Dangerfield kept his promise to Inga. Breeding and training in him
were too finely aristocratic for him to surrender weakly under
the girl’s eyes. He went to his easel each morning with the early
hours, sometimes in the company of Tootles, sometimes alone. Each
day he passed Inga in the hall and exchanged cheery greetings with
forced gaiety, but beyond this they did not meet. He laid before
himself the task of finding himself if it could be done, now that
his whole day had to be reorganized and the figure of the young
girl banished from it. At the bottom he knew the task was beyond
him. He knew himself and the child in the artist that cried out for
comradeship and love.
If the change was noticed in the Arcade, no one spoke to him of it.
Tootles had looked surprised when Inga had not appeared the first
mornings, but kept his own counsel. Mr. Cornelius, too, after a
first inquiry, made no further reference to Inga’s absence, though
he made a point of dropping in more frequently.
The crisis brought the two men together in a closer companionship,
in a subtle instinct of class loyalty. To cap it all, Mr.
Cornelius, in his most formal manner, invited Dangerfield to dine
with him on the occasion of his monthly pilgrimage to Delmonico’s.
At half-past seven, Dangerfield, who had been fidgeting in his
studio, doing a dozen things by fits and starts, dressed and
started down the hall. Two things had induced him to accept an
invitation which threw him momentarily back into the world he
shunned. He realized how strong must be the sense of comradeship
in Mr. Cornelius to break through his habits of tenacious secrecy.
Moreover, his curiosity was strongly excited by the mystery of
“the baron’s” monthly departure _en prince_, which had taxed the
imagination of the Arcadians. Since the morning after his first
arrival on the sixth floor, Dangerfield had never set foot in the
old man’s den, for with the exception of Pansy Hartmann, for whom
he showed a noticeable affection, Mr. Cornelius had never exchanged
an intimacy.
When Dangerfield reached the end of the hall, he found the door
open and Pansy, who had been hastily summoned, busy with the final
touches of Mr. Cornelius’ tie, over which he was as particular as
an old beau.
“All ready?” said Dangerfield, stopping at the threshold by
discretion.
“_Entrez, entrez, mon vieux!_ Come in--I am with you in one little
moment!” cried Mr. Cornelius, who was in such a pitch of excitement
that he was springing about like a débutante on the eve of her
first ball. “Aha, we will make a night of it, a dinner like that at
the Café Anglais and a bottle of wine to make you dream! _Faisons
la noce!_ two old _boulevardiers, deux vieux moustaches--hein_?
Panzee, _ma mignonne_, what are you doing there with that tie?”
“Why, Mr. Cornelius,” exclaimed Pansy, laughing, “how can I do
anything when you’re prancing around like that? Stand still and put
your chin up!”
“That is so--that is so. There, I’m frozen to the ground. What a
night!”
Pansy thrust an imperious finger toward the ceiling, and he obeyed
by elevating his chin, not without grumbling, while the operation
was completed with nicety.
“There, you’re handsome as Chauncey Olcott!” said Pansy, smiling
at his excitement. “You’ll have all the ladies twisting their heads
after you.”
“My hat and my cane!” exclaimed “the baron,” as gayly as though he
had cried, “My helmet and my sword!”
Pansy disappeared in the closet and emerged polishing a hat that
might have come from a museum. Dangerfield, meanwhile, gave a last
careful survey of the room. In one corner was a four-poster bed
with the faded peacock-blue dressing-gown pendent below a tousled
nightcap of gray silk. What furniture there was, and it consisted
of a table, a chest of drawers, a bookcase, three chairs, and a
massive Breton chest heavily reinforced with iron clasps, was
mostly reminiscent of the First Empire which was “the baron’s”
hobby, for the walls were covered with engravings of the great
Conqueror. Between the windows was the full-length portrait of an
actress of the last generation--a striking figure in the costume
of Adrienne Lecouvreur, slender and towering, a magnetic brow,
ethereal eyes, and, below, the smile of a pagan.
