I
The royal yacht had anchored amid a thunder of cannon, and the king had
gone ashore. The city was bright with bunting; a thousand whistles blew.
Up through the festooned streets His Majesty was escorted between long
rows of blue-coated officers, behind which the eager crowds were massed
for mile upon mile. Thin wire cables were stretched along the curbs, to
hold the people back, but these threatened to snap before the weight of
the multitude.
In the neighborhood of the raised pavilion where the queen and her maids
of honor waited, the press was thickest; here rows of stands had been
erected that groaned beneath their freight, while roof-tops and windows,
trees and telegraph-poles, were black with clustered humanity.
The king was tall and dark; a long beard hid his face. But the queen was
young and blushing, and her waiting-women were fairer than springtime
flowers. To a crashing martial air, she handed him a sparkling goblet in
which he pledged her happiness, while the street rocked to the roar of
many voices, and in the open spaces youths, grotesquely costumed, danced
with goblin glee.
Mr. Roland Van Dam secretly thought it all quite fine and inspiriting,
but he was too highly schooled to allow himself much emotion. He had
been hard put to obtain seats, and had succeeded only through the
efforts of a friend, the Duke of Cotton; therefore, he felt, the members
of his party might have shown at least a perfunctory appreciation. But
they were not the appreciative kind, and their attitude was made plain
by Eleanor Banniman's languid words:
"How dull! It's nothing like the carnival at Nice, and the people seem
very common."
Her father was dozing uncomfortably, with his two lower chins telescoped
into his billowing chest; Mrs. Banniman complained of the heat and the
glare, and predicted a headache for herself. Near by, the rest of the
party were striving to conceal their lack of interest by guying the
crowd below. Van Dam had been the one to suggest this trip to New
Orleans for the Mardi Gras, and he felt the weight of entertainment
bearing heavily upon him. In consequence, he assumed a sprightly
interest that was very far from genuine.
"This sort of thing awakens something medieval inside of one, don't you
know," he said.
Miss Banniman regarded him with a bland lack of comprehension; her
mother moaned weakly, the burden of her complaint being, as usual:
"Why _did_ we leave Palm Beach?"
"All those dukes and things make me feel as if it were real," Van Dam
explained further. "They say this Rex fellow is a true king during Mardi
Gras week, and those chaps in masks are quite like court jesters. Maybe
they sing of wars and love and romance--and all that rot."
"I dare say life was just as uninteresting in olden days as it is now,"
Eleanor remarked. "Love and romance exist mainly in books, I fancy. If
they ever did exist, we've outgrown them, eh, Roly?"
Being a very rich and a very experienced young woman, Miss Banniman
prided herself upon her lack of illusion. To be sure, she occasionally
permitted Roland to kiss her in celebration of their engagement, but
such caresses left her unperturbed; her pulses had never been stirred.
She looked upon marriage as a somewhat trying, although necessary,
institution. Van Dam, being equally modern and equally satiated by
life's blessings, shared her beliefs in a vague way.
Manifestly, no lover could allow such an assertion as this to go
unchallenged, so he rose to the defense of romance, only to hear her
say:
"Nonsense! Do be sensible, Roly. Such things aren't done nowadays."
"What things aren't done?"
"Oh, those crude, primitive performances we read about in novels. Nice
people don't fall in love overnight, for instance. They don't allow
themselves to hate, and be jealous, and to rage about like wild animals
any more."
"The idea! Your father is a perfect savage, at heart," said Mrs.
Banniman. She nodded at her sleeping husband, who was roused at that
moment by a fly that had strayed into his right nostril. Mr. Banniman
sneezed, half opened his eyes, and murmured a feeble anathema before
dozing off again. It was plain that he was not greatly enjoying the
Mardi Gras.
"All men are primitive," said Roly, quoting some forgotten author, at
which Eleanor eyed him languidly.
"Could you love at first sight and run off with a girl?"
"Certainly not. I'd naturally have to know something about her people--"
"Were you ever jealous?"
"You've never given me an occasion," he told her, gallantly.
"Did you ever hate anybody?"
"Um-m--no!"
"Ever been afraid?"
"Not exactly."
"Revengeful?"
"Certainly not."
She smiled. "It's just as I said. Respectable people don't allow
themselves to be harrowed by crude emotions. I hate my modiste when she
fails to fit me; I was jealous of that baroness at the Poinciana--the
one with all those gorgeous gowns; I'm afraid of flying-machines; but
that is as deep as such things go, nowadays--in our set."
