My house and all it holds is thine,
But your deeds shall be no guests of mine.
Tverna, _12th of May_.
My dear Régis,--I must apologize, and apologize humbly, for not
having answered your letter sooner. To tell you the truth, we have
“enjoyed”--as your Breton peasants say--some rather unquiet times
here. When we first came, as you know, I found my “vassals” a trifle
out of hand, but, after all, very reasonably so. Unfortunately the
spirit of the age--or whatever you call it--has never ceased seeping
through our marches--I should say marshes, the season being
peculiarly rainy--and thus has my time been strenuously taken up by
what I may term salvage-work, to the almost complete exclusion of any
pleasanter occupation--this, of course, includes writing to those I
love. In spite of the above-mentioned drawbacks, I am hale and hearty
enough--that is to say that the years have not as yet left a serious
mark upon me! Of course it is a great deprivation to abandon the
sojourns abroad I used to delight in, but you see there is no choice
in the matter. We spend a month or two every season in the Crimea,
where the estates, of course, also demand the weary and wary eye of
the master, but this cannot veraciously be described as a vacation,
since work, work, work, is the keynote of my stay there. I wish I
could have induced you to stop with us for a few weeks at least,
during your trip around the world. How interested my cousin
Marguerite must have been by this charming voyage. I hope she is
well, and you also, my good Régis. Has she outgrown the “Gamin”
stage? I can scarcely believe it of her--she is so essentially and
delightfully young. And now I come to the heart of my letter, as it
were. Laurence has for a long time, I fear, been homesick--I believe
she never was anything else--as it is quite natural she should be,
at so grim a distance from her own country. She is planning an
expedition to the banks of the Thames, and I would willingly
accompany her, but duty forbids so unlandlordly a thought, and so she
will probably travel with Tatiana and Salvières, arriving in
“Europe”--she insists that Russia is in no wise included in that
division of the globe--some time in late June. After much reflection
I have decided to let the boy accompany his mother, in the care of
his _niania_, who has my absolute confidence. My occupations are such
that I could not be much with him during Laurence’s absence. I am
not certain whether a sojourn in England would suit him. He is, as
you know, my treasure of treasures, and since you tell me that
you intend leaving Paris for Plenhöel in June, could I, upon the
strength of our long and loyal friendship, venture to impose yet
another duty upon you? Perhaps you will think it pleasant. You are so
kind-hearted. It is, namely, to accept my little Piotr as your guest,
or rather charge, while Laurence visits her friends. The _niania_ and
my faithful old Garrassime, who never leaves him, will be responsible
for his behavior. Am I too indiscreet? I think not, provided my
cousin Marguerite pleads my cause with you. Tell her that I send
Piotr to her as a little messenger from afar, a playfellow, or a toy,
according to choice. He is very advanced for his age (all paternal
pride laid aside), even too much so--which is one of the reasons why
I think that a thorough change will be good for him--very advanced
indeed, and sometimes preternaturally solemn, as his eminently Slav
nature inclines him to be, not to mention some decidedly British and
splenetic strain, inherited, doubtless, from some maternal ancestor
or other.
I am waiting your reply very anxiously, and remain, my dear Régis,
Your devoted friend and cousin,
Basil.
Marguerite, curled up on an uncompromisingly bamboo lounge in the
flower-gallery of the Hôtel de Plenhöel--where five years before
she had bidden Basil farewell--was reading for the tenth time at
least Basil’s letter, received some days before. Her father had
answered it by return post--of course in the affirmative--and ever
since then Marguerite had been preparing to receive her youthful
guest.
At twenty-one the “Gamin” was still the “Gamin” of yore. To the eye
she had not changed at all, yet she was more than ever the
“Moonglade” of her cousin’s fancy, by right of some quality as
apparent as the path of its transmission to the observer was obscure.
She was the picture of ethereal health--if one may thus express
oneself--so delicately tinted was her little person, so gravely sweet
her eyes. The rose hue of her skin was the exact color of those tiny
waxen blossoms the Bretons call _fleurs-de-Jesus_, that have but the
very faintest hint of a blush beneath their white surface. Her hair
was the same pale-golden nimbus as when she left her convent, but she
wore it differently now--more smoothly coiled around her small head.
In one word, there was about her a sort of crystalline aureole that
set her apart from other beings. “Antinoüs,” if questioned, would
have asserted--and with truth--that she was the “jolliest little
chap” in creation, though a finer observer might have maintained that
her laughter was often from the lips only and not from the
eyes--those eyes that at this moment, while she was alone with
Basil’s letter, were not entirely dry. Once or twice she breathed
quickly, impatiently, as she thought of all that had happened.
Indeed, the past years had sometimes been hard to get through with.
She knew without the possibility of a doubt that Basil was not happy.
She had never been told so, but, nevertheless, she knew! Had it been
otherwise the “Gamin,” the gay and brave according to Jean de
Salvières, would have felt differently, and accepted life and its
burdens easily enough. Unfortunately, it cost her, in the light of
this intuitive knowledge, a good deal of energy to do so, and her
oft-repeated silent vows to think no more about it were writ in
water.
She was looking forward with suppressed delight to the arrival of
Piotr. Was he like his father, or his beautiful mother? she wondered.