Dangerfield stood before the portrait in long and profound study.
Mr. Cornelius, turning from a search through the confusion of his
wardrobe for the newest pair of gloves, looked up and saw the
reverie into which his friend had fallen.
“_Elle était bien belle_,” said Dangerfield, catching his eye.
“_N’est ce pas?_” The aristocratic little figure drew up in a sort
of military attention. He glanced at the woman in the frame and
then at the room in which they stood. “It was worth it,” he said
smiling, with that loyalty unto sentiment that never dies in the
soul of a Frenchman.
“What are you two talking about?” said Pansy, pouting.
[Illustration: “My hat and my cane!” claimed “the baron.” _Page
316._]
“I don’t think it’s at all decent of you to talk French before me.”
“There, there, _ma petite amie_!” said Mr. Cornelius, patting the
pink cheeks. “Don’t scold! Monsieur Dangerfield was saying only
what he could say of you--that the lady was very beautiful.”
“Did you know her?” said Pansy, opening her eyes.
“I had the great privilege of seeing her act,” said Dangerfield
carefully, at which Mr. Cornelius sent him a pleased glance.
Pansy mollified, placed the odd hat upon “the baron’s” head,
tilting it a little to one side, so as to give him a rakish look,
and snuggled him into his overcoat, which likewise had a decided
reminiscent note. Dangerfield felt a sudden pang in watching
this affectionate solicitude--a feeling of an emptiness in his
own life--of something that had been and had been taken away.
The thought of Inga, of the close companionship, of the strange,
elusive girl, who had watched over him and fought his struggles,
threw him into such a swift dejection that Mr. Cornelius, noticing
it, cried out:
“No blue devils to-night! _En avant, mon vieux_, and to the
charge! Panzee, an old fellow kisses your cheek with respect and
gratitude--_merci_!”
But as he started out, he stopped, mumbled something to himself,
and going back to the chest, unlocked it with a key that hung from
his watch-chain, and, holding the lid cautiously open, began to
seek among rustling papers.
“He must have diamonds there,” said Pansy, laughing; “he makes such
a time over that box!”
Mr. Cornelius took out several sheets of paper covered with
figures, examined them carefully, thrust them in his pocket, and,
after carefully locking the chest, led the way out, locking the
door behind him.
Dangerfield forgot himself in a momentary absorption. He knew
that his companion must receive an allowance on the first of the
month, and that generally by the fifteenth it had melted away. What
he knew of his past was indistinct. He had met the Comte de Retz
(for Mr. Cornelius had more right to a title than the Arcadians
suspected) in the first days of his own prodigal progress at Paris,
where De Retz’s intemperance of play at the gaming-table was public
property. Dangerfield remembered vaguely the story that had run of
his infatuation for the beautiful Suzanne Danesco, and the wreck
of his fortune at the gaming-table, which had been the gossip of
Paris for a month and then forgotten; but he recalled these things
indistinctly with the feeling that there had been some arrangement
by which the Comte had effaced himself to preserve the future of
his son, and undertaken the gradual discharge of his debts of
honor. He had never referred to these memories to Mr. Cornelius,
just as he himself knew that, of all his neighbors, the keen eyes
of the man of the world had seen below the surface and comprehended
the crisis through which he was passing.
Outside, Dangerfield suggested the subway, only to be met with a
scornful denial. For one night a month, at least, the illusion must
be revived in its completeness. They hailed a taxi and arrived
thus at Delmonico’s. In the crowded room, their table was reserved
and at each plate a gardenia was laid. Gustave, the head waiter,
was at the chairs bowing recognition, visibly intrigued at the
unprecedented spectacle of Mr. Cornelius arriving with a companion,
nor was his surprise diminished by perceiving Dangerfield, whom
he knew of old. Their entrance occasioned quite a stir among the
diners, where the strangely distinctive figure of Dangerfield,
with his one splash of gray amid the tangled black hair, was
quickly recognized. Until this moment, he had felt no unease, too
keenly interested in the unfolding mystery of his companion. But
this entrance into the restaurant, this return into the old life
affected him like a dash of cold water flung against his face.
