Cholmondeley Rowden had invited a select circle of friends to join him
in a “petit diner a la stag,” as he expressed it.
Eight months of Paris and the cold, cold world had worked a wonderful
change in Mr Rowden. For one thing, he had shaved his whiskers and now
wore only a mustache. For another, he had learned to like and respect a
fair portion of the French students, and in consequence was respected
and liked in return.
He had had two fights, in both of which he had contributed to the glory
of the British Empire and prize ring.
He was a better sparrer than Clifford and was his equal in the use of
the foils. Like Clifford, he was a capital banjoist, but he insisted
that cricket was far superior to baseball, and this was the only bone
of contention that ever fell between the two.
Clifford played his shameless jokes as usual, accompanied by the
enthusiastic applause of Rowden. Clifford also played “The Widow
Nolan’s Goat” upon his banjo, accompanied by the intricate pizzicatos
of Rowden.
Clifford drank numerous bottles of double X with Rowden, and Rowden
consumed uncounted egg-flips with Clifford. They were inseparable; in
fact, the triumvirate, Clifford, Elliott and Rowden, even went so far
as to dress alike, and mean-natured people hinted that they had but one
common style in painting. But they did not make the remark to any of
the triumvirate. They were very fond of each other, these precious
triumvirs, but they did not address each other by nicknames, and
perhaps it was because they respected each other enough to refrain from
familiarities that this alliance lasted as long as they lived.
It was a beautiful sight, that of the three youths, when they sallied
forth in company, hatted, clothed, and gloved alike, and each followed
by a murderous-looking bulldog. The animals were of the brindled
variety, and each was garnished with a steel spiked collar. Timid
people often crossed to the other side of the street on meeting this
procession.
Braith laughed at the whole performance, but secretly thought that a
little of their spare energy and imagination might have been spent to
advantage upon their artistic productions.
Braith was doing splendidly. His last year’s picture had been hung on
the line and, in spite of his number three, he had received a third
class medal and had been praised—even generously—by artists and
critics, including Albert Wolff. He was hard at work on a large canvas
for the coming International Exhibition at Paris; he had sold a number
of smaller studies, and besides had pictures well hung in Munich and in
more than one gallery at home.
At last, after ten years of hard work, struggles, and disappointments,
he began to enjoy a measure of success. He and Gethryn saw little of
each other this winter, excepting at Julien’s. That last visit to the
Rue Monsieur le Prince was never mentioned between them. They were as
cordial when they met as ever, but Braith did not visit his young
friend any more, and Gethryn never spoke to him of Yvonne.
“Good-bye, old chap!” Braith would say when they parted, gripping Rex’s
hand and smiling at him. But Rex did not see Braith’s face as he walked
away.
Braith felt helpless. The thing he most dreaded for Rex had happened;
he believed he could see the end of it all, and yet he could prevent
nothing. If he should tell Rex that he was being ruined, Rex would not
listen, and—who was he that he should preach to another man for the
same fault by which he had wasted his own life? No, Rex would never
listen to him, and he dreaded a rupture of their friendship.
Gethryn had made his debut in the Salon with a certain amount of éclat.
True, he had been disappointed in his expectations of a medal, but a
first mention had soothed him a little, and, what was more important,
it proved to be the needed sop to his discontented aunt. But somehow or
other his new picture did not progress rapidly, or in a thoroughly
satisfactory manner. In bits and spots it showed a certain amount of
feverish brilliancy, yes, even mature solidity; in fact, it was nowhere
bad, but still it was not Gethryn and he knew that.
“Confound it!” he would mutter, standing back from his canvas; but even
at such times he could hardly help wondering at his own marvelous
technique.
“Technique be damned! Give me stupidity in a pupil every time, rather
than cleverness,” Harrington had said to one of his pupils, and the
remark often rang in Gethryn’s ears even when his eyes were most
blinded by his own wonderful facility.
“Some fools would medal this,” he thought; “but what pleasure could a
medal bring me when I know how little I deserve it?”
Perhaps he was his own hardest critic, but it was certain that the old,
simple honesty, the subtle purity, the almost pathetic effort to tell
the truth with paint and brush, had nearly disappeared from Gethryn’s
canvases during the last eight months, and had given place to a fierce
and almost startling brilliancy, never, perhaps, hitting, but always
threatening some brutal note of discord.