Van Dam was no hand at argument, and he had a great respect for Miss
Banniman's observation; moreover, he had been discussing something of
which he possessed no first-hand knowledge. Therefore, he said nothing
further. No one had a greater appreciation of, or took a keener pleasure
in, life's unruffled placidity than the young society man. No one had a
denser ignorance of its depths, its hidden currents, and its uncharted
channels than he; for adventure had never come his way, romance had
never beckoned him from rose-embowered balconies. And yet, as the world
goes, he was a normal individual, save for the size of his income. He
had not lost interest in life; he was merely interested in things which
did not matter. That, after all, is quite different.
There were times, nevertheless, when he longed vaguely for something
thrilling to happen, when he regretted the Oslerization of romance and
the commercializing of love. Of course, adventure still existed; one
could hunt big game in certain hidden quarters, if one chose. Van Dam
detested stuffed heads, and it took so much time to get them. These
unformed desires came to him only now and then, and he felt ashamed of
them, in an idle way.
Now that the parade had passed, the visitors lost no time in leaving,
and a dignified stampede toward the hotel occurred, for the gentlemen
were thirsty and the ladies wished to smoke. It was due to their haste,
perhaps, that Van Dam became separated from them and found himself
drifting along Canal Street alone in a densely packed crowd of
merrymakers. A masked woman in a daring Spanish dress chucked him under
the chin; her companion showered him with confetti. A laughing Pierrot
whacked him with a noisy bladder; boys and girls in ragged disguises
importuned him for pennies. A very, very shapely female person, in what
appeared to be the beginnings of a bathing suit, laughed over her
shoulder, inviting him, with eyes that danced.
"My word!" murmured the New-Yorker. "This is worth while."
Ahead of him, he caught a glimpse of Miss Banniman's aigrettes and the
ponderous figure of her father. But the gaiety of the carnival crowd had
infected him, and he was loath to leave it for the Grunewald, whither
his friends were bound with the unerring directness of thirsty
millionaires. It was a brilliant, gorgeous afternoon; the streets were
alive with color. Somewhere through this crowd, the young man idly
reflected, adventure--even romance--might be stalking, if such things
really existed. So he decided to linger. To be quite truthful, Van Dam's
decision was made, not with any faintest idea of encountering either
romance or adventure, but because a slight indigestion made the thought
of a gin-fizz or a julep unbearable at the moment.
As he continued to move with the throng, the butt of badinage and the
target for impudent glances, he felt a desire to be of it and in it. He
yielded himself to a most indiscreet impulse. Assuring himself that he
was unobserved, he stepped into a store, purchased a plain black domino
and mask, donned them, and then fell in with the procession once more,
dimly amused at his folly, vaguely surprised at his impropriety.
But now that he was one of the revelers he was no longer an object of
their attentions; they paid no heed to him, and he soon became bored. He
engaged himself in conversation with an old flower-woman, and, as she
had only a solitary gardenia left in her tray, he bought it in order
that she might go home. He pinned the blossom on the left breast of his
domino, and wandered to the nearest corner to watch the crowds flow
past.
He had been there but a moment when a girl approached and stood beside
him. She was petite, and yet her body beneath its fetching Norman
costume showed the rounded lines of maturity; at the edge of her mask
her skin gleamed smooth and creamy; her eyes were very dark and very
bright. As Mr. Van Dam was a very circumspect young man, not given to
the slightest familiarity with strangers, he confined his attentions to
an inoffensive inventory of her charms, and was doubly startled to hear
her murmur:
"You came in spite of all, m'sieu'!"
A French girl, he thought. No doubt one of those Creoles he had heard so
much about. Aloud, he said, with a bow:
"Yes, mademoiselle. I have been looking for some one like you."
Her eyes flashed to the white gardenia on his breast, then up to his
own. "You were expecting some one?"
"I was. A girl, to guide me through the carnival."
"But you are early. Did you not receive the warning?"
"Warning?" he answered, confused. "I received no warning."
"I feared as much," she said, "so I came. But it was unwise of you; it
was madness to risk the streets." Her eyes left his face, to scan the
crowds.
He fancied she shrank from them, as if fearing observation. Van Dam was
puzzled. Her voice and manner undoubtedly betrayed a genuine emotion, or
else she was a consummate actress. If this were some Mardi Gras prank,
he felt a desire to see the next move. If it proved to be anything more,
he fancied that he was too sophisticated to be caught and fleeced like a
countryman. But something told him that this was no ordinary street
flirtation. The words "warning," "risk" seemed to promise entertainment.
If, as he suspected, she had mistaken him for some one else, a brief
masquerade could lead to no harm. He decided to see how far he could
carry the deception.
"What warning could serve to prevent my seeing you?" he asked in a
hollow voice; then was surprised at the flush that stole upward to the
girl's dainty ear.