He felt the sudden turning of curious eyes, divined the excited
flurry of whispered comments, and strode on, nervously recoiling,
dimly aware that Gustave was addressing his companion as “_Monsieur
le Comte_,” and that Mr. Cornelius, radiant as a collegian, was
explaining that Gustave had served him in the old days when dining
was an art and chefs like Joseph and Frédéric created masterpieces.
He went to his seat, avoiding recognition of a dozen ready
greetings, feeling all the old stubborn moroseness rising, angry at
himself that he should have so thoughtlessly ventured back into the
past which he had resolved to banish. All at once he was aware that
Gustave was speaking to him with hasty caution,--Gustave on whose
sphinxlike features was a look of dismay.
“_Pardon_, Monsieur Garford, one moment--excuse me--it will be
better if I change your place.”
“This is all right,” he said, without much attention.
“I think you would prefer--that is--Mr. Garford--forgive me--there
is some one quite near----”
Dangerfield looked up. Two tables away, directly facing him, in a
party of ten or a dozen, his former wife was sitting.
“No; this will do,” he said coldly and sat down.
The test had brought back the _sang-froid_ of the man of the world.
He took his seat in a most natural manner, aware of what eyes must
be watching his every expression, and, slipping his gardenia in his
buttonhole, said, with a smile for the public, as he studied the
menu which Mr. Cornelius had commanded:
“Really, de Retz, you are a connoisseur--the choice is perfection,
just right--perfectly balanced. Excuse my moment’s distraction. It
happens that my divorced wife is sitting at the table opposite.”
Mr. Cornelius hastily suggested changing seats.
“No; not for anything in the world,” said Dangerfield, with a grim
smile. “Go on talking--Oysters from Ostend, _petite marmité, filet
de sole Café Riche_--Bravo!”
Mr. Cornelius, thus encouraged, broke into an enthusiastic
discussion of each dish, explaining that he had chosen _filet
de sole Café Riche_, rather than _Marguery_, as the latter was
a _pièce de résistance_ in itself, rather than the appropriate
stepping-stone to the dish of the evening, which was a _caneton
Joseph_ cooked with gooseberries and _fine champagne_, with a
bottle of Chambertin genuine _cuvée de 1872_ from the Marquis de
Severin’s special reserve. While the old gourmet discoursed thus
eloquently on the art of the immortal Vatel, Dangerfield looked at
the woman who had been his wife, to whom he had yielded the period
of his fullest youth. He did not shift his glance, he stared at
her steadily, wondering, not taking pains to mask his curiosity,
though he was aware that she flinched under the estimate. How was
it possible that this woman, whom he saw now in the nakedness of
her cold calculating, could have given him a moment’s torture!
“Really,” he thought to himself, “it must have been something in
me, a need of an outward inspiration that blinded me and cloaked
her with illusions,--I myself in love with what I profoundly longed
for and created in my need!”
But if Louise had no longer power to wound him on his own account,
she brought back to him, with overwhelming sadness, the memory of
Inga, and the ceaseless, burning need that all the deeper sources
of his nature had of her sustaining presence. Of those who were at
the table, he knew almost all, men and women of a fashionable set,
several defiant of social censure, others too firmly entrenched to
be judged by their companions. Every one at the table must have
known what Louise Bowden was, what she had done and would dare to
do. This then was respectability--of an extreme cast, yet social
respectability! Almost was he inclined toward Inga’s scorn of
convention and defiance of society, of complete denial of the world
to judge them with the same standards with which it accepted those
who bent towards its outward forms.
“A little glass of Amontillado with the oysters,” said “the baron,”
“just to flavor them!”
He looked down, his fingers closed over the slender neck of his
glass that held the first golden stream back to forgetfulness. He
hesitated, shrugged his shoulders, and drank.
