PAUL COMPLETES A STORY.
Despite the difference in their dispositions, something usually brought
Doane, Wayland and Connors together. So about midnight, at the grand
ball, this trio found themselves together in one of the apartments of
the great mansion.
Connors, the politician, started to talk. “If Sarah Bernhardt were
here,” he said, “she’d take a bath in the wine we have wasted tonight.”
“The frail Sarah has much faith in this method of preserving health,
as did old Ponce de Leon, in the long-sought-for fountain of immortal
youth.”
“By the way,” said Doane, “did you hear the story they tell on the
actress, while on her late Western tour?”
“No,” they exclaimed, “let us have it.”
“Well,” said Doane, in great relish, for he did love to tell a story,
“when she played at Seattle, she expressed a desire to have a vivid,
real live hunt. An old trapper near by had some tame bears, and the
newspaper boys put up a job on the fair French woman. She dressed
herself up in a male attire, went out into the woods, a perfect nimrod.
She was hauled over logs and creeks, and finally, in a moment of
ecstacy, she was permitted to kill a bear. She was the happiest woman,
for a day, upon whom the sun ever shone.”
They had a hearty laugh.
“I saw in your paper the other day, that some fool out West had
attempted to dramatize Victor Hugo’s ‘Les Miserables.’”
“If you saw it in my paper,” said Doane, “be careful. I missed a train
a few days ago by depending on the accuracy of my own journal.”
“But what do you think of the idea?” queried Connors.
“In these days,” said Wayland, “when managers are crazy for a new idea,
it seems to me that a clever stage story of Jean Valjean would make a
certain hit.”
“You might as well try to dramatize the clouds, the great rugged
mountain peaks,” said Doane, scornfully, “as anything Victor Hugo
wrote. No man under forty can grasp the real philosophy of Hugo. How,
then, can the unintelligent masses hope to comprehend him? Connors,
you are a great politician, but you are not overburdened with dramatic
knowledge.”
“I wrote a play once,” said Connors.
“Was it produced?” asked Wayland.
“Yes, for three consecutive nights.”
“And what became of it then?” laughed Doane.
“The fourth night,” said Connors, sorrowfully, “the leading man did not
appear. He afterward explained that he could not stand the forcible
appreciation of the admiring gallery.”
The trio talked, smoked and sipped champagne for quite a while.
Suddenly it occurred to the editor that it was about time for him to
fill an engagement in the ball room.
“By the way, I promised, after considerable persuasion, to dance with
Ouida,” said Doane, “and even my gout shall not deprive her of that
pleasure.”
“The conceited wretch,” said Connors. “He talks as though he conferred
a favor.”
“I do,” said Doane, as he went off in search of his partner, “there are
but few women in this world I would really dance with.”
He returned in a moment, mad as a March hare. He had been too late, and
fifty had pleaded for his place upon her programme of dances.
“A most remarkable woman,” said Connors.
“Peculiar, isn’t it, how a person like her could so have mastered
the world?” observed Wayland. “I have heard that but a comparatively
few years ago she was the most common and obtainable creature on the
streets of New York.”
“I care not what may have been her past,” said Connors, with
comparative warmth, “today she is verily a mistress of her art.”
“She is now putting the finishing touches,” said Doane, “on ‘A Modern
Hercules,’ a work which, in my judgment, compares favorably with that
of the ancient Italian artists.”
“By the way,” said Wayland, “did you hear of her scrape with Cardinal
Beppo, at Rome?”
“Yes,” said Doane, “but tell it for the benefit of Connors.”
“You see,” said Wayland, “Ouida spent some time in study at Rome. For
a few months she worked hard, and behaved herself quite well, but
one sunny day she captivated the Cardinal, and so complete was his
adoration, that he lost all discretion, and Rome rung with the open
story of his mad infatuation. Finally the officers of the Vatican
made known to her, that the sacred city could exist without her. She
suddenly left her dear prelate, who, since that time, has been beyond
consolation.”
“A capital bit of romance,” said Connors, somewhat skeptical, “but who
vouches for its truth?”
“I had it almost direct,” said Doane, “from the Secretary of the
American Legation, who was home last year from Rome on a visit to his
people. But that story is tame, compared to what she did to Demas of
the Comedie Francaise.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Wayland, eagerly, “you never mar a poor tale in
the telling of it.”
Wayland was about to go, having heard all that he desired, but Doane
restrained him, and he reluctantly was almost forced to listen to a
style of gossip which, in his opinion, was good enough for the sewing
circle, but little fitted for intelligent men.
“Ouida,” said Doane, “was more than intimate with Demas, known to you
all by reputation. But she fooled him, as she has every man who has
thus far been lured into the magic circle of her regard. One night
Demas was playing Falstaff in ‘The Merry Wives of Windsor.’ He was
of ordinary size, but made himself up as the ‘huge hell of flesh,’
by a rubber apparatus, which was nightly filled with air. This night
the cork came out which held the air in the rubber affair, and almost
in the twinkling of an eye, he dwindled to his normal size, while
his clothing hung about him like the folds of a collapsed balloon.
The audience broke into a roar. The curtain was rung down, and it
was fully fifteen minutes before order was sufficiently restored to
allow the performance to proceed. Next day Demas was found dead in
his apartments, a bullet wound in the temple. The press said it was
chagrin. The real truth was that Ouida had led him on and on, until he
thought she loved him. That night the fatal knowledge came to him that
she was a heartless jilt, and he simply took the pistol route, with
which to end his misery.”
“Gentlemen,” said Connors, “you astonish me. I have heard of
such creatures as you paint this woman, but never before had the
distinguished honor of a personal acquaintance. I do believe that a
grain or two of discount on such stuff would be wise and just to her.”
“And yet,” said Wayland, “what a following she has, despite all this.
Go into the ball room, and see New York at her feet.”
“New York is the greatest city in the world,” said Doane, “yet it is
the most easily duped.”
“People, in their wild desire to be entertained,” said Connors, “pick
and choose queer idols for worship.”
At this juncture, unobserved, Ouida, accompanied by Paul, enter at the
rear, but are partially concealed by large and rich portieres. Ouida
had been searching for Doane, in order to soothe his wounded feelings,
although not at fault herself. She heard herself as the subject of
Doane’s conversation, but hardly thought it would take the shape it
did. She intended, in the midst of it, to burst in and turn it into
something amusing at Doane’s expense.
“The most astonishing part of it all,” said Doane, “is her well-known
life here in New York. At twelve, Ouida, who was the natural daughter
of a woman of the town and Albert Angelo, was a child of the street.
How she lived, she hardly knew herself. Lovers she had by the score.
She became a model. She would just as willingly sit nude, as attired in
silks and satins. One day Warde discovered that she possessed talent,
nay, genius, of a high order. She was inspired to uplift herself out of
base conditions. She was sent abroad, where, between her scrapes and
love affairs, she studied. The power of art dowered her with wondrous
victories. One or two conceptions a year brought her a fortune. She
became rich enough to gratify every whim. She came here three years
ago, having lost none of her Bohemian characteristics. Society has
opened its arms; as you see, it worships her.”
Paul breaks away from Ouida, and confronts Doane, anger and contempt
leaping from his eyes.
“A wonderful story! Is it fully told?” said Paul. “Do these gentlemen
know all?”
“All!” said Doane, “all, man? Why, could more possibly be crowded into
the life of one woman?”
“Yes, slanderous cur,” thundered Paul, as he slapped Doane’s face with
his glove. “Give them the finish. She marries me tomorrow night.”