LOST AGAIN.
How Stella has looked forward to this ball! how carefully and bravely
she has cleared away all the obstacles which seemed at first to stand
in the way of her pleasure! how eagerly and industriously she has
gathered together her little store of ornaments, has tastefully
renovated her old Venetian ball-dress! how she has exulted over Zino's
note, in which with kindly courtesy he has begged her to accord to his
friend Edgar Rohritz the pleasure he is obliged to deny himself! And
now--now the evening has come; her ball-dress lies spread out on the
sofa of the small drawing-room at the 'Three Negroes;' but Stella is
lying on her bed in her little bedroom, in the dark, sobbing bitterly.
For the second time she has lost the _porte-bonheur_ which her dying
father put on her arm three--nearly four years before, and which was to
bring her happiness. She noticed only yesterday that the little chain
which she had had attached to it for safety was broken, but the clasp
seemed so strong that she postponed taking it to be repaired, and
to-day as she was coming home, about five o'clock, fresh and gay, her
cheeks flushed, her eyes sparkling with the excitement of anticipation,
and laden with all sorts of packages, she perceived that her bracelet
was gone. In absolute terror, she went from shop to shop, wherever she
had made a purchase, always with the same imploring question on her
lips as to whether they had not found a little _porte-bonheur_ with a
pendant of rock-crystal containing a four-leaved clover,--a silly,
inexpensive trifle, of no value to any one save herself. But in vain!
Almost beside herself, she finally returned to her home, and told her
mother of her bitter distress; but the Baroness only shrugged her
shoulders at her childish superstition, and went on writing with
extraordinary industry. She has lately determined to edit an abstract
of her work on 'Woman's Part in the Development of Civilization,' for a
book-agent with whom she is in communication, and who undertakes to
sell unsalable literature. It seems that the abstract will fill several
volumes! In the midst of Stella's distress, the Baroness begins to
bewail to her daughter her own immense superabundance of ideas, which
makes it almost impossible for her to express herself briefly. And so
Stella, after she has hearkened to the end of her mother's lament,
slips away with tired, heavy feet, and a still heavier heart, to her
bedroom, and there sobs on the pillow of her narrow iron bedstead as if
her heart would break.
There comes a knock at the door.
"Who is it?" she asks, half rising, and wiping her eyes.
"Me!" replies a kindly nasal voice, a voice typical of the Parisian
servant. Stella recognizes it as that of the chambermaid.
"Come in, Justine. What do you want?"
"Two bouquets have come for Mademoiselle,--two splendid bouquets. Ah,
it is dark here; Mademoiselle has been taking a little rest, so as to
be fresh for the ball; but it is nine o'clock. Mademoiselle ought to
begin to dress: it is always best to be in time. Shall I light a
candle?"
"If you please, Justine."
The maid lights the candles.
"Ah!" she exclaims in dismay when she sees Stella's sad, swollen face,
"Mademoiselle is in distress! Good heavens! what has happened? Has
Mademoiselle had bad news?--some one dead whom she loves?"
Any German maid at sight of the girl's disconsolate face would have
suspected some love-complication; the French servant would never think
of anything of the kind in connection with a respectable young lady.
"No, Justine, but I have lost a _porte-bonheur_,--a _porte-bonheur_
that my father gave me a little while before he died,--and it is sure
to mean some misfortune. I know something dreadful will happen to me at
the ball. I would rather stay at home. But there would be no use in
that: my fate will find me wherever I am: it is impossible to hide from
it."
"Ah," sighs Justine, "I am so sorry for Mademoiselle! But Mademoiselle
must not take the matter so to heart: the _porte-bonheur_ will
be found; nothing is lost in Paris. We will apply to the
police-superintendent, and the _porte-bonheur_ will be found. Ah,
Mademoiselle would not believe how many lost articles I have had
brought back to me! Will not Mademoiselle take a look at the bouquets?"
