If surroundings indicate the man, the apartments in which the visitor

stood spoke eloquently of the marquis' taste. Eschewing the stiff,

affected classicalism of the Empire style, the furniture was the best

work of Andre Boule and Riesener; tables, with fine marquetry of the

last century, made of tulip wood and mahogany; mirrors from

Tourlaville; couches with tapestry woven in fanciful designs after

Fragonard, in the looms of Beauvais--couches that were made for

conversation, not repose; cabinets exemplifying agreeable disposition

of lines and masses in the inlaid adornment, containing tiny drawers

that fitted with old-time exactness, and, without jamming, opened and

shut at the touch. The marquis' character was stamped by these

details; it was old, not new France, to which he belonged.

Soon the marquis' servant, a stolid, sober man, of virtuous

deportment, came down stairs to inform the land baron his master had

suffered a relapse and was unable to see any one.

"Last night his temperature was very high," said the valet. "My master

is very ill; more so than I have known him to be in twenty years."

"You have served the marquis so long?" said the visitor, pausing as he

was leaving the room. "Do you remember the Saint-Prosper family?"

"Well, Monsieur. General Saint-Prosper and my master were distant

kinsmen and had adjoining lands."

"Surely the marquis did not pass his time in the country?" observed

Mauville.

"He preferred it to Paris--when my lady was there!" added Francois,

softly.

In spite of his ill-humor, the shadow of a smile gleamed in the land

baron's gaze, and, encouraged by that questioning look, the man

continued: "The marquis and General Saint-Prosper were always

together. My lady had her own friends."

"So I've heard," commented the listener.

Francois' discreet eyes were downcast. Why did the visitor wish to

learn about the Saint-Prosper family? Why, instead of going, did he

linger and eye the man half-dubiously? Francois had sold so many of

his master's secrets he scented his opportunities with a sixth sense.

"The marquis and General Saint-Prosper were warm friends?" asked the

land baron at length.

"Yes, Monsieur; the death of the latter was a severe shock to the

Marquis de Ligne, but, _mon Dieu_!"--lifting his eyes--"it was as well

he did not live to witness the disgrace of his son."

"His son's disgrace," repeated the land baron, eagerly. "Oh, you mean

running in debt--gaming--some such fashionable virtue?"

"If betraying his country is a fashionable virtue," replied the valet.

"He is a traitor."

Incredulity overspread the land baron's features; then, coincident

with the assertion, came remembrance of his conversation with the

marquis.

"He certainly called him that," ruminated the visitor. Not only the

words, but the expression of the old nobleman's face recurred to him.

What did it mean unless it confirmed the deliberate charge of the

valet? The land baron forgot his disappointment over his inability to

see the marquis, and began to look with more favor on the man.

"He surrendered a French stronghold," continued the servant,

softly. "Not through fear; oh, no; but for ambition, power, under

Abd-el-Kader, the Moorish leader."

"How do you know this?" said the patroon, sharply.

"My master has the report of the military board of inquiry," replied

the man, steadily.

"Why has the matter attracted no public attention, if a board of

inquiry was appointed?"

"The board was a secret one, and the report was suppressed. Few have

seen it, except the late King of France and my master."

"And yourself, Francois?" said the patroon, his manner changing.

"Oh, Monsieur!" Deprecatorily.

"Since it has been inspected by such good company, I confess curiosity

to look at it myself. But your master is ill; I can not speak with

him; perhaps you--"

"I, Monsieur!" Indignantly.

"For five hundred francs, Francois?"

Like oil upon the troubled waters, this assurance wrought a swift

change in the valet's manner.

"To oblige Monsieur!" he answered, softly, but his eyes gleamed like a

lynx's. His stateliness was a sham; his perfidy and hypocrisy

surprised even the land baron.

"You have no compunctions about selling a reputation, Francois?"

"Reputation is that!" said the man, contemptuously snapping his

fingers, emboldened by his compact with the caller. "Francs and sous

are everything."

"Lord, how servants imbibe the ideas of their betters!" quoth the

patroon, as he left the house and strode down the graveled walk,

decapitating the begonias with his cane.

Furtively the valet watched his departing figure. "Why does he want

it?" he thought.

Then he shrugged his shoulders. "What do I care!"

"Francois!" piped a shrill and querulous treble from above, dispelling

the servant's conjectures.

"Coming, my lord!" And the valet slowly mounted the broad stairway

amid a fusillade of epithets from the sick chamber. An hour before the

marquis had ordered him out of his sight as vehemently as now he

summoned him, all of which Francois endured with infinite patience and

becoming humility.

Passing into the Rue Royale, the favorite promenade of the

Creole-French, the land baron went on through various thoroughfares

with French-English nomenclature into St. Charles Street, reaching his

apartments, which adjoined a well-known club. He was glad to stretch

himself once more on his couch, feeling fatigued from his efforts, and

having rather overtaxed his strength.

But if his body was now inert, his mind was active. His thoughts

dwelt upon the soldier's reticence, his disinclination to make

acquaintances, and the coldness with which he had received his,

Mauville's, advances in the Shadengo Valley. Why, asked Mauville,

lying there and putting the pieces of the tale together, did not

Saint-Prosper remain with his new-found friends, the enemies of his

country? Because, came the answer, Abd-el-Kader, the patriot of

Algerian independence, had been captured and the subjection of the

country had followed. Since Algeria had become a French colony,

where could Saint-Prosper have found a safer asylum than in

America? Where more secure from "that chosen curse" for the man who

owes his weal to his country's woe?

In his impatience to possess the promised proof, the day passed all

too slowly. He even hoped the count would call, although that worthy

brought with him all the "flattering devils, sweet poison and deadly

sins" of inebriation. But the count, like a poor friend, was absent

when wanted, and it was a distinct relief to the land baron when

Francois appeared at his apartments in the evening with a buff-colored

envelope, which he handed to him.

"The suppressed report?" asked the latter, weighing it in his hand.

"No, Monsieur; I could not find that. My master must have destroyed

it."

The land baron made a gesture of disappointment and irritation.

"But this," Francois hastened to add, "is a letter from the Duc

d'Aumale, governor of Algeria, to the Marquis de Ligne, describing the

affair. Monsieur will find it equally as satisfactory, I am sure."

"How did you get it?" said the patroon, thoughtfully.

"My master left the keys on the dresser."

"And if he misses this letter--"

"Oh, Monsieur, I grieve my master is so ill he could not miss anything

but his ailments! Those he would willingly dispense with. My poor

master!"

"There! Take your long, hypocritical face out of my sight!" said

Mauville, curtly, at the same time handing him the promised reward,

which Francois calmly accepted. A moment later, however, he drew

himself up.

"Monsieur has not paid for the right to libel my character," he said.

"Your character!"

"My character, Monsieur!" the valet replied firmly, and bowed in the

stateliest fashion of the old school as he backed out of the room with

grand obsequiousness. Deliberately, heavily and solidly, resounded the

echoing footsteps of Francois upon the stairway, like the going of

some substantial personage of unimpeachable rectitude.

As the front door closed sharply the land baron threw the envelope on

the table and quietly surveyed it, the remnants of his pride rising in

revolt.

"Have I then sunk so low as to read private communications or pry into

family secrets? Is it a family secret, though? Should it not become

common property? Why have they protected him? Did the marquis wish to

spare the son of an old friend? Besides"--his glance again seeking the

envelope--"it is my privilege to learn whether I have fought with a

gentleman or a renegade." But even as he meditated, he felt the

sophistry of this last argument, while through his brain ran the

undercurrent: "He has wooed her--won her, perhaps!" Passion, rather

than injured hauteur, stirred him. At the same time a great

indignation filled his breast; how Saint-Prosper had tricked her and

turned her from himself!

And moving from the mantel upon which he was leaning, Mauville strode

to the table and untied the envelope.

CHAPTER VII

A CYNICAL BARD

A dusty window looking out upon a dusty thoroughfare; a dusty room,

lighted by the dusty window, and revealing a dusty chair, a dusty

carpet and--probably--a dusty bed! Over the foot and the head of the

bed the lodger's wardrobe lay carelessly thrown. He had but to reach

up, and lo! his shirt was at hand; to reach down, and there were

collar and necktie! Presto, he was dressed, without getting out of

bed, running no risk from cold floors for cold feet, lurking tacks or

stray needles and pins! On every side appeared evidence of confusion,

or a bachelor's idea of order.

Fastened to the head-board of the bed was a box, wherein were stored

various and divers articles and things. With as little inconvenience

as might be imagined the lodger could plunge his hand into his

cupboard and pull out a pipe, a box of matches, a bottle of ink, a

bottle of something else, paper and pins, and, last but not least, his

beloved tin whistle of three holes, variously dignified a _fretiau_, a

_frestele_, or a _galoubet_, upon which he played ravishing tunes.

Oh, a wonderful box was Straws' little bedstead cupboard! As Phazma

said of it, it contained everything it should not, and nothing it

should contain. But that was why it was a poet's box. If it had held a

Harpagon's Interest Computer, instead of a well-thumbed Virgil, or

Oldcodger's Commercial Statistics for 184--, instead of an antique,

leather-covered Montaigne, Straws would have had no use for the

cupboard. It was at once his library--a scanty one, for the poet held

tenaciously to but a few books--his sideboard, his _secretaire_, his

music cabinet--giving lodgment in this last capacity to a single work,

"The Complete and Classical Preceptor for Galoubet, Containing Tunes,

Polkas and Military Pieces."

Suspended from the ceiling hung a wooden cage, confining a mocking

bird that had become acclimated to the death-dealing atmosphere of

tobacco smoke, alcoholic fumes and poetry. All these the songster had

endured and survived, nay, thriven upon, lifting up its voice in happy

cadence and blithely hopping about its prison, the door of which

Straws sometimes opened, permitting the feathered captive the dubious

freedom of the room. Pasted on the foot-board of the bed was an old

engraving of a wandering musician mountebank, playing a galoubet as an

accompaniment to a dancing dog and a cock on stilts, a never-wearying

picture for Straws, with his migratory, vagabond proclivities.

A bracket on the wall looked as though it might have been intended for

a piece of statuary, or a bit of porcelain or china decoration, but

had really been set there for his ink-pot, when he was mindful to work

in bed, although how the Muse could be induced to set foot in that old

nookery of a room could only be explained through the whims and

crotchets of that odd young person's character.

Yet come she would and did, although she got dust on her flowing

skirts when she swept across the threshold; dust on her snow-white

gown--if the writers are to be believed in regard to its hue!--when

she sat down in the only chair, and dust in her eyes when she flirted

her fan. Fortunate was it for Straws that the Muse is a wayward,

freakish gipsy; a straggler in attics; a vagrant of the streets;

fortunately for him she is not at all the fine lady she has been

depicted! Doubtless she has her own reasons for her vagaries; perhaps

because it is so easy to soar from the hovel to fairy-land, but to

soar from a palace--that is obviously impossible; it is a height in

itself! So this itinerant maiden ever yawns amid scenes of splendor,

and, from time immemorial, has sighed for lofts, garrets, and such

humble places as Straws' earthly abode.

