her own
in presenting her friends to the hero of the hour. In vain had Charlot,
the old dresser, tried to prevent her invasion of his master's
dressing-room. He was not proof against her perseverance, and ere long
she had swept into the room with the proud smile of a general entering a
conquered town. The Comte de Baral, a tall young man with a single
eyeglass, followed close in her wake.
"Will you please announce us," he said to the dresser.
Charlot hesitated a moment in surprise, then broke into voluble
explanations.
"M. Valgrand is not here yet. What, didn't you know? Why, at the end of
the performance the Minister of Public Instruction sent for him to
congratulate him! That's a tremendous honour, and it's the second time
it has been paid to M. Valgrand."
Meanwhile the other two ladies in the party were roaming about the
dressing-room: Mme. Simone Holbord, wife of a colonel of the Marines who
had just covered himself with distinction in the Congo, and the Comtesse
Marcelline de Baral.
"How thrilling an actor's dressing-room is!" exclaimed Mme. Holbord,
inspecting everything in the room through her glass. "Just look at these
darling little brushes! I suppose he uses those in making up? And, oh,
my dear! There are actually three kinds of rouge!"
The Comtesse de Baral was fascinated by the photographs adorning the
walls.
"'To the admirable Valgrand from a comrade,'" she read in awe-struck
tones. "Come and look, dear, it is signed by Sarah Bernhardt! And listen
to this one: 'At Buenos Ayres, at Melbourne, and New York, wherever I am
I hear the praises of my friend Valgrand!'"
"Something like a globe-trotter!" said Mme. Holbord. "I expect he
belongs to the Comédie Française."
Colonel Holbord interrupted, calling to his wife.
"Simone, come and listen to what our friend de Baral is telling me: it
is really very curious."
The young woman approached, and the Comte began again for her benefit.
"You have come back too recently from the Congo to be up to date with
all our Paris happenings, and so you will not have noticed this little
touch, but in the part that he created to-night Valgrand made himself up
exactly like Gurn, the man who murdered Lord Beltham!"
"Gurn?" said Mme. Holbord, to whom the name did not convey much. "Oh,
yes, I think I read about that: the murderer escaped, didn't he?"
"Well, they took a long time to find him," the Comte de Baral replied.
"As usual, the police were giving up all hope of finding him, when one
day, or rather one night, they did find him and arrested him; and where
do you suppose that was? Why, with Lady Beltham! Yes, really: in her own
house at Neuilly!"
"Impossible!" cried Simone Holbord. "Poor woman! What an awful shock for
her!"
"Lady Beltham is a brave, dignified, and truly charitable woman," said
the Comtesse de Baral. "She simply worshipped her husband. And yet, she
pleaded warmly for mercy for the murderer--though she did not succeed in
getting it."
"What a dreadful thing!" said Simone Holbord perfunctorily; her
attention was wandering to all the other attractions in this attractive
room. A pile of letters was lying on a writing-table, and the reckless
young woman began to look at the envelopes. "Just look at this pile of
letters!" she cried. "How funny! Every one of them in a woman's hand! I
suppose Valgrand gets all sorts of offers?"
Colonel Holbord went on talking to the Comte de Baral in a corner of the
room.
"I am enormously interested in what you tell me. What happened then?"
"Well, this wretch, Gurn, was recognised by the police as he was leaving
Lady Beltham's, and was arrested and put in prison. The trial came on at
the Court of Assize about six weeks ago. All Paris went to it, of course
including myself! This man Gurn is a brute, but a strange brute, rather
difficult to define; he swore that he had killed Lord Beltham after a
quarrel, practically for the sake of robbing him, but I had a strong
impression that he was lying."
"But why else should he have committed the murder?"
The Comte de Baral shrugged his shoulders.
"Nobody knows," he said: "politics, perhaps, nihilism, or perhaps
again--love. There was one fact, or coincidence, worth noting: when Lady
Beltham came home from the Transvaal after the war, during which, by the
way, she did splendid work among the sick and wounded, she sailed by the
same boat that was taking Gurn to England. Gurn also was a bit of a
popular hero just then: he had volunteered at the beginning of the war,
and came back with a sergeant's stripes and a medal for distinguished
conduct. Can Gurn and Lady Beltham have met and got to know each other?
It is certain that the lady's behaviour during the trial lent itself to
comment, if not exactly to scandal. She had odd collapses in the
presence of the murderer, collapses which were accounted for in very
various ways. Some people said that she was half out of her mind with
grief at the loss of her husband; others said that if she was mad, it
was over someone, over this vulgar criminal--martyr or accomplice,
perhaps. They even went so far as to allege that Lady Beltham had an
intrigue with Gurn!"