Even Elise looked vaguely troubled, though she always smiled brightly
at Gethryn’s criticism of his own work.
“It is so very wonderful and dazzling, but—but the color seems to
me—unkind.”
And he would groan and answer, “Yes, yes, Elise, you’re right; oh, I
can never paint another like the one of last June!”
“Ah, that!” she would cry, “that was delicious—” but checking herself,
she would add, “Courage, let us try again; I am not tired, indeed I am
_not._”
Yvonne never came into the studio when Gethryn had models, but often,
after the light was dim and the models had taken their leave, she would
slip in, and, hanging lightly over his shoulder, her cheek against his,
would stand watching the touches and retouches with which the young
artist always eked out the last rays of daylight. And when his hand
drooped and she could hardly distinguish his face in the gathering
gloom, he would sigh and turn to her, smoothing the soft hair from her
forehead, saying: “Are you happy, Yvonne?” And Yvonne always answered,
“Yes, Rex, when you are.”
Then he would laugh, and kiss her and tell her he was always happy with
La Belle Hélène, and they would stand in the gathering twilight until a
gurgle from the now well-grown pups would warn them that the hour of
hunger had arrived.
The triumvirate, with Thaxton, Rhodes, Carleton, and the rest, had been
frequent visitors all winter at the “Ménagerie,” as Clifford’s bad pun
had named Gethryn’s apartment; but, of late, other social engagements
and, possibly, a small amount of work, had kept them away. Clifford was
a great favorite with Yvonne. Thaxton and Elliott she liked. Rowden she
tormented, and Carleton she endured. She captured Clifford by suffering
him to play his banjo to her piano. Rowden liked her because she was
pretty and witty, though he never got used to her quiet little digs at
his own respected and dignified person. Clifford openly avowed his
attachment and spent many golden hours away from work, listening to her
singing. She had been taught by a good master and her voice was pure
and pliant, although as yet only half developed. The little concerts
they gave their friends were really charming—with Clifford’s banjo,
Gethryn’s guitar, Thaxton’s violin, Yvonne’s voice and piano. Clifford
made the programs. They were profusely illustrated, and he spent a
great deal of time rehearsing, writing verses, and rehashing familiar
airs (he called it “composing”) which would have been as well devoted
to his easel.
In Rowden, Yvonne was delighted to find a cultivated musician. Clifford
listened to their talk of chords and keys, went and bought a “Musical
Primer” on the Quai d’Orsay, spent a wretched hour groping over it,
swore softly, and closed the book forever.
But neither the triumvirate nor the others had been to the “Ménagerie”
for over a fortnight, when Rowden, feeling it incumbent upon him to
return some of Gethryn’s hospitality, issued very proper cards—indeed
they were very swell cards for the Latin Quarter—for a “dinner,” to be
followed by a “quiet evening” at the Bal Masqué at the Opera.
The triumvirate had accordingly tied up their brindled bulldogs,
“Spit,” “Snap” and “Tug”; had donned their white ties and collars of
awful altitude, and were fully prepared to please and to be pleased.
Although it was nominally a “stag” party, the triumvirate would as soon
have cut off their tender mustaches as have failed to invite Yvonne.
But she had replied to Rowden’s invitation by a dainty little note,
ending:
and I am sure that you will understand when I say that this time I will
leave you gentlemen in undisturbed possession of the evening, for I
know how dearly men love to meet and behave like bears all by
themselves. But I shall see you all afterward at the Opera. Au revoir
then—at the Bal Masqué.
Y.D.
The first sensation to the young men was one of disappointment. But the
second was that Mademoiselle Descartes’ tact had not failed her.
The triumvirate were seated upon the sideboard swinging their legs.
Rowden cast a satisfied glance at the table laid for fifteen and
flicked an imaginary speck from his immaculate shirt front.
“I think it’s all right,” said Elliott, noticing his look, “eh,
Clifford?”
“Is there enough champagne?” asked that youth, calculating four quart
bottles to each person.
Rowden groaned.
“Of course there is. What are you made of?”
“Human flesh,” acknowledged the other meekly.
At eleven the guests began to arrive, welcomed by the triumvirs with
great state and dignity. Rowden, looking about, missed only
one—Gethryn, and he entered at the same moment.