At the present time, however, Straws was alone. This eccentric but

lovely young lady had not deigned to visit him that day. Once, indeed,

she had just looked in, but whisked back again into the hall, slamming

the door after her, and the pen, momentarily grasped, had fallen from

Straws' hand. Instead of reaching for the ink-bottle he reached in the

cupboard for the other bottle. Again she came near entering through

the window--having many unconventional ways of coming into a

room!--but after looking in for a moment, changed her mind after her

fashion and floated away into thin space like the giddy, volatile

mistress that she was. After that she appeared no more--probably

making a friendly call on some one else!--and Straws resigned himself

to her heartless perfidy, having become accustomed to her frivolous,

fantastic moods.

Indeed, what else could he have done; what can any man do when his

lady-love deserts him, save to make the best of it? But he found his

consolation in a pipe; not a pipe of tobacco, nor yet a pipe of old

madeira, which, figuratively, most disappointed lovers seek; but a

pipe of melody, a pipe of flowing tunes and stirring marches; a pipe

of three holes, vulgarly termed by those who know not its high classic

origin from the Grecian reeds and its relation to the Pandian pipes, a

tin whistle! Thus was Straws classic in his taste, affecting the

instrument wherein Acis sighed his soul and breath away for fair

Galatea!

It had been a lazy, purposeless day. He had awakened at noon; had

coffee and rolls in bed; had dressed, got up, looked out, lain down

again, read, and vainly essayed original composition. Now, lying on

his back, with the Complete and Classic Preceptor before him, he

soothed himself with such music "as washes the every-day dust from the

soul." For a pipe of three holes, his instrument had a remarkable

compass; melody followed melody--"The Harp that Once through Tara's

Hall," "She is Far from the Land," "In Death I shall Calm Recline,"

and other popular pieces. When Straws missed a note he went back to

find it; when he erred in a phrase, he patiently repeated it. The

cadence in the last mournful selection, "Bid her not shed a tear of

sorrow," was, on his first attempt, fraught with exceeding discord,

and he was preparing once more to assault the citadel of grief,

entrenched with bristling high notes, when an abrupt knocking at the

door, followed by the appearance of a face marred by wrath and adorned

with an enormous pair of whiskers, interrupted his attack.

"Sair," said this person, excitedly, with no more than his head in the

room, like a Punch and Judy figure peering from behind a curtain, "you

are ze one gran' nuisance! Eet is zat--what you call eet?--whistle! I

am crazee--crazee!"

"Yes; you look it!" replied Straws, sympathetically. "Perhaps, if you

had a keep--"

"I am not crazee!" vociferated the man.

"No? Perhaps I could tell better, if I could see more of you. Judging

from the sample, I confess to curiosity for a full-length view. If you

will step in--"

"I will not step in! I will step out! I will leave zis house! I will

leave--forever!"

And the head vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, to be followed

by hasty footsteps down the stairway.

"Now I can understand why Orpheus was torn to pieces," ruminated

Straws, mournfully surveying the offending pipe. "He played on the

lyre! Return to thy cupboard, O reed divine!"--putting the whistle back

in the box--"a vile world, as Falstaff says! Heigho!"--yawning--"life

is an empty void--which reminds me I have a most poetic appetite. What

shall I do"--and Straws sat up relinquishing his lounging attitude--"go

out, or have pot-luck in the room? Tortier's bouillabaisse would about

tickle the jaded palate. A most poetic dish, that bouillabaisse!

Containing all the fish that swim in the sea and all the herbs that grow

on the land! Thus speaks gluttony! Get thee behind me, odoriferous

temptation of garlic! succulent combination of broth and stew!"

So saying, Straws sprang from his bed, lighted a charcoal fire in his

tiny grate; rummaged a bureau drawer and drew forth an end of bacon, a

potato or two, a few apples, an onion and the minor part of a loaf of

bread, all of which, except the bread, he sliced and thrust

indiscriminately into the frying-pan and placed over the blue flame.

Next from behind the mirror he produced a diminutive coffee pot into

which he measured, with extreme care, just so much of the ground

berry, being rather over-nice about his demitasse. Having progressed

thus far in his preparation for pot, or frying-pan luck--and indeed it

seemed a matter of luck, or good fortune, how that mixture would turn

out--he rapped on the floor with the heel of his boot, like the prince

in the fairy tale, summoning his attendant good genii, and in a few

moments a light tapping on the door announced the coming of a

servitor.

Not a mighty wraith nor spook of Arabian fancy, but a very small girl,

or child, with very black hair, very white skin and very dark,

beautiful eyes. A daughter of mixed ancestry, yet with her dainty

hands and little feet, she seemed descended from sprites or sylphs.

"Monsieur called," she said in her pretty dialect.

"Yes, my dear. Go to Monsieur Tortier's, Celestina, and tell him to

give you a bottle of the kind Monsieur Straws always takes."

"At once, Monsieur," she answered, very gravely, very seriously. And

Celestina vanished like a butterfly that flutters quickly away.

"Now this won't be bad after all," thought Straws, sniffing at the

frying-pan which had begun to sputter bravely over the coals, while

the coffee pot gave forth a fragrant steam. "A good bottle of wine

will transform a snack into a collation; turn pot-luck into a feast!"

As thus he meditated the first of night's outriders, its fast-coming

shadows, stole through the window; following these swift van-couriers,

night's chariot came galloping across the heavens; in the sky several

little clouds melted like Cleopatra's pearls. Musing before his fire

the poet sat, not dreaming thoughts no mortal ever dreamed before, but

turning the bacon and apples and stirring in a few herbs, for no

other particular reason than that he had them and thought he might as

well use them.

"Celestina is taking longer than usual," he mused. "Perhaps, though,

Monsieur Tortier intends to surprise me with an unusually fine bottle.

Yes; that is undoubtedly the reason for the delay. He is hunting about

in the cellar for something a little out of the ordinary. But here is

Celestina now!" as the child reappeared, with footsteps so noiseless

the poet saw before he heard her. "Where is the bottle, my little

Ariel? It must be an extra fine vintage. Bless old Tortier's noble

heart!"

"There isn't any bottle," said the child. "Monsieur said that your

account--"

"The miserable old hunks! His heart's no bigger than a pin-head!"

"Please, I'm so sorry!" spoke up Celestina, a suspicious moisture in

her eyes.

"I know it, my dear," returned Straws. "Your heart is as big as his

whole body. One of your tears is more precious than his most priceless

nectar."

"I beg-ged him--that's why I--I stayed so--long!" half-sobbed

Celestina.

"There! there!" said Straws, wiping her eyes. "Of course it's very

tragic, but there's no use crying over spilled milk. Dear me, dear me;

what can we do? It's terrible, but you know the proverb: 'Every cloud

has a silver lining.' Perhaps this one has. I wish it had; or a golden

one! Think of a cloud of gold, Celestina! Wouldn't we be rich? What

would you do with it?"

"I'd go to--Monsieur Tortier's and--and get the bottle," said the

child in an agony of distress.

He lifted her on his knee, soothed her and held her in his arms,

stroking her dark hair.

"I believe you would," he said. "And now, as we haven't got the golden

cloud, let us see how we can get on without it. How shall we conquer

that ogre, Monsieur Tortier? What would you suggest, Celestina?"

The child looked into the fire, with eyes wide-open.

"Come, be a good fairy now," urged Straws, "and tell me."

"Why don't you write him a poem?" said Celestina, turning her eyes,

bright with excitement, upon him.

"A poem! Non--by Jove, you're right! An inspiration, my dear! People

like to be thought what they are not. They want to be praised for

virtues foreign to themselves. The ass wants to masquerade as the

lion. 'Tis the law of nature. Now Monsieur Tortier is a Jew; a scrimp;

a usurer! Very well, we will celebrate the virtues he hath not in

verse and publish the stanza in the Straws' column. After all, we are

only following the example of the historians, and they're an eminently

respectable lot of people. Celestina! You watch the coffee pot, and

I'll grind out the panegyric!"

The child knelt before the fire, but her glance strayed from the

steaming spout to the poet's face, as he sat on the edge of his bed

and rapidly scribbled. By the time the bacon was fairly done and the

other condiments in the frying-pan had turned to a dark hue, the

production was finished and triumphantly waved in mid air by the now

hopeful Straws.

"I'll just read you a part of it, my dear!" he said. "It's not half

bad. But perhaps it would--bore you?" With exaggerated modesty.

"Oh, I just love your poetry!" cried the girl, enthusiastically.

"If everybody were only like you now! Isn't it too bad you've got to

grow up and grow wiser? But here's the refrain. There are six stanzas,

but I won't trouble you with all of them, my dear. One mustn't drive a

willing horse, or a willing auditor."

And in a voice he endeavored to render melodious, with her rapt glance

fixed upon him, Straws read:

"Sing, my Muse, the lay of the prodigal host!

Who enters here leaveth behind not hope.

Course follows course; entree, releve, ragout,

Ambrosial sauces, pungent, after luscious soup.

The landlord spurs his guests to fresh attack,

With fricassee, rechauffe and omelets;

A toothsome feast that Apicius would fain have served,

While wine, divine, new zeal in all begets.

Who is this host, my Muse, pray say?

Who but that prodigal, Tortier!

"There, my dear," concluded Straws, "those feet are pretty wobbly to

walk, but flattery moves on lame legs faster than truth will travel

on two good ones. Besides, I haven't time to polish them properly, or

the mess in the frying-pan will spoil. Better spoil the poem than the

contents of the flesh pots! Now if--dear me, Celestina, if you haven't

let the coffee pot boil over!"

"Oh, Monsieur," cried the child, almost weeping again. "I forgot to

watch it! I just couldn't while you were writing poetry."

"The excuse more than condones the offense," continued the other. "But

as I was about to say, you take this poem to Monsieur Tortier, make

your prettiest bow and courtesy--let me see you make a courtesy."

The girl bowed as dainty as a little duchess.

"That should melt a heart of stone in itself," commented Straws. "But

Tortier's is flint! After that charming bow, you will give him my

compliments; Mr. Straws' compliments, remember; and, would he be kind

enough just to glance over this poem which Mr. Straws, with much

mental effort, has prepared, and which, if it be acceptable to

Monsieur Tortier, will appear in Mr. Straws' famous and much-talked-of

column in the paper?"

"Oh, Monsieur, I can't remember all that!" said the girl.

"Do it your own way then. Besides, it will be better than mine."

