A SPRAINED ANKLE.
"My dear Rohritz,--
"Accidents will occur in the best-regulated families! As I was
escorting my cousin in a ride yesterday, my horse slipped and fell on
the ice, and I sprained my ankle. Was there ever anything so stupid! If
it could be called a misfortune for which one could be pitied; but no,
'tis a mere tiresome annoyance. Ridiculous! And I am engaged to dance
the cotillon at the Fanes' with Stella Meineck. Old fellow as I am, I
had really looked forward to this pleasure. _Eh bien!_ all the massage
in the world will not enable me to put my foot on the ground before the
end of a week. Have the kindness, as they say in your native Vienna, to
dance the cotillon in my stead with our fair star. Send me a line to
say that you agree, or come and tell me so yourself.
"Is Therese going to the ball? Tell her from me to be nice to Stella,
and not to reckon it against her that, in spite of a moment of
indecision induced by the distinguished eloquence of my very clever
little sister, she has behaved nobly and honestly throughout,--in
short, just as was to be expected of her. Adieu! Yours forever,
"Capito."
Such is the letter Edgar receives the second morning after the
Lipinskis' soiree, while he is breakfasting with his brother in the
latter's smoking-room.
"Zino?" asks Edmund, looking up from his 'Figaro,' the reading of which
is as much a part of his breakfast as are the fragrant black coffee and
the yellowish Viennese bread with Norman butter.
"Read it," Edgar replies, as he scribbles with a lead-pencil on a
visiting-card, "I am quite at your disposal," and hands it to the
waiting servant.
"He's a fool!" the elder Rohritz remarks, handing back the note to his
brother. "He knows perfectly well that you do not dance."
"But one can talk through a cotillon," Edgar says, with as much
indifference as he can assume.
"You have consented?"
"I could not do otherwise. Stella is a stranger in Paris: it might be a
source of annoyance to her to have no partner for the cotillon. If at
the last moment she should find a more desirable partner than myself, I
am of course ready to retire. _A propos_, is Therese going to the ball?
Her cold is better?"
"Yes."
"What kind of ball is it?"
"A kind of public ball in a wealthy private house, given by immensely
wealthy Americans, who know nobody, whom nobody knows, and who arrange
an entertainment from the Arabian Nights, that they may be talked of,
mentioned in 'Figaro,' and laughed at in society. Only three weeks ago
there was no end of ridicule heaped upon Mrs. and Mr. Fane, unknown
grandees from California, when it was reported that they wished to give
a ball. Nobody dreamed of accepting their invitation; but Mrs. Fane was
clever enough to induce a couple of women of undeniable fashion to be
her 'lady patronesses,' and when the rumour spread that the Duchess
of ---- had accepted there was a perfect rage for invitations. Every
one declared, '_Cela sera drole!_' Every one is going. With the best
Parisian society there will of course be found people whom one sees
nowhere else. I wonder how many of the guests will take sufficient
notice of the host and hostess to recognize them in the street the next
day? But it will certainly be a beautiful ball, and an amusing one.
Stella is going with the Lipinskis, I believe. I am curious to see how
she will look in a ball-dress,--charming, of course, but rather too
thin."
In the course of the morning Edgar drops in upon Capito, and finds him,
in half-merry, half-irritated mood, stretched upon a lounge which is
covered by a bearskin, the head of the animal gnashing its teeth at the
Prince's feet. Of course Capito's rooms form a tasteful chaos of
Oriental rugs, Turkish embroideries, interesting bibelots, and charming
pictures. Throughout their arrangement, from the antique silken
hangings veined with silver that cover the walls, to the low divans and
chairs, there runs a suggestion of effeminate, Oriental luxury, in
whimsical contrast with the proverbially vigorous personality of the
Prince, hardened as it has been by every species of manly sport and
exercise. The atmosphere is heavy with the fragrance of a gardenia
shrub in full bloom, the odour of cigarettes, and the aroma of some
subtle Indian perfume. A tall palm lifts its leaves to the ceiling.
Half a dozen French novels, two guitars, and a mandolin lie within
Zino's reach. He wears a queer smoking-jacket of blue silk faced with
red, and his foot is swathed in towels.
"I'm delighted to see you! Sit down. 'Tis most annoying, this sprain of
mine. But what do you say to the pleasure to which you have fallen
heir?"
"In fact, I never dance," Rohritz makes reply, "but, to oblige
you----" Edgar's eyes are wandering here and there through the room,
and suddenly rest upon a certain object.
"Ah, 'tis my Watteau that attracts you!" Capito observes. "A pretty
little picture. I bought it at the Hotel Drouot a while ago for a mere
song,--five thousand francs."
"Five thousand francs! Ridiculous," says Rohritz. "The picture is
really lovely. But it was not the Watteau alone that attracted my
attention, but----" He points to two or three pictures which are turned
with their faces to the wall.
"Ah! ah!" the Prince laughs. "You wish to know what led to that
prudential measure? Well, I have had a visit from ladies."
"From whom?" Rohritz asks, absently.
"Unasked I should probably have told you, but in view of such ill-bred
curiosity I am mute," Zino replies, still laughing.
"Hm!--evidently a woman of character," Rohritz observes, indifferently.
"Of course: 'tis the only kind with whom I can endure of late to
associate. If you but knew how bored I was at the opera ball the other
night! I was made ill by the bad air. The feminine element must always
play a large part in my life; but, you see, of late I can tolerate none
but the most refined, the most distinguished of the species. We are
strange creatures, we men of the world: in the matter of cigars, wine,
horses, we always require the best, while with regard to women we are
sometimes satisfied with what----"
The arrival of a fresh caller, one of Capito's sporting friends,
interrupts these interesting reflections. Rohritz takes his leave.
The same day he is driving by chance through the Rue d'Anjou, when his
attention is attracted by a slender, graceful, girlish figure hurrying
along, evidently anxious to reach her destination.
Is not that Stella? He leans out of the carriage window, but it is
dark, and she is closely veiled. And yet he could swear that it is she.
She vanishes in the Hotel ----, in the house where he called upon Zino
Capito this very day.
For one brief moment all the evil that Stasy said of Stella confuses
his brain; then he compresses his lips: he cannot believe evil of her.
A malicious chance has maligned her. She must have a double in Paris.