"Come! come!" the Colonel protested: "a great lady like Lady Beltham, so
religious and so austere? Absurd!"
"People say all sorts of things," said the Comte de Baral vaguely. He
turned to another subject. "Anyhow, the case caused a tremendous
sensation; Gurn's condemnation to death was very popular, and the case
was so typically Parisian that our friend Valgrand, knowing that he was
going to create the part of the murderer in this tragedy to-night,
followed every phase of the Gurn trial closely, studied the man in
detail, and literally identified himself with him in this character. It
was a shrewd idea. You noticed the sensation when he came on the stage?"
"Yes, I did," said the Colonel; "I wondered what the exclamations from
all over the house meant."
"Try to find a portrait of Gurn in some one of the illustrated papers,"
said the Comte, "and compare it with---- Ah, I think this is Valgrand
coming!"
* * * * *
The Baronne de Vibray had tired of her conversation with the old
dresser, Charlot, and had left him to take up her stand outside the
dressing-room, where she greeted with nods and smiles the other actors
and actresses as they hurried by on their way home, and listened to the
sounds at the end of the passage. Presently a voice became
distinguishable, the voice of Valgrand singing a refrain from a musical
comedy. The Baronne de Vibray hurried to meet him, with both hands
outstretched, and led him into his dressing-room.
"Let me present M. Valgrand!" she exclaimed, and then presented the two
young women to the bowing actor: "Comtesse Marcelline de Baral, Mme.
Holbord."
"Pardon me, ladies, for keeping you waiting," the actor said. "I was
deep in conversation with the Minister. He was so charming, so kind!" He
turned to the Baronne de Vibray. "He did me the honour to offer me a
cigarette! A relic! Charlot! Charlot! You must put this cigarette in the
little box where all my treasures are!"
"It is very full already, M. Valgrand," said Charlot deprecatingly.
"We must not keep you long," the Baronne de Vibray murmured. "You must
be very tired."
Valgrand passed a weary hand across his brow.
"Positively exhausted!" Then he raised his head and looked at the
company. "What did you think of me?"
A chorus of eulogy sprang from every lip.
"Splendid!" "Wonderful!" "The very perfection of art!"
"No, but really?" protested Valgrand, swelling with satisfied vanity.
"Tell me candidly: was it really good?"
"You really were wonderful: could not have been better," the Baronne de
Vibray exclaimed enthusiastically, and the crowd of worshippers endorsed
every word, until the artist was convinced that their praise was quite
sincere.
"How I have worked!" he exclaimed: "do you know, when rehearsals
began--ask Charlot if this isn't true--the piece simply didn't exist!"
"Simply didn't exist!" Charlot corroborated him, like an echo.
"Didn't exist," Valgrand repeated: "not even my part. It was
insignificant, flat! So I took the author aside and I said: 'Frantz, my
boy, I'll tell you what you must do: you know the lawyer's speech?
Absurd! What am I to do while he is delivering it? I'll make the speech
for my own defence, and I'll get something out of it!' And the prison
scene! Just fancy, he had shoved a parson into that! I said to Frantz:
'Cut the parson out, my boy: what the dickens am I to do while he is
preaching? Simply nothing at all: it's absurd. Give his speech to me!
I'll preach to myself!' And there you are: I don't want to boast, but
really I did it all! And it was a success, eh?"
Again the chorus broke out, to be stopped by Valgrand, who was
contemplating his reflection in a mirror.
"And my make-up, Colonel? Do you know the story of my make-up? I hear
they were talking about it all over the house. Am I like Gurn? What do
you think? You saw him quite close at the trial, Comte: what do you
think?"
"The resemblance is perfectly amazing," said the Comte de Baral with
perfect truth.
The actor stroked his face mechanically: a new idea struck him.
"My beard is a real one," he exclaimed. "I let it grow on purpose. I
hardly had to make myself up at all; I am the same build, the same type,
same profile; it was ridiculously easy!"
"Give me a lock of hair from your beard for a locket," said the Baronne
de Vibray impudently.
Valgrand looked at her, and heaved a profound sigh.
"Not yet, not yet, dear lady: I am infinitely sorry, but not yet: a
little later on, perhaps; wait for the hundredth performance."
"I must have one too," said Simone Holbord, and Valgrand with great
dignity replied:
"I will put your name down for one, madame!"