* * * * *
When he had groped his way down the hall and found with difficulty
his door, one thing was clear to him even in the swirling, happy
numbness of his brain. He knew now the secret of “the baron’s”
strange existence, of his brilliant monthly recrudescence and the
long days of subsequent denial. He knew now what the sheets of
paper covered with ordered figures meant, and the explanation or
the curious, whirring noises which often at the dead of night came
from behind the door of Mr. Cornelius. “The baron” was still, as he
had always been, a blind, insensate gambler, passionately absorbed
in the quest of that touchstone of gamblers, the pursuit of the
infallible system which once attained held the alchemy of success.
From Delmonico’s they had gone to a select gambling-house in the
Forties, where the Comte de Retz was as punctual as the calendar,
and where he returned, night after night, until the quick and
inevitable night when ill luck overwhelmed his meager capital--a
meager moment of dramatic sensations, and then the inevitable
return to the bleak existence in the lone studio lit by the flare
of an arc-light.
Dangerfield came into his room, threw on the single gold-shaded
table-lamp and sat down beyond the circle of light that cut the
shadows of the studio. He felt painfully, treacherously awake,
and he knew that, for the black balance of the night, sleep would
not come until he fell over with physical fatigue at the mingling
of the dawn. His surroundings, which lately had come into his
intimacy, rousing the pleasant sense of the harmonious, now were
empty and hostile. The living touch was absent, in the absence of
Inga, just as, in the early days of his apprenticeship, he had felt
in his muddy attempts at painting, the absence of the illuminating
sense of atmosphere.
How a human touch colors the inanimate world with the communicated
warmth of its enchantment! Yes; her absence had changed all. It
was no longer the spot for dreams he had called it--each tapestry
chair and table no longer wrapped around with the memory of her,
of returning hope and struggling ambition--but a cold and deserted
thing, which claimed him, too, cold and deserted. He loved her
beyond what he had thought possible, beyond what he had believed
lay in him to love, not simply as a part, though the vital element
in his life, but as the whole world, the window through which all
sensations must come to him. He had felt this realization in the
tricked-out gaiety of the restaurant, in the sudden lightening
of his heart as he had stood behind Mr. Cornelius, looking up at
the ghost of the fatal romance which had sent him into exile,
comprehending the man who, over the flight of years, could still
pronounce that the past had been worth all that had been and was to
come. He had felt it in his revolt against all he had been born
to, struggled against, and lived with in compromise. He felt it now
in his isolation and exile, so overwhelmingly that he sprang up
and flung on all the lights, terrified at the reality of his utter
loneliness, staring at his reflection in the mirror as though at
some uncomprehended stranger. The need in him now was as fierce as
the horror of the isolation he had imposed on himself--which he
could break with a word, which depended only on him.
After all, why not? What she had pronounced as her theory of life
and love he had himself a hundred times acclaimed in conversation,
heard dozens of others maintain. His brain was soaring on fiery
wings with the divine frenzy of genius, which lifts itself up
with pinions which consume themselves. He was drunk with the
intoxication of the old world and with other days. There was
something superb in it, something heroically mad--not the sordid
drunkenness of small beer. He felt among the privileged of the
earth. He had a cruel sense of power, the right to thrust aside
petty plebeian scruples, to take what he needed. He was filled
with the rage of living, desiring, conquering, to make an end of
depression and weakness. Why should he stand on a scruple--that
was hardly a scruple, a sentimental yielding to the conventions of
right and wrong of a society of surface morality against which he
had himself rebelled. He had but to cross the hall and knock, to
swim back into the stream of youth and ambition. He pressed his
hands to his hot temples, took a short fierce breath and said to
himself:
“Will I do it? Now?”
At this moment, a knock sounded at the door. His heart stood still.
Was it Inga--Inga who herself in her wretchedness had come to him,
knowing his need? He went to it hastily, fearing, hoping. To his
surprise, instead of the girl, it was Mr. Cornelius who stood at
the door, beckoning and mysterious.
“Some one has entered my room, while we were away. Come; I show
you.”