Marguerite adored children--especially little boys--and here again
she was swayed by a clear-sightedness far beyond her age, for
the modern little girl did not please her, less because of
what they really are than on account of what they are bound to
become--pleasure-loving, noisy, untutored beings, now that the
wholesome principles of other times have been trampled under foot,
and the fad for feminine “emancipation” has become the most dangerous
craze the world has ever known.
The Hôtel de Plenhöel was _en fête_, and decked with flowers as
for some royal reception; toys of superfine quality and astounding
quantity were piled up in Marguerite’s personal salon to greet the
baby prince, and all the morning Marguerite herself had flitted to
and fro, up and down stairs, to arrange and prepare.
In an hour she would be with her father at the terminus, awaiting the
private car attached to the express bringing Laurence and her suite,
Piotr and his own. How large and magnificent that sounded! She
suddenly laughed, pocketed Basil’s epistle, and jumped to her feet,
ready for action. “Poor little boy!” she mechanically murmured. “I
must hurry!” But why poor? She could not have said why, though
instinctively she pitied the child--and pity is akin to love.
In her fresh summer frock of white _piqué_, a white-banded
sailor-hat on her golden locks that seemed to shine as through a wash
of silver, a knot of Malmaison carnations thrust through her
waist-ribbon, she looked indeed exquisitely young as she stood beside
“Antinoüs,” inside the station. He, too, had not altered, and was
still the _beau garçon_, full of chic and vim, who conquered all
hearts at the point of his blond mustache. There was a white
carnation in his coat, and his straw hat, set at the exactly correct
angle, gave him an almost boyish appearance.
In a few minutes the corridor-train came puffing up the shining
metals in the wake of its spick-and-span locomotive, and the doors of
the waiting-rooms were thrown wide. Marguerite had paled a trifle as
she advanced to the private car (beside which now stood a Kossàk of
the Russian Embassy in his dressing-gown of a coat, all brilliant
with silver, holding high his astrakhaned head), and saw a graceful,
languid figure wrapped in diaphanous veils, assisted to alight.
Behind her came the towering form of old Garrassime, carrying in his
arms a boy of startling beauty. “Antinoüs,” hat in hand, was already
bowing before Laurence, who, disentangling a slim, gloved hand from
her many dust-draperies, allowed him to press it to his lips.
“And here is Marguerite!” she drawled, as if surprised to see her
there. “Grown old and wise, eh?” she continued, shaking hands limply
and taking Régis’s arm.
“How are you, Laurence?” replied the “Gamin,” quietly. “Can I be of
any use?” She was burning to take hold of Piotr, whose great dark
eyes were scanning her from head to foot, but she had long since
learned how to restrain her first impulses.
“You are too kind!” Laurence said, speaking “from the top of the
head” (_du haut de la tête_), as the French say. She was _the
Princess_ and no mistake--perhaps even a little too much so--the
conventional Princess of comedy and fiction as ordinary people
understand her; but, after all, a very gracious presentment thereof,
and Marguerite studiously refrained from smiling. “Yes, if you
don’t mind, _ma cousine_,” Laurence continued, dwelling heavily
upon this badge of kinship. “Tell them to carry the boy to your
carriage--you have one in waiting, I suppose, have you not, Marquis?”
she asked, turning to Régis. “And since you are so kind as to
receive him and his people, I will only trouble you to take me as
far as the equipage from the Embassy that is here for me!”
“Will you not honor us by residing under our roof?” asked Régis,
inwardly wondering how long he would find it possible to continue
using such very lofty language.
“Oh, thanks muchly ... you are very thoughtful; but you see my stay
here will be but a few days. I am going on to London almost at once.
It would not be worth while disturbing you, and I assure you that
your amiability to the boy will fully suffice. Besides, I have
promised their Excellencies Count and Countess Melidóff to be their
guest. I was to have traveled with my sister and brother-in-law de
Salvières, and stayed with them here; but at the last they altered
their plans, which altered mine also.”
Régis, snubbed and delighted, was about to walk on with her, when
she turned her eyes royally toward the still-saluting Kossàk, and
said a few words to him in vile Russian. The man’s impassive face
did not indicate comprehension, and to Laurence’s evident amazement
Marguerite fluently repeated the order.
“Marguerite speaks Russian?” she asked, acidly, dropping all her
languor.
“At your service, madame,” Régis replied, laughing. “And so do I;
but as to the ‘Gamin,’ she is the finest linguist in Europe, with
all her little modest airs.”
Princess Laurence moved on in brisker fashion, barely replying to
Marguerite’s _au revoir_, and then only did the girl turn to
Garrassime and his charge.
“Oh, you beauty!” she said, in a slightly unsteady voice, holding out
both arms to Basil’s son.
“I’ll come to you,” the child lisped in French (much to his
stalwart attendant’s surprise, for he was not easy), and he allowed
himself to be taken up by Marguerite and kissed over and over again.
Régis was already returning, curbing with considerable difficulty a
violent desire to laugh.
“_Qu’est-ce qu’elle a cette cruche?_” he whispered to his
daughter as they settled themselves in the victoria with Piotr
enthroned between them; then, noticing the boy’s observant eye, he
continued in Spanish--a language they were both fond of using: “No
wonder Basil writes so mournfully! Poor devil! Did you ever see such
insufferable airs as that girl thinks it necessary to put on?”