With the poem hugged to her breast, the child fairly flew out of the

room, leaving Straws a prey to conflicting emotions. He experienced

in those moments of suspense all the doubts and fears of the nestling

bard or the tadpole litterateur, awaiting the pleasure and sentence of

the august editor or the puissant publisher. Tortier had been suddenly

exalted to the judge's lofty pedestal. Would he forthwith be an

imperial autocrat; turn tyrant or Thersites; or become critic, one of

"those graminivorous animals which gain subsistence by gorging upon

buds and leaves of the young shrubs of the forest, robbing them of

their verdure and retarding their progress to maturity"?

Straws' anxiety was trouble's labor lost. Celestina appeared, the glad

messenger of success, and now, as she came dancing into the room, bore

in her arms the fruits of victory which she laid before the poet with

sparkling eyes and laughing lips.

"So the poem was accepted?" murmured Straws. "Discerning Tortier!

Excellent dilettante! Let him henceforth be known as a man of taste!"

Here the poet critically examined the bottle. "Nothing vapid, thin or

characterless there!" he added, holding it before the blaze in the

grate. "Positively I'll dedicate my forthcoming book to him. 'To that

worshipful master and patron, the tasteful Tortier!' What did he say,

Celestina, when you tendered him the poem?"

"At first he frowned and then he looked thoughtful. And then he gave

me some orange syrup. And then--O, I don't want to say!" A look of

unutterable concern displacing the happiness on her features.

"Say on, my dear!" cried Straws.

"He--he said he--he didn't think much of it as--O, I can't tell you; I

can't! I can't!"

"Celestina," said the poet sternly, "tell me at once. I command you."

"He said he didn't think much of it as poetry, but that people would

read it and come to his _cafe_ and--O dear, O dear!"

"Beast! Brute! Parvenu! But there, don't cry, my dear. We have much to

be thankful for--we have the bottle."

"Oh, yes," she said with conviction, and brightening a bit. "We have

the bottle." And as she spoke, "pop" it went, and Celestina laughed.

"May I set your table?" she asked.

"After your inestimable service to me, my dear, I find it impossible

to refuse," he replied gravely.

"How good you are!" she remarked, placing a rather soiled cloth, which

she found somewhere, over a battered trunk.

"I try not to be, but I can't help it!" answered the poet modestly.

"No; that's it; you can't help it!" she returned, moving lightly

around the room, emptying the contents of the frying-pan--now an

aromatic jumble--on to a cracked blue platter, and setting knife and

fork, and a plate, also blue, before him! "And may I wait on you,

too?"

"Well, as a special favor--" He paused, appearing to ponder deeply and

darkly.

Her eyes were bent upon his face with mute appeal, her suspense so

great she stood stock-still in the middle of the floor, frying-pan in

hand.

"Yes; you may wait on me," he said finally, after perplexed and

weighty rumination.

At that her little feet fairly twinkled, but her hand was ever so

careful as she took the coffee pot from the fire and put it near the

blue plate. A glass--how well she knew where everything was!--she

found in some mysterious corner and, sitting down on the floor,

cross-legged like a little Turk, a mere mite almost lost in the

semi-obscurity of the room, she polished it assiduously upon the

corner of the table cloth until it shone free from specks of dust; all

the time humming very lightly like a bird, or a housewife whose heart

is in her work. A strange song, a curious bit of melody that seemed to

spring from some dark past and to presage a future, equally sunless.

"Your supper is ready, Monsieur," she said, rising.

"And I am ready for it. Why, how nicely the table looks! Really, when

we both grow up, I think we should take a silver ship and sail to some

silver shore and live together there forever and evermore. How would

you like it?"

Celestina's lips were mute, but her eyes were full of rapturous

response, and then became suddenly shy, as though afraid of their own

happiness.

"May I pour your wine?" she asked, with downcast lashes.

"Can you manage it and not spill a drop? Remember Cratinus wept and

died of grief seeing his wine--no doubt, this same vintage--spilt!"

But Straws was not called upon to emulate this classic example. The

feat of filling his glass was deftly accomplished, and a moment later

the poet raised it with, "'Drink to me only with thine eyes!'" An

appropriate sentiment for Celestina who had nothing else to drink to

him with. "Won't you have some of this--what shall I call it?--hash,

stew or ration?"

"Oh, I've had my supper," she answered.

"How fortunate for you, my dear! It isn't exactly a company bill of

fare! But everything is what I call snug and cozy. Here we are high up

in the world--right under the roof--all by ourselves, with nobody to

disturb us--"

A heavy footfall without; rap, rap, rap, on the door; no timid,

faltering knock, but a firm application of somebody's knuckles!

"It's that Jack-in-the-box Frenchman," muttered the writer. "Go to the

devil!" he called out.

The door opened.

"You have an original way of receiving visitors!" drawled a languid

voice, and the glance of the surprised poet fell upon Edward Mauville.

"Really, I don't know whether to come in or not," continued the latter

at the threshold.

"I beg your pardon," murmured Straws. "I thought it was a--"

"Creditor?" suggested Mauville, with an amused smile. "I know the

class. Don't apologize! I am intruding. Quite a family party!" he went

on, his gaze resting upon Celestina and the interrupted repast.

With his elegant attire, satin waistcoat and fine ruffles, he seemed

out of place in the attic nook of the Muse; a lordling who had

wandered by mistake into the wrong room. But he bore himself with the

easy assurance of a man who could adapt himself to any surroundings;

even to Calliope's shabby boudoir!

"My dear," remarked the disconcerted bard, "get a chair for Mr.

Mauville. Or--I beg your pardon--would you mind sitting on the bed?

Won't you have some wine? Celestina, bring another glass."

But the girl only stood and stared at the dark, courtly being who thus

unexpectedly had burst in upon them.

"There isn't any more," she finally managed to say. "You've got the

only glass there is, please!"

"Dear me; dear me!" exclaimed Straws. "How glasses do get broken! I

have so few occasions to use them, too, for I don't very often have

visitors."

"You are surprised to see me?" continued Mauville, pleasantly, seating

himself on the edge of the bed. "Go on with your supper. You don't

mind my smoking while you eat?"

[Illustration]

"No; the odor of onions is a little strong, isn't it?" laughed the

other. "Rather strange, by the by, some of nature's best restoratives

should be rank and noisome, while her poisons, like the Upas tree, are

often sweet-smelling and agreeable?"

"Yes," commented the land baron; "we make the worst faces over the

medicines that do us the most good."

"I presume," said Straws, delighted at the prospect of an argument,

and forgetting his curiosity over the other's visit in this brief

interchange of words, "nature but calls our attention to the fact that

we may know our truest friends are not those with the sweetest

manners."

"Heaven forbid!" remarked Mauville. "But how are you getting on with

your column? A surfeit of news and gossip, I presume? What a busy

fellow you are, to be sure! Nothing escapes through your seine. Big

fish or little fish, it is all one. You dress them up with alluring

sauce."

The bard shook his head.

"The net has been coming in dry," he said gloomily. "But that's the

way with the fish. Sometimes you catch a good haul, and then they all

disappear. It's been bad luck lately."

"Perhaps I can make a cast for you," cried the patroon eagerly.

"And bring up what?" asked the hack.

"Something everybody will read; that will set the gossips talking."

"A woman's reputation?"

"No; a man's."

"That is to be regretted," said Straws. "If, now, it were only a

woman's--.However, it's the next best thing to start the town

a-gossiping. I am much obliged to you for taking the trouble of

calling. All those stairs to climb, too!"

"I was sure you would be glad to hear of it," remarked the patroon,

slowly, studying with his bright, insolent glance, the pale,

intellectual face of the scribbler.

"Yes; there's only one thing stands in the way."

"And that?"

"I never publish anything I don't believe. Don't misunderstand me,

please." Pouring out a glass of wine. "Unfortunately I am so

incredulous! Isn't it a pity? I am such a carping cynic; a regular

skeptic that follows the old adage, 'Believe that story false that

ought not to be true.' It's such a detriment to my work, too! A pretty

scandal at the top of my column would make me famous, while a

sprinkling of libels and lampoons would enable me to move down a story

or two. But, after all, I'd feel lost in the luxury of a first floor

front chamber. So, you see, nature adjusts herself to our needs."

"Makes the shell to fit the snail, as it were," commented the land

baron, patronizingly, gazing around the little cupboard of a room. "At

any rate," he added, in an effort to hide his dissatisfaction, "it's a

pleasure to become better acquainted with such a--what shall I

say?--whimsical fellow as yourself?"

"That's it," returned the bard. "Whimsical!"

"I dare say you have had many a chance to turn an honest penny or two,

if you had not been so skeptical, as you call it?" remarked the

patroon, significantly. "People, I presume, have even offered to pay

you for publishing the compliments of the season about their

neighbors?"

"Well," answered the scribbler, laughing, "I may have Midas' longing

for gold, but I also have his ears. And the ears predominate. I am

such an ass I have even returned a fair petitioner's perfumed note!

Such a dainty little hand! How good the paper smelt! How devilish it

read! The world's idea about the devil always smelling of sulphur and

brimstone is a slander on that much abused person. I can positively

affirm that he smells of musk, attar, myrrh; as though he had lain

somewhere with a lady's sachet or scent-bag."

"Really you should revise Milton," murmured the land baron,

carelessly, his interest quite gone. "But I must be moving on." And he

arose. "Good evening."

"Good night!" said Straws, going to the door after his departing

guest. "Can you see your way down? Look out for the turn! And don't

depend too much on the bannisters--they're rather shaky. Well, he's

gone!" Returning once more to the room. "We're coming up in the world,

my dear, when such fashionable callers visit us! What do you think of

him?"

"He is very--handsome!" replied the child.

"Oh, the vanity of the sex! Is he--is he handsomer than I?"

"Are you--handsome?" she asked.

"Eh? Don't you think so?"

"No-o," she cried, in a passion of distressed truthfulness.

"Thank you, my dear! What a flattering creature you'll become, if you

keep on as you've begun! How you'll wheedle the men, to be sure!"

"But mustn't I say what I think?"

"Always! I'm a bad adviser! Think of bringing up a young person,

especially a girl, to speak the truth! What a time she'll have!"

"But I couldn't do anything else!" she continued, with absorbing and

painful anxiety.

"Don't, then! I'm instructing you to your destruction, but--don't! I'm

a philosopher in the School for Making Simpletons. What will you do

when you go out into the broad world with truth for your banner and

your heart on your sleeve?"

"How could I have my heart on my sleeve?" asked Celestina.

"Because you couldn't help it!"

"Really and truly on my sleeve?"

"Really and truly!" he affirmed, gravely.

"How funny!" answered the girl.

"No; tragic! But what shall we do now, Celestina?"

"Wash the dishes," said the child, practically.

"But, my dear, we won't need them until to-morrow," expostulated the

poet. "Precipitancy is a bad fault. Now, if you had proposed a little

music, or a fairy tale--"

"Oh, I could wash them while you played, or told me a story,"

suggested the child, eagerly.

"That isn't such a bad idea," commented Straws, reflectively.