“Just in time,” said Rowden, and made the move to the table. As Gethryn
sat down, he noticed that the place on Rowden’s right was vacant, and
before it stood a huge bouquet of white violets.
“Too bad she isn’t here,” said Rowden, glancing at Gethryn and then at
the vacant place.
“That’s awfully nice of you, Rowden,” cried Gethryn, with a happy
smile; “she will have a chance to thank you tonight.”
He leaned over and touched his face to the flowers. As he raised his
head again, his eyes met Braith’s.
“Hello!” cried Braith, cordially.
Rex did not notice how pale he was, and called back, “Hello!” with a
feeling of relief at Braith’s tone. It was always so. When they were
apart for days, there weighed a cloud of constraint on Rex’s mind,
which Braith’s first greeting always dispelled. But it gathered again
in the next interval. It rose from a sullen deposit of self-reproach
down deep in Gethryn’s own heart. He kept it covered over; but he could
not prevent the ghost-like exhalations that gathered there and showed
where it was hidden.
Speeches began rather late. Elliott made one—and offered a toast to “la
plus jolie demoiselle de Paris,” which was drunk amid great enthusiasm
and responded to by Gethryn, ending with a toast to Rowden. Rowden’s
response was stiff, but most correct. The same could not be said of
Clifford’s answer to the toast, “The struggling Artist—Heaven help
him!”
Towards 1 am Mr Clifford’s conversation had become incoherent. But he
continued to drink toasts. He drank Yvonne’s health five times, he
pledged Rowden and Gethryn and everybody else he could think of, down
to Mrs Gummidge and each separate kitten, and finally pledged himself.
By that time he had reached the lachrymose state. Tears, it seemed, did
him good. A heart-rending sob was usually the sign of reviving
intelligence.
“Well,” said Gethryn, buttoning his greatcoat, “I’ll see you all in an
hour—at the Opera.”
Braith was not coming with them to the Ball, so Rex shook hands and
said “Good night,” and calling “Au revoir” to Rowden and the rest, ran
down stairs three at a time. He hurried into the court and after
spending five minutes shouting “Cordon!” succeeded in getting out of
the door and into the Rue Michelet. From there he turned into the
Avenue de l’Observatoire, and cutting through into the Boulevard, came
to his hôtel.
Yvonne was standing before the mirror, tying the hood of a white silk
domino under her chin. Hearing Gethryn’s key in the door, she hurriedly
slipped on her little white mask and confronted him.
“Why, who is this?” cried Gethryn. “Yvonne, come and tell me who this
charming stranger is!”
“You see before you the Princess Hélène, Monsieur, she said, gravely
bending the little masked head.”
“Oh, in that case, you needn’t come, Yvonne, as I have an engagement
with the Princess Hélène of Troy.”
“But you mustn’t kiss me!” she cried, hastily placing the table between
herself and Gethryn; “you have not yet been presented. Oh, Rex! Don’t
be so—so idiotic; you spoil my dress—there—yes, only one, but don’t you
dare to try—_Oh Rex!_ Now I am all in wrinkles—you—you bear!”
“Bears hug—that’s a fact,” he laughed. “Come, are you ready—or I’ll
just—”
“Don’t you dare!” she cried, whipping off her mask and attempting an
indignant frown. She saw the big bunch of white violets in his hand and
made a diversion by asking what those were. He told her, and she
declared, delightedly, that she should carry them with Rex’s roses to
the Ball.
“They shall have the preference, Monsieur,” she said, teasingly. “Oh,
Rex! don’t—please—” she entreated.
“All right, I won’t,” he said, drawing her wrap around her; and Yvonne,
replacing the mask and gathering up her fluffy skirts, slipped one
small gloved hand through his arm and danced down the stairs.
On the corner of the Vaugirard and the Rue de Medicis one always finds
a line of cabs, and presently they were bumping and bouncing away down
the Rue de Seine to the river.
Je fais ce que sa fantaisie
Veut m’ordonner,
Et je puis, s’il lui faut ma vie
La lui donner
sang Yvonne, deftly thrusting tierce and quarte with her fan to make
Gethryn keep his distance.
“Do you know it is snowing?” he said presently, peering out of the
window as the cab rattled across the Pont Neuf.
