THE BEGINNING OF THE NIGHT
“Christine was quite blind to the admiration which moved about her
path. Now that she had taken the bolder step, and knew that another
moment would bring her face to face with Count Paul, her heart beat
warningly, its pulsations shaking her hands so that she pressed them
against her side to still them. She saw the hall of the hotel only as a
blaze of waving lights; the people were black and swaying forms. When
she was summoned upstairs to a small apartment upon the first floor,
she went with trembling steps, scarce feeling the touch of her feet
upon the carpet. She entered the room and the Count stood before her,
but no charity of preparation helped her tongue. She was with her lover
again, but she was dumb.
“The Count was wearing the uniform in which he had presented himself to
the Emperor. He had been in the act of writing a letter when the child
came in; but now he rose from the table and held out his hand to her.
He would have offered the same greeting to any stranger that might have
come to him. Six weeks ago his heart beat the faster at the mention of
little Christine’s name. But the priest had whispered in his ear the
slander, ‘she has a lover in Vienna.’ He wrote to the capital to verify
the report, and the answer came that the boy Zol was ever at her heels.
It was then that the cord of his love had snapped sharply, like a cord
long strained and worn to weakness. Suddenly, and by a supreme effort
of his will, he had dried up the fount of his affections. Twice had
passion come so near to him that her wings had burnt his brain while
she passed. He said to himself that no woman should so hurt him again.
He would forget that Christine of Zlarin had lived. A will of iron
helped him to success in the resolution. He had come to Vienna when he
found that it was no longer of moment to him whether the news which the
priest told were true or false. He had thrown off the fetters; and no
human hand might rivet them again.
“Many men have taken such a resolution as this; few have persevered in
it. A whisper of the voice, a touch of the hand, a tear upon a pretty
face, and the tide of affection surges up to sweep calculation from its
bed, to foster the seeds of forgiveness and of forgetfulness. The last
of the Zaloskis had asked himself, when they told him that Mademoiselle
Zlarin would speak with him, if there might not be some power of her
presence which would work a spell upon him. When Christine entered
his room he knew that there was not. Pretty she was--he said that to
himself--and the prettier for the fine furs wrapped about her little
neck and ears. He thought that her maturing figure helped her to more
commanding beauty. But the very fact that she was dressed as any other
of the many women he met in the _salons_ and at the Palace helped to
destroy that illusion which had been so powerful to promote love at
Jézero. Besides, was not she the wife of a woodlander’s son?
“Such reasoning confirmed him in his assumption of indifference. He
held out his hand to Christine as to a friend. The warmth of his
greeting was no more than the cordiality of a pleasant recognition.
“‘It is Christine herself,’ he said, unconscious of her agitation--
‘Christine herself, who never looked so well. _Donnerwetter_, little
one, I thought that you would come to see me. And what tales to tell!
I hear them everywhere I go--“Mademoiselle Zlarin, whose playing
fascinated the Emperor; Mademoiselle Zlarin, who was the star of the
Prater; Mademoiselle Zlarin, who is to appear as Joseph”--_himmel_, it
is a triumph you have to speak of. All the city talks of it. Oh, for a
truth I am proud of my little girl of Jézero!’
“Cordial as his greeting was, the note of it was like the chill of
iron to the heart of the woman who had been telling herself that his
words would be so different. Hot blood filled her veins while she
listened; the whole of the truth was instantly made clear to her. ‘He
has forgotten,’ she said to herself; and at that her own love seemed
to rush back into the prison of her mind. Yet God alone knew what the
effort cost her.
“‘Herr Count,’ she said, speaking very slowly, ‘I came to you--to thank
you for your kindness to me when I was at Jézero. Whatever I may do in
Vienna, I shall never forget those days. It is good to remember them,
and to hear of my friends----’
“He stopped her abruptly, raising his hand and placing a chair for her.