"You are indeed insane to jest at such a time," she breathed. "I would
never have known you without the flower. But come--we are in danger
here. Some one--is waiting. Will you follow me?"
"To the ends of the earth," he replied, gallantly.
Again she gave him a startled glance, half of pleasure, half of
deprecation; then, as he made a movement to accompany her, she checked
him.
"No, no! You must let me go ahead. They are everywhere. They may suspect
even my disguise. I--I am dreadfully afraid."
Van Dam scarcely knew how to answer this. So, like a wise man, he held
his tongue.
"Listen!" she continued. "I will walk slowly, and do you remain far
enough behind for your own safety--"
"My safety is as nothing to yours," he told her, but she shook her head
impatiently.
"Please! Please! They will never select you out of a thousand dominos,
and I am not sure they suspect me. But should they try to lift my mask,
you must escape at once."
"Would they dare?" Mr. Van Dam inquired, shocked at such a breach of
carnival etiquette.
"They would dare anything."
"But I couldn't allow it, really," he persisted. "If any hand is to lift
your mask, I insist that mine be the favored one."
She darted a doubtful look at him, being plainly perturbed at his tone,
then shook her head. "She told me you were reckless, but you are
quite--insane."
For a second time he discovered that delicious color tingeing her neck
and laughed, which disconcerted her even more. She hesitated, then
turned away and he fell in behind her.
But distance served only to enhance the girl's charms. Roly saw how
beautifully proportioned she was, how regally she carried herself, how
light and springy was her step. Although he had not seen her face, he
somehow felt agreeably certain that she possessed a witching beauty.
The circumspection with which she avoided the densest crowds made him
wonder anew at the character of the danger that could overhang a masked
maiden at mid-afternoon on a carnival day, for by this time he had
forgotten his first suspicion. He thought not at all that the peril
could be serious, or in any way involve him, for the magic of the Van
Dam name protected its owner like invisible mail. The effect of that
patronymic was really quite wonderful; policemen bowed to it, irate
strangers allowed their anger to ooze away before it. It smoothed the
owner's way through difficulties and brought him favors when least
expected; rage changed to servility; indignation, opposition, even
jealousy altered color in the shadow of the Van Dam millions. Nothing
really unpleasant ever happened to Roly, and so it was that he had
become _blasé_ and tired at twenty-six.
He followed his masked guide across Canal Street and into the foreign
quarter of the city, where the surroundings were unfamiliar to him. He
gazed with mild repugnance at the squalid old houses, moldering behind
their rusted iron balconies. Dim, flag-paved hallways allowed him a
glimpse of flowered courtyards at the rear; cool passages went twisting
in between the buildings. Over hard-baked, glaring walls there drooped
branches laden with bloom and fruit. The streets were narrow, the houses
leaned intimately toward one another, as if exchanging gossip; little
cafés with sanded floors opened upon the sidewalks. Here the carnival
crowd was more foreign in character; people were dancing to orchestras
of guitar and mandolin; youths turned somersaults for pennies; ragged
negroes jigged and shuffled with outstretched hats.
Through this confusion the Norman girl took her way, now seeking some
deep doorway to allow a particularly boisterous group to pass, now
flitting through the open spaces with the swift irregularity of a
butterfly winging its course through sunlit stretches. But her caution,
her birdlike, backward glances, told Van Dam that she was in constant
dread of discovery, and involuntarily he lessened the distance between
them.
It was well, perhaps, that he did so, for just then a man in a domino
like his own accosted the girl. Roly saw his guide shrink away, saw her
turn and signal him with a swift, imperious gesture of warning. Instead
of heeding it, he moved forward in time to intercept the stranger. The
fellow was laughing loudly; he assumed a tipsy air and lurched against
the girl; then, with a quickness that belied his pose, he snatched at
her mask and bared her features. She cried out in terror, and with the
sound of her voice Mr. Van Dam flew to action. He knew that until six
o'clock disguises were inviolate, and that it was against the strictest
of police regulations to unmask a reveler; therefore he yielded to a
righteous impulse and struck the man in the domino squarely upon the
jaw. Beneath Roly's rounded proportions was a deceptive machinery of
bone and muscle that had been schooled by the most expensive instructors
of boxing. He had known how to hit cleanly since he was twelve years
old, and although he had never struck a man in anger until this moment,
his fist went true. The fellow rocked stiffly back upon his heels and
fell like a wooden figure, his head thumping dully on the pavement, and
Roly gave vent to a most ungentlemanly snort of surprise and
satisfaction. It had been much easier than he had expected, and feeling
that the man should have every opportunity for fair play Roly began
promptly to count, "One, two, three--" Then he felt the girl's hand upon
his arm, and turned in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of a dimpled
chin as she drew her mask down. "Rotten trick, that!"
