BEAUTIFUL PARIS, EVIL-HEARTED PARIS.
What! wouldst thou force me to thine evil will,
And bear me far away in benchèd ships,
A second Helen to a second Troy,
Whose flight would raise a second ten years’ war?
Nay, sir! the gods are dead! and not in me
Beholdest thou proud Aphrodite’s slave.
My judgment’s as I will, and uncontrolled
By Venus, who would fain bestow on thee
The fairest woman, so that thou proclaim
Her fairest of Olympian goddesses.
Go hence alone! I’ll none of thee or thine.
Troy’s fallen, and Helen dead,—so Paris loses
The game which Ate’s cursed fruit began.
“You beat me fairly,” said Caliphronas frankly to Maurice that night.
“It was foolish of me to be angry, but you must admit defeat is hard to
bear.”
The Greek did not mean a word of this very pretty speech, as Maurice was
well aware; still he could not but accept it as meant in good faith, and
thus a hollow truce was made between the two young men which either was
ready to break on the slightest provocation. However, it was a pity to
mar the pleasantness of the evening by continuous bickering; so, with
smiles on their faces and distrust in their hearts, Caliphronas and his
declared enemy sat down to table on apparently the best of terms with
one another.
On their return from the games, all had enjoyed the delights of the
bath, no small pleasure after a fatiguing day, and now, in their loose
indoor robes, were partaking of refreshment. All was going merrily, and,
from an outside point of view, a more united party could scarcely be
found; yet one and all felt that this was but the ominous calm before
the breaking of the storm. The Demarch, astute in the interpreting of
signs, saw that matters were approaching a crisis which could not be
averted, and that the disaffection of Caliphronas, consequent on his
refusal by Helena, would take place sooner than had been anticipated.
That the Count would propose to his daughter that evening he had but
little doubt, as he saw that, smarting under his defeat in the games,
Caliphronas was determined to equalize himself in the eyes of all by
gaining Helena’s consent to the marriage, as a set-off against the
Englishman’s triumph. This being the case, Justinian was equally sure
that Helena would promptly refuse the Greek, whom she so much disliked;
in which case Caliphronas would call upon him to enforce the marriage,
and then the whole truth would have to be revealed, after which the
Demarch had little doubt but that the Count’s next step would be to
leave the island and range himself openly on the side of Alcibiades.
Truth to tell, the old man was rather anxious for the storm to burst, as
the suspense was rapidly becoming unbearable; and as, judging from the
review that day, all the Melnosians were well prepared for war, he did
not mind if Caliphronas, out of wounded vanity, precipitated the affair
quicker than was expected. Again, as the Greek had told him all the
plans of Alcibiades, he had no further use for him; so, being prepared
in every way for trouble, Justinian was in no wise sorry that affairs
should come to a head, and that Alcibiades and his threatened invasion
should be crushed at once. The insolence of Caliphronas also was
becoming unbearable to the proud old Demarch, therefore he desired to
hasten rather than retard the explosion; and, had he not seen that
Caliphronas was bent upon bringing matters to a crisis himself, would
have doubtless hinted the necessity of a marriage proposal being made at
once.
With Maurice and Caliphronas veiling their hatred of each other under
artificial smiles, with Justinian watchful for the expected catastrophe,
with Helena anxious, she knew not why, at the Greek’s burning glances,
it will be easily seen that the merriment over the supper-table was
rather forced. The only truly happy member of the party was Crispin,
who, unsuspicious of ill, and rejoicing in having the promise of the
Demarch to reveal all about his parentage, was laughing and jesting
gayly in the highest of spirits.
“I think you can congratulate yourself on the three days of the festival
being a perfect success,” he said to Justinian, who sat veiling his real
feelings under a quiet smile.
“Yes; everything went off very well. Andros, you, as the god of wine,
were the hero of the first day.”
“And Crispin, as Æschylus-Aristophanes, of the second,” cried Maurice
brightly.
“Not forgetting Maurice, as the athlete Milo of the third,” replied the
poet, raising his glass.
