A YOUNG man with a little genius, a gift of literary expression, and a
distaste not only for dissipation, but for the high-toned social
functions of his suburban acquaintances, may go far--once he has chosen
journalism for a profession, and has realised that to success in any
profession a heart-whole service is necessary. A certain young man,
having been kissed in his own garden by a girl with a guitar, ceased to
care for evening parties, and devoted himself steadily to work. His
relaxations were rowing down the Thames among the shipping, and thinking
of the girl. In two years he was sent to Paris by the Thunderer--to
ferret out information about a certain financial naughtiness which
threatened a trusting public in general, and, in particular, a little
band of blameless English shareholders.
The details of the scheme are impertinent to the present narrative.
The young man went to Paris and began to enjoy himself.
He had good introductions. He had once done a similar piece of business
before--but then luck aided him. As I said, he enjoyed himself, but he
did not see his way to accomplishing his mission. But his luck stood by
him, as you will see, in a very remarkable manner. At a masked ball he
met a very charming Corsican lady. She was dressed as a nun, but the
eyes that sparkled through her mask might have taxed the resources of
the most competent abbess. She spoke very agreeable English, and she was
very kind to the young man, indicated the celebrities--she seemed to
know everyone--whom she recognised quite easily in their carnival
disguises, and at last she did him the kindness to point out a stout
cardinal, and named the name of the very Jew who was pulling the strings
of the very business which had brought the young man to Paris.
The young man's lucky star shone full on him, and dazzled him to a
seeming indiscretion.
"He looks rather a beast," he said.
The nun clapped her hands.
"Oh--he _is_!" she said. "If you knew all that I could tell you about
him!"
It was with the distinct idea of knowing all that the lady could tell
about the Jew that our hero devoted himself to her throughout that
evening, and promised to call on her the next day. He made himself very
amiable indeed, and if you think that he should not have done this, I
can only say that I am sorry, but facts are facts.
When he put her into her carriage--a very pretty little brougham--he
kissed her hand. He did not do this because he desired to do it, as in
the case of the Girl with the Guitar, but purely as a matter of
business. If you blame him here I can only say "a la guerre comme a la
guerre--"
Next day he called on her. She received him in a charming yellow silk
boudoir and gave him tea and sweets. Unmasked, the lady was seen to be
of uncommon beauty. He did not make love to her--but he was very nice,
and she asked him to come again.
It was at their third interview that his star shone again, and again
dazzled him to indiscreetness. He told the beautiful lady exactly why he
wanted to know all that she could tell him about the Jew financier. The
beautiful lady clapped her hands till all her gold bangles rattled
musically, and said--
"But I will tell you all--everything! I felt that you wished to
know--but I thought ... however ... are you sure it will all be in your
paper?"
"But yes, Madame!" said he.
Then she folded her hands on the greeny satin lap of her tea-gown, and
told him many things. And as she spoke he pieced things together, and
was aware that she spoke the truth.
When she had finished speaking, his mission was almost accomplished. His
luck had done all this for him. The lady promised even documents and
evidence. Then he thanked her, and she said--
"No thanks, please. I suppose this will ruin him?"
"I'm afraid it will," said he.
She gave a little sigh of contentment.
"But why--?" he asked.
"I don't mind, somehow, telling _you_ anything," she said, and indeed as
it seemed with some truth. "He--he did me the honour to admire me--and
now he has behaved like the pig he is."
"And so you have betrayed him--told me the things he told you when he
loved you?"
She snapped her fingers, and the opals and rubies of her rings shone
like fire.
"Love!" she said scornfully.
Then he began to be a little ashamed and sorry for his part in this
adventure, and he said so.
"Ah--don't be sorry," she said softly. "I _wanted_ to betray him. I was
simply longing to do it--only I couldn't think of the right person to
betray him to! But you are the right person, Monsieur. I am indeed
fortunate!"
A little shiver ran through him. But he had gone too far to retreat.
"And the documents, Madame?"
"I will give you them to-morrow. There is a ball at the American
Embassy. I can get you a card."
"I have one." He had indeed made it his first business to get one--was
not the Girl with the Guitar an American, and could he dare to waste the
least light chance of seeing her again?
"Well--be there at twelve, and you shall have everything. But," she
looked sidelong at him, "will Monsieur be very kind--very attentive--in
short, devote himself to me--for this one evening? _He_ will be there."
He murmured something banal about the devotion of a lifetime, and went
away to his lodging in a remote suburb, which he had chosen because he
loved boating.
The next night at twelve saw him lounging, a gloomy figure, on a seat in
an ante-room at the Embassy. He knew that the Lady was within, yet he
could not go to her. He sat there despairingly, trying to hope that even
now something might happen to save him. Yet, as it seemed, nothing short
of a miracle could. But his star shone, and the miracle happened. For,
as he sat, a radiant vision, all white lace and diamonds, detached
itself from the arm of a grey-bearded gentleman, and floated towards
him.
"It _is_ you!" said the darling vision, and the next moment his
hands--both hands--were warmly clasped by little white-gloved ones, and
he was standing looking into the eyes of the Girl.
"I knew I should see you somewhere--this continent _is_ so tiny," she
said. "Come right along and be introduced to Papa--that's him over
there."
"I--I can't," he answered, in an agony. "I--my pocket's been picked--"
"Do tell!" said the Girl, laughing; "but Papa doesn't want tipping--he's
got all he wants--come right along."
"I can't," he said, hoarse with the misery of the degrading confession;
"it wasn't my money--it was my _shoes_. I came up in boots, brown boots;
distant suburb; train; my shoes were in my overcoat pocket--I meant to
change in the cab. I must have dropped them or they were taken out. And
here I am in these things." He looked down at his bright brown boots.
"And all the shops are shut--and my whole future depends on my getting
into that room within the next half-hour. But never mind! Why should
_you_ bother?--Besides, what does it matter? I've seen you again. You'll
speak to me as you come back? I'll wait all night for a word."
"Don't be so silly," said the Girl; but she smiled very prettily, and
her dear eyes sparkled. "If it's _really_ important, I'll fix it for
you! But why does your future depend on it, and all that?"
"I have to meet a lady," said the wretched young man.
"The one you were with at the masked ball? The nun? Yes--I made Papa
take me. _Is_ it that one?" Her tone was imperious, but it was anxious
too.