Events of the Night
Life at Weet-sur-Mer, as at most other places of its class, swung in a
round prescribed by custom, as fixed and predestined as the courses of
the stars. In the late morning occurred the promenade, taken as a brisk
constitutional by a few, but by the great majority as a languid stroll
designed to create an appetite for luncheon. That meal was followed by a
period of torpor, then every one sought the beach--the high, the low;
the rich, the poor; the dowdy and the well-dressed; the virgin in white
and the cocotte in scarlet; the thin and the obese; the French, the
Dutch, the Italian--yea, and the angular English, for Weet-sur-Mer
attracted a crowd as hybrid as its name! There they amused themselves
each after his own fashion, with dignity or abandon, as the case might
be. They could not be said to mingle in the way that an American crowd
would have done under like circumstances--the elements of society in an
aristocratic country are as incapable of mingling as oil and water. The
oil floated placidly on top, while the water disported itself
contentedly beneath.
The oil, to preserve the simile, consisted, in the first place, of a
number of self-important individuals stalking solemnly up and down,
seemingly unconscious of the fact that they were not as solitary as
Crusoe; and, in the second place, of certain solid, cohesive groups,
presenting to the world a front as impenetrable and threatening as any
Austrian phalanx, and guarding in their midst two or three young girls
who must, at any hazard, be kept unspotted from the world. Strange to
say, the girls appeared contented, even happy; the position seemed to
them, no doubt, the normal one for them to occupy--and they could, of
course, look forward with certainty to the opening of the prison door
when a marriage should be arranged for them. They order this matter
better in Europe; or, at least, differently, for there, as a discerning
observer has pointed out, marriage means always that a woman is taken
down from the shelf, while with us, alas, too often! that she is placed
upon it, never to be removed!
To this class, too, belonged certain obese women and emaciated men
sitting, in couples, under the gay sunshades with which the beach was
bright. The women were dressed always in gowns which, however ornate,
were not quite new, not quite fresh, not quite clean; and the black
coats of the men were a little shiny at the elbow, a little faded at the
seams. But madame still took care to preserve such figure as unkind fate
had left her; and monsieur still kept his moustaches waxed to a needle's
point; and they sat there together, quite immovable, for hours at a
time, staring drearily out toward the horizon, meditating, no doubt,
over past glories, or arranging some coup by which their fortunes might
be retrieved. Pride will slip from them gradually, as the years pass;
madame will abandon her figure and monsieur his moustaches, and they
will end their days miserably in some second- or third-rate
pension--even, perhaps, the Maison Vauquer!
The water was more interesting, being at once more natural and lively.
With it there was no question of maintaining the equilibrium of its
position; there was no need of air or artifice; there was none of that
heartburning with which the latest Pontifical Princess smilingly
swallows the insolence of the descendant (à la main gauche) of the Great
Henri, happy to have been noticed, even though to be noticed meant
inevitably to be snubbed. There was a freedom about the water, an honest
vulgarity, a quality as of Rabelais, refreshingly in contrast with the
hot-house manners and morals of the haute noblesse. Madame need not
hesitate to cross her legs, if she found that attitude comfortable;
monsieur could at once remove coat, waist-coat, collar, cuffs, if he
found the weather warm.
Families whose size testified to their bourgeois respectability, lolled
in happy promiscuity upon the sands; the children constructed forts or
canals, the women tore some neighbour's reputation to pieces, the men
lay back lazily and smoked and kept an eye out for the bathers.
There were always many scores of them, belonging principally to that
strange and tragic half-world which hangs suspended, like Mahomet's
coffin, between earth and heaven, or, at least, between mass and class,
and which stretches out its tentacles and sucks nourishment from both.
These with a regularity almost religious, spent an hour of every day,
weather permitting, splashing in the gentle surf or posing on the beach
in costumes more or less revealing, according to the contour of the
wearer. The climax of the afternoon, the coup-de-théâtre which all
awaited, was the appearance of Mlle. Paul, late of the Variétés. This
was such a masterpiece in its way that it is worth pausing a moment to
describe.
Suddenly the door of her bathing-machine, which has been drawn just to
the water's edge, is flung open, and she appears on the threshold,
wrapped in a white sheet with a red border, producing a toga-like effect
not ungraceful. She hesitates an instant, and casts a startled glance
over the crowd of onlookers, then trips modestly down the steps. With a
little frisson, she casts the sheet from her and stands revealed--well,
perhaps not quite as Eve was to Adam, but so nearly so that the
difference is scarcely worth remarking. She glances down at her shapely
legs and then again at the entranced spectators.