“Tant mieux!” cried the girl; “I shall make a snowball—a—” she opened
her blue eyes impressively, “a very, very large one, and—”
“And?”
“Drop it on the head of Mr Rowden,” she announced, with cheerful
decision.
“I’ll warn poor Rowden of your intention,” he laughed, as the cab
rolled smoothly up the Avenue de l’Opera, across the Boulevard des
Italiens, and stopped before the glittering pile of the great Opera.
She sprang lightly to the curbstone and stood tapping her little feet
against the pavement while Gethryn fumbled about for his fare.
The steps of the Opera and the Plaza were covered with figures in
dominoes, blue, red or black, many grotesque and bizarre costumes, and
not a few sober claw hammers. The great flare of yellow light which
bathed and flooded the shifting, many-colored throng, also lent a
strangely weird effect to the now heavily falling snowflakes. Carriages
and cabs kept arriving in countless numbers. It was half past two, and
nobody who wanted to be considered anybody thought of arriving before
that hour. The people poured in a steady stream through the portals.
Groups of English and American students in their irreproachable evening
attire, groups of French students in someone else’s doubtful evening
attire, crowds of rustling silken dominoes, herds of crackling muslin
dominoes, countless sad-faced Pierrots, fewer sad-faced Capuchins, now
and then a slim Mephistopheles, now and then a fat, stolid Turk, ’Arry,
Tom, and Billy, redolent of plum pudding and Seven Dials, Gontran,
Gaston and Achille, savoring of brasseries and the Sorbonne. And then,
from the carriages and fiacres: Mademoiselle Patchouli and good old
Monsieur Bonvin, Mademoiselle Nitouche and bad young Monsieur de
Sacrebleu, Mademoiselle Moineau and Don Cæsar Imberbe; and the pink
silk domino of “La Pataude”—mais n’importe!
Allons, Messieurs, Mesdames, to the cloak room—to the foyer! To the
escalier! or you, Madame la Comtesse, to your box, and smooth out your
crumpled domino; as for “La Pataude,” she is going to dance tonight.
Gethryn, with Yvonne clinging tightly to his arm, entered the great
vestibule and passed through the railed lanes to the broad inclined
aisle which led to the floor.
“Do you want to take a peep before we go to our box?” he asked, leading
her to the doorway.
Yvonne’s little heart beat faster as she leaned over and glanced at the
dazzling spectacle.
“Come, hurry—let us go to the box!” she whispered, dragging Gethryn
after her up the stairway.
He followed, laughing at her excitement, and in a few minutes they
found the door of their lodge and slipped in.
Gethryn lighted a cigarette and began to unstrap his field glasses.
“Take these, Yvonne,” he said, handing them to her while he adjusted
her own tiny gold ones.
Yvonne’s cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled under the little mask, as
she leaned over the velvet railing and gazed at the bewildering
spectacle below. Great puffs of hot, perfumed air bore the crash of two
orchestras to their ears, mixed with the distant clatter and whirl of
the dancers, and the shouts and cries of the maskers.
At the end of the floor, screened by banks of palms, sat the musicians,
and round about, rising tier upon tier, the glittering boxes were
filled with the elite of the demimonde, who ogled and gossiped and
sighed, entirely content with the material and social barriers which
separate those who dance for ten francs from those who look on for a
hundred.
But there were others there who should not by any means be confounded
with their sisters of the “half-world.”
The Faubourg St Germain, the Champs Elysées, and the Parc Monceau were
possibly represented among those muffled and disguised beauties, who
began the evening with their fans so handy in case of need. Ah,
well—now they lay their fans down quite out of reach in case of
emergency, and who shall say if disappointment lurks under these dainty
dominoes, that there is so little to bring a blush to modest
cheeks—alas! few emergencies.
And you over there—you of the “American Colony,” who are tossed like
shuttlecocks in the social whirl, you, in your well-appointed masks and
silks, it is all very new and exciting—yes, but why should you come?
American women, brought up to think clean thoughts and see with
innocent eyes, to exact a respectful homage from men and enjoy a
personal dignity and independence unknown to women anywhere else—why do
you want to come here? Do you not know that the foundations of that
liberty which makes you envied in the old world are laid in the respect
and confidence of men? Undermine that, become wise and cynical, learn
the meaning of doubtful words and gestures whose significance you never
need have suspected, meet men on the same ground where they may any day
meet fast women of the continent, and fix at that moment on your free
limbs the same chains which corrupt society has forged for the women of
Europe.
