“I quite disagree. I, at all events, could never contemplate poverty
with equanimity.”
“Not poverty,” he protested eagerly—“not poverty! The young, the
earnest, and the hopeful know no poverty; they are not poor—where there
is love,” and he searched her eyes as if his very life depended on
discovering there a sign of her agreement with his sentiment.
She glanced about her at the indications of the speaker’s wealth and
prodigality, smiled cynically, tapped him with her fan. “_Farceur_!”
said she, “now you are romantic, and to talk romance in seriousness is
ridiculous.”
Of a sudden he saw her what she really was—vain, cruel, calculating,
parched in soul, despite her saintly face. He stared at her, almost
stunned by disillusion, seeing the corruption of her nature rise like a
scum upon the purple eyes.
To the left of his chair the door of the reception salon opened at the
moment, and a voice beyond it plucked him from the depths of his
despondency. He rose, incredulous, and rushed into the room, where a
little old woman, simple and abashed at her surroundings, stood beside
the secretary.
“Mother!” he exclaimed, with his arms around her, almost doubtful of her
actual presence. “I thought it was your wraith.”
“I fear I come at an awkward time,” she said pathetically; “but all alone
in this strange city, what was I to do?”
“You come at the very time I want you,” he replied. “I had—I had
forgotten things. I have been play-acting, and the play is done! Was
this”—and he turned to the pseudo-secretary—“was this a part of your
entertainment, Lord Balgowie?”
“It is a most effective curtain,” said the other, smiling kindly on the
little woman; “but it was not, strictly speaking, in the manuscript. I
am glad the play, as you say, is over; for I had begun to think you took
the part, in one respect, too seriously. I am honoured to meet you,
madam; you must be wearied after such a journey. Both of you go at once
to the rue Adolphe Yvon, and I shall make the requisite apologies to the
company.”
He saw them to the street, and returned to join the guests. “Ladies and
gentlemen,” he said, with a manner they had never seen in him before, “Le
Pompadour has taken his leave _à l’anglais_, and my little joke has
terminated in the most dramatic fashion. I have long had a desire to
see, as a spectator, what for a dozen years I was under the absurd
impression was a life of pleasure; and, at the cost of paying the bills
myself and lending my worthy young compatriot my name for a few months, I
have had the most delicious and instructive entertainment. In many
respects he filled the part of Lord Balgowie better than ever I could do;
but two things rather spoiled his admirable presentation—a homely taste
in viands, and his honest heart!”