"C'est convenable, j'espère hein?" she murmurs, and her bald-headed
cicisbeo, who has taken possession of her sheet, hastens to assure her
that all is well.
Whereupon, her doubts thus happily set at rest, she wades out to the
diving-board, mounts it leisurely, stands poised for an instant at the
outermost end, and then dives gracefully into the expectant billows.
This she does at intervals for perhaps an hour, the supreme instant for
the onlookers being that in which her glowing body, shimmering white
through its single clinging garment, is outlined in mid-air against the
sky. But finally Mademoiselle grows weary and returns to her machine,
where the gallant and attentive gentleman previously referred to
patiently awaits her--deus ex machina in more senses than one! The other
bathers gradually disappear and the crowd melts imperceptibly away. The
show is over.
But though all this was no doubt sufficiently diverting, Weet-sur-Mer
was never gloriously, aggressively awake until the sun went down. The
diversions of the day depended wholly upon the weather--a dash of rain,
a wind from the north, and, pouf! they were not thought of.
Not so the festivities of the night. Nothing short of an earthquake
could interfere with them. It was for the night that most of the
sojourners at Weet-sur-Mer existed; it was for them, in turn, that the
place itself existed! With these worthies, the first serious business of
the day was dressing for dinner. As darkness came, a stir of life
thrilled through the place from end to end. Rows and clusters of
electric lights, many-sized and many-coloured, flashed out at the
Casino, in the hotels, along the Digue. Women donned their evening
gowns, thankful for handsome shoulders; got out their diamonds, real
and paste, their rouge, cosmetics, what not; prepared to go forth and
conquer, to play the old, old game which, by the calm light of the
morning, seems so flat and savourless! Oh, what would it be without wine
and lights and jewels and soft gowns, without warmth and music and
perfume, without the suggestive, sensual darkness closing it in!
At the Casino presently spins the wheel of fortune--named in very
mockery!--and it is there that one may gaze unrebuked into the most
alluring eyes, may see the reddest lips and whitest shoulders;--crème de
la crème of all in that smaller room upstairs, arranged for those whose
jaded appetites demand some extra tickling; where no wager may be laid
for less than a hundred francs, and for as much more as you please,
monsieur, madame, provided only that you have it with you! Too bad that
the immortal soul has no longer a money value, or how many would
ornament that crowded table in the course of an evening's play!
But there; let a single glimpse of this tawdry, perfumed, fevered hell
suffice us, even as it did Archibald Rushford on the first night of his
stay at Weet-sur-Mer, and let us go out, as he did, into the pure night,
and stand uncovered under the bright stars until the cool breeze from
the ocean has washed us clean again, and turning our backs forever upon
the Casino and its habitués, retrace our steps along the Digue to the
Grand Hôtel Royal.
In apartment A de luxe, a man with flushed face and rumpled hair was
stamping nervously up and down. It required a second glance to recognise
in him that usually well-groomed and self-possessed individual known as
Lord Vernon. Two others were watching his movements with scarcely
concealed anxiety--Collins leaning against the window with folded arms,
Blake seated at a table with an open despatch-box before him.
"Hang it all, fellows," he was saying, "don't you see what a pickle it
puts me in? I was a fool to fall in with the idea--I was actually silly
enough to think it would be fun!"
"Of course," put in Collins, in his smoothest tone, "nobody could
foresee the presence of this American Diana."
Vernon shot him a quick glance.
"Be mighty careful what you say, my friend," he warned him, "or I'll
chuck the whole thing."
"Oh, you can't do that!" protested Blake. "You've got to carry it
through! You can't back out now!"
"Can't I?" said Vernon, with a grim little laugh. "Don't be too certain!
Suppose she finds it out? Pretty figure I'll cut, won't I?"
"But how _can_ she find it out? In four or five days, you can tell her
the whole story--you'll figure as a sort of hero of romance--"
"Yes--penny-dreadful romance--backstairs romance. The more I think of
it, the less I like it. Diplomacy or no diplomacy, we're playing Markeld
a dirty trick--that's the only expression that describes it. He's a nice
fellow and we ought to treat him fairly."
Collins shrugged his shoulders as he turned away to the window and
lighted a cigarette.
"You said something of the same sort yesterday, I believe," he remarked,
negligently.