Marguerite gave him a supremely roguish glance, imperceptibly raised
one shoulder, and resumed her contemplation of the “little messenger
from afar,” whose presence near her was such a pleasure, and who, to
give him his due, was doing everything in his unconscious power to
get himself adored in short order.
She was not, however, at the end of her surprises, for next morning
bright and early, while superintending Monsieur Piotr’s toilet, she
received a hurried scrawl from Laurence’s Serene-Highness,
declining rather curtly a formal invitation to dinner at the Hôtel
de Plenhöel, but asking Marguerite if she could “lend” her one of
her salons for that same night to receive a few intimate friends,
“as,” she ingenuously added, “I will feel much freer there as a
hostess than if using the suite placed at my disposal by the Russian
Ambassador.” There was not a word for or about Piotr, and the
reader’s brows came rather brusquely together as she read.
Though she had retained all the untouched innocence of a highly bred
French girl, Marguerite was no fool, and instantly scented something
or other behind this strangely worded request--something that was
not--well--not quite correct.
“Is the bearer waiting?” she asked of the footman at the
dressing-room door.
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“Tell him to keep on waiting, please,” and with an excuse to
Piotr--who in his new-born enthusiasm was not minded to let her out
of his sight--she hurried to her father’s study.
“Papa,” she said, a little breathlessly, “here’s a note from
Laurence. What do you wish me to do about it?”
Régis ran his eye over the penetratingly perfumed sheet, and said
nothing.
“Well,” repeated the “Gamin,” “what do you wish me to do, papa?”
“Say yes,” Régis replied, “but understand me, _Chevalier_, you are
under no circumstances to be present when she comes to-night. Madame
Laurence gives me the impression of having become even something more
of a--a difficulty than she was as Mademoiselle Seton! I will for
once--yes, for once--accept the responsibility of what she calls a
reunion of her intimate friends. We shall see, or, rather, I shall
see, what she means by it, but--”
He impulsively drew his daughter down, kissed her very tenderly, and
let her go, and, smothering an expletive meant for Laurence, subsided
into his arm-chair. After she had gone he sat quite still, plunged in
profound thought, a most unusual proceeding for him. The “_Chevalier
Gamin_” had never caused him one moment’s anxiety since, when
orphaned in her cradle, she had become his dearest and most pressing
preoccupation. But just now he suddenly perceived that there might be
rocks ahead, such as had never yet disturbed the smooth current of
his guardianship of her. Five years ago her return from the convent
had been an unmixed and unspeakable joy. Nevertheless, had Basil
asked him for her hand then, his great affection and esteem for his
kinsman, coupled with a firmly rooted conviction that women can never
marry too young, would have won his consent. Indeed, more than once,
when seeing them so completely happy in each other’s company, he
had deemed it by no means improbable that such a demand might soon
be made. But when a very blind Fate ordained otherwise, and the
ever-cheerful “Gamin” had remained to fill the old château with the
rustle of her flying skirts, the music of her laughter, he had
resolutely dismissed his guileless dream, and had been only too well
content to keep with him this charming little _compagnon de route_.
They had been thenceforth more like brother and sister than father
and daughter. Together they had ridden and driven, yachted and swum,
fenced and shot, and more lately they had undertaken that long voyage
around the world--not as globe-trotters, bent upon engulfing as large
a mass of indigestible and subsequently undigested facts and
adventures as might be encompassed during a breathless race against
time and tide, but as finely equipped _dilettanti_, who take pleasure
in lingering over the savor of their every sensation; stopping here
and there with album and palette--Marguerite never liked the
merciless precision of even the best photograph--pausing a few extra
days by the way to hear some celebrated musician, or witness a
characteristic folk _fête_; losing themselves in jungles; dallying
in wild regions to try their guns at big game; and being received
everywhere with _empressement_ and “distinguished consideration”--as
the French love to put it. It had been an ideal two years of
vagabondage, during which they had more often than not slept under
tents, taken their meals _al fresco_, and sat together by camp-fires
under the star-sown violet skies of extraordinarily lovely regions;
always accompanied by Madame Hortense, as Marguerite’s _dueña_,
and by François, Régis’s man, who had been with his master ever
since regimental days in Algeria.
Now this all-play-and-no-work existence had come to an end, much to
their regret, but they had many things of a pleasant kind to look
forward to, including the coming months by the Breton sea. And, after
all, reflected Régis, here was his lovely daughter still unwed at
her majority. She had calmly and persistently declined all offers
(and these had been many), arguing that she could never find a man
worthy of comparison with her father and that she was too happy as
she was to admit of any change. In all his knowledge, a woman of his
race had never remained single after seventeen, and he suddenly drew
his hand across his forehead as if to dismiss an unfortunate thought
buzzing around his brain.
After a time he rose and strode to one of the windows giving on the
garden. The weather was admirable, the sky of indescribable purity,
the huge lindens skirting the walls were loaded down with little
tufts of perfume, and the grass, still empearled with dew where the
sun did not strike, was enameled with scores of little golden
planets--dandelions defended by the “Gamin,” who loved them, from the
gardener’s spudder--and further embellished by a flight of familiar
doves who lived in an ivy-garlanded cote near by.