And the Parisian maid whips off the cotton wool and silver-paper that
have enveloped the flowers. "_Dieu! que c'est beau!_" cries Justine,
her brown, good-humoured face beaming with delight beneath the frill of
her white cap. "Two cards came with the flowers; there----"
Stella grasps the cards. The bouquet of gardenias and fantastic orchids
comes from Zino; the other, of half-opened, softly-blushing Malmaison
roses and snowdrops, is Edgar's gift.
In their arch-loveliness, carelessly tied together, the flowers look as
if they had come together in the cold winter, to whisper of the
delights of spring and summer,--of the time when earth and sunshine,
now parted by a bitter feud, shall meet again with warm, loving kisses
of reconciliation.
Zino's orchids and gardenias lie neglected on the cold gray marble top
of a corner table; with a dreamy smile, in the midst of her tears,
Stella buries her face among the roses, which remind her of Erlach
Court.
"Mademoiselle will find her _porte-bonheur_ again; I am sure of it; I
have a presentiment," Justine says, soothingly. "But now Mademoiselle
must begin to make herself beautiful. Madame has given me express
permission to help her."
* * * * *
At this same hour a certain bustle reigns in the dressing-room of the
Princess Oblonsky. Costly jewelry, barbaric but characteristically
Russian in design and setting, gleams from the dark velvet lining of
various half-opened cases in the light of numberless candles. In a
faded sky-blue dressing-gown trimmed with yellow woollen lace, Stasy is
standing beside a workwoman from Worth's, who is busy fastening large
solitaires upon the Princess's ball-dress. The air is heavy and
oppressive with the odour of veloutine, hot iron, burnt hair, and
costly, forced hot-house flowers. Monsieur Auguste, the hair-dresser,
has just left the room. Beneath his hands the head of the Princess has
become a masterpiece of artistic simplicity. Instead of the
conventional feathers, large, gleaming diamond stars crown the
beautiful woman's brow. She is standing before a tall mirror, her
shoulders bare, her magnificent arms hanging by her sides, in the
passive attitude of the great lady who, without stirring herself, is to
be dressed by her attendants. Her maid is kneeling behind her, with her
mouth full of pins, busied in imparting to the long trailing muslin and
lace petticoat the due amount of imposing effect.
Although half a dozen candles are burning in the candelabra on each
side of the mirror, although the entire apartment is illuminated by the
light of at least fifty other candles, a second maid, and Fraeulein von
Fuhrwesen, now quite domesticated in the Princess's household, are
standing behind the Princess, each with a candle, in testimony of their
sympathy with the maid at work upon the petticoat.
Yes, Sophie Oblonsky is going to the Fanes' ball: she knows that Edgar
will be there.
At last every diamond is fastened upon the ball-dress, among its
trimming of white ostrich-feathers. The task now is to slip the robe
over the Princess's head without grazing her hair even with a touch as
light as that of a butterfly's wing. This is the true test of the
dressing-maid's art. The girl lifts Worth's masterpiece high, high in
the air: the feat is successfully accomplished. In all Paris to-night
there is no more beautiful woman than the Princess Oblonsky in her
draperies of brocade shot with silver, the diamond _riviere_ on her
neck, and the diamond stars in her hair. The Fuhrwesen kneels before
her in adoration to express her enthusiasm, and Stasy exclaims,--
"You are ravishing! Do you know what I said in Cologne to little
Stella, who, as I told you, was so desperately in love with Edgar
Rohritz? 'Beside Sonja the beauty of other women vanishes: when she
appears, we ordinary women cease to exist.'"
"Exaggerated nonsense, my dear!" Sonja says, smiling graciously, and
lightly touching her friend's cheek with her lace handkerchief. "But
now hurry and make yourself beautiful."
"Yes, I am going. I really cannot tell you how eagerly I am looking
forward to this ball. I feel like a child again."
"So I see," Sonja rallies her. "Make haste and dress; when you are
ready I will put the diamond pins in your hair, myself." And when Stasy
has left the room the Princess says, turning to Fraeulein von Fuhrwesen,
"I only hope Anastasia will enjoy herself: it is solely for her sake
that I have been persuaded to go to this ball; I would far rather stay
at home, my dear Fuhrwesen, and have you play me selections from
Wagner."