"Then you will let me?" she asked.

"Go ahead!" said the bard, and he reached for the whistle.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SWEETEST THING IN NATURE

The city, bustling and animated by day, like an energetic housewife,

was at night a gay demoiselle, awakening to new life and excitement.

The clerk betook himself to his bowling or billiards and the mechanic

to the circus, while beauty and fashion repaired to the concert room

or to the Opera Francais, to listen to Halevy or Donizetti. Restless

Americans or Irishmen rubbed elbows with the hurrying Frenchman or

Spaniard, and the dignified creole gentleman of leisure alone was

wrapped in a plenitude of dignity, computing probably the interest he

drew on money loaned these assiduous foreigners.

Soldiers who had been granted leave of absence or had slipped the

guard at the camp on Andrew Jackson's battle-ground swaggered through

the streets. The change from a diet of pork and beans and army hard

tack was so marked that Uncle Sam's young men threw restraint to the

winds, took the mask balls by storm and gallantly assailed and made

willing prisoners of the fair sex. Eager to exchange their irksome

life in camp for the active campaign in Mexico, it was small wonder

they relieved their impatience by many a valiant dash into the

hospitable town.

Carriages drove by with a rumble and a clatter, revealing a fleeting

glimpse of some beauty with full, dark eye. Venders of flowers

importuned the passers-by, doing a brisk business; the oyster and

coffee stands reminded the spectator of a thoroughfare in London on a

Saturday night, with the people congregating about the street stalls;

but the brilliantly illumined places of amusement, with their careless

patrons plainly apparent to all from without, resembled rather a

boulevard scene in the metropolis of France. "Probably," says a

skeptical chronicler, "here and there are quiet drawing-rooms, and

tranquil firesides, where domestic love is a chaste, presiding

goddess." But the writer merely presumes such might have been the

case, and it is evident from his manner of expression, he offers the

suggestion, or afterthought, charitably, with some doubts in his mind.

Certainly he never personally encountered the chaste goddess of the

hearth, or he would have qualified his words and made his statement

more positive.

From the life of the streets, the land baron turned into a well-lighted

entrance, passing into a large, luxuriously furnished saloon, at one

end of which stood a table somewhat resembling a roulette board.

Seated on one side was the phlegmatic cashier, and, opposite him, the

dealer, equally impassive. Unlike faro--the popular New Orleans

game--no deal box was needed, the dealer holding the cards in his

hand, while a cavity in the center of the table contained a basket,

where the cards, once used, were thrown. A large chandelier cast a

brilliant light upon the scene.

"_Messieurs, faites vos jeux_," drawled the monotonous voice of the

dealer, and expectation was keenly written on the faces of the double

circle of players--variously disclosed, but, nevertheless, apparent in

all; a transformation of the natural expression of the features; an

obvious nervousness of manner, or where the countenance was impassive,

controlled by a strong will, a peculiar glitter of the eyes,

betokening the most insatiable species of the gambler. As the dealer

began to shuffle together six packs of cards and place them in a row

on the table, he called out:

"Nothing more goes, gentlemen!"

The rapidity with which the cashier counted the winnings at a distance

and shoved them here and there with the long rake was amazing and

bewildering to the novice risking a few gold pieces for the first time

on the altar of chance. Sorting the gold pieces in even bunches, the

cashier estimated them in a moment; shoved them together; counted an

equal amount of fives with his fingers; made a little twirl in the

pile on the table; pushed it toward the winning pieces and left them

tumbled up together in pleasing confusion.

"_Messieurs, faites vos_--"

And the clinking went on, growing louder and louder, the clinking of

gold, which has a particularly musical sound, penetrating,

crystalline as the golden bells of Exodus, tinkling in the twilight of

the temple on the priest's raiment. The clinking, clinking, that

lingers in the brain long after, drawing the players to it night after

night; an intoxicating murmur, singing the desires that dominate the

world; the jingling that makes all men kin!

"Oh, dear!" said a light feminine voice, as the rapacious rake

unceremoniously drew in a poor, diminutive pile of gold. "Why did I

play? Isn't it provoking?"

"You have my sympathy, Mistress Susan," breathed a voice near her.

Looking around, she had the grace to blush becomingly, and approached

Mauville with an expressive gesture, leaving Adonis and Kate at the

table.

"Don't be shocked, Mr. Mauville," she began, hurriedly. "We were told

it was among the sights, and, having natural curiosity--"

"I understand. Armed with righteousness, why should not one go

anywhere?"

"Why, indeed?" she murmured.

"But I'm afraid I'm taking you from your play?"

"I'm not going to play any more to-night."

"Tired, already?"

"No; but--but I haven't a cent. That miserable table has robbed me of

everything. All I have left"--piteously--"are the clothes on my

back."

"Something must have been the matter with your 'system.' But if a

temporary loan--"

Susan was tempted, gazing longingly at the table, with the fever

burning in her.

"No," she said, finally. "I _think_ I would win, but, of course, I

_might_ lose."

"A wise reservation! Never place your fortune on the hazard of the

die."

"But I have! What's the use of making good resolutions now? It's like

closing the barn-door after--"

"Just so!" he agreed. "But it might have been worse."

"How?" In dismay. "Didn't that stony-looking man rake in my last gold

piece? He didn't even look sorry, either. But what is the matter with

your arm?" The land baron's expression became ominous. "You shook

hands with your left hand. Oh, I see; the duel!" Lightly.

"How did you hear about it?" asked Mauville, irritably.

"Oh, in a roundabout way. Murder will out! And Constance--she was so

solicitous about Mr. Saint-Prosper, but rather proud, I believe,

because he"--with a laugh--"came off victorious."

Susan's prattle, although accompanied by innocent glances from her

blue eyes, was sometimes the most irritating thing in the world, and

the land baron, goaded beyond endurance, now threw off his careless

manner and swore in an undertone by "every devil in Satan's

calendar."

"Can you not reserve your soliloquy until you leave me?" observed

Susan, sweetly. "Otherwise--"

"I regret to have shocked your ladyship," he murmured, satirically.

"I forgive you." Raising her guileless eyes. "When I think of the

provocation, I do not blame you--so much!"

"That is more than people do in your case," muttered the land baron

savagely.

Susan's hand trembled. "What do you mean?" she asked, not without

apprehension regarding his answer.

"Oh, that affair with the young officer--the lad who was killed in the

duel, you know--"

Her composure forsook her for the moment and she bit her lip cruelly.

"Don't!" she whispered. "I am not to blame. I never dreamed it would

go so far! Why should people--"

"Why?" he interposed, ironically.

Susan pulled herself together. "Yes, why?" she repeated, defiantly.

"Can women prevent men from making fools of themselves any more than

they can prevent them from amusing themselves as they will? To-day it

is this toy; to-morrow, another. At length"--bitterly--"a woman comes

to consider herself only a toy."

Her companion regarded her curiously. "Well, well!" he ejaculated,

finally. "Losing at cards doesn't agree with your temper."

"Nor being worsted by Saint-Prosper with yours!" she retorted

quickly.

Mauville looked virulent, but Susan, feeling that she had retaliated

in ample measure, recovered her usual equanimity of temper and placed

a conciliatory hand sympathetically on his arm.

"We have both had a good deal to try us, haven't we? But how stupid

men are!" she added suddenly. "As if you could not find other

consolation!"

He directed toward her an inquiring glance.

"Some time ago, while I was acting in London," resumed Susan,

thoughtfully, "the leading lady refused to receive the attentions of a

certain odious English lord. She was to make her appearance in a piece

upon which her reputation was staked. Mark what happened! She was

hissed! Hissed from the stage! My lord led this hostile demonstration

and all his hired claqueurs joined in. She was ruined; ruined!"

concluded Susan, smiling amiably.

"You are ingenious, Mistress Susan--not to say a trifle diabolical.

Your plan--"

She opened her eyes widely. "I have suggested no plan," she

interrupted, hurriedly.

"Well, let us sit down and I will tell you about a French officer

who--But here is a quiet corner, Mistress Susan, and if you will

promise not to repeat it, I will regale you with a bit of interesting

gossip."

"I promise--they always do!" she laughed.

For such a frivolous lady, Susan was an excellent listener. She, who

on occasions chattered like a magpie, was now silent as a mouse,

drinking in the other's words with parted lips and sparkling eyes.

First he showed her the letter Francois had brought him. Unmarked by

postal indications, the missive had evidently been intrusted to a

private messenger of the governor whose seal it bore. Dated about

three years previously, it was written in a somewhat illegible, but

not unintelligible, scrawl, the duke's own handwriting.

"I send you, my dear marquis," began the duke, "a copy of the secret

report of the military tribunal appointed to investigate the charges

against your kinsman, Lieut. Saint-Prosper, and regret the finding of

the court should have been one of guilty of treason.

"Saint-Prosper and Abd-el-Kader met near the tomb of a marabout. From

him the French officer received a famous ruby which he thrust beneath

his zaboot--the first fee of their compact. That night when the town

lay sleeping, a turbaned host, armed with yataghans, stole through the

flowering cactuses. Sesame! The gate opened to them; they swarmed

within! The soldiers, surprised, could render little resistance; the

ruthless invaders cut them down while they were sleeping or before

they could sound the alarm. The bravest blood of France flowed

lavishly in the face of the treacherous onslaught; blood of men who

had been his fastest friends, among whom he had been so popular for

his dauntless courage and devil-may-care temerity! But a period,

fearfully brief, and the beloved tri-color was trampled in the dust;

the barbarian flag of the Emir floated in its place.

"All these particulars, and the part Saint-Prosper played in the

terrible drama, Abd-el-Kader, who is now our prisoner, has himself

confessed. The necessity for secrecy, you, my dear Marquis, will

appreciate. The publicity of the affair now would work incalculable

injury to the nation. It is imperative to preserve the army from the

taint of scandal. The nation hangs on a thread. God knows there is

iniquity abroad. I, who have labored for the honor of France and

planted her flag in distant lands, look for defeat, not through want

of bravery, but from internal causes. A matter like this might lead to

a popular uprising against the army. Therefore, the king wills it

shall be buried by his faithful servants."

As Mauville proceeded Susan remained motionless, her eyes growing

larger and larger, until they shone like two lovely sapphires, but

when he concluded she gave a little sigh of pleasure and leaned back

with a pleased smile.

"Well?" he said, finally, after waiting some moments for her to

speak.

"How piquantly wicked he is!" she exclaimed, softly.

"Piquantly, indeed!" repeated the land baron, dryly.

"And he carries it without a twinge! What a petrified conscience!"

"I believe you find him more interesting than ever?" said Mauville,

impatiently.

"Possibly!" Languidly. "An exceptional moral ailment sometimes makes a

man more attractive--like a--an interesting subject in a hospital, you

know! But I have always felt," she continued, with sudden seriousness,

"there was something wrong with him. When I first saw him, I was sure

he had had no ordinary past, but I did not dream it was quite so--what

shall we call it--"

"Unsavory?" suggested her companion.