Yvonne leaned back in her box with a little gasp.
“But I can’t make out anyone at all,” she said; “it’s all a great,
sparkling sea of color.”
“Try the field glasses,” replied Gethryn, giving them to her again, at
the same time opening her big plumy fan and waving it to and fro beside
the flushed cheek.
Presently she cried out, “Oh, look! There is Mr Elliott and Mr Rowden,
and I think Mr Clifford—but I hope not.”
He leaned forward and swept the floor with the field glass.
“It’s Clifford, sure enough,” he muttered; “what on earth induces him
to dance in that set?”
It was Clifford.
At that moment he was addressing Elliott in pleading, though hazy,
phrases.
“Come ’long, Elliott, don’t be so—so uncomf’t’ble ’n’ p’tic’lar! W’t’s
use of be’ng shnobbish?” he urged, clinging hilariously to his partner,
a pigeon-toed ballet girl. But Elliott only laughed and said:
“No; waltzes are all I care for. No quadrille for me—”
The crash of the orchestra drowned his voice, and Clifford, turning and
bowing gravely to his partner, and then to his vis-à-vis, began to
perform such antics and cut such pigeonwings that his pigeon-toed
partner glared at him through the slits of her mask in envious
astonishment. The door was dotted with numerous circles of maskers, ten
or fifteen deep, all watching and applauding the capers of the
hilarious couples in the middle.
But Clifford’s set soon attracted a large and enthusiastic audience,
who were connoisseurs enough to distinguish a voluntary dancer from a
hired one; and when the last thundering chords of Offenbach’s “March
into Hell” scattered the throng into a delirious waltz, Clifford reeled
heavily into the side scenes and sat down, rather unexpectedly, in the
lap of Mademoiselle Nitouche, who had crept in there with the Baron
Silberstein for a nice, quiet view of a genuine cancan.
Mademoiselle did not think it funny, but the Baron did, and when she
boxed Clifford’s ears he thought it funnier still.
Rowden and Elliot, who were laboriously waltzing with a twin pair of
flat-footed Watteau Shepherdesses, immediately ran to his assistance;
and later, with a plentiful application of cold water and still colder
air, restored Mr Clifford to his usual spirits.
“You’re not a beauty, you know,” said Rowden, looking at Clifford’s
hair, which was soaked into little points and curls; “you’re certainly
no beauty, but I think you’re all right now—don’t you, Elliott? ”
“Certainly,” laughed the triumvir, producing a little silver
pocket-comb and presenting it to the woebegone Clifford, who
immediately brought out a hand glass and proceeded to construct a
“bang” of wonderful seductiveness.
In ten minutes they sallied forth from the dressing room and wended
their way through the throngs of masks to the center of the floor. They
passed Thaxton and Rhodes, who, each with a pretty nun upon his arm,
were trying to persuade Bulfinch into taking the third nun, who might
have been the Mother Superior or possibly a resuscitated 14th century
abbess.
“No,” he was saying, while he blinked painfully at the ci-devant
abbess, “I can’t go that; upon my word, don’t ask me, fellows—I—I
can’t.”
“Oh, come,” urged Rhodes, “what’s the odds?”
“You can take her and I’ll take yours,” began the wily little man, but
neither Rhodes nor Thaxton waited to argue longer.
“No catacombs for me,” growled Bulfinch, eyeing the retreating nuns,
but catching sight of the triumvirate, his face regained its bird-like
felicity of expression.
“Glad to see you—indeed I am! That Colossus is too disinterested in
securing partners for his friends; he is, I assure you. If you’re
looking for a Louis Quatorze partner, warranted genuine, go to Rhodes.”
“Rex ought to be here by this time,” said Rowden; “look in the boxes on
that side and Clifford and I will do the same on this.”
“No need,” cried Elliott, “I see him with a white domino there in the
second tier. Look! he’s waving his hand to us and so is the domino.”
“Come along,” said Clifford, pushing his way toward the foyer, “I’ll
find them in a moment. Let me see,”—a few minutes later, pausing
outside a row of white and gilt doors—“let me see, seventh box, second
tier—here we are,” he added, rapping loudly.
Yvonne ran and opened the door.
