Fate plays no honest game, but when
You glance aside or back
She palms the discard slyly, then
Redeals it with the pack.
“Papa,” the “Gamin” said, “I wish we would not go to Paris this
winter.”
She was driving “Antinoüs” home from Châstelcoûrt, the home of
Comte René of that ilk, “Grand Louvetier de Bretagne,” and she spoke
lightly, all her attention being presumably devoted to the careful
guiding of her pet trotters, “Scylla” and “Charybdis”--quite a job in
itself, being given the tempers of the beasts in question.
“Not go to Paris?” “Antinoüs” asked in surprise. “Not appear during
your first season before what is left of our world? Why, ‘Gamin,’
what can you be thinking of?”
“Oh, nothing in particular, excepting of what Monsieur de
Châstelcoûrt told you about the wolves in the mountains. It has
been years--you heard--since they have been so numerous, which is not
unnatural,” she went on, jerking the storm-collar of her long
fur-lined driving-coat up to her little ears. “Brr-rr-rr. It is cold
... for Brittany, that is!”
“Not down at Plenhöel!” “Antinoüs” argued. “Here in the foot-hills,
all right; but there we have only rain and fog and squalls to our
heart’s content, which does not make for gaiety.”
“Then you are not a real Breton, my father--dear!” Marguerite
exclaimed, tickling with the bud the glossy hind quarters of
“Charybdis.” “Not a bona-fide son of the Celtic Sea,” she resumed,
restraining the antics of the deeply offended horse. “Oh, you
needn’t tug at your mustache! I am stating a fact.”
“Antinoüs” turned and gave her a quick look, but all he could see
was the half of her profile between her upturned collar and the
revers of her fur toque drawn down nearly to her brows. Her eyes were
steadily fixed upon “Charybdis’s” ears, this unregenerate miscreant
being still somewhat resentfully inclined.
“Why don’t you want to go to Paris?” asked the youthful father. “It
is surely not only the chance of some wolf-hunting?”
Marguerite replied at once: “The wolves naturally have a great deal
to do with it, but even barring them, I should much rather remain
here--at home.”
“Isn’t the Hôtel de Plenhöel home, too? After all, it has been
ours for many, many generations, which should lend it some of the
charm that the old place here has for us. Besides, all our relatives
and most of our friends are already in Paris, or will be there soon.
Among others your beloved Laurence, who, by the way, is, as a Russian
Princess, certainly an astounding success. Poor old Basil! I’ll be
glad to see him again, although I still can’t help being sure he
was a fool to marry her.”
Of a truth “Charybdis” must have been in a sour mood that morning,
for at this point he cut such a caper that “Antinoüs” interrupted
his discourse to advise Marguerite to land her team in the ditch
before worse happened, and have done with it! The sarcasm, however,
apparently did not touch her, for she gave no sign of annoyance, and
as soon as the horses had resumed a more dignified _allure_, he went
on, quietly:
“They’ve been married nearly four months now, haven’t they?
_Sapristi!_ How time flies! A chance meeting ... a hot-headed
Muscovite ... a level-headed Britisher, an infinitesimal courtship, a
consent from the Czar, a splendid wedding-feast, a short trip to
one’s vasty estates, and here is our interesting couple royally
established in the Faubourg St.-Germain, and cradled by the town of
revolutions, where they will doubtless dominate _chic_ and fashion.
Ah, there’s no denying it! Your Loris knows how to paddle her own
canoe.”
“You never did like Laurence!” Marguerite observed.
“No, I never did; I don’t mind owning up to that; and the
high-handed way in which she landed one of the greatest matrimonial
prizes in Europe did not improve my admiration, either. A girl as
competent as she proved herself to be before twenty promises for the
future.”
Marguerite was turning her horses from the departmental road into one
which opened upon it at right angles, and made a short cut to
Plenhöel across the heath. This delicate operation might, therefore,
have excused her silence, but her father did not think so.