"That accounts for his unwillingness to talk about Africa," went on

Susan. "Soldiers, as a rule, you know, like to tell all about their

sanguinary exploits. But the tented field was a forbidden topic with

him. And once when I asked him about Algiers he was almost rudely

evasive."

"He probably lives in constant fear his secret will become known,"

said Mauville, thoughtfully. "As a matter of fact, the law provides

that no person is to be indicted for treason unless within three years

after the offense. The tribunal did not return an indictment; the

three years have just expired. Did he come to America to make sure of

these three years?"

But Susan's thoughts had flitted to another feature of the story.

"How strange my marquis should be connected with the case! What an old

compliment-monger he was! He vowed he was deeply smitten with me."

"And then went home and took to his bed!" added Mauville, grimly.

"You wretch!" said the young woman, playfully. "So that is the reason

the dear old molly-coddle did not take me to any of the gay suppers he

promised? Is it not strange Saint-Prosper has not met him?"

"You forget the marquis has been confined to his room since his brief,

but disastrous, courtship of you. His infatuation seems to have

brought him to the verge of dissolution."

"Was it not worth the price?" she retorted, rising. "But I see my

sister and Adonis are going, so I must be off, too. So glad to have

met you!"

"You are no longer angry with me?"

"No; you are very nice," she said. "And you have forgiven me?"

"Need you ask?" Pressing her hand. "Good evening, Mistress Susan!"

"Good evening. Oh, by the way, I have an appointment with Constance to

rehearse a little scene together this evening. Would you mind loaning

me that letter?"

"With pleasure; but remember your promise."

"Promise?" repeated the young woman.

"Not to tell."

"Oh, of course," said Susan.

"But if you shouldn't--"

"Then?"

"Then you might say the marquis, your friend and admirer, gave you

the letter. It would, perhaps, be easier for you to account for it

than for me."

"But if the marquis should learn--" began the other, half-dubiously.

"He is too ill for anything except the grave."

"Oh, the poor old dear!"

She looked at the gaming table with its indefatigable players and then

turned to Kate and Adonis who approached at that moment. "How did you

come out, Adonis?"

"Out," he said, curtly.

"Lucky in love, unlucky at"--began Kate.

"Then you must be very unlucky in love," he retorted, "for you were a

good winner at cards."

"Oh, there are exceptions to that rule," said Kate lazily, with a

yawn. "I'm lucky at both--in New Orleans!"

"I have perceived it," retorted Adonis, bitterly.

"Don't quarrel," Susan implored. Regarding the table once more, she

sighed: "I'm so sorry I came!"

But her feet fairly danced as she flew towards the St. Charles. She

entered, airy as a saucy craft, with "all sails in full chase, ribbons

and gauzes streaming at the top," and, with a frou-frou of skirts,

burst into Constance's room, brimful of news and importance. She

remained there for some time, and when she left, it was noteworthy her

spirits were still high. In crossing the hall, her red stockings

became a fitting color accompaniment to her sprightly step, as she

moved over the heavy carpet, skirts raised coquettishly, humming with

the gaiety of a young girl who has just left boarding school.

"A blooming, innocent creature!" growled an up-the-river planter,

surveying her from one of the landings. "Lord love me, if she were

only a quadroon, I'd buy her!"

CHAPTER IX

A DEBUT IN THE CRESCENT CITY

A versatile dramatic poet is grim Destiny, making with equal facility

tragedy, farce, burletta, masque or mystery. The world is his inn,

and, like the wandering master of interludes, he sets up his stage in

the court-yard, beneath the windows of mortals, takes out his figures

and evolves charming comedies, stirring melodramas, spirited

harlequinades and moving divertissement. But it is in tragedy his

constructive ability is especially apparent, and his characters,

tripping along unsuspectingly in the sunny byways, are suddenly

confronted by the terrifying mask and realize life is not all pleasant

pastime and that the Greek philosophy of retribution is nature's law,

preserving the unities. When the time comes, the Master of events,

adjusting them in prescribed lines, reaches by stern obligation the

avoidless conclusion.

Consulting no law but his own will, the Marquis de Ligne had lived as

though he were the autocrat of fate itself instead of one of its

servants, and therefore was surprised when the venerable playwright

prepared the unexpected denouement. In pursuance of this end, it was

decreed by the imperious and incontrovertible dramatist of the human

family that this crabbed, vicious, antiquated marionette should wend

his way to the St. Charles on a particular evening. Since the day at

the races, the eccentric nobleman had been ill and confined to his

room, but now he was beginning to hobble around, and, immediately with

returning strength, sought diversion.

"Francois," he said, "what is there at the theater to-night?"

"Comic opera, my lord?"

The marquis made a grimace. "Comic opera outside of Paris!" he

exclaimed, with a shrug of the shoulders.

"A new actress makes her debut at the St. Charles."

"Let it be the debut, then! Perhaps she will fail, and that will amuse

me."

"Yes, my lord."

"And, by the way, Francois, did you see anything of a large envelope,

a buff-colored envelope, I thought I left in my secretary?"

"No, my lord." But Francois became just a shade paler.

"It is strange," said the marquis, half to himself, "what could have

become of it! I destroyed other papers, but not that. You are sure,

Francois, you did not steal it?"

By this time the servant's knees began to tremble, and, had the

marquis' eyesight been better, he could not have failed to detect the

other's agitation. But the valet assumed a bold front, as he asked:

"Why should I have stolen it?"

"True, why?" grumbled the marquis. "It would be of no service to you.

No; you didn't take it. I believe you honest--in this case!"

"Thank you, my lord!"

"After all, what does it matter?" muttered the nobleman to himself.

"What's in a good name to-day--with traitors within and traitors

without? 'Tis love's labor lost to have protected it! We've fostered a

military nest of traitors. The scorpions will be faithful to nothing

but their own ends. They'll fight for any master."

Recalled to his purpose of attending the play by Francois' bringing

from the wardrobe sundry articles of attire, the marquis underwent an

elaborate toilet, recovering his good humor as this complicated

operation proceeded. Indeed, by the time it had reached a triumphant

end and the valet set the marquis before a mirror, the latter had

forgotten his dissatisfaction at the government in his pleasure with

himself.

"Too much excitement is dangerous, is it?" he mumbled. "I am afraid

there will be none at all. A stage-struck young woman; a doll-like

face, probably; a milk-and-water performance! Now, in the old days

actors were artists. Yes, artists!" he repeated, as though he had

struck a chord that vibrated in his memory.

Arriving at the theater, he was surprised at the scene of animation;

the line of carriages; the crowd about the doors and in the entrance

hall! Evidently the city eagerly sought novelty, and Barnes' company,

offering new diversion after many weeks of opera, drew a fair

proportion of pleasure-seekers to the portals of the drama. The noise

of rattling wheels and the banging of carriage doors; the aspect of

many fair ladies, irreproachably gowned; the confusion of voices from

venders hovering near the gallery entrance--imparted a cosmopolitan

atmosphere to the surroundings.

"You'd think some well-known player was going to appear, Francois!"

grumbled the marquis, as he thrust his head out of his carriage.

"Looks like a theater off the Strand! And there's an orange-girl! A

dusky Peggy!"

The vehicle of the nobleman drew up before the brilliantly-lighted

entrance. Mincingly, the marquis dismounted, assisted by the valet;

within he was met by a _loge_ director who, with the airs of a

Chesterfield, bowed the people in and out.

"Your ticket, sir!" said this courteous individual, scraping unusually

low.

The marquis waved his hand toward his man, and Francois produced the

bits of pasteboard. Escorted to his box, the nobleman settled himself

in an easy chair, after which he stared impudently and inquisitively

around him.

And what a heterogeneous assemblage it was; of how many nationalities

made up; gay bachelors, representatives of the western trade and

eastern manufacturers; a fair sprinkling of the military element,

seeking amusement before departing for the front, their brass buttons

and striking new uniforms a grim reminder of the conflict waging

between the United States and Mexico; cotton brokers, banking agents,

sugar, tobacco and flour dealers; some evidently English with their

rosy complexions, and others French by their gesticulations! And among

the women, dashing belles from Saratoga, proud beauties from

Louisville, "milliner-martyred" daughters of interior planters, and

handsome creole matrons, in black gowns that set off their white

shoulders!

In this stately assemblage--to particularize for a moment!--was seated

the (erstwhile!) saintly Madame Etalage, still proud in her bearing,

although white as an angel, and by her side, her carpet knight, an

extravagant, preposterous fop. A few seats in front of her prattled

the lovely _ingenue_, little Fantoccini, a biting libeller of other

actresses, with her pitiless tongue. To her left was a shaggy-looking

gentleman, the Addison of New Orleans' letters, a most tolerant

critic, who never spoke to a woman if he could avoid doing so, but

who, from his philosophical stool, viewed the sex with a conviction it

could do no wrong; a judgment in perspective, as it were!

The marquis paid little attention to the men; it was the feminine

portion of the audience that interested him, and he regarded it with a

gloating leer, the expression of a senile satyr. Albeit a little on

the seamy side of life, his rank and wealth were such that he himself

attracted a good deal of attention, matronly eyes being turned in his

direction with not unkindly purport. The marquis perceived the stir

his presence occasioned and was not at all displeased; on the

contrary, his manner denoted gratification, smiling and smirking from

bud to blossom and from blossom to bud!

How fascinating it was to revel in the sight of so much youth and

beauty from the brink of the grave whereon he stood; how young it made

him feel again! He rubbed his withered hands together in childish

delight, while he contemplated the lively charms of Fantoccini or

devoted himself to the no less diverting scrutiny of certain other

dark-haired ladies.

While occupied in this agreeable pastime the nobleman became dimly

conscious the debutante had appeared and was greeted with the moderate

applause of an audience that is reserving its opinion. "Gad," said one

of the dandies who was keenly observing the nobleman, "it's

fashionable to look at the people and not at the actors!" And he

straightway stared at the boxes, assuming a lackadaisical, languishing

air. Having taken note of his surroundings to his satisfaction, the

marquis at length condescended to turn his eye-glass deliberately and

quizzically to the stage. His sight was not the best, and he gazed for

some time before discerning a graceful figure and a pure, oval face,

with dark hair and eyes.

"Humph, not a bad stage presence!" he thought. "Probably plenty of

beauty, with a paucity of talent! That's the way nowadays. The

voice--why, where have I heard it before? A beautiful voice! What

melody, what power, what richness! And the face--" Here he wiped the

moisture from his glasses--"if the face is equal to the voice, she has

an unusual combination in an artist."

Again he elevated the glass. Suddenly his attenuated frame straightened,

his hand shook violently and, the glasses fell from his nerveless

fingers.

"Impossible!" he murmured. But the melody of those tones continued to

fall upon his ears like a voice from the past.