“‘The obligation was upon our side,’ he said; ‘did we not entertain
Mademoiselle Zlarin, whose name is on everyone’s tongue? Do not speak
of it, little one, but tell me about yourself. I shall have fine news
to write to Father Mark; and the old dame--_himmel_, what airs she
will put on! So you are to play Joseph to-night, and to be the star
to-morrow at Esterhazy’s house. That I should come to Vienna to hear
such things!’
“He spoke with great energy and show of friendship, feeling already
that a gesture or a word might bring the past back upon him swiftly.
She, on her part, scarce able to believe that this man had held her in
his arms and professed love for her, stung to bitterness that he should
forget so readily, resolved that no act or speech of hers should impose
the memory of that past upon him.
“‘It is true that I am to play Joseph to-night,’ she said coldly; ‘but
the part is small, and I am afraid that I shall never be a singer.
Still, it leads to other things, and will help me in my violin playing.
You shall tell me what you think of that after the concert to-morrow,
for you are going to the Prince’s, I hear. You will applaud me a
little, Count?’
“‘A little--the devil! Did you not once tell me that I had great hands?
Well, you shall hear them in claps of thunder to-morrow; and to-night
I have a box, and am taking Baron Philiporic, who has a voice like a
cannon. We shall make a useful pair--rely upon it.’
“She laughed now in spite of herself, but remembering suddenly the
purpose of her visit, she refused the tea which he offered her.
“‘Indeed,’ she said, ‘I must be at the theatre again directly, and I
have much to do before that. Music is a hard mistress, Count, as I
discovered years ago. Some day, perhaps, I will tell you more of my
troubles; but to-day they must wait. I came here to speak to you of
something which is very difficult to speak about--and yet for both our
sakes I must speak.’
“It was his turn to become serious now, and to show her by his manner
that he was in no mood for confidences.
“‘Really,’ said he, ‘it is difficult to believe that Mademoiselle
Zlarin has any troubles!’
“She laughed--a laugh rather of defiance than of merriment.
“‘Perhaps I have none, Count,’ she exclaimed; ‘it may be that I imagine
them. If each of us could be as happy as he thinks his friend, what a
pleasant world it would be! But I am not here to weary you with my own
history. I came rather to save you from my troubles and from those who
make them. You will know of whom I speak. If you still wish to do me a
kindness, avoid my husband while you are in Vienna. I say no more--you
will understand.’
“The Count leant back in his chair and laughed heartily. He had thought
that she was about to invite discussion of those things which it was
his object not to discuss. When she spoke of Ugo Klun the relief was
great.
“‘Ho, ho, Christine, so I am to avoid your husband? You came to tell me
that! He has threatened me, eh? Certainly, I must send for the police,
or buy a shirt of mail, little one. _Donnerwetter_, that the rogue
should have the impertinence!’
“Christine rose from her chair and wrapped her furs about her neck.
She was trembling--but not with cold. The indifference of the man--his
mocking tone--cut her to the quick. She seemed to live years during the
few minutes she was in the room with him.
“‘Herr Count,’ she said, ‘I thought it my duty to speak, and I have
spoken; the rest I leave to you. Remember the words--even if you forget
the speaker.’
“She held out her hand to him, and he saw that she was about to leave
him. His raillery ceased instantly as his fingers closed upon hers,
and for the first time during the interview an overwhelming desire
came upon him to remind her of the days at Jézero when they had lived
together in the gardens of life. He knew it not, but Destiny had led
him then to the well of love, and he had but to stoop and drink. A
word--a look from the eyes--and he would have held her in his arms and
have gathered the firstfruits of her abiding passion. The fatal instant
during which he paused to reckon with himself was one the opportunity
of which would never be his again. Even as he put the silent question:
‘What of my determination?’ the girl had turned from him and left the
room. His hand was still hot with the touch of hers when she stepped
into her carriage and drove to her home.
“‘Oh, my God, my God! I have lived my life,’ she sobbed, while she
buried her burning face in her furs, and the hum of the city’s life
rang deafeningly in her ears.”