“Oh, hang it all, ‘Gamin’!” he exclaimed. “You know what I mean,
in spite of your sugar-candy airs! You won’t tell me that you were
pleased with her--or him, either, for the matter of that; else why
did you refuse to go to the marriage on the plea of ill-health? You
pleading ill-health! Preposterous! However, I thought that perhaps by
now you had forgiven and forgotten, and that you might be pleased to
see them once more.”
Had her father looked at her now he would have noticed the wave of
delicate color rising on what was visible of her face; but he was
irritably drawing his cigarette-case from a recalcitrant inner
pocket, and did not see.
“Forgive--forget? What in the world have I to forgive or forget,
papa?” she asked, glancing at the somber dried heather rustling along
both sides of the road into misty distances. “What indeed; since it
was I who at Cousin Basil’s request first spoke to Laurence of his
‘intentions’ regarding her?”
“Antinoüs,” a cigarette in one hand and a vesta-box in the other,
veered abruptly in his seat, and stared at his daughter with
something akin to consternation in his eyes.
“You!” he exclaimed. “Why I never heard a word of all this! What an
idea, to make a baby like you his messenger, instead of asking me!”
“Well, he thought you’d laugh at him,” Marguerite frankly replied.
“He did, eh? Jolly right he was, too, come to think of it. For
that’s exactly what I would have done, I dare say. A man like him
to throw himself away for the sake of a pretty minx’s bright eyes,
and that, mind you, without knowing anything in particular about
her.”
“He was right to mistrust you, you see,” she mocked.
“Yes, I see, but it isn’t too late. I promise you that I’ll do my
laughing yet. Indeed, ‘Gamin,’ I hope you’re going to reconsider
that verdict about not going to Paris. It would annoy me very
much to miss the fun.”
For a minute Marguerite did not reply. Another brusque bend in the
road lent her fresh reasons for not attending, but when she spoke it
was in her usual tone of semi-banter.
“My dear papa!” she said. “If you are bent on amusement, amusement
you must have! It is not for an old lady like myself to stand in the
way of your giddy doings.”
“_Chevalier_,” “Antinoüs” interrupted, “you do not always observe
the deep respect due to a parent, but I will not repel the hand you
offer me in peace and amity. May these words be my guerdon! I was
wondering whether you had some really serious reason for disliking to
go. And here are our turrets pointing skyward over the pines, so
kindly let your estimable steeds have their heads. I am as hungry as
a bear. Aren’t you?”
“Very hungry,” she replied, with the enthusiasm of a sailor accepting
a glass of water on a cold winter’s day. “By the way, when do you
wish to leave Plenhöel?”
“As soon as you like ... or can. The first week of January I think
would be a fairly good time. Of course Christmas and New-Year
are better spent on our own land. In spite of what you say, I
am almost as Breton in heart and soul as you are yourself, _mon
Chevalier_--take care of that stone near the clump of reeds yonder,
‘Scylla’ seems determined to swallow it _en passant_.”
* * * * *
_“Leurs Altesses Sérénissimes le Prince et la Princesse Palitzin!”_
The gigantic footman sent these distinguished appellations down the
room in the perfectly intoned accents of a _valet de grande maison_,
without the slightest striving after bombastic effect, and Marguerite
quietly rose from the place before the fire where she was
entertaining some guests. It was the first reception given by the
Plenhöels since their arrival in Paris, and the salons were crowded.
Slim and graceful in her simple white gauze dress, that fell about
her like fluent frost, the young mistress of the house wore no
jewels, a little branch of white heather alone defining the
heart-shaped opening of the corsage. With a charming smile she
advanced to meet the strikingly handsome couple that was focusing all
eyes in this choice assemblage, and her voice was coolly gracious as
she bade them welcome.
Laurence was even more beautiful--if that were possible--than she had
been before her marriage. Her lithe shape seemed taller, and in her
trailing gown of almond-green velvet, bordered with a fine rouleau of
ermine, she had something decidedly queenly.
