"Knock out the axle-pin," I cried, "and throw it into that thicket; then
take a horse each, and ride for assistance."
I spoke in the same tone as I might have ordered my coffee, but who,
save my own servants, would have carried out such inane orders without
an implied protest? "Go to the blacksmith in the first village you come
to."
So they left me, and I, like the lost princess of a fairy-tale, stood by
my broken-down carriage, and awaited the Prince, for I knew he must ride
this way, and it pleased me that we thus should meet.
A glance in the mirror of my travelling-case stilled any doubts I might
have had. I was free from the dust of travel; indeed, I had driven but
five kilometres that it might be so. An ostrich-feather-trimmed cloak of
silver gray suited me to perfection, and the evening light, with just
the fading glow in the sky, was most becoming.
Presently the cantering of a horse upon the road told me of the approach
of him whom I awaited. I wearily rested my head upon my hand, and leaned
against the carriage, and so absorbed did I become in my woman's
thoughts as to what manner of man he would be, that it was his voice
that roused me to the knowledge of his presence.
I glanced upward, and he pleased me well. A man rather above the average
height, well knit and athletic, with clear-cut, sensitive features, a
slight mustache, a kindly look of good-temper in his frank, blue eyes,
and a cap set jauntily upon the side of his head of curling hair.
Scarcely the man, I thought, to be the easy dupe of a vulgar
adventuress; but the world is so strange.
He vaulted lightly from his horse, and, cap in hand, walked towards me;
and I saw the look that I have seen in the eyes of other men come into
his.
He did not crave pardon for speaking. He came as a man of the world to a
woman in distress; came and counted there could be no offence.
"You have had an accident," he said; "can I be of service to you?"
"It is nothing," I answered, with a swift glance into his eyes; "my
servants have gone to seek a blacksmith, or a coach-builder."
"The nearest is twenty kilometres away: we are far from civilization at
Lecrese; you cannot wait until they return."
"And the nearest village?"
"Five kilometres."
I gazed around in some perplexity up to the sky, where the rosy tints
were fading from the fleecy clouds, and then back into his face for
inspiration. "If you are riding that way," I said, "I will ask you to
send me a carriage from there."
He laughed a merry, good-tempered laugh, as though a child had asked for
the moon, and again reminded me of our distance from civilization.
"Can you walk five kilometres?" he asked, with such a serious look upon
his face that I smiled with amusement.
"Of course," I answered; "do you take me for an old woman?"
"No," he cried, with boyish emphasis; "only I thought, perhaps--"
"Perhaps I was one of those poor creatures to whom exertion is
purgatory. Show me the road, please."
"It is the one I am taking myself."
"Which, although an interesting announcement, scarcely suffices to
indicate the direction," I murmured.
"I mean, if you will permit, we will walk together."
"For the moment, at least," I cried, "circumstances have made the
highway our joint property: then let us share companionship for mutual
benefit;" and I drew my cloak about my shoulders, while he, laughing a
strange little laugh, as though he scarcely understood me, swung his
horse's bridle on his arm, and we strolled along together.
What need to recount what happened upon that walk, for have I not said
that it was a dangerous place for a foolish youth and a designing woman?
What need either to speak of other days when we met by chance again, and
I saw a glow of pleasure in his face; what need to speak of his moments
of gloom, when, even as we talked, the light went out of his eyes; and
I, who have felt the pulse of love so often that I know its every beat,
told myself that he was wondering how he was to break with the other
woman, the one whom I had never met.
And I, too, felt ill at ease; the country is so different from the
capital. In the life that I had lived, to-night's dangerous
_tete-a-tete_ was forgotten in the rush of to-morrow's engagements, but
here it was different; I yearned for finality, and a release from a
position that was becoming embarrassing.
Deprived of the company of my cavalier, I walked alone in the woods of
Lecrese, priding myself that victory was mine, and in yet a few days I
might say to him that I journeyed to Paris in full confidence that he
would follow me.
Then, in the silence of the sultry afternoon, I heard his voice, and
another in reply, that told me that if I chose to play the eavesdropper
I might behold my rival, the actress; and I did choose, because I was
upon a diplomatic mission, and--because I am a woman.
Through a cluster of bushes I gently forced my way, sighing as a jealous
thorn caught me and ripped a strip from my silken mantle; and then,
drawing the branches upon one side, I looked into the glade, where she
was resting upon the trunk of a fallen tree. He sat by her
side--and--angels defend us!--held her hand.
Though it be against my desires, the truth is the truth. She was not
painted, neither was she old, or even plain, and, worst of all, as she
sat listening to him there was a look upon her face that spoke
faithfully to me that she loved him.
And he looked back at her with the reflection of the same light within
his eyes.
Yet, what a clever little adventuress she was. I laughed scornfully to
myself as they continued their conversation.
"What are these distinctions that the world calls difference of class?"
she said, in a thoughtful voice. "Who has ordained that this man