“Oh dear, dear!” said Helena, with a merry smile; “I am afraid this is a
mutual admiration society. God, poet, athlete; you are all flattering
yourselves, but no one says a good word for me.”
“It is impossible to flatter perfection,” remarked Caliphronas with one
of his burning glances; “besides, you have been the queen of the three
days, and we are all secondary characters. The stars are not the rivals
of the sun.”
“Why did you not say the moon?” said Helena, fastening a red rose in the
breast of her robe. “I love the moon better than the sun.”
“You are the inviolate Artemis!”
“Without an Endymion.”
It was an unlucky remark, and Helena regretted having made it when she
saw how fiercely her two lovers glanced at one another.
“Artemis waited a long time for her shepherd, but he came at last,” said
the Greek significantly.
“And did nothing but sleep when he did come,” cried Maurice angrily; “a
pretty lover truly! Helena, you are no moon-goddess, but your namesake
of Troy—the world’s desire.”
“Yet even Helen had her Paris,” interposed Caliphronas quickly.
“Every woman has her Paris nowadays,” said Crispin quickly, to forestall
the angry reply of the rival lover; “only it is a city instead of a man,
which is just as charming and more manageable. If Menelaus had been
ruler of Lutetia, Helen would never have been persuaded to leave it for
a dull provincial town like Troy.”
“‘Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris!’” observed Justinian quietly.
“Tennyson’s line would apply equally to the son of Priam or the city of
pleasure. There, Crispin, is the subject for a song, which idea I will
make you a present of for nothing.”
“Sing of Paris the city,” cried Helena vivaciously.
“No, Paris the man,” said Maurice, with a glance at Caliphronas.
“Sing of both,” rejoined that gentleman quickly, out of sheer
contradiction.
“It is a hard task to improvise on so difficult a subject as ‘the Paris
of Paris,’” remarked Crispin jestingly; “however, I will try, although I
have no lyre.”
“Take this myrtle,” said Helena, tossing him a twig across the table,
“and sing to it in the Greek fashion.”
“Maurice, you ought to give me your crown, so that myrtle and olive
inspire me with the breath of the god.”
“‘King Pandion he is dead,’” rejoined Maurice lightly. “The gods inspire
no songs to-day, nor would they be answerable for a mixture of the
classic and romantic, such as your ‘Paris of Paris’ is bound to be.”
“Judge for yourself, Thersites,” retorted the poet; and, holding the
sprig of myrtle in his hand, after a few moments’ thought, he began to
sing in his pleasant voice the following words to a lively French air.
“Paris came to Helen when
Earth was younger;
He was handsomest of men,
She was fairest woman then;
And love’s hunger
Made them long to run away,
Which they did one pleasant day—
So, at least, does Homer say—
Scandal-monger!
Helen comes to Paris now
Earth is older.
But no love shines on her brow,
Nor breaks she a marriage-vow,
Love is colder.
She but comes for triumphs here,
Dressed by Worth in costumes dear,
Lets existence gay _pour rire_
Lightly mould her.
Yet if Paris, town of joy,
Holds a Paris,
Charming as the Trojan boy,
Life is bliss without alloy;
There no bar is
To indulge in love once more;
So with Paris, as of yore,
Flies she as she fled before,
But she marries.”
“Oh, ‘Roses of Shiraz!’” sighed Maurice comically, “what would your
admirers say if they heard such _vers de société_?”
“Improvisation is hardly serious work!” retorted Crispin coolly,
drinking his wine.
“And your sentiments!” cried Caliphronas in mock horror. “You have made
Helen prim.”
“’Tis in keeping with this virtuous century.”
“For my part,” said Helena of Melnos playfully, “I think your modern
reading of the story is charming. Crispin, I appoint you my poet
laureate.”
“And my wages?”
“A wreath of artificial laurels, for, indeed, your song is but worthy of
such.”
“Cruel! And I always thought you so soft-hearted.”
“Never judge by outward appearances,” said Helena, rising from her seat.