* * * * *
But the Comte de Baral had looked furtively at his watch, and uttered an
exclamation of surprise.
"My good people, it is most horribly late! And our great artiste must be
overcome with sleep!"
Forthwith they all prepared to depart, in spite of the actor's courteous
protests that he could not hear of letting them go so soon. They
lingered at the door for a few minutes in eager, animated conversation,
shaking hands and exchanging farewells and thanks and congratulations.
Then the sound of their footsteps died away along the corridors, and the
Baronne de Vibray and her friends left the theatre. Valgrand turned back
into his dressing-room and locked the door, then dropped into the low
and comfortable chair that was set before his dressing-table.
* * * * *
He remained there resting for a few minutes, and then sat up and threw a
whimsical glance at his dresser who was putting out his ordinary
clothes.
"Hang it all, Charlot! What's exhaustion? The mere sight of such jewels
as those enchanting women would wake one from the dead!"
Charlot shrugged his shoulders.
"Will you never be serious, M. Valgrand?"
"Heavens, I hope not!" exclaimed the actor. "I hope not, for if there
is one thing of which one never tires here below, it is Woman, the
peerless rainbow that illuminates this vale of tears!"
"You are very poetical to-night," the dresser remarked.
"I am a lover--in love with love! Oh, Love, Love! And in my time, you
know----" He made a sweeping, comprehensive gesture, and came back
abruptly to mundane affairs. "Come, help me to dress."
Charlot offered him a bundle of letters, which Valgrand took with
careless hand. He looked at the envelopes one after another, hugely
amused.
"Violet ink, and monograms, and coronets, and--perfume. Say, Charlot, is
this a proposal? What do you bet?"
"You never have anything else," the dresser grumbled "--except bills."
"Do you bet?"
"If you insist, I bet it is a bill; then you will win," said Charlot.
"Done!" cried Valgrand. "Listen," and he began to declaim the letter
aloud: "'Oh, wondrous genius, a flower but now unclosing'---- Got it,
Charlot? Another of them!" He tore open another envelope. "Ah-ha!
Photograph enclosed, and will I send it back if the original is not to
my fancy!" He flung himself back in his chair to laugh. "Where is my
collar?" He picked up a third envelope. "What will you bet that this
violet envelope does not contain another tribute to my fatal beauty?"
"I bet it is another bill," said the dresser; "but you are sure to win."
"I have," Valgrand replied, and again declaimed the written words: "'if
you promise to be discreet, and true, you shall never regret it.' Does
one ever regret it--even if one does not keep one's promises?"
"At lovers' perjuries----" Charlot quoted.
"Drunken promises!" Valgrand retorted. "By the way, I am dying for a
drink. Give me a whisky and soda." He got up and moved to the table on
which Charlot had set decanters and glasses, and was about to take the
glass the dresser offered him when a tap on the door brought the
conversation to a sudden stop. The actor frowned: he did not want to be
bothered by more visitors. But curiosity got the better of his
annoyance and he told Charlot to see who it was.
Charlot went to the door and peered through a narrow opening at the
thoughtless intruder.
"Fancy making all this bother over a letter!" he growled. "Urgent? Of
course: they always are urgent," and he shut the door on the messenger
and gave the letter to Valgrand. "A woman brought it," he said.
Valgrand looked at it.
"H'm! Mourning! Will you bet, Charlot?"
"Deep mourning," said Charlot: "then I bet it is a declaration. I expect
you will win again, for very likely it is a begging letter. Black edges
stir compassion."
Valgrand was reading the letter, carelessly to begin with, then with
deep attention. He reached the signature at the end, and then read it
through again, aloud this time, punctuating his reading with flippant
comments: "'In creating the part of the criminal in the tragedy
to-night, you made yourself up into a most marvellous likeness of Gurn,
the man who murdered Lord Beltham. Come to-night, at two o'clock, _in
your costume_, to 22 rue Messier. Take care not to be seen, but come.
Someone who loves you is waiting for you there.'"
"And it is signed----?" said the dresser.
"That, my boy, I'm not going to tell you," said Valgrand, and he put the
letter carefully into his pocket-book. "Why, man, what are you up to?"
he added, as the dresser came up to him to take his clothes.
"Up to?" the servant exclaimed: "I am only helping you to get your
things off."
"Idiot!" laughed Valgrand. "Didn't you understand? Give me my black tie
and villain's coat again."
"What on earth is the matter with you?" Charlot asked with some
uneasiness. "Surely you are not thinking of going?"
"Not going? Why, in the whole of my career as amorist, I have never had
such an opportunity before!"