"Yes--and I meant it then" as I mean it now. Markeld has the right to
expect decent treatment at our hands."
"Rather late in the day to take that ground," retorted Collins.
"Late or not, I do take it," answered Vernon, pausing an instant in his
walk to emphasise the words.
"I see," said Collins, drily, "it's a sort of moral awakening--a
quickening of conscience--the kind of thing we are all so proud of
displaying. Pity it didn't come before we started for this place."
Vernon did not reply, only clasped and unclasped his hands nervously.
Collins wheeled around upon him abruptly, his face very stern.
"Come," he demanded, "let's have it out, once for all. I'm sick of this
shilly-shally. Why can't you let Markeld take care of himself?"
"Because you're not playing fairly."
"What do you mean by fairly?"
"I mean openly, honestly--as gentlemen should."
"You forget that this is diplomacy--and that we don't live in the Golden
Age. We fight with such weapons as come to hand. It's the game."
"Yes--as you understand it. A gang of cutthroats might say the same
thing."
Collins flushed a little, but managed to keep his temper.
"I understand it as all diplomats understand it. I take no advantage
that every diplomat would not take."
"Then God save me from diplomats!" retorted Vernon.
Collins flushed again, more deeply, and his eyes flashed with sudden
fire.
"Your words verge upon the insulting," he said, after a moment. "I warn
you not to try my patience too far. Perhaps, after this, you will see
fit to choose other company--company more in accord with your really
absurd ideals. But I would remind you of one thing--your career depends
upon this affair. If it succeeds, you succeed. If it fails through any
fault of yours, you are ruined. I assure you the fault will not be
overlooked nor extenuated. You will pay for it!"
Vernon looked at him without answering, but his glance was full of
meaning. Then he turned and left the room.
For a moment his companions stared after him--they had read his glance
aright.
"We'll have to look sharp," said Collins, at last, "or he'll cause us
trouble--he's ripe for it, confound him! We'd better wire the home
office to hurry things up."
"Yes," agreed Blake, "there's no reasoning with a man in love."
"Nor frightening him," added Collins. "I'm afraid I made a mistake
taking that tack. I'll go down and get off a message."
As he opened the door, he fancied that a figure melted into the shadow
at the end of the hall. But his attention was distracted from it, for an
instant later, he heard a step on the stair, and the Prince of Markeld
mounted from the floor below, passed him with the slightest possible
inclination of the head, and continued upward. Collins, staring after
him, standing still as death, heard him enter the apartment of the
Rushfords.
He remained a moment where he was, his heart heavy with foreboding, then
he descended slowly to the office, his head bent, deep in thought. So
preoccupied was he that he did not see the sleek face which leered at
him from the shadow into which the dim figure had vanished.
The spy listened a moment intently; then, with a tread soft as a cat's,
mounted the stair to the floor above.
* * * * *
"Of course, dad," Susie had said, in the early evening, "you will have
to stay at home to-night since the Prince is coming to see you."
"Oh, it's not I he's coming to see," rejoined Rushford, easily. "In
fact, he'll probably be tickled to death to find me out.''
"He's not going to find you out," retorted Susie, firmly. "You're going
to stay right here."
"Nonsense, my dear! Why, when I was courting your mother--"
"What has that to do with it?" demanded Sue, very crimson. "Do you mean
to say that someone is courting someone around here?"
"Of course, every man may be mistaken at times."
"Well, take my word for it, you're badly mistaken this time."
"Oh!" said her father, with assumed astonishment. "Am I? Then what is
all this about?"
"And even if they were," continued Susie, a little unsteadily, "they do
it differently from the American way."
"How do they do it, for heaven's sake?"
"Why, dad, how should I know?"
"You seem to have considerable information on the subject."
"I have enough information to know," retorted Sue, with some heat,
"that in Europe, a young man calls upon the head of the family, and not
upon any of its younger female members."
"I have always understood that Europe was behind the times," observed
her father, "but I never suspected it was as bad as that. However, I
take your word for it--I always do, you know. I suppose you and Nell
will have to stay in your rooms."
"Oh, no," said Sue, "we may be present, so long as our chaperon is
there."
"So I'm to do some chaperoning at last, am I?" queried her father. "The
job has ceased to be a sinecure. I suppose I'll have to do all the
talking, since young girls, of course, may only speak when spoken to and
then must answer with a yes or no. Really, my dear, you're setting
yourself an exceedingly difficult part!"