When the curtain went down on the first act there was a storm of

applause. In New Orleans nothing was done by halves, and Constance,

as Adrienne Lecouvreur, radiant in youth and the knowledge of

success, was called out several times. The creoles made a vigorous

demonstration; the Americans were as pleased in their less impulsive

way; and in the loges all the lattices were pushed up, "a compliment

to any player," said Straws. To the marquis, the ladies in the

_loges_ were only reminiscent of the fashionable dames, with bare

shoulders and glittering jewels, in the side boxes of old Drury

Lane, leaning from their high tribunals to applaud the Adrienne of

twenty years ago!

He did not sit in a theater in New Orleans now, but in London town,

with a woman by his side who bent beneath the storm of words she knew

were directed at her. As in a dream he lingered, plunged in thought,

with no longer the cynical, carping expression on his face as he

looked at the stage, but awed and wonder-stricken, transported to

another scene through the lapse of years that folded their shadowy

wings and made the past to-day. Two vivid pictures floated before him

as though they belonged to the present: Adrienne, bright, smiling and

happy, as she rushed into the green room, with the plaudits of the

multitude heard outside; Adrienne, in her last moments, betrayed to

death!

They were applauding now, or was it but the mocking echo of the past?

The curtain had descended, but went up again, and the actress stood

with flowers showered around her. Save that she was in the springtime

of life, while the other had entered summer's season; that her art was

tender and romantic, rather than overwhelming and tragic, she was the

counterpart of the actress he had deserted in London; a faithful

prototype, bearing the mother's eyes, brow and features; a moving,

living picture of the dead, as though the grave had rolled back its

stone and she had stepped forth, young once more, trusting and

innocent.

The musical bell rang in the wine room, where the worshipers of

Bacchus were assembled, the signal that the drop would rise again in

five minutes. At the bar the imbibers were passing judgment.

"What elegance, deah boy! But cold--give me Fantoccini!" cried the

carpet knight.

"Fantoccini's a doll to her!" retorted the worldly young spark

addressed.

"A wicked French doll, then! What do you think?" Turning to the local

Addison.

"Sir, she 'snatches a grace beyond the reach of art'!" replied that

worthy.

"You ask for a criticism, and he answers in poetry!" retorted the

first speaker.

"'Tis only the expression of the audience!" interposed another voice.

"Oh, of course, Mr. Mauville, if you, too, take her part, that is the

end of it!"

The land baron's smile revealed withering contempt, as with eyes

bright with suppressed excitement, and his face unusually sallow, he

joined the group.

"The end of it!" he repeated, fixing his glance upon the captious

dandy. "The beginning, you mean! The beginning of her triumphs!"

"Oh, have your own way!" answered the disconcerted critic.

Mauville deliberately turned his back. "And such dunces sit in

judgment!" he muttered to the scholar.

"Curse me, Mauville's in a temper to-night!" said the spark in a low

voice. "Been drinking, I reckon! But it's time for the next act!"

Punches and juleps were hastily disposed of, and the imbibers quickly

sought their places. This sudden influx, with its accompanying

laughter and chattering, aroused the marquis from his lethargy. He

started and looked around him in bewilderment. The noise and the light

conversation, however, soon recalled his mind to a sense of his

surroundings, and he endeavored to recover his self-possession.

Could it be possible it was but a likeness his imagination had

converted into such vivid resemblance? A sudden thought seized him and

he looked around toward the door of the box.

"Francois!" he called, and the valet, who had been waiting his

master's pleasure without, immediately appeared.

"Sit down, Francois!" commanded the marquis. "I am not feeling well. I

may conclude to leave soon, and may need your arm."

The servant obeyed, and the nobleman, under pretense of finding more

air near the door, drew back his chair, where he could furtively watch

his man's face. The orchestra ceased; the curtain rose, and the valet

gazed mechanically at the stage. In his way, Francois was as _blase_

as his master, only, of course, he understood his position too well to

reveal that lassitude and ennui, the expression of which was the

particular privilege of his betters. He had seen many great actresses

and heard many peerless singers; he had delved after his fashion into

sundry problems, and had earned as great a right as any of the

nobility to satiety and defatigation in his old age, but unfortunately

he was born in a class which may feel but not reveal, and mask alike

content and discontent.

Again those tones floated out from the past; musical, soft! The

marquis trembled. Did not the man notice? No; he was still looking

gravely before him. Dolt; did he not remember? Could he not recall the

times beyond number when he had heard that voice; in the ivy-covered

cottage; in the garden of English roses?

Suddenly the valet uttered an exclamation; the stolid aspect of his

face gave way to an obvious thrill of interest.

"My lord!" he cried.

"An excellent actress, Francois; an excellent actress!" said the

marquis, rising. "Is that my coat? Get it for me. What are you

standing there for? Your arm! Don't you see I am waiting?"

Overwrought and excitable, he did not dare remain for the latter

portion of the drama; better leave before the last act, he told

himself, and, dazed by the reappearance of that vision, the old man

fairly staggered from the box.

The curtain fell for the last time, and Barnes, with exultation, stood

watching in the wings. She had triumphed, his little girl; she had won

the great, generous heart of New Orleans. He clapped his hands

furiously, joining in the evidences of approval, and, when the ovation

finally ceased and she approached, the old manager was so overcome he

had not a word to say. She looked at him questioningly, and he who had

always been her instructor folded her fondly to his breast.

"I owe it all to you," she whispered.

"Pooh!" he answered. "You stole fire from heaven. I am but a

theatrical, bombastic, barnstorming Thespian."

"Would you spoil me?" she interrupted, tenderly.

"You are your mother over again, my dear! If she were only here now!

But where is Saint-Prosper? He has not yet congratulated you? He, our

good genius, whose generosity has made all this possible!" And Barnes

half-turned, when she placed a detaining hand on his arm.

"No, no!"

"Why, my dear, have you and he--"

"Is it not enough that you are pleased?" replied Constance, hastily,

with a glance so shining he forgot all further remonstrances.

"Pleased!" exclaimed Barnes. "Why, I feel as gay as Momus! But we'll

sing Te Deum later at the festive board. Go now and get ready!"

CHAPTER X

LAUGHTER AND TEARS

A supper was given the company after the performance by the manager,

to which representatives of the press--artful Barnes!--had been

invited. Of all the merry evenings in the bohemian world, that was one

of the merriest. Next to the young girl sat the Count de Propriac, his

breast covered with a double row of medals. Of the toasts drunk to

Constance, the manager, poets Straws and Phazma, etc., unfortunately

no record remains. Of the recollections of the wiry old lady; the

impromptu verse of the rhymsters; the roaring speech of Mr. Barnes;

the song and dainty flower dance by Susan and Kate--only the bare

facts have descended to the chronicler.

So fancy must picture the wreaths of smoke; the superabundance of

flowers, the fragrance of cigars mingling with the perfume of fading

floral beauties; the pale dark-eyed girl presiding, upon her dusky

hair a crown of laurel, set there, despite her protestations, by

Phazma and Straws; the devotion of the count to his fair neighbor; the

almost superhuman pride of noisy Barnes; the attention bestowed by

Susan upon Saint-Prosper, while through his mind wandered the words of

a French song:

"Adieu, la cour, adieu les dames;

Adieu les filles et les femmes--"

Intermixed with this sad refrain the soldier's thoughts reverted to

the performance, and amidst the chatter of Susan, he reviewed again

and again the details of that evening. Was this the young girl who

played in school-houses, inns or town halls, he had asked himself,

seated in the rear of the theater? How coldly critical had been her

auditors; some of the faces about him ironical; the bored, tired faces

of men who had well-nigh drained life's novelties; the artificially

vivacious faces of women who played at light-heartedness and gaiety!

Yet how free from concern had she been, as natural and composed as

though her future had not depended upon that night! When she won an

ovation, he had himself forgotten to applaud, but had sat there,

looking from her to the auditors, to whom she was now bound by ties of

admiration and friendliness.

"Don't you like her?" a voice next to him had asked.

Like her? He had looked at the man, blankly.

"Yes," he had replied.

Then the past had seemed to roll between them: the burning sands; the

voices of the troops; the bugle call! In his brain wild thoughts had

surged and flowed--as they were surging and flowing now.

"Is he not handsome, Constance's new admirer?" whispered Susan. "What

can he be saying? She looks so pleased! He is very rich, isn't he?"

"I don't know," answered Saint-Prosper, brusquely.

Again the thoughts surged and surged, and the past intruded itself!

Reaching for his glass, he drank quickly.

"Don't you ever feel the effects of wine?" asked the young woman.

His glance chilled her, it seemed so strange and steely!

"I believe you are so--so strong you don't even notice it," added

Susan, with conviction. "But you don't have half as good a time!"

"Perhaps I enjoy myself in my way," he answered.

"What is your way?" she asked quickly. "You don't appear to be wildly

hilarious in your pleasures." And Susan's bright eyes rested on him

curiously. "But we were speaking about the count and Constance. Don't

you think it would be a good match?" she continued with enthusiasm.

"Alas, my titled admirer got no further than the beginning. But men

are deceivers ever! When they _do_ reach the Songs of Solomon, they

pass on to Exodus!"

"And leave the fair ones to Lamentations," said Straws, who had caught

her last remarks.

"Or Revelations!" added Phazma.

At the sound of their laughter, Constance looked coldly their way,

until a remark from the count at her right, and, "As I was saying, my

dear," from the old lady at her left, engrossed the young girl's

attention once more. But finally the great enemy of joy--the grim

guardian of human pleasure--the reaper whose iron hands move ever in a

circle, symbolical of eternity--finally, Time reminded Barnes that the

hour had surely arrived when the curtain should descend upon these

festivities. So he roared out a last blithe farewell, and the guests

departed one by one, taking with them flowers in memory of the

occasion, until all had left save Constance, the count, Saint-Prosper

and the manager. Barnes was talking somewhat incoherently, holding the

soldier by the coat and plunging into successive anecdotes about stage

folk, while Saint-Prosper, apparently listening, observed the diplomat

and Constance, whose conversation he could overhear.

"As I said to the Royal Infanta of Spain, flattery flies before truth

in your presence, Mademoiselle," sighed the count. And then raising

her hand to his lips, "_Ah, ma chere Mademoiselle, que je vous

adore!_" he whispered.

She withdrew it hastily, and, ogling and gesticulating, he bowed

himself out, followed by the manager.

Leaning against the chair, her figure outlined by the glow from the

crystal chandelier, her face in shadow, the hand the diplomat had

pressed to his lips resting in the exposed light on the mahogany, the

gaiety went out of her face, and the young girl wearily brushed the

hair from her brow. As if unaware of the soldier's presence, she

glanced absently at the table in its wrecked glory, and, throwing her

lace wrap over her arm, was moving toward the door, when he spoke.

"Miss Carew!"