On the middle of the lawn he saw the “Gamin” holding a flat basket
from which Piotr--a charming little figure in his _mujik_ costume,
imitated in white drill, his tiny tall boots and jaunty cap--snatched
handfuls of crumbs for the hungry birds. Moodily Régis took in the
pretty scene. Why was not this baby his grandson? Why--now that he
thought of it--had Basil not married Marguerite instead of that
infernal _poseuse_ of a Laurence? He a grandfather! The idea made him
laugh--he felt so absurdly young--and he stepped back to glance at
himself in a mirror! Slender and active as at twenty, with not one
line of white to pale his corn-colored pate, he gave no idea of
grandfatherly dignity. But, never mind, it would have been pleasant,
all the same, and he shrugged an impatient shoulder.
A shriek of delight from Piotr on the lawn brought him quickly again
to the open window. The child was running toward the stooping doves,
clapping his pudgy hands to frighten them away from their breakfast,
and Marguerite on silent feet was skimming across the turf after him.
“Naughty, naughty Piotr!” she cried, catching him before much harm
was done, and bearing him away from the whirling flock. “You must not
give sorrow to the birds!” (“_faire du chagrin aux petits oiseaux._”)
Kicking and struggling vigorously, Piotr heeded not at all the wise
admonition. “Naughty Malou!” he yelled, vainly trying to break her
hold. “Naughty Malou, let Piotr go!”
Marguerite’s laughter rippled under the drooping linden branches,
in her delight at the pretty perversion of her name.
“No! No!” she panted, for the boy was heavy, “Malou will not let
Piotr go! What would your papa say if he saw you frightening my
birds, Piotr? What do you think? Eh?”
At the mention of his father Piotr grew still and glanced up at
Marguerite between his long dark lashes.
“Piotr loves papa!” he stoutly declared in Russian. “Piotr wants to
see papa, not mamma. Piotr hates mamma!”
“Oh, baby!” exclaimed the deeply shocked Marguerite. “You mustn’t
say that! Your mamma is so beautiful!”
She had put him down on the gravel walk under Régis’s window; but
she did not see her father, who had dropped the lace curtain before
him. He was curious to see how this would end.
“Malou is beautiful, not mamma!” the young insubordinate gravely
responded, planted in front of his new passion, both small fists
clenched and hanging at his sides. “Mamma scolds Piotr always. Ask
Garrassime. Bring him here, Malou; and ask _niania_, too!”
Marguerite glanced quickly toward the house. The _niania_ (nurse)
was not in sight; but Garrassime, the ever-faithful, who never
remained far away from his beloved charge, was lurking behind a clump
of rhododendrons, and at a sign from her advanced and uncovered his
gray head.
“Does Prince Pierre often talk like this?” she asked, rather sadly.
“Alas! Your Nobility,” the old servitor replied, “it does happen; I
grieve to say. Your Excellency must pardon him, he means no harm. He
does not understand what he says.”
Piotr, sitting flat on the gravel, was engrossed in manufacturing a
miniature mountain with the end of a bit of stick escaped from the
gardener’s rake, and had evidently forgotten all about the
discussion in hand.
The “Gamin” smiled up at Garrassime in the fashion which invariably
enslaved all beholders. “Oh!” she said, half-voicedly--she did not
want Piotr to hear. “I did not mean it as a reproach, Garrassime, but
does not your mistress resent such sayings?”
The old man raised his eyes imploringly to the blue sky above. “When
she hears! When she hears!” he murmured. “But The Illustrious sees
little of the boy, Your Nobility. He is mostly with the Prince at
home, or with me or his _niania_. He is a noble child, but vivacious
and fond of his own way.”
“I see!” comprehended Marguerite. “He is very winsome, very handsome.
Do you think, Garrassime, that he will not pine for his father?”
The servitor of the House of Palitzin for forty loyal years looked
steadily at his master’s young cousin and nodded his wise head.
“He would without doubt have done so, were it not for Your Nobility.
It is strange, for he does not make friends easily, and yet not so
strange,” he added, his eyes fixed upon her; “but he has of a
certainty given his blessed little heart into Your Nobility’s
keeping, Excellency. God be praised for it! We will have no trouble
now. He is very like his illustrious father,” he concluded, almost in
a whisper, and Régis from behind his curtain saw a slow flush of
deep rose spread over his “Gamin’s” fair face.
“_Je ne suis décidément qu’un imbécile!_” he apostrophized
himself wrathfully, and noiselessly he quitted his post of
observation. He had seen enough, and more than enough!
At ten o’clock that night the Marquis de Plenhöel descended the
_perron_ steps to hand Laurence from her coupé. She was marvelously
gowned in dying-azure coruscated with diamond stars, and with
loose-locked clusters of lilac orchids playing hide-and-seek in the
lace of her train. She gave a rapid glance about her as she was being
ceremoniously conducted to the great salon on the first floor, and
when Régis bowed her in she asked, with an equivocal smile that made
him writhe internally:
“Where is Marguerite?”
“Up-stairs in her own apartments,” he said, shortly, “taking a cup of
tea with our old friend Madame de Montemare--I think you met her here
some five years ago.”
“I think I remember the occasion,” Laurence acquiesced without much
enthusiasm; “and tell me, Cousin Régis”--this was the first time she
had thus honored him--“is Marguerite ... are they coming down later?”