"Heaven above!" she gasped. "You must flee--quickly!"
People were crossing the street toward them, drawn by the sight of the
fallen man.
"Run away and leave you?" queried Roly. "Hardly!"
"Then"--the breath caught in the girl's throat--"come!"
She clutched his hand and they fled, side by side, pursued by half a
score of shouting merrymakers. Around the first corner they scurried,
into a crowd, then out of it and into the next thoroughfare, doubling
and turning until the girl's breath was gone.
"Why--did--you do--it? Ah!--why?" she gasped, still hurrying him along.
"Drunken loafer!" Van Dam said, vindictively.
"He was not drunk! Don't you understand? Didn't you guess? It was the
Black Wolf!"
Roly did not understand, and he had no opportunity to guess who or what
the Black Wolf might be, for his companion paused, crying:
"God help us! They are coming."
From the street behind rose a babble of angry voices.
"He saw me! He knows!"
She cast a despairing glance about, and, spying a narrow alley close at
hand, darted toward it, dragging Van Dam with her.
Retreat carries with it a peculiar panic, and the young man felt the
stirring of an utterly new sensation within him. He was running away!
What was more, he wanted to keep running, even though he had not the
faintest idea of what menaced him. It was quite remarkable. He seemed to
feel, for some unknown reason, that this sprightly young person beside
him was indeed risking her safety for him. Therefore, he began to share
her apprehensions, but as to what it meant or whither the adventure was
leading he had not a suspicion. He did wonder, however, where the Black
Wolf got his name.
The alley was damp and slippery, being no more than a tunnel-like
passage between two buildings, and it led into a large courtyard full of
carts and wagons. A low shed ran along one side of the inclosure; at the
rear was a two-story structure used as a stable.
"There! I guess we've given them the slip," Van Dam sighed, with relief.
But his companion shook her head. "No, no! We must hide. The Black Wolf
has the cunning of Satan, and now that he knows--" She sped through the
confusion of vehicles to the stable door, with Roly following. An
instant more and they were in an odorful, dim-lit place divided into
stalls out of which the heads of several horses were thrust in friendly
greeting. The girl closed the door and leaned panting against it, one
hand to her heaving bosom. Her head was bowed and her ears were strained
for sounds of pursuit. In the silence Van Dam heard his own heavy
breathing, the swish of the horses' tails, an impatient stirring of
hoofs, and a gentle whinny. He discovered that his pulse was hammering
in a very unusual manner and that he was agreeably excited.
The girl uttered an exclamation. "I feared so! Hurry!" She slipped past
him to a rickety stairway that led upward. "Ah--h--! this mask is
smothering me!" She disengaged it hastily, and he saw it dangling in her
hand as he mounted the steep stairs behind her. He saw also a pair of
dainty silken ankles, swelling into delicious curves that were hidden in
the foamy whiteness of lingerie. Being an extremely respectful
gentleman, Mr. Van Dam lowered his eyes, anticipating with curious
eagerness the pleasure of beholding her countenance, once they had
gained the loft. The desire to see behind her mask became really acute.
He had missed one opportunity by so narrow a margin as to quicken his
desires.
They came out upon a rough landing, and Van Dam caught the whisk of her
skirts disappearing through a door that led into the haymow. As he
followed, the door closed and he found himself in utter darkness. He
heard her fumbling with the lock. Their hands came together as he turned
a rusty key and he felt her figure close against his; her fragrant
breath fanned his cheek.
"Make no sound, as you value our lives."
As she whispered this, Van Dam swore mildly at the luck that prevented
him from appraising his companion's good looks, now that her mask was
off. From the courtyard below sounded voices. The girl clutched him
nervously; her hand was shaking. He could feel her shiver, so he slipped
an arm about her waist. He did this merely to steady her, he told
himself. He reasoned further that such a familiarity could scarcely be
offensive in the dark. As she yielded gratefully to his embrace, her
soft body palpitating against his own, he ceased reasoning and drew her
closer. It was very agreeable to discover that she made no resistance;
he could not recollect any sensation quite like this! As yet he had done
nothing improper, in view of the fact that it was every gentleman's
bounden duty to succor beauty in distress. He wondered if his friends at
the Grunewald had missed him, then realized with relief that Miss
Banniman never allowed his presence or his absence to interfere in the
slightest with her arrangements. They were probably finishing their
drinks by now. This would make an entertaining story, later in the
evening; they would never guess what he was doing.
"Who is that speaking?" he inquired.
"François, the Spider," whispered the girl. "Eh, God! How they all have
come to hate you!"
Roly reasoned from these words that his enemies numbered more than one
or two, and involuntarily he asked: "Hate me? What for?"