Mr. Bernard Dreux was regarded by his friends rather as an institution
than as an individual. He was a small man, but he wore the dignity of a
senator, and he possessed a pride of that intense and fastidious sort
which is rarely encountered outside the oldest Southern families. He
was thin, with the delicate, bird-like mannerisms of a dyspeptic, and
although he was nearing fifty he cultivated all the airs and graces of
beardless youth. His feet were small and highly arched, his hands were
sensitive and colorless. He was an authority on art, he dabbled in
music, and he had once been a lavish entertainer--that was in the early
days when he had been a social leader. Now, although harassed by a lack
of money which he considered degrading, he still mingled in good
society, he still dressed elegantly, his hands were still white and
sensitive, contrasting a little with his conscience, which had become
slightly discolored and calloused. He no longer entertained, however,
except by his wit; he exercised a watchful solicitude over his slender
wardrobe, and his revenues were derived from sources so uncertain that
he seemed to maintain his outwardly placid existence only through a
series of lucky chances. But adversity had not soured Mr. Dreux; it had
not dimmed his pride nor coarsened his appreciation of beauty; he
remained the gentle, suave, and agreeably cynical beau. Young girls had
been known to rave over him, despite their mother's frowns; fathers and
brothers called him Bernie and greeted him warmly--at their clubs.
But aside from Mr. Dreux's inherited right to social recognition he was
marked by another and peculiar distinction in that he was the
half-brother and guardian of Myra Nell Warren. This fact alone would
have assured him a wide acquaintance and a degree of popularity without
regard to his personal characteristics.
While it was generally known that old Captain Warren, during a short
and riotous life, had dashed through the Dreux fortune at a tremendous
rate, very few people realized what an utter financial wreck he had
left for the two children. There had been barely enough for them to
live upon after his death, and inasmuch as Myra Nell's extravagance
steadily increased as the income diminished, her half-brother was
always hard pressed to keep up appearances. She was a great
responsibility upon the little man's shoulders, particularly since she
managed in all innocence and thoughtlessness to spend not only her own
share of the income, but his also. He was many times upon the point of
remonstrating with her, but invariably his courage failed him and he
ended by planning some additional self-sacrifice to offset her
expanding necessities.
The situation would have been far simpler had Bernie lacked that
particular inborn pride which forbade him to seek employment. Not that
he felt himself above work, but he recoiled from any occupation which
did not carry with it a dignity matching that of his name. Since the
name he bore was as highly honored as any in the State, and since his
capabilities for earning a living were not greater than those of an
eighteen-year-old boy, he was obliged to rely upon his wits. And his
wits had become uncommonly keen.
The winter climate of New Orleans drew thither a stream of Northern
tourists, and upon these strangers Mr. Dreux, in a gentlemanly manner,
exercised his versatile talents. He made friends easily, he knew
everybody and everything, and, being a man of leisure, his time was at
the command of those travelers who were fortunate enough to meet him.
He understood the good points of each and every little cafe in the
foreign quarters; he could order a dinner with the rarest taste; it was
due largely to him that the fame of the Ramos gin-fizz and the Sazerac
cocktail became national. His grandfather, General Dreux, had drunk at
the old Absinthe House with no less a person that Lafitte, the pirate,
and had frequented the house on Royal Street when Lafayette and
Marechal Ney were there. It was in this house, indeed, that he had met
Louis Philippe. His grandson had such a wealth of intimate detail at
his finger tips that it was a great pleasure and privilege to go
through the French quarter with him. He exhaled the atmosphere of
Southern aristocracy which is so agreeable to Northern sensibilities,
he told inimitable stories, and, as for antiques, he knew every shop
and bargain in the city. He was liberal, moreover, nay, ingenuous in
sharing this knowledge with his new-found friends, even while admitting
that he coveted certain of these bargains for his own slender
collection. As a result of Mr. Dreux's knack of making friends and his
intimate knowledge of art he did a very good business in antiques. Many
of his acquaintances wrote him from time to time, asking him to execute
commissions, which he was ever willing to do, gratuitously, of course.
In this way he was able to bridge over the dull summer season and live
without any unpleasant sacrifice of dignity. But it was at best a
precarious means of livelihood and one which he privately detested.
However, on the particular day in the summer of 1890 on which we first
encounter him Mr. Dreux was well contented, for a lumber-man from
Minneapolis, who had come South with no appreciation whatever of
Colonial antiques, had just departed with enough worm-eaten furniture
to stock a museum, and Bernie had collected his regular commission from
the dealer.
Now that his own pressing necessities were taken care of for the
moment, he began, as usual, to plan for Myra Nell's future. This would
have required little thought or worry had she been an ordinary girl,
but that was precisely what Miss Warren was not. The beaux of New
Orleans were enthusiastically united in declaring that she was quite
the contrary, quite the most extraordinary and dazzling of creatures.
Bernie had led them to the slaughter methodically, one after another,
with hope flaming in his breast, only to be disappointed time after
time. They had merely served to increase the unhappy number which
vainly swarmed about her, and to make Bernie himself the target of her
satire. Popularity had not spoiled the girl, however; her attitude
toward marriage was very sensible beneath the surface, and Bernie's
anxious efforts at matchmaking, instead of relieving their financial
distress, merely served to keep him in the antique business. Miss
Warren loved admiration; she might be said to live on it; and she
greeted every new admirer with a bubbling gladness which was
intoxicating. But she had no appreciation of the sanctity of a promise.
She looked upon an engagement to marry in the same light as an
engagement to walk or dine, namely, as being subject to the weather or
to a prior obligation of the same sort. Bernie was too much a gentleman
to urge her into any step for which she was not ready, so he merely
sighed when he saw his plans go astray, albeit confessing to moments of
dismay as he foresaw himself growing old in the second-hand business.
But a change had occurred lately, and although no word had passed
between brother and sister, the melancholy little bachelor had been
highly gratified at certain indications he had marked. It seemed to him
that her choice, provided she really had chosen, was excellent; for
Norvin Blake was certainly very young to be the president of the Cotton
Exchange, he was free from any social entanglements, and he was rich.
Moreover, his name had as many honorable associations as even Bernie's
own. All in all, therefore, the little man was in an agreeable frame of
mind to-day as he strolled up Canal Street, nodding here and there to
his acquaintances, and turned into Blake's office.
He entered without announcing himself, and Norvin greeted him
cordially. Bernie seldom announced himself, being one of those rare
persons who come and go unobtrusively and who interrupt important
conversations without offense.
"Do I find you busy?" he inquired, dropping into one of Blake's
easy-chairs and lighting a perfumed cigarette.
"No. Business is over for the day. But I am glad to see you at any
time; you're so refreshingly restful."
"How are the new duties and responsibilities coming on?"
"Oh, very well," said Blake, "Although I'm absurdly self-conscious."
"The Exchange needed new blood, I'm told. I think you are a happy
choice. Opportunity has singled you out and evidently intends to bear
you forward on her shoulders whether you wish or not. Jove! you _have_
made strides! Let me see, you are thirty--"
"Two! This makes me look older than I am." Norvin touched his hair,
which was gray, and Bernie nodded.
"Funny how your hair changed so suddenly. I remember seeing you four
years ago at the Lexington races just after you returned from Europe
the second time. You were dark then. I saw you a year later and you
were gray. Did the wing of sorrow brush your brow?"