"Where did you learn so much about it, dad?"
"I'm reasoning by deduction--all this follows from what you've already
told me. Well, I'll do my best to entertain this Dutchman. What does he
talk about? Wiener-wurst and sauerkraut?"
"Oh, no," said Susie, with a reminiscent smile and a heightened colour;
"he talks about things much more interesting than those."
And, indeed, the first moments past, Rushford found the Prince an
entertaining fellow, with a fund of anecdote and experience decidedly
unusual. But conversations of this sort are rarely worth recording; the
less so in this instance, since the Prince had taken care to seat
himself where he had a good view of the enchanting Susie, and that
vision more than once caused his thoughts to wander. Still, they
discussed America and Europe, art, nature, the universe--none of which
has anything to do with this story--everything, in short, except the
warm, palpitating human heart, with which we are principally
concerned--and it was very late before the Prince finally arose to go.
Sue whispered her thanks as she kissed her father good-night.
"Good old daddy!" she said, and patted him on the cheek. "And it wasn't
such a trial, after all, was it?"
Her father looked down at her quizzically.
"No, my dear," he answered. "In fact, I rather enjoyed it. I fancy he'd
be a mighty interesting talker if there weren't any distractions around.
Not that I blame him," he added, hastily. "I was that way myself once
upon a time," and he bent and kissed her tenderly again.
Susie, before her glass, stared at herself long and earnestly, then took
down her hair and proceeded to arrange it in various ways. At last, she
got out a diamond bracelet, placed it tiara-wise upon her head, and
studied the effect. She was thus engaged when an agitated tap at the
door gave her a mighty start, and she had just time to snatch off the
decoration when Nell burst in, her face white with emotion.
"Why, what is it, Nellie?" cried her sister, springing up.
"I--I've lost it!" gasped Nell, sinking limply into a chair, and
trembling convulsively. "I'm sure--it's been stolen!"
"Lost it!" echoed Sue, reviewing in one quick mental flash Nell's most
valuable possessions. "Not the diamond necklace!"
"Oh, Sue!" wailed Nell. "How can you be so mercenary? Oh, I wish it was
the necklace! But it isn't! It's the note!"
It was Sue's turn to gasp, to turn pale, to sink into a chair.
"The note!" she echoed, hoarsely. "Not Lord Vernon's!"
Nell nodded mutely, her face a study for the Tragic Muse.
"But I thought you destroyed it," said Sue. "You said you were going
to!"
"I know--but I didn't," answered Nell, a faint tinge of pink in her
pallid cheeks. "I--I didn't see the need of destroying it. I supposed
nobody knew, and I--I thought I'd keep it as a--a souvenir, you know. I
had it in my desk. I am sure I locked it before I came down this
evening, but just now I found it open and the note gone."
"Well, and what did you do then?"
"I looked all through the desk--I thought maybe it had slipped out of
sight somehow--but it hadn't--it wasn't there. Then I called the maid,
Julie, and told her something had been stolen. She swore no one had
entered the room since I left it--that no one could have entered it. Of
course, I couldn't tell her about the note, so I sent her away and came
to you. I--I feel like a traitor. I don't know what to do!"
Susie went to her and put her arms about her and drew her close.
"We can't do anything to-night, dear," she said; "that's certain.
To-morrow you must tell Lord Vernon."
She felt Nell quiver at the words and drew her closer still, with
intimate understanding.
"I don't believe he will care so much," she went on, comfortingly.
"Perhaps the note isn't so important as we think. I suppose we should
have destroyed it at once."
"Yes," said Nell, drearily, "I suppose we should. But who could have
foreseen anything like this!"
"The best thing to do now is to go to bed," added Sue, practically, and
she raised her sister and led her back to her room. "In the morning we
can make a thorough search for the note. Perhaps, after all, you
overlooked it."
"I couldn't have overlooked it," answered Nell. "I remember perfectly
placing it in this drawer," she continued, going to the desk and opening
it, "here, just under this pile of note-paper."
"Perhaps it slipped in between the sheets," suggested Sue.
"I thought of that," said Nell, but nevertheless she began mechanically
to open sheet after sheet. As she opened the third one, a little slip of
paper fluttered to the floor.
She sprang upon it with a cry of joy, opened it, glanced at it.
"Thank God!" she said, thickly. "It's all right--it's--"
And she fell forward into Susie's arms.