“Bon soir, Messieurs,” she said, with a demure curtsy.
Clifford gallantly kissed the little glove and then shook hands with
Gethryn.
“How is it on the floor?” asked the latter, as Elliott and Rowden came
forward to the edge of the box. “I want to take Yvonne out for a turn
and perhaps a waltz, if it isn’t too crowded.”
“Oh, it’s pretty rough just now, but it will be better in half an
hour,” replied Rowden, barricading the champagne from Clifford.
“We saw you dancing, Mr Clifford,” observed Yvonne, with a wicked
glance at him from under her mask.
Clifford blushed.
“I—I don’t make an ass of myself but once a year, you know,” he said,
with a deprecatory look at Elliott.
“Oh,” murmured the latter, doubtfully, “glad to hear it.”
Clifford gazed at him in meek reproof and then made a flank movement
upon the champagne, but was again neatly foiled by Rowden.
Yvonne looked serious, but presently leaned over and filled one of the
long-stemmed goblets.
“Only one, Mr Clifford; one for you to drink my health, but you must
promise me truthfully not to take any more wine this evening!”
Clifford promised with great promptness, and taking the glass from her
hand with a low bow, sprang recklessly upon the edge of the box and
raised the goblet.
“A la plus belle demoiselle de Paris!” he cried, with all the strength
of his lungs, and drained the goblet.
A shout from the crowd below answered his toast. A thousand faces were
turned upward, and people leaned over their boxes, and looked at the
party from all parts of the house.
Mademoiselle Nitouche turned to Monsieur de Sacrebleu.
“What audacity!” she murmured.
Mademoiselle Goujon smiled at the Baron Silberstein.
“Tiens!” she cried, “the gayety has begun, I hope.”
Little Miss Ducely whispered to Lieutenant Faucon:
“Those are American students,” she sighed; “how jolly they seem to be,
especially Mr Clifford! I wonder if she _is_ so pretty!”
Half a dozen riotous Frenchmen in the box opposite jumped to their feet
and waved their goblets at Clifford.
“A la plus jolie femme du monde!” they roared.
Clifford seized another glass and filled it.
“She is here!” he shouted, and sprang to the edge again. But Gethryn
pulled him down.
“That’s too dangerous,” he laughed; “you could easily fall.”
“Oh, pshaw!” cried Clifford, draining the glass, and shaking it at the
opposite box.
Yvonne put her hand on Gethryn’s arm.
“Don’t let him have any more,” she whispered.
“Give us the goblet!” yelled the Frenchmen.
“Le voila!” shouted Clifford, and stepping back, hurled the glass with
all his strength across the glittering gulf. It fell with a crash in
the box it was aimed at, and a howl of applause went up from the floor.
Yvonne laughed nervously, but coming to the edge of the box buried her
mask in her bouquet and looked down.
“A rose! A rose!” cried the maskers below; “a rose from the most
charming demoiselle in Paris!”
She half turned to Gethryn, but suddenly stepping forward, seized a
handful of flowers from the middle of the bouquet and flung them into
the crowd.
There was a shout and a scramble, and then she tore the bouquet end
from end, sending a shower of white buds into the throng.
“None for me?” sighed Clifford, watching the fast-dwindling bouquet.
She laughed brightly as she tossed the last handful below, and then
turned and leaned over Gethryn’s chair.
“You destructive little wretch!” he laughed, “this is not the season
for the Battle of Flowers. But white roses mean nothing, so I’m not
jealous.”
“Ah, mon ami, I saved the red rose for you,” she whispered; and
fastened it upon his breast.
And at his whispered answer her cheeks flushed crimson under the white
mask. But she sprang up laughing.
“I would so like to go onto the floor,” she cried, pulling him to his
feet, and coaxing him with a simply irresistible look; “don’t you think
we might—just for a minute, Mr Rowden?” she pleaded. “I don’t mind a
crowd—indeed I don’t, and I am masked so perfectly.”
“What’s the harm, Rex?” said Rowden; “she is well masked.”
“And when we return it will be time for supper, won’t it?”
“Yes, I should think so!” murmured Clifford.
“Where do we go then?”
“Maison Dorée.”