She paused, standing with clasped hands before him, while the scarf

slipped from her arm and fell at her feet.

"May I not also tell you how glad I am--that you succeeded to-night?"

"I dislike congratulations!" she said, indifferently.

He looked at her quickly, but her eyes expressed only apathy. In his a

sudden gleam of light appeared.

"From me, you mean?" The light became brighter.

She did not answer. His self-control was fast ebbing.

"You underestimate your favors, if you fancy they are easily

forgotten!"

A crimson flush extended to her brow; the unconcern died out of her

eyes.

"I do not understand," she answered, slowly.

"When a woman says 'I do not understand,' she means 'I wish to

forget'."

Her wide-open glance flashed ominously to his; she clasped and

unclasped her fingers.

"Forget what?" she said, coldly.

"Nameless nothings!" he returned. "A smile--a glance--nothing to you,

perhaps, but"--the set expression of his face giving way to abrupt

passion!--"everything to me! Perhaps I had not meant to say this, but

it seems as though the words must come out to-night. It may be"--his

voice vibrating with strange earnestness--"for once I want to be

myself. For weeks we have been--friends--and then suddenly you begin

to treat me--how? As though I no longer existed! Why did you deceive

me--let me drift on? Because I was mute, did you think I was blind?

Why did I join the strollers--the land baron accused me of following

you across the country. He was right; I was following you. I would not

confess it to myself before. But I confess it now! It was a fool's

paradise," he ended, bitterly.

She shrank back before his vehement words; something within her

appeared violated; as though his plea had penetrated the sanctity of

her reserve.

"Would it not be well to say nothing about deception?" she replied,

and her dark eyes swept his face. Then, turning from him abruptly, she

stepped to the window, and, drawing aside the lace curtains

mechanically, looked out.

The city below was yet teeming with life, lights gleaming everywhere

and shadowy figures passing. Suddenly out of the darkness came a

company of soldiers who had just landed, marching through the streets

toward the camping ground and singing as they went.

The chorus, like a mighty breath of patriotism, filled her heart to

overflowing. It seemed as though she had heard it for the first time;

had never before felt its potency. All the tragedy of war swept before

her; all that inspiring, strange affection for country, kith and kin,

suddenly exalted her.

[Illustration]

Above the tramping of feet, the melody rose and fell on the distant

air, dying away as the figures vanished in the gloom. With its love of

native land, its expression of the unity of comradeship and ties

stronger than death, the song appeared to challenge an answer; and,

when the music ceased, and only the drum-beats still seemed to make

themselves heard, she raised her head without moving from her position

and looked at him to see if he understood. But though she glanced at

him, she hardly saw him. In her mind was another picture--the betrayed

garrison; the soldiers slain!--and the horror of it threw such a film

over her gaze that he became as a figure in some distressing dream.

An inkling of her meaning--the mute questioning of her eyes--the dread

evoked by that revolting vision of the past--were reflected in his

glance.

"Deceived you?" he began, and his voice, to her, sounded as from afar.

"How--what--"

"Must it be--could it be put into words?"

The deepest shadows dwelt in her eyes; shadows he could not penetrate,

although he still doggedly, yet apprehensively, regarded her! Watching

her, his brow grew darker.

"Why not?" he continued, stubbornly.

Why? The dimness that had obscured her vision lifted. Now she saw him

very plainly, indeed; tall and powerful; his face, harsh, intense, as

though by the vigor of physical and mental force he would override any

charge or imputation.

Why? She drew herself up, as he quickly searched her eyes, bright with

the passions that stirred her breast.

"You told me part of your story that day in the property wagon," she

began, repugnance, scorn and anger all mingling in her tones. "Why did

you not tell me the rest?"

His glance, too, flashed. Would he still profess not to understand

her? His lips parted; he spoke with an effort.

"The rest?" he said, his brow lowering.

"Yes," she answered quickly; "the stain upon your name!--the garrison

sold!--the soldiers killed!--murdered!--"

She had turned to him swiftly, fiercely, with her last words, but

before the look of sudden shame and dread on his face, her eyes

abruptly fell as though a portion of his dishonor had inexplicably

touched her. He made no attempt to defend himself--motionless he stood

an instant--then, without a word, he moved away. At the threshold he

paused, but she did not look up--could not! A moment; an eternity!

"Why don't you go?" she cried. "Why don't you go?"

The door opened, closed; she was alone.

Pale as the dying lilies on the table, she stepped toward the

threshold, when Barnes, chipper and still indefatigable, entered by

another door. He was too inspired with festal intoxication to observe

her agitation.

"What, my dear!" he exclaimed cheerily. "Has he gone? Did you make up

your little differences? Did you settle your quarrel before he leaves

for Mexico?"

"For Mexico!" she repeated, mechanically.

"Of course. He has his commission in the army and leaves early in the

morning. But you look tired, my dear. I declare you are quite

pale"--pinching her cheek--"rest will bring back the roses, though."

Impulsively she threw her arms around his neck.

"Why, why, what's this?" he said, patting her head.

"I only care for you," she whispered. "My dear! My dear!"

CHAPTER XI

THE PASSING OF A FINE GENTLEMAN

"'Perhaps she will fail, and that will amuse me,'" ruminated Francois

on his high seat next to the coachman, repeating the marquis' words,

as they drove home after the nobleman's precipitous retreat from the

theater. "Well, he didn't look as though he had been particularly

amused. But no wonder he was startled! It even"--reviewing the

impression first made upon him at sight of the actress--"sent a shiver

through me!" Here the carriage drew up sharply before the marquis'

home, and Francois, hastily alighting, threw open the door.

"Eh? What? Are we here?" muttered the marquis, starting from the

corner where he had been reclining.

He arose with some difficulty; traversed the sidewalk and the

shell-strewn path to the house which loomed darkly before them; paused

at the foot of the stairs where he breathed heavily, complaining of

the oppressiveness of the air; and finally, with the assistance of the

valet, found himself once more in his room, the sick chamber he had

grown to detest! Here alone--having dismissed the servant as soon as

possible--he moved restlessly to and fro, pondering deeply. Since the

moment when he had seen and recognized his daughter, all the buoyancy

which had given his wasted figure a sort of galvanic vitality seemed

to vanish. It was like the exhaustion of a battery, the collapse of

the sustaining power.

"That resemblance can not be coincidence!" he thought. "Oh, errors of

the past, you come home in our old age when the limbs are faltering

and life is failing!"

Going to the _secretaire_, he took out a box that had not been opened

in years, and, with trembling fingers, turned over many papers. He

shivered, and, thinking it was cold, stirred the fire. Returning to

the secretary, he took from the box a package tied with a ribbon

still, after the lapse of these many years, slightly fragrant, and he

breathed that perfume, so faint, so subtle, while recollections smote

him like a knife.

Its scent was familiar to him; it seemed to bring life to the dead,

and for the moment in his mind's eye he saw her glowing figure, the

love of his youth, with flashing, revengeful eyes and noble mien. He

cowered over the desk, as if shrinking from an avenging spirit, while

the perfume, like opium, filled his brain with strange fantasies. He

strove to drown remembrance, but some force--it seemed not his

own!--drove him irresistibly to untie that ribbon, to scrutinize many

old theater programs and to gaze upon a miniature in ivory depicting a

woman in the loveliness of her charms, but whose striking likeness to

the young actress he had just seen filled his heart with strange fear.

Some power--surely it could not have been his will which rebelled

strenuously!--impelled him to open those letters and to read them word

for word. The tenderness of the epistles fell on his heart as though

to scorch it, and he quivered like a guilty wretch. His eyes were

fascinated by these words in her last letter: "Should you desert me

and your unborn child, your end will be miserable. As I believe in

retribution, I am sure you will reap as you have sown."

Suddenly the reader in a frenzy threw the letter to the floor and

trampled on it. He regarded the face in the miniature with fear and

hatred, and dashing it into the drawer, called down maledictions on

her. He ceased abruptly, weak and wavering.

"I am going insane," he said, laughing harshly. "Fool! To let that

woman's memory disturb me. So much for her dire prophecy!" And he

snapped his fingers and dropped the letter in the fire.

"What can her curse avail?" he said aloud. "She is gone, turned to

ashes like that paper and there is no life after this one. All then is

nothing--emptiness--a blank! I need rest. It is this cursed dyspepsia

which has made me nervous. Something to compose me, and then to bed!"

In spite of soothing powders, however, he passed a restless night and

arose unrefreshed, but ordered his valet to bring one of his lightest

suits, and, having dressed, he set a white flower upon his coat, while

the servant proceeded to apply various pigments to the wrinkled face,

until it took on a mocking semblance to the countenance of a man

fifteen years younger. The marquis leered at himself in the pier-glass

and assumed a jauntiness of demeanor he was far from feeling.

"I do not look tired or worried, Francois?"

"Not at all, my lord," replied the obsequious valet. "I never saw you,

my lord, appear so young and well."

"Beneath the surface, Francois, there is age and weakness," answered

the marquis in a melancholy tone.

"It is but a passing indisposition, my lord," asserted the servant,

soothingly.

"Perhaps. But, Francois"--peering around--"as I look over my shoulder,

do you know what I see?"

The almost hideous expression of the roue's face alarmed the servant.

"No, my lord, what is it?"

"A figure stands there in black and is touching me. It is the spirit

of death, Francois. You can not see it, but there it is--"

"My lord, you speak wildly."

"I have seen some strange things, Francois. The dead have arisen. And

I have received my warning. Soon I shall join those dark specters

which once gaily traversed this bright world. A little brandy and

soda, Francois."

The servant brought it to him. The marquis leered awfully over his

shoulder once more. "Your health, my guest!" he exclaimed, laughing

harshly. "But my hat, Francois; I have business to perform, important

business!"

He ambled out of the room. On the street he was all politeness,

removing his hat to a dark brunette who rolled by in her carriage, and

pausing to chat with another representative of the sex of the blond

type. Then he gaily sauntered on, until reaching the theater he

stopped and made a number of inquiries. Who was the manager of

Constance Carew? Where was he to be found? "At the St. Charles hotel?"

He was obliged to Monsieur, the ticket-seller, and wished him

good-day.

Entering the hotel, he sent his card to Barnes, requesting an

interview, and the manager, overcome by the honor of such a visit,

responded with alacrity. The customary formalities over, the nobleman

congratulated Barnes on the performance and led the conversation to

the young actress.

"Pardon my curiosity," he said, with apparent carelessness, "but I'm

sure I remember an actress of the same name in London--many years

ago?"

"Her mother, undoubtedly," replied the manager, proudly.

"She was married, was she not, to--"

"A scoundrel who took her for his wife in one church and repudiated

the ties through another denomination!"

"Ah, a French-English marriage!" said the marquis, blandly. "An old

device! But what was this lover's name?"

"This husband's, my lord!"