“I am as hard-hearted as papa—on occasions.”
“I hope not on all occasions?” observed Caliphronas, with emphasis.
“Entirely depends upon the situation. To you, now, I could refuse
nothing—if I were inclined to grant your request.”
She vanished, laughing, through the curtains, and Maurice looked at
Justinian, to see if he had espied any hidden meaning in his daughter’s
words; but the face of the old Demarch was as expressionless as a mask,
while the Count’s, bright with joy, betrayed the certainty he felt of
receiving an answer in the affirmative to his proposal of marriage.
Truly, women are queer creatures, as Dick had observed the previous day.
And if Helena did not intend to marry Caliphronas, it was curious that
she should thus raise up his hopes, only to dash them down again.
Juliet, with her simile of a silk-gyved bird, trying to fly away, yet
ever drawn back again by the detaining thread, is a typical woman, who
scorns her lover, so that he departs angrily, yet, when she sees him
leaving her, woos him back with tender words, only to repeat her former
cruelty. Helena, in spite of her girlish simplicity, yet knew these two
men were in love with her, and tortured the one and was kind to the
other, turn and turn about, just as it suited her humor—why, it is
impossible to say, unless the legend that every woman was once a cat be
true, and they yet retain a sufficiency of the feline nature to make
them love such cruel mouse play. Yesterday Helena said she disliked the
Greek, now she roundly asserted she could refuse him nothing; and,
whether she was in earnest or fun, there was no doubt that the Count was
about to take her at her word, and ask her to become his wife.
In spite of Crispin’s valiant efforts, the conversation languished after
the departure of Helena, the Demarch being somewhat preoccupied, and
Maurice too cross to talk; while Caliphronas, after replying
mechanically for a time, finally went off in search of the lady he had
made up his mind to marry. All the three men left at the table looked
meaningly at one another, for they guessed the reason of his sudden
exit, yet none of them made any reference to the affair, as it would be
quite time enough to discuss it when Caliphronas was refused.
Meanwhile, Caliphronas rushed onward to his fate, in utter ignorance of
the real feelings which Helena entertained towards him, and found her
leaning against one of the pillars in the court, listening to the
singing of a nightingale, much in the same position she had occupied
when first seen by Maurice, two months previous. She turned with a smile
when the Greek entered the court, but he held up his hand for her to
keep silence, and both of them for some time continued to listen to the
delicious music. The passionate song of the distant bird flooding the
warm night with melody, the thin, pale light of the moon pouring in
white radiance on the white marble court, the intoxicating perfume of
the flowers around, and the delicate noise of the falling fountain, all
thrilled the heart of the impressionable Greek with a sensuous feeling
of delight, and stretching out his hand gently, he laid it lightly on
the bare arm of the girl he loved.
Startled by the touch, Helena rather indignantly turned round to reprove
him for taking such a liberty, but the words died on her lips, as she
saw the handsome face of this man, irradiated with passionate love,
bending towards her. Tall and straight as a cypress, his lithe figure
gracefully draped in a white robe, he looked like some gracious deity of
the past, wooing a mortal maiden, while the burning gaze of his eyes
seemed to scorch her with its ardor. It was the animal look in them that
thus made her flush hotly, and, with a sudden movement of outraged
virginal dignity, she retreated slowly towards the silver pool of the
fountain.
“Do not shrink from me like that, Helena!” murmured Caliphronas in
Greek, as he came towards her lightly as a fawn. “I wish to tell you the
meaning of the bird’s song.”
“What do you mean, Andros?” she asked uneasily.
“Do you think Aristophanes understood it?” pursued the Greek, taking no
notice of her question; “he put it into words, you know. Tio! tio!
tio-tiolix—No, that is not the song, but a mere assemblage of words.
What is the divine nightingale now singing? Can you not guess? It is of
love—of love—of love! My love for you—your love for me, my queen. Hark!
out the strains gush rapturously through the night—it is speaking of
love eternal—my love for thee, joy of my heart!”
“You jest, Andros!” said Helena faintly, not at all liking the tone of
this poetical rhapsody.