“Come along, then, Mademoiselle Destructiveness!” cried Gethryn,
tossing his mask and field glass onto a chair, where they were
appropriated by Clifford, who spent the next half hour in staring
across at good old Colonel Toddlum and his frisky companion—an
attention which drove the poor old gentleman almost frantic with
suspicion, for he was a married man, bless his soul!—and a pew-holder
in the American Church.
“My love,” said the frisky one, “who is the gentleman in the black mask
who stares?”
“I don’t know,” muttered the dear old man, in a cold sweat, “I don’t
know, but I wish I did.”
And the frisky one shrugged her shoulders and smiled at the mask.
“What are they looking at?” whispered Yvonne, as she tripped along,
holding very tightly to Gethryn’s arm.
“Only a quadrille—‘La Pataude’ is dancing. Do you want to see it?”
She nodded, and they approached the circle in the middle of which ‘La
Pataude’ and ‘Grille d’Egout’ were holding high carnival. At every
ostentatious display of hosiery the crowd roared.
“Brava! Bis!” cried an absinthe-soaked old gentleman; “vive La
Pataude!”
For answer the lady dexterously raised his hat from his head with the
point of her satin slipper.
The crowd roared again. “Brava! Brava, La Pataude!”
Yvonne turned away.
“I don’t like it. I don’t find it amusing,” she said, faintly.
Gethryn’s hand closed on hers.
“Nor I,” he said.
“But you and your friends used to go to the students’ ball at
‘Bullier’s,’” she began, a little reproachfully.
“Only as Nouveaux, and then, as a rule, the high-jinks are pretty
genuine there—at least, with the students. We used to go to keep cool
in spring and hear the music; to keep warm in winter; and amuse
ourselves at Carnival time.”
“But—Mr Clifford knows all the girls at ‘Bullier’s.’ Do—do you?”
“Some.”
“How many?” she said, pettishly.
“None—now.”
A pause. Yvonne was looking down.
“See here, little goose, I never cared about any of that crowd, and I
haven’t been to the Bullier since—since last May.”
She turned her face up to his; tears were stealing down from under her
mask.
“Why, Yvonne!” he began, but she clung to his shoulder, as the
orchestra broke into a waltz.
“Don’t speak to me, Rex—but dance! Dance!”
They danced until the last bar of music ceased with a thundering crash.
“Tired?” he asked, still holding her.
She smiled breathlessly and stepped back, but stopped short, with a
little cry.
“Oh! I’m caught—there, on your coat!”
He leaned over her to detach the shred of silk.
“Where is it? Oh! Here!”
And they both laughed and looked at each other, for she had been held
by the little golden clasp, the fleur-de-lis.
“You see,” he said, “it will always draw me to you.”
But a shadow fell on her fair face, and she sighed as she gently took
his arm.
When they entered their box, Clifford was still tormenting the poor
Colonel.
“Old dog thinks I know him,” he grinned, as Yvonne and Rex came in.
Yvonne flung off her mask and began to fan herself.
“Time for supper, you know,” suggested Clifford.
Yvonne lay back in her chair, smiling and slowly waving the great
plumes to and fro.
“Who are those people in the next box?” she asked him. “They do make
such a noise.”
“There are only two, both masked.”
“But they have unmasked now. There are their velvets on the edge of the
box. I’m going to take a peep,” she whispered, rising and leaning
across the railing.
“Don’t; I wouldn’t—” began Gethryn, but he was too late.
Yvonne leaned across the gilded cornice and instantly fell back in her
chair, deathly pale.
“My God! Are you ill, Yvonne?”
“Oh, Rex, Rex, take me away—home—”
Then came a loud hammering on the box door. A harsh, strident voice
called, “Yvonne! Yvonne!”
Clifford thoughtlessly threw it open, and a woman in evening dress,
very decolletée, swept by him into the box, with a waft of sickly
scented air.
Yvonne leaned heavily on Gethryn’s shoulder; the woman stopped in front
of them.
“Ah! here you are, then!”
Yvonne’s face was ghastly.
“Nina,” she whispered, “why did you come?”
“Because I wanted to make you a little surprise,” sneered the woman; “a
pleasant little surprise. We love each other enough, I hope.” She
stamped her foot.
“Go,” said Yvonne, looking half dead.
“Go!” mimicked the other. “But certainly! Only first you must introduce
me to these gentlemen who are so kind to you.”
“You will leave the box,” said Gethryn, in a low voice, holding open
the door.