She bent as though to embrace her cousin by marriage, but, though
she could not have told how, found herself merely shaking hands with
that erstwhile “dearest of all friends,” who immediately turned to
Basil, uttering a commonplace compliment of congratulation.
He was beaming with happiness, and when “Antinoüs,” who had followed
his daughter, added his felicitations to hers, he actually grew red
with pleasure.
“Yes!” he said, exultantly, letting his wife and Marguerite pass on,
and detaining “Antinoüs” by the arm. “Yes, I am a lucky dog! Look at
her! Isn’t she a marvel? Wasn’t I right when I called her that
long ago--and exquisite, my dear fellow, in temper, in manner--oh, in
everything!”
Never had the Marquis de Plenhöel heard his kinsman express himself
with so much warmth or at such length. Interested by this
transformation, he glanced at the serpentine folds of Laurence’s
long train, coiling and uncoiling behind her as she walked beside
Marguerite, and then back at the once taciturn Basil. He had always
thought his cousin a trifle too unemotional, and an amused smile
showed under his blond mustache.
“How ill we judge women at first sight!” he remarked, lightly.
“D’you remember your first view of Laurence in that gorgeous storm
at Plenhöel? Who then would have imagined--”
“Speak for yourself, Régis,” Basil countered, hastily. “You were the
one who found fault. I fell in love with her at first sight, I tell
you. As to you, permit me to suggest that you were not using your
habitual keenness of vision that morning.”
“Perhaps! Perhaps! I always said, though, that she was a beauty, you
remember, and now I’ll improve upon that. Marriage decidedly agrees
with her, and she has become absolutely superb.”
Once more Basil flushed with delight, for his cousin’s appreciation
was not one to be disdained. “Isn’t she?” he said, with almost
boyish pride. “But”--with a look of contrition and apology so sudden
that it was almost ludicrous--“tell me, Régis, has the ‘Gamin’
really been ill?”
“Why?” questioned Plenhöel, utterly forgetting the excuse made for
her non-appearance at the wedding, and instantly alarmed. “Don’t
you think she looks well?” All thought of banter had suddenly left
him, and he involuntarily took a step toward the place where
Marguerite was attending to her duties, presenting one guest after
another to Laurence, and that with amazing ease for a girl not yet
seventeen.
“She looks adorable, as usual,” Basil said, slowly. “That goes
without saying; but I don’t know, she seems elongated somehow ...
not thinner ... not taller, either; just a trifle more ethereal; more
like a dream.” He paused and fixed his deep eyes on his little
comrade--as he had used to style her. “I left a sheaf of sun-rays,
and find one made of moonbeams--no, a moonglade--that’s the
word--yes, that’s the exact impression she gives now--a quiet,
restful, lovely moonglade.”
“You’re getting positively lyrical,” “Antinoüs” retorted,
impatiently. “A moonglade, indeed! Why, she’s as full of life as a
two-year-old, and as jolly as a sandpiper. Idiot!” he was thinking to
himself. “He’s so absorbed by his new toy that he can’t see
straight any longer. Decidedly a man of one idea at a time!” And he
invited his cousin to come and have a cigar in the smoking-room, with
indifferently concealed irritation.
Meanwhile Laurence was enjoying to the full the success which she had
encountered wherever she had gone since her marriage. From beneath
her long, curving lashes she eagerly watched the effect she was
producing, and her rather too small ears--a sure sign of
selfishness--adorned with priceless pearls, were quick to catch the
compliments upon her beauty that Marguerite was receiving.