“Jest!” cried Caliphronas, ardently seizing her hand; “no, I speak true
to you, rose of this isle! I love you! I worship you! I desire you for
my wife!”
“Your wife!” she echoed, snatching her hand away. “Are you mad?”
“With love of thee—yes!”
“Do not touch me, sir. How dare you insult me!”
“Insult!” said Caliphronas, starting as if he were stung. “What do you
mean, girl? Is the offer of a man’s heart an insult?”
“You are surely not in earnest,” said the girl, much perplexed what to
say. “I had no idea you loved me!”
“I am in earnest, and I do love you,” declared Caliphronas with fiery
energy, coming so close to her that she could feel his hot breath on her
cheek. “You must have seen my passion long since. I want you to be my
wife—your father and I have settled it between us.”
It was the worst speech that he could have made, for Helena, with a cry
of rage, pushed him fiercely back, and stood before him with clinched
hands, her eyes bright with indignation.
“How dare you! how dare you! Am I not to be consulted in the matter—do
you think I will allow myself to be handed over to you like a slave?
Never! I would rather die! I will not be your wife! I refuse to listen
to you!”
“But you do not understand,” said Caliphronas, rather crestfallen at
this sudden outburst of anger.
“I do understand. You have spoken to my father, and he has permitted you
to ask me to be your wife, but, as to its being settled—how dare you! I
will not be your wife! Don’t you dare to suggest such a thing to me!”
“I mean to be heard,” began the Greek, but she cut him short with a
sudden stamp of her foot.
“You can mean what you like,” she said imperiously, “but heard you will
not be!”
“You beautiful fury!”
“Go away and leave me!”
“Helena,” cried the Count, falling on his knees, “I love you! I adore
you! Do not refuse to be my wife.”
“I do refuse!”
“But your father?”
“Leave my father out of the question, Andros. You have asked me to be
your wife, and I tell you plainly, No. Perhaps I have been rather angry,
but when you ask a woman to honor you by becoming your wife, you should
not treat her as if she were a bundle of goods to be handed from one man
to another.”
“You refuse me?” asked Caliphronas, hardly able to believe his own ears.
“I do, once and for all! Come, Andros, stop talking such nonsense, and
forget all this scene.”
“Why will you not be my wife?” asked the Count doggedly, rising from his
knees.
“Because I do not love you.”
“Not love me!”
“No, my sultan. Do you think I am a woman to fall at your feet when you
thus throw the handkerchief?”
Caliphronas, who had suppressed his rage with difficulty, now burst out
in a passion of furious anger, hardly knowing what he was saying.
“I know the reason you refuse me. Yes, you do well to turn away your
head. You love this cursed Englishman. Ah, you cannot deny it! you are
afraid to look me in the face.”
“I am not afraid—there!”
She faced him boldly, and the Greek, maddened beyond control, seized her
by the wrist with a grasp like iron, yet she neither winced nor cried.
“Is it thus a woman should proffer her love?” hissed Caliphronas, white
with passion; “this Englishman loves you not, and yet you throw yourself
at his feet.”
“I do not. Let go my hand!” she cried, wincing with pain, yet keeping a
bold front, upon which he flung her from him with a furious oath.
“I will marry you, in spite of your refusal.”
“Never! I will die rather than be your wife.”
The young man tried to speak, but, choking with passion, could say
nothing, so, stamping with impotent fury, he rushed to the principal
entrance of the court and tore aside the curtains.
“You have refused to marry me,” he cried in a strangled voice. “I accept
your refusal, but you will be mine soon. I will storm the island, I will
drag you in chains away, and when I tire of you then will I sell you as
a slave to the Turk!”
He dashed out of the court with a scream of rage, leaving Helena
standing white as a marble statue, with her hands across her breast,
which was heaving tempestuously with rage at the Greek’s insolence. If
she had, girl as she was, refused the offer of Caliphronas in a somewhat
undignified manner, she was now every inch a woman, who, not knowing the
meaning of the word “fear,” was fiercely angered at the insult to her
womanly pride. The soft, graceful girl had disappeared, and in her place
stood Clytemnestra, fearlessly daring the dagger of Orestes. Suddenly
she felt a touch on her arm.