“No,” Régis responded. “Marguerite does not like society; and as to
Madame de Montemare, she claims that her circle of acquaintances is
already too large, so she firmly refuses to increase it.”
“Too bad! Too bad!” Laurence remarked, with a faint sigh of relief,
her brilliant eyes roving over the magnificent drawing-room with its
Louis XIV. furniture and tapestries lighted by many antique lamps,
and wax candles in sconces and appliques half drowned in verdure and
flowers.
“It is charming here!” she approved. “So mellow and _distingué_;
different, altogether different from any place I know.”
Régis smiled a mere smile and bowed a little bow that vexed
Laurence, in spite of her lovely thick skin.
“You are very good!” the master of this “mellow” and “_distingué_”
establishment admitted. “It has the merit of antiquity in a time
altogether too modern--according to my poor views at least.”
“You are a hardened Royalist!” she observed, with the least suspicion
of a sneer. “A lover of all that no longer exists.”
“And you, madame, are assuredly Imperial and modern _à outrance_!”
he retorted with another bow.
“In Russia one has to be an Imperialist,” she said, densely; “but
politics do not interest me.”
“Even in Russia?” he asked, curiously.
“Especially there!” she said, quickly, an expression of mingled fear
and disgust flitting over her features.
He was looking down at her where she sat on a low ottoman almost at
his feet, and the extreme décolletage of her sumptuous gown amazed
him. “I am glad I did not let my _Chevalier_ see her; she’s getting
quite brazen!” he thought, and added aloud, in order to say
something, “That must sound odd to the Russian-speaking ear!”
She clapped her gloved hands. “Oh!” she said. “Delicious! That is the
finest Irish bull I ever heard.”
He laughed a bit awkwardly. “I beg your pardon,” he apologized. “I
was not thinking of what I was saying.”
“So I perceive,” she returned, and, rising quickly, she added: “I
think I hear a motor stopping. Some of my friends, probably.”
“Probably,” he assented. “So permit me to take leave of you for the
present. Pray command me if I can do anything else. There are, I
believe, some--refreshments prepared in the adjoining room, and the
butler is in attendance.”
“But,” she murmured, showing embarrassment for the first time, “are
you not going to be one of us? It--it would not disturb me.”
“Thank you for this kindly assurance.” He bowed low as he spoke, and
without another word made his exit by a side-door, leaving her to go
forward and greet whoever it was that was coming.
At the farther end of the drawing-room was a carven balcony where
some tall palms and ferns stood, which was reached by an outer
staircase. There, on gala-nights, musicians were placed to underline
the conversation, so to speak, by graceful melodies executed on harp
and violin, cello and viola-d’amore. It had been a pretty conceit
of Régis’s mother thus to entertain her guests, and the Marquis,
who had adored her, and never passed the graceful nook without
a thrust of reminiscence, paused for a moment on his way
up-stairs--between the heavy draperies that separated it from the
landing. It never entered his head that from where he stood he could
see without being seen. Indeed, he was at the moment quite absorbed
in debating with himself whether he had not been extremely stupid to
allow Laurence the privilege she was now enjoying. Though by no means
straitlaced, Régis de Plenhöel felt almost as if her presence here,
under present circumstances, was a desecration of his mother’s
memory--of his daughter’s purity; for he had not liked Laurence’s
demeanor just now. And then he heard something that made him coolly
step upon the balcony and look down. He remained there absolutely
petrified and immovable, for immediately beneath was Laurence, her
white arms clasped around the neck of a tall man whom, with a start
of amazement, he recognized as Captain Neville Moray, the British
Military Attaché, whom he had occasionally met since that famous
evening five years ago, and always with pleasure.
“At last--at last! After a whole long year!” he heard Laurence say;
but he scarcely knew her voice again, it was so full of warmth and of
passion. In a moment Régis recovered himself sufficiently to see in
a flash the abominable situation in which his customary easy-going
habits had placed not only himself, but his little daughter, and a
fine moisture broke out upon his forehead.
“The wretched woman!” he said, almost aloud, so great was his
perturbation, and just then the subdued hum of a second motor reached
him. “I wonder who now!” he soliloquized, precipitately retreating
behind one of the palms at the back of the balcony--ready for
inaction, as it were, for, in spite of all his _savoir-faire_, he no
longer knew to which saint he should address his prayers. “Has she
perhaps given a double _rendez-vous_ here?” he cogitated, and as if
to give him right, absurd as the supposition seemed, he suddenly
heard coming from below the humorous greetings of his old
acquaintance, Preston Wynne. So great was his surprise that he once
more advanced, this time with every precaution, and peered downward
into his own state salon. Laurence, like a well-behaved hostess, was
seated now on a _canapé_ before Moray and Wynne, and two other
gentlemen, unknown to Régis, who wore on their dress-coats the
insignia of several Orders, were hovering about her. Evidently too
shrewd to invite Moray alone, she was giving a little semi-official
reception, expecting, doubtless, by this move to pull the wool over
his, Régis’s, eyes. Reassured by the safety of numbers, he hurried
to his study, where he summoned his old confidential servant and
envoy extraordinary.