“_Délicieuse! Ravissante! Mais, elle est jolie comme un amour, votre
cousine!_” It was intensely enjoyable, this long-awaited manna
bedewing _après-coup_ the desert of her past life, so bitter and so
humiliating when this ambitious woman looked back at it, now that she
had arrived! No more _pronunciamientos_ from Aunt Elizabeth, no more
charity from splenetic Uncle Bob--ever grumpy when not aboard his
beloved yacht. No! Laurence was her own mistress now, with power and
wealth unspeakable at her command. She was beautiful; she was not
quite twenty; at her feet knelt a man no less her lover because she
was his by the imperial word of church and state--indeed, rather more
so--being given Basil’s peculiarly chivalrous nature, his blind
passion for her. She had reached to-night the very apogee of all her
earthly desires, and therefore that was naturally the moment for her
to feel the blood crowd back upon her heart as a voice not heard for
seeming ages spoke suddenly at her shoulder.
“Permit me, madame, to recall myself to your memory.” The words were
irreproachable, so was the attitude of the tall, good-looking soldier
bowing low before her, but she could willingly have annihilated him
then and there.
“Neville!” she cried, before recovering her presence of mind.
“Captain Moray! How--how are you here?”
“As naturally as you are yourself--madame. I, too, have the honor of
being counted a friend in this hospitable house. Moreover, I have
just been appointed Military Attaché to the British Embassy here.”
She winced. Good Heavens! What could they mean in England by sending
this young man, of all people in the world, to Paris, where she, the
Princess Palitzin, intended to make her home for several months out
of every year!
“Indeed!” she said, with passably assumed indifference. “I
congratulate you.”
“Thank you! I am rather young for the post, of course, but my
uncle....”
“It is always agreeable to have friends at Court,” she retorted, and
felt horribly vexed at the difficulty she experienced in giving vent
to this platitude. She had much to learn, had this Princess out of a
fairy-tale--not hardened as yet to the world’s surprises, not
controlled enough, alas! to dissemble convincingly the wild agitation
his sudden appearance caused her.
Her Neville! The boy she had loved--as far, at least, as she was
capable of loving. Her restless eyes scanned the flower-filled
enfilade of salons, and dwelt for an instant upon her husband, who,
with “Antinoüs” in tow, was returning from the smoking-room.
Basil’s personality was of those that impose themselves upon any
_milieu_. Patrician to his finger-tips, elegant--in the delicate
French sense of this word so misused by foreigners--a full head
taller than most of the men there, he was a Prince to be proud of, a
Prince Charming--as Marguerite had once called him--in every possible
respect. Why then did she feel her throat contract at the realization
that she was, after all was said and done, his irrevocably, and that
Neville Moray was henceforth but a figment of the days that had gone?
Basil certainly dwarfed his neighbors; she could not help admitting
it to herself; and yet the English guardsman was good to look at,
too, and had, moreover, an advantage over him to-night--he was in
uniform, the _soirée_ being a semi-official affair--and to a woman a
uniform always appeals, especially when worn by men as manly as
Moray. To Laurence, so enamoured of pomp and show, it appealed
doubly.
Fortunately for her, Marguerite came toward her at that moment.
“Laurence,” she said, “the Dowager would like to know you.”
“The Dowager?” Laurence said, slowly, her lips still trembling a
little.
“The old Duchesse de Montemare,” the “Gamin” explained. “You know
she is the arbiter _par excellence_ of our coterie. Will you come and
be presented?” Then catching sight of the Captain, she turned to him
with a smile of welcome.
“Good evening, Captain Moray. I had not seen you enter.”
“I have been trying for ten minutes to approach you, mademoiselle,
but you were _quite_ unapproachable,” he explained, bending low
before her. “I have, however, been happy enough to pay my respects to
your father.”
“Ah! Very well. Platnowsky is going to play for us presently. I hope
you’ll enjoy it. He has a positive genius for entrancing an
audience, irrespective of nationality, creed, taste, or personal
inclinations.”
“Hm--he is not the only one,” Neville said, softly, his golden-brown
eyes lingering admiringly upon the exquisite contour of Marguerite’s
face and form. “Will _you_ sing for us to-night, mademoiselle?”