The woman turned on him. She was evidently in a prostitute’s tantrum of
malicious deviltry. Presently she would begin to lash herself into a
wild rage.
“Ah! this is the one!” she sneered, and raising her voice, she called,
“Mannie, Mannie, come in here, quick!”
A sidling step approached from the next box, and the face of Mr Emanuel
Pick appeared at the door.
“This is the one,” cried the woman, shrilly. “Isn’t he pretty?”
Mr Pick looked insolently at Gethryn and opened his mouth, but he did
not say anything, for Rex took him by the throat and kicked him
headlong into his own box. Then he locked the door, and taking out the
key, returned and presented it to the woman.
“Follow him!” he said, and quietly, but forcibly, urged her toward the
lobby.
“Mannie! Mannie!” she shrieked, in a voice choked by rage and
dissipation, “come and kill him! He’s insulting me!”
Getting no response, she began to pour forth shriek upon shriek,
mingled with oaths and ravings. “I shall speak to my sister! Who dares
prevent me from speaking to my sister! You—” she glared at Yvonne and
ground her teeth. “You, the good one. You! the mother’s pet! Ran away
from home! Took up with an English hog!”
Yvonne sprang to her feet again.
“Leave the box,” she gasped.
“Ha! ha! Mais oui! leave the box! and let her dance while her mother
lies dying!”
Yvonne gave a cry.
“Ah! Ah!” said her sister, suddenly speaking very slowly, nodding at
every word. “Ah! Ah! go back to your room and see what is there—in the
room of your lover—the little letter from Vernon. She wants you. She
wants _you._ That is because you are so good. She does not want me. No,
it is you who must come to see her die. I—I dance at the Carnival!”
Then, suddenly turning on Gethryn with a devilish grin, “You! tell your
mistress her mother is dying!” She laughed hatefully, but preserved her
pretense of calm, walked to the door, and as she reached it swung round
and made an insulting gesture to Gethryn.
“You! I will remember you!”
The door slammed and a key rattled in the next box.
Clinging to Gethryn, Yvonne passed down the long corridor to the
vestibule, while Elliott and Rowden silently gathered up the masks and
opera glasses. Clifford stood holding her crushed and splintered fan.
He looked at Elliott, who looked gloomily back at him, as Braith
entered hurriedly.
“What’s the matter? I saw something was wrong from the floor. Rex ill?”
“Ill at ease,” said Clifford, grimly. “There’s a sister turned up. A
devil of a sister.”
Braith spoke very low. “Yvonne’s sister?”
“Yes, a she-devil.”
“Did you hear her name?”
“Name’s Nina.”
Braith went quietly out again. Passing blindly down the lobby, he ran
against Mr Bulfinch. Mr Bulfinch was in charge of a policeman.
“Hello, Braith!” he called, hilariously.
Braith was going on with a curt nod when the other man added:
“I’ve taken it out of Pick,” and he stopped short. “I got my two
hundred francs worth,” the artist of the _London Mirror_ proceeded,
“and now I shall feel bound to return you yours—the first time I have
it,” he ended, vaguely.
Braith made an impatient gesture.
“Are you under arrest?”
“Yes, I am. He couldn’t help it,” smiling agreeably at the Sergeant de
Ville. “He saw me hit him.”
The policeman looked stolid.
“But what excuse?” began Braith.
“Oh! none! Pick just passed me, and I felt as if I couldn’t stand it
any longer, so I pitched in.”
“Well, and now you’re in for fine and imprisonment.”
“I suppose so,” said Bulfinch, beaming.
“Have you any money with you?”
“No, unless I have some in your pocket?” said the little man, with a
mixture of embarrassment and bravado that touched Braith, who saw what
the confession cost him.
“Lots!” said he, cordially. “But first let us try what we can do with
Bobby. Do you ever drink a petit verre, Monsieur le Sergeant de Ville?”
with a winning smile to the wooden policeman.
The latter looked at the floor.
“No,” said he.
“Never?”
“Never!”
“Well, I was only thinking that over on the Corner of the Rue Taitbout
one finds excellent wine at twenty francs.”
The officer now gazed dreamily at the ceiling.
“Mine costs forty,” he said.
And a few minutes later the faithful fellow stood in front of the Opera
house quite alone.