“François,” he said, as soon as the valet entered, “you will see
that her Serene-Highness Princess Palitzin does not leave the house
without my being advised of it. Remain in the little octagonal room
off the main hall, and come and warn me the moment she asks for her
carriage.”
François saluted in the military fashion--a habit he had never been
able to lose--and was on the point of retreat when his master called
him back.
“The Princess,” he said, “is receiving some friends here to-night, as
you know. Find out who has already arrived, and report to me.”
“That man is worth his weight in gold,” mused the much-perturbed
“Antinoüs.” “He knows everybody by sight, has capacious ears and a
silent tongue. They don’t make them like that any longer, more’s
the pity!” And snatching up an evening paper, which he did not even
pretend to read, he awaited François’s return with such patience
as he could muster.
In a few minutes that greatest of the world’s wonders, a perfect
servant, re-entered and respectfully stood at his master’s elbow,
waiting to be questioned.
“Well!” said Régis.
“So far, Monsieur le Marquis,” quietly stated the old soldier,
who looked like a retired general in his irreproachable evening
dress, “there are in the salon with her Serene-Highness Monsieur
le Capitaine Moray of the British Embassy; Monsieur Wynne of
America; his Excellency the Marquis di Sebastiani, Italian
_Chargé-d’Affaires_; Sefim Bey of the Ottoman Embassy; Monsieur
le Comte de Védrines, attached to the French Embassy at St.
Petersburg--now on leave; Monsieur le Vicomte de Braisles, First
Secretary of the French Embassy at Madrid--also on leave; and Lord
Charles Arbuthnot of the British Foreign Office.”
Régis had not moved a muscle during this magnificent nomenclature.
“A concert of the great Powers,” he muttered to himself.
“Monsieur says?” inquired François.
“Nothing of any importance. But, by the way, François, how did you
discover the names of the noble assemblage down below?”
“Monsieur le Marquis knows how easily chauffeurs jabber. Ah! It is
not like the old times when the _gens-de-maison_ knew how to keep
their places with dignity! Then it took science to find out anything;
but now! Monsieur le Marquis has doubtless noticed that servants are
no longer what they used to be.”
In spite of himself Régis smiled. “You are unique, my good
François!” he remarked. “If any further--arrivals should take place,
keep me posted,” and with a nod he dismissed the paragon.
During the next two hours, withdrawn in his sanctum, the exasperated
Marquis received at regular intervals from François a series of
discreet intimations that half a dozen more personages of high degree
had honored his domicile by their appearance within its walls; all
men, all young or youngish, all attached to embassies or occupying
official positions, excepting one, who was a cavalry officer known
all over France for his great wealth and his unlaudable eccentricities.
“I wonder,” raged poor “Antinoüs,” champing his bit, “why she
didn’t invite the Papal Nuncio while she was about it! It would
certainly have added _cachet_ to the assembly. What in the world is
she up to? Trying to hoodwink _me_?” And throwing the paper-knife he
had been busying his fingers with to the other end of the room, he
walked slowly after it; not with the intention of replacing it on his
desk, but just to see how far it had gone.
Just then the door opened half-way, and François once more
insinuated his person into the aperture.
“_Son Altesse Sérénissime_ is alone, and would thank Monsieur le
Marquis for his hospitality,” he announced in a tone lugubrious
enough for a judge in the black cap about to pronounce sentence. The
heavy clouds on his master’s brow had not escaped his keenness of
observation, and whatever happened to be his master’s mood,
François loyally and unconsciously echoed it.
“D--n Her Serene-Highness!” Régis growled in his mustache, and
walked quickly down-stairs.
How he had planned to meet Laurence he remembered not at all as he
found her carelessly fingering the sheaf of roses basking in a
rock-crystal vase on a little table at her side. There was an absent
smile about her pretty mouth and, for the first time in his knowledge
of her, a peculiarly dreamy look in her splendid eyes. She turned,
however, at the slight noise of his steps on the thick rugs, and
presented him with a very soft glance.
“I am going now,” she said, enchantingly. “But I could not do so
without telling you all the nice things I think of you, Cousin
Régis. It was really kind to let me believe myself even for a few
hours the mistress of so adorable a place as this. I take it that
Marguerite is already tucked in her little white bedlet, so I will
ask you to say good night to her for me--to-morrow morning”.
She was speaking a little excitedly; “worrying her fan,” Régis
thought, with undue violence, and there was now a very becoming tinge
of pink in her soft cheeks. At his daughter’s name, however,
“Antinoüs” stiffened like a pointer, and without any suavity
whatsoever, said:
“May I beg you to grant me a few minutes?”
Laurence’s hazel orbs through a curtain of silken lashes fixed
themselves coquettishly upon him.
“But, certainly,” she readily acquiesced; “it will be a pleasure--I
owe you a reward, anyhow!” And she seated herself in a high-backed
carven chair, upon which it was easy to adopt regal airs.
“_C’est trop fort!_” inwardly commented Régis, and, disregarding
her inviting gesture toward a pile of cushions near her, he leaned
one hand upon the rose-table, and began to speak in a grave voice of
which she had never supposed him capable.
“Madame,” he said, slowly, “you have placed me in a difficult
position, and as I believe in plain dealing and plain speaking, I am
about to ask you, without further preparation, what you intend to do
about it.”