"Lover or husband, I fancy it is all the same to her now," sneered the

caller. "She has passed the point where reputation matters."

"Her reputation is my concern, Monsieur le Marquis!"

"You knew her?" asked the nobleman, as though the conversation wearied

him. "And she was faithful to his memory? No scandals--none of those

little affairs women of her class are prone to? There"--as Barnes

started up indignantly--"spare me your reproaches! I'm too feeble to

quarrel. Besides, what is it to me? I was only curious about her--that

is all! But she never spoke the name of her husband?"

"Not even to her own child!"

"She does not know her father's name?" repeated the marquis. "But I

thank you; Mademoiselle Constance is so charming I must needs call to

ask if she were related to the London actress! Good-day, Monsieur! You

are severe on the lover. Was it not the fashion of the day for the

actresses to take lovers, or for the fops to have an opera girl or a

comedienne? Did your most popular performers disdain such diversions?"

he sneered. "_Pardie_, the world has suddenly become moral! A

gentleman can no longer, it would seem, indulge in gentlemanly

follies."

Mumbling about the decadence of fashion, the marquis departed, his

manner so strange the manager gazed after him in surprise.

With no thought of direction, his lips moving, talking to himself in

adynamic fashion, the nobleman walked mechanically on until he reached

the great cathedral. The organ was rolling and voices arose sweet as

those of seraphim. He hesitated at the portal and then laughed to

himself. "Well has Voltaire said: 'Pleasure has its time; so, too, has

wisdom. Make love in thy youth, and in old age, attend to thy

salvation.'" He repeated the latter words, but, although he paused at

the threshold and listened, he did not enter.

As he stood there, uncertain and trembling, a figure replete with

youth and vigor approached, and, glancing at her, an exclamation

escaped him that caused her to pause and turn.

"You are not well," she said, solicitously. "Can I help you?"

"It is nothing, nothing!" answered the marquis, ashy pale at the sight

of her and the proximity of that face which regarded him with womanly

sympathy. "Go away."

"At least, let me assist you. You were going to the cathedral? Come!"

His hand rested upon her strong young arm; he felt himself too weak to

resist, so, together--father and daughter!--they entered the

cathedral. Side by side they knelt--he to keep up the farce, fearing

to undeceive her--while yet only mocking words came to the old man's

heart, as the bitterness of the situation overwhelmed him. She was a

daughter in whom a prince might have found pride, but he remained

there mute, not daring to speak, experiencing all the tortures of

remorse and retribution. Of what avail had been ambition? How had it

overleaped content and ease of mind! Into what a nest of stings and

thorns his loveless marriage had plunged him! And now but the black

shadow remained; he walked in the darkness of unending isolation. So

he should continue to walk straight to the door of death.

He scarcely heard the organ or the voice of the priest. The high

altar, with its many symbols, suggested the thousands that had

worshiped there and gone away comforted. Here was abundant testimony

of the blessings of divine mercy in the numerous costly gifts and in

the discarded crutches, and here faith had manifested itself for

generations.

The marquis' throat was hoarse; he could have spoken no words if he

had tried. He laughed in his heart at the gifts of the grateful ones;

those crosses of ivory and handsome lamps were but symbols of

barbarism and superstition. The tablets, with their inscriptions,

_"Merci"_ and _"Ex voto,"_ were to him absurd, and he gibed at the

simple credulity of the people who could thus be misled. All these

evidences of thanksgiving were but cumulative testimony that men and

women are like little children, who will be pleased over fairy tales

or frightened over ghost stories. The promise of paradise, but the

fairy tale told by priests to men and women; the threats of

punishment, the ghost stories to awe them! A malicious delight crept

into his diseased imagination that he alone in the cathedral possessed

the extreme divination, enabling him to perceive the emptiness of all

these signs and symbols. He labored in a fever of mental excitement

and was only recalled to himself as his glance once more rested upon

the young girl.

He became dimly conscious that people were moving past them, and he

suddenly longed to cry out, "My child!" but he fought down the

impulse. There could be no turning back now at the eleventh hour; the

marquis was a philosopher, and did not believe that, in a twinkling of

an eye, a man may set behind all that has transpired and regard it as

naught. Something within held him from speaking to her--perhaps his

own inherent sense of the consistency of things; his appreciation of

the legitimate finale to a miserable order of circumstances! Even

pride forbade departure from long-established habit. But while this

train of thought passed through his mind, he realized she was

regarding him with clear, compassionate eyes, and he heard her voice:

"Shall we go now? The services are over."

He obeyed without question.

"Over!"

Those moments by her side would never return! They were about to part

to meet no more on earth. He leaned heavily upon her arm and his steps

were faltering. Out into the warm sunshine they passed, the light

revealing more plainly the ravages of time in his face.

"You must take a carriage," she said to the old man.

"Thank you, thank you," he replied. "Leave me here on the bench. I

shall soon be myself. I am only a little weak. You are good to an old

man. May I not"--asking solely for the pleasure of hearing her

speak--"may I not know the name of one who is kind to an old man?"

"My name is Constance Carew."

He shook as with the palsy. "A good name, a good name!" he repeated.

"I remember years ago another of that name--an actress in London. A

very beautiful woman, and good! But even she had her detractors and

none more bitter than the man who wronged her. You--you resemble her!

But there, don't let me detain you. I shall do very well here. You are

busy, I dare say."

"Yes, I should be at rehearsal," she replied regretfully.

"At rehearsal!" he repeated. "Yes!--yes!--. But the stage is no place

for you!" he added, suddenly. "You should leave it--leave it!"

She looked at him wonderingly. "Is there nothing more I can do for

you?"

"Nothing! Nothing! Except--no, nothing!"

"You were about to ask something?" she observed with more sympathy.

"If you would not think me presuming--if you would not deem it an

offense--you remind me of one I loved and lost--it is so long ago

since I felt her kiss for the last time--I am so near the grave--"

With tears in her eyes, she bent her head and her fresh young lips

just touched his withered brow.

"Good-by," she said. "I am so sorry for you!" And she was gone,

leaving him sitting there motionless as though life had departed.

A rattling cab that clattered noisily past the cabildo and calaboza,

and swung around the square, aroused the marquis. He arose, stopped

the driver, and entered the rickety vehicle.

"The law office of Marks and Culver," said the marquis.

The man lashed his horse and the attenuated quadruped flew like a

winged Pegasus, soon drawing up before the attorneys' office.

Fortunately Culver was in, and, although averse to business on any

day--thinking more of his court-yard and his fountain than of his law

books--this botanist-solicitor made shift to comply with the marquis'

instructions and reluctantly earned a modest fee. He even refused to

express surprise at my lord's story; one wife in London, another in

Paris; why, many a southern gentleman had two families--quadroons

being plentiful, why not? Culver unobtrusively yawned, and, with fine

courtesy, bowed the marquis out.

Slowly the latter retraced his steps to his home; his feet were heavy

as lead; his smile was forced; he glanced frequently over his

shoulder, possessed by a strange fantasy.

"I think I will lie down a little," he said to his valet. "In this

easy chair; that will do. I am feeling well; only tired. How that mass

is repeated in my mind! That is because it is Palestrina, Francois;

not because it is a vehicle to salvation, employed by the gibbering

priests. Never let your heart rule your head, boy. Don't mistake

anything for reality. 'What have you seen in your travels?' was asked

of Sage Evemere. 'Follies!' was the reply. 'Follies, follies

everywhere!' We never live; we are always in the expectation of

living."

He made an effort to smile which was little more than a grimace.

"A cigar, Francois!"

"My lord, are you well?--"

The marquis flew into a rage and the valet placed an imported weed in

his master's hand.

"A light, Francois!"

The valet obeyed. For a moment the strong cigar seemed to soothe the

old man, although his hand shook like an aspen as he held it.

"Now, bring me my Voltaire," commanded the marquis. "The volume on the

table, idiot! Ah! here is what I wish: 'It takes twenty years to bring

man from the state of embryo, and from that of a mere criminal, as he

is in his first infancy, to the point when his reason begins to dawn.

It has taken thirty centuries to know his structure; it would take

eternity to know something of the soul; it takes but an instant to

kill him.' But an instant; but an instant!" he repeated.

He puffed feebly at the cigar.

"It is cold here, Francois."

The servant consulted the thermometer.

"It is five degrees warmer than you are accustomed to, my lord," he

replied.

"Bring me the thermometer," commanded the old man. "You should not

lie, Francois. It is a bad fault in servants. Leave it to your

masters; it is a polite vice. The privilege of the world's potentates,

diplomats and great people. Never fall into the rut of lying,

Francois, or you will soon outlive your usefulness as a valet."

"You can see that I speak the truth, my lord," was the response, as

calm as ever, for nothing disturbed or ruffled this ideal servant.

He held out the thermometer for the marquis' inspection and the latter

examined it carefully. The cigar fell from his fingers to the floor.

The attentive valet picked it up and threw it into the grate.

"I believe, Francois," stammered the marquis, "that the fault lies

with me. It is I--I, who am growing cold like death."

"Yes, my lord," answered the calm and imperturbable servant.

"'Yes?' you blockhead!" shrieked the master. "Do you know what you are

saying?"

"Well, no, then, my lord," responded the unmoved valet.

"Yes and no!" shouted the marquis in a voice that was wildly

discordant. "What do you mean?"

"Whatever my lord pleases," was the quiet response.

"_Mon Dieu_! I'll discharge you."

The servant only smiled.

"Why did you smile?"

"Oh, my lord--"

"Was it not that you thought it a good joke for a dying man to

discharge his servant?"

"My lord is quick to catch the humorous side of anything," returned

Francois.

"Begone, idiot! You are waiting for my death to discharge you. I can

see it in your eyes. Yet stay, Francois, for, if you leave me, I shall

be alone. You will not leave me?"

"As my lord desires," was Francois' response.

"I imagine I should feel better if I had my footbath."

The servant removed the shoes and silken stockings from his master's

feet and propped him up in a chair, throwing a blanket over his

shoulders and heaping more wood upon the fire in the grate.

"More fire, you idiot!" cried the marquis, peevishly. "Do you not see

that I am freezing?"

"It is ten degrees above the temperature my lord always ordered,"

retorted Francois, coolly.

"Ten degrees! Oh, you wish to remind me that the end is approaching?

You do not dare deny it!" The valet shrugged his shoulders.

"But I am not gone yet." He wagged his head cunningly and began to

laugh to himself. His mind apparently rambled, for he started to chant

a French love song in a voice that had long since lost its capacity

for a sustained tone. The words were distinct, although the melody was

broken, and the spectacle was gruesome enough. As he concluded he

looked at the valet as if for approbation and began to mumble about

his early love affairs.

"Bah, Francois," he said shrilly, "I'll be up to-morrow as gay as

ever. _Vive l'amour! vive la joie!_ It was a merry life we led, eh,

Francois?"

"Merry indeed, my lord."