“I! You are not thinking of what you say, _Capitaine_. I! Sing after
Platnowsky’s wonderful playing, and Señora Vizazona’s folk-songs
in A minor!” But an impatient touch on the arm made Marguerite turn
and gaze at Laurence, who, with heightened color and a toss of the
head that made the diamonds in her tiara sparkle furiously, was
attempting to draw her away.
“I am waiting!” she said, shortly.
“_I almost waited_ is how Louis-Quatorze put it!” rejoined
Marguerite. “This sort of thing was managed better then.” And with a
nod to Captain Moray she preceded Laurence across the room.
“What an exquisite little creature!” mused Moray, as he watched her
disappearing into the music-room. He drew a deep breath and made his
way unobtrusively to a near-by embrasure, where the window-curtains
hid him from sight. His disappointment in Laurence had been keen
just now. A few words sent him before her marriage had acquainted
him with as much of the facts as she cared to reveal. He saw
now before his eyes the lavender paper she always used, and
the downward-slanting lines of violet ink closing with this
characteristic sentence: “Beggars are no choosers. They do what
they must. Pity me!”
From the shadowy corner where he stood, the new Military Attaché
surveyed the brilliantly lighted salons with meditative eyes. He fell
to wondering why she had written that hypocrite “Pity me!” Basil,
still chatting with Régis de Plenhöel, was only a few feet away,
and the watcher had to confess to himself that this handsome
aristocrat--every inch a man--with the stars of some great Orders on
his coat, his winning smile and high-bred bearing, was not to be
classed with those whom a woman is very sorry to have married.
Moreover, Laurence had been looking not only happy, but singularly
triumphant, before his own appearance within her range of vision. Her
exultant attitude, her sumptuous toilette, her regal jewels, did not
frame somehow with the picture one makes oneself of a poor
heartbroken creature--_vierge et martyr_--forced into a distasteful
union; and for the first time his love and loyalty for her wavered.
Presently she came back toward the sofa where Basil and “Antinoüs”
were established. She was leaning on the arm of an Ambassador,
extremely young-looking for so weighty a distinction, who was
obviously delighted with his present rôle as _cavalière-servente_
to the most-looked-at woman in the room. Laurence, her pretty color
heightened, her eyes sparkling with animation, was responding to his
graceful compliments in faultless Italian, “flying her hands” as if
really to the manner born. The two men on the sofa had risen, and the
little group was now so close to Neville that he could hear every
word distinctly. And suddenly through the archway of the music-room
he saw Marguerite de Plenhöel standing by the concert piano, where
Platnowsky had just installed himself, and half unconsciously he
took a step in that direction, putting aside the curtain, and
standing for a second irresolute and half revealed.
Laurence’s eyes, meeting his, changed to extreme harshness, and in
a voice new to her audience--especially to Basil--she asked him to
have their carriage called.
“Not before hearing Platnowsky!” remonstrated “Antinoüs.” “He is the
nail of the evening--and looks it,” he added, indicating the
interminable maestro, thin almost to emaciation, and topped by an
exuberant mane of dull potato-colored hair, weeping-willowing across
his melancholy brow. But Laurence was not attuned to humorous remarks
just now, and with an impatient gesture she reiterated what might
easily have been mistaken for a command, and encountered Basil’s
glance of astonishment with a frown.
“She is afraid of me,” Neville thought, as with a bow he passed on
toward the music-room. “Afraid of me! Can it be possible? What does
she take me for?” He felt very unhappy, almost ashamed, and
especially puzzled. What did it all mean? Could this haughty,
overbearing woman be the same who in the grace of all her girlish
beauty had spoken so tenderly to him on the moonlit lawns of Seton
Park less than a year ago? He glanced helplessly around. Marguerite’s
white silhouette detached itself against the lemon-wood paneling of
the great _salle-de-concert_, and toward Marguerite he went
instinctively, like all those who needed comfort, or followed the
search of the ideal.