"It may be a hoax."
"Take my word for it, I know better. Things like this aren't hoaxes.
Besides, I know the--the lady. She has often been pointed out to me: and
at the trial---- By Jove, Charlot, she is the most enchanting woman in
the world: strangely lovely, infinitely distinguished, absolutely
fascinating!"
"You are raving like a schoolboy."
"So much the better for me! Why, I was half dead with fatigue, and now I
am myself again. Be quick, booby! My hat! Time is getting on. Where is
it?"
"Where is what?" the bewildered Charlot asked.
"Why, this place," Valgrand answered irritably: "this rue Messier. Look
it up in the directory."
Valgrand stamped impatiently up and down the room while Charlot
hurriedly turned over the pages of the directory, muttering the
syllables at the top of each as he ran through them in alphabetical
order.
"J ... K ... L ... M ... Ma ... Me ...--Why, M. Valgrand----"
"What's the matter?"
"Why, it is the street where the prison is!"
"The Santé? Where Gurn is--in the condemned cell?" Valgrand cocked his
hat rakishly on one side. "And I have an assignation at the prison?"
"Not exactly, but not far off: right opposite; yes, number 22 must be
right opposite."
"Right opposite the prison!" Valgrand exclaimed gaily. "The choice of
the spot, and the desire to see me in my costume as Gurn, are evidence
of a positive refinement in sensation! See? The lady, and I--the
counterpart of Gurn--and, right opposite, the real Gurn in his cell!
Quick, man: my cloak! My cane!"
"Do think, sir," Charlot protested: "it is absolutely absurd! A man like
you----"
"A man like me," Valgrand roared, "would keep an appointment like this
if he had to walk on his head to get there! Good-night!" and carolling
gaily, Valgrand strode down the corridor.
* * * * *
Charlot was accustomed to these wild vagaries on his master's part, for
Valgrand was the most daring and inveterate rake it is possible to
imagine. But while he was tidying up the litter in the room, after
Valgrand had left him, the dresser shook his head.
"What a pity it is! And he such a great artiste! These women will make
an absolute fool of him! Why, he hasn't even taken his gloves or his
scarf!" There was a tap at the door, and the door-keeper looked in.
"Can I turn out the lights?" he enquired. "Has M. Valgrand gone?"
"Yes," said the dresser absently, "he has gone."
"A great night," said the door-keeper. "Have you seen the last edition
of the _Capitale_, the eleven o'clock edition? There's a notice of us
already. The papers don't lose any time nowadays. They say it is a great
success."
"Let's look at it," said the dresser, and, glancing through the notice,
added, "yes, that's quite true: 'M. Valgrand has achieved his finest
triumph in his last creation.'" He looked casually through the
newspaper, and suddenly broke into a sharp exclamation. "Good heavens,
it can't be possible!"
"What's the matter?" the door-keeper enquired.
Charlot pointed a shaking finger to another column.
"Read that, Jean, read that! Surely I am mistaken."
The door-keeper peered over Charlot's shoulder at the indicated passage.
"I don't see anything in that; it's that Gurn affair again. Yes, he is
to be executed at daybreak on the eighteenth."
"But that is this morning--presently," Charlot exclaimed.
"May be," said the door-keeper indifferently; "yes, last night was the
seventeenth, so it is the eighteenth now! Are you ill, Charlot?"
Charlot pulled himself together.
"No, it's nothing; I'm only tired. You can put out the lights. I shall
be out of the theatre in five minutes; I only want to do one or two
little things here."
"All right," said Jean, turning away. "Shut the door behind you when you
leave, if I have gone to bed."
Charlot sat on the arm of a chair and wiped his brow.
"I don't like this business," he muttered. "Why the deuce did he want
to go? What does this woman want with him? I may be only an old fool,
but I know what I know, and there have been no end of queer stories
about this job already." He sat there meditating, till an idea took
shape in his mind. "Can I dare to go round there and just prowl about?
Of course he will be furious, but suppose that letter was a decoy and he
is walking into a trap? One never can tell. An assignation in that
particular street, with that prison opposite, and Gurn to be guillotined
within the next hour or so?" The man made up his mind, hurriedly put on
his coat and hat, and switched off the electric lights in the
exquisitely appointed dressing-room. "I'll go!" he said aloud. "If I see
anything suspicious, or if at the end of half an hour I don't see M.
Valgrand leaving the house--well!" Charlot turned the key in the lock.
"Yes, I will go. I shall be much easier in my mind!"