Thanks to a sudden outbreak of yellow fever in the South, Marinski's
troupe left America earlier than had been agreed upon.
With salary somewhat diminished by this circumstance, a bundle of
bombastic critiques, and some very pretty ornaments from Tiffany's in
New York for Annette, Gesa went on board the "Arcadia," in which
Marinski's troupe were to sail for old Europe. How he rejoiced for his
"little one!" She had looked so badly when he left Brussels, was so
inconsolable at parting. He resolved to give her a surprise by his
sudden return. What great eyes she would make! Sometimes at night he
started from sleep--a cry of joy and her name on his lips.
The whole troupe knew why he was hurrying home. He never grew weary of
telling about Annette. About Annette and de Sterny. He was much beloved
by all his traveling companions, and they all felt a lively interest in
Annette; but of de Sterny they would not hear a word; and an old basso,
who had taken Gesa especially to his heart, said warningly--
"Take care! he will play you a trick--he is a villain, monsieur!"
Gesa took the caution very ill, and starting up rebuked the basso
severely.
The basso smiled to himself.
Among the female forces of the troupe was a certain Guiseppina D----.
Pale, with rich red hair that when she uncoiled it reached to her
heels, her enormous black eyes, short nose, and large mouth lent her
some likeness to a death's head. Yet, she was not without a certain
charm, especially in her smile, and she smiled constantly, as people do
whom nothing can any longer rejoice. To her Gesa talked oftenest about
his beloved. She listened to him most kindly and sometimes she wept.
She was the soprano of the troupe, and lived in the bitterest enmity
with the Alto, who was married to the Tenor, immensely jealous, and
very proud of her own virtue.
In Paris, when the troupe broke up, the Guiseppina at parting put both
arms around Gesa's neck and kissed him. This the virtuous Alto
certainly would not have done. But the Guiseppina whispered at the same
time,
"The kiss is for thee, with my good wishes, and this"--she gave him a
little gold cross--"this is for the bride, with my mother's blessing
that clings to it yet. It belonged to my First Communion, and is the
only one of my possessions which is worthy a bride of yours."
They all promised to come to his wedding, and at last he had bidden
them farewell, and had left Paris for Brussels.
* * * * *
It was in the second half of June and Corpus Christi day. At all the
stations groups of girls in white were to be seen. Now and then
white-robed processions passed in the distance, and softly as from a
spirit choir their Catholic hymns floated to the traveler's ear.
It was late in the afternoon when he arrived in Brussels, sprang into a
fiacre, and directed it to the Rue Ravestein. The hack, with all the
vexatious phlegm of a Brussels' vehicle, jogged slowly toward its
destination.
The moist, heavy sultriness of a northern summer brooded over the town.
The air had something oppressive, stifling, like that of a hot room.
Above the earth all was motionless, except that in the very topmost
branches of the linden trees on the Boulevard there was a light
rustling. From the ground steamed the moisture of yesterday's showers;
in the sky the clouds were piling up for another thunderstorm, with
muttered growl along the horizon. The atmosphere was heavy and sad with
the odor of incense, burning wax, candles, and withering flowers, the
odor of Corpus Christi Day. Against the walls of the houses still
leaned the altars that had been erected, surmounted by shriveled
foliage, and dead blossoms. Luxuriant roses, tender heliotrope and
modest reseda lay trodden and soiled on the pavement.
As Gesa alighted at the Place Royale a woman in a battered hat, gaudily
be-ribboned, and a red shawl, stooped down after some of the faded
flowers. She was one of those who hide themselves when the Corpus
Christi procession passes by. She lived in the Rue Ravestein, and Gesa
knew her. Always pitiful, he took a twenty-france piece from his pocket
and gave it to her. She glanced up, looked at him sharply and suddenly
turned away her painted face.
He entered the Rue Ravestein. Sickening miasmas rose from the drain; a
cloud of midges hovered in the air;--the crucified Saviour looked down
more sadly than ever.
Familiar things greeted his eyes as he passed: the lean hyena-like dogs
wagged their tails, and some of them came and shoved cold moist noses
into his hand.
"No one is at home!" cried the woman who sold vegetables in the shop on
the ground floor of Delileo's dwelling. "No one. Neither the old
gentleman, nor the young lady."
"Have they gone on a journey?" asked Gesa, blankly.
"No, I think not. Unless I am mistaken the young lady has gone to
church. Perhaps monsieur will find her yet in St. Gudule."
Gesa was already hastening down the street toward the Cathedral. Behind
him little groups collected. The gossips of Rue Ravestein laughed.