“Father!”
“I know what has occurred. You are worn out with excitement, so go at
once to bed.”
“But Andros”—
“I will deal with him.”
“You know I refused him.”
“Yes, I heard you say so.”
“Was it your wish I should marry him, as he said?”
“Girl, I would rather see you dead than the wife of that despicable
coward,” retorted the Demarch fiercely. “Now retire at once, and leave
me to settle the matter. Good-night.”
“Good-night, father.”
She turned to go with an air of utter lassitude, but the strain of the
last half hour had completely broken her down, and suddenly, with a low
cry, she burst into tears. Justinian caught her in his arms, and began
to soothe her tenderly with endearing words, which moved the girl
strangely, for she was quite unused to such caresses from her
iron-natured father.
“My girl, my little child, you must not weep!” whispered the old man,
kissing her white face. “All will yet be well, and never shall you see
this vile Andros again. He shall leave the island at once. You did well
to refuse him, and I am proud of the spirit you displayed. Come, come!
you must weep no more. I know all.”
“You know?” she faltered, looking at him in astonishment.
“Yes, I know, and I approve. Now, good-night, my darling, and sleep
well.”
He led her slowly to the door, and, having summoned Zoe, sent the girl
to bed at once in charge of her maid, then returned to the centre of the
court and looked frowningly at the entrance through which Caliphronas
had disappeared.
“You dared to speak like that to my child!” he murmured fiercely. “It is
well you fled, or, old as I am, you would not have left this court
alive. It is war between us now, Andros, and if I gain the victory, you
had better have died than spoken as you have done to-night.”
Maurice, whistling gayly, came into the court, having left Crispin
behind at the table, but, when he caught sight of Justinian’s face,
stopped short in dismay.
“What is the matter, Justinian?”
“Nothing more than what I expected.”
“About Caliphronas?”
“Yes; he has proposed to Helena, and she has refused him.”
Maurice drew a long breath of relief.
“I am glad of that; now there will be a chance for me.”
“You love my daughter?” asked the Demarch suddenly.
“Yes, I love her,” replied Roylands simply; “I have always loved her.”
“I am glad of that, Maurice.”
“You will permit me to ask Helena to be my wife?”
“Willingly. It is my dearest wish; in fact, it was for that reason I
brought you here.”
“Brought me here, sir!” said Roylands in amazement. “Why, did you know I
was coming?”
“Yes; I sent Caliphronas to England to persuade you if possible to pay
me a visit.”
“But how did you know such a person as I was in existence?”
The old Demarch took Maurice by the hand and spoke solemnly.
“When you propose to and are accepted by my daughter, I will tell you
all, and the mysteries which have so perplexed you shall do so no
longer.”
“I will speak to Helena to-morrow.”
“Good. Then to-morrow I will tell you who I am, and how I was able to
know all about you.”
“But suppose Helena refuses me?”
Justinian smiled slightly.
“She has refused Andros, but you—ah, that is quite a different thing.”
“Still”—
“Tush, my son, you are too modest! In my days young men were not so
faint-hearted. Helena’s a woman, therefore may be wooed.”
“True, but the question is, may she be won?”
“My good Mr. Roylands, did I not promise to tell you all about myself
when you presented yourself as my future son-in-law?”
“Yes.”
“Well, by this time to-morrow you will know all, so as to what will
occur in the mean time, I will leave to your imagination.”
“And Caliphronas?”
“Caliphronas,” repeated the Demarch slowly, “means mischief, so, like
the knights of old, you will win your bride at the point of the sword.”
“Oh, Justinian, if you only knew how I love her!”
The nightingale, hitherto silent, now began its song, upon which the old
man good-humoredly pushed Maurice to the door.
“Go to bed, my son; that bird will tell me the tale of love much better
than you will.”