Laurence straightened herself brusquely. The color fled from her
face, and with it the very essence of her brilliant beauty.
“I!” she exclaimed. “I have put you in a difficult position? Would it
be too much to ask you, monsieur, how I have contrived to be so
unfortunate?”
“Assuredly, madame; that is exactly what I am here to do. I was
unlucky enough to witness--wholly by accident--two or three hours ago
your meeting with Captain Moray.”
Laurence, who had already guessed something of the sort, indulged in
a low, insolent laugh.
“Such ‘accidents’ have a name, monsieur,” she said, with
considerable effrontery. “They enter, it seems to me, into the
province of espionage--of--the Third Section, if you prefer.”
Régis passed over the intended insult as though it were not worth
picking up.
“By accident,” he quietly repeated. “And much as I dislike calling a
woman to account, especially beneath my own roof, I desire--as I have
already given myself the honor of telling you--to know from your own
lips what you intend to do about it!”
Laurence for a second asked herself whether or no she could brazen
the thing out. How much had he seen or heard? Perhaps this was only a
“feeler,” a mere trick to get rid of her whom he did not like--she
had long ago perceived that. A swift glance at him, however, showed
her a Régis so different from the gay and _debonnaire Grand
Seigneur_ she had known until then that she felt a little shiver of
fear pass between her very bare shoulders.
“Do about what?” she questioned. “You presume a good deal, Monsieur
de Plenhöel, to address me as you are doing.” She was marking time,
and he knew it.
“Rest assured, madame, that I am not here for my pleasure,” he
replied. “You seem to forget that I am your husband’s kinsman and
friend--not to enumerate other capacities which had better not be
mentioned just now. At any rate, I am endeavoring to do my best for
his sake, and that of one or two more persons--your son, for
instance. But if you persist in the line--of defense--you seem to
have taken up, I will bow you out, and take my own course in the
matter.”
“But really, monsieur, I have not the faintest idea of what you want
of me--of what you accuse me! Is this a joke, or do you genuinely
imagine that you have me at a disadvantage?”
“I believe in the testimony of my own eyes.”
“Indeed! Well, and what did your own eyes testify to, that so greatly
offends a--_mondain_ like yourself?”
Régis felt that he could have joyously beaten her with a schoolroom
birch, but chivalry has its drawbacks, and he had to be content with
an utterly futile clenching of the fingers, which she observed with
pleasure. If she could only make him lose his temper!
“I saw you,” he said, now quite brutally frank, “with your arms about
Captain Moray’s neck, and as if that were not sufficient, I heard
you acknowledge your love for him.”
Laurence played her next card with praiseworthy determination.
“Well--and what of it?” she said. “You chose to spy upon me, but you
have merely discovered a mare’s nest. Since you want the truth,
I’ll give it to you on all-fours. Captain Moray and I have known
each other since childhood, and there has always been a deep
affection between us. Hearing of my arrival in Paris, he hastened to
call upon me at the Embassy. I was out, and later on I sent him a
_petit-bleu_ inviting him here to-night _with several other friends_
... and--your assent. As to my greeting to him, it is perfectly
natural and proper after so many years’ separation; nothing more
than it should have been. Are you satisfied?”
“No!” answered Régis, looking down at her with a grim smile, and
suddenly she came face to face with her position. What could she
offer the Marquis to win him over, to silence him? She was dealing
with a man who--so to speak--held the best cards. Would he play them?
She breathed hard, for she was passing in those short seconds through
æons of torture. Her high position, her whole future, her as yet
unblemished name, were utterly and completely at Régis’s mercy.
“What more do you want, then?” she asked at last, in a lowered voice
that was shaking with dread and anger. She broke off with a ghastly
forced laugh, and attempted to meet his straight glance with sullen,
defiant eyes, but her gaze slowly fell before his own.
“I do not want much,” Régis said, bending a little toward her and
emphasizing each word by a gentle tap of his fingers on the inlaid
table-top. “I am not your judge, nor do I desire to persecute you. Of
that rest assured.”
He paused, and in the intense silence that followed, a shower of
rose-petals dropping to the floor was almost painfully audible.
“If this is the case, what do you demand of me?” she murmured, her
head drooping so that he could see the artificial waving of her hair
rising from her white neck to the circlet of her starred diadem.
“First of all, that you should never see Marguerite again, excepting
in public and when it absolutely cannot be avoided,” he said, with a
sort of repressed intensity that made her wince. “Secondly, that
during your stay away from your husband you should, as far as
possible, avoid us. The rest is with you. You know very well that I
will not betray what I have discovered--to my amazement and regret.
To preach is just as far from my mind and character. But remember; if
ever Basil learns that you have stepped down from the pedestal upon
which he placed you, he will be unmerciful.”
“But”--she struggled--“there is nothing--I have done nothing--to
deserve his anger! Your ‘Madonna’ is in no danger from me. I am
an honest woman. I swear it! I swear it! I have never seen Captain
Moray since my marriage before to-night.”
She was white as a sheet now, and Régis remained silent. Where was
the use of quoting her own words to her--“_at last--at last--after a
whole long year!_” Did she even remember them in her terror and
confusion? He knew with the intuitive certainty of a squire of dames
that she was not the sort to entertain a platonic affection--he had
known that long before. She was defending herself as best she could,
according to her limitations, and all the manhood in him revolted
against prolonging the scene.
“You are upset,” he said, with less severity of tone, though his
irritation had not diminished. “Supposing we let the matter drop now?
I will, if you permit me, take you home. I have told you what I
expect of you. Let it stop at that.”
Once again he became the polished man of the world, his mask
admirably reattached, and as he spoke he bowed deferentially.
For a moment she did not appear to have heard him. Her attitude was
one miserable alluring droop, and from its nest of laces and
_frou-frous_ one exquisitely shod foot peeped out among the fallen
rose-petals on the floor. The pose was clever.
“Why do you dislike me--so--so--much?” she murmured, gazing fixedly
downward at her little jeweled slipper, timidly busy amid the ruin of
the roses.
Régis glanced at this amusing by-play and carefully denied himself
the luxury of a smile.
“I said nothing of the sort,” he politely countered. “But it is
getting very late, _Princess_.” He employed the title with deliberate
bad taste. “May I have your carriage called?”
Laurence rose with a great rustle of her flowing silks, and stood
dry-lipped before him. She made an evident effort to speak, but
mortification and rage forbade this. Her eyes were flashing like
yellow zircons, and he looked at her in some apprehension, though the
firm set of his mouth did not relax. Then without warning she swayed
forward, seized his hand in both her own, as if to support herself,
and, falling against his shoulder, burst into a passion of sobs.
“Well, that’s the _bouquet_!” thought the irrepressible Régis,
supporting her with no good will--this gay butterfly was in a
virtuous mood! Besides, she was emphatically not his style, as he had
remarked five years ago; also--under stress of weather, as it
were--her methods were becoming somewhat too crude for this
_rafiné_, used to more delicate behavior on the part of the women he
admired.
“You--you--won’t be convinced!” she sobbed, clutching the lapel of
his coat. “You are a--h--h--harsh man--Régis!” There was great
tenderness in the way she pronounced his name.
With difficulty he managed to unclasp the slender fingers, and,
holding her at a distance by a gentle pressure on the wrists, he
looked full at her--this time with an imperceptible smile.
“You are a very pretty woman, _Princess_, but do not waste your best
weapons upon so negligible a person as myself--I am fire-proof.”
A bright spot of color sprang into each of her pale cheeks--which, by
the way, showed no trace of tears. Her white teeth clicked together
and she drew back violently.
“You insult me, Monsieur de Plenhöel,” she cried. “First you accuse
me of having a lover, and now you infer that I wish to win you, too!”
Once more Régis bowed. “Madame,” he said, smiling more openly, “I am
not a coxcomb, but I realize that all means are fair in war, so I
exonerate you of any design save that of self-protection.” Whereupon
he slipped her hand under his arm, drew her to the door of the main
hall, and called François. In a few moments more he had solicitously
wrapped her in her long cloak, and was escorting her to her waiting
brougham before she could find a word to say.
“A prolonged _tête-à-tête_ would offer no inducements to either of
us now,” she said at last, in a wonderfully collected voice, “so do
not come with me; but be assured that we shall meet again and that I
shall know how to thank you for this evening’s hospitality.”
“_Mille grâces, madame! Une hospitalité tout à fait Écossaise!_”
he murmured, handing her into her carriage, and as she drove off she
could see him, still bowing, on the last of the granite steps. Behind
him the state antechamber and staircase blazed with light, which,
fortunately, prevented her from seeing the expression of his face.
“And now how explain to the _Chevalier_? How keep Basil in the dark
when he writes asking for news?” Régis thought, while regaining his
study. His brows were knit, and for the second time that night he
sank into deep thought from the depths of an arm-chair, smoking
cigarette after cigarette, without, however, attaining to any
satisfactory conclusion. “_Elle n’est pas très forte_,” he said
several times to himself during the course of this long cogitation.
No, Laurence was not very strong in the sense he meant. Her
finesses were sewn with white thread, her attempts at duping her
fellow-creatures not quite sufficiently finished in detail, yet she
seemed to have hoodwinked, tricked, done ... that splendid chap, her
husband! Régis moved restlessly. Of course he knew how some husbands
could be blinded in spite of the sun, the moon, and the stars of
every magnitude staring them in the face, but Basil was not made of
that stuff. Then for an instant the pendulum swung back, and he asked
himself whether he could possibly have been unjust. His long-standing
antipathy for Laurence! Had it led him astray? He angrily threw one
leg over the arm of his chair and asked himself that question
squarely and fairly. “No! A thousand times no!” he suddenly exclaimed
aloud. “I saw it all. Her eyes, her lips, her poise, were not those
of an innocent woman--and her little attempt upon my own modest
virtue! Pah! It’s all as clear as daylight, and time will show it to
be only too true. Meanwhile I’m going to take my _Chevalier_ to
farthest Brittany at once. It will be safer.”
He rose, stretched himself, laughed a little nervously, and moved
slowly up-stairs. As he passed the flower-gallery he heard the rush
of fierce wind and rain driving on the glass dome. Against the rosy
glow of the half-lowered hanging-lamps he saw a flock of sodden
leaves clinging to the panes like great, green moths, seeking
entrance to escape from the sudden squall, and with something between
a yawn and a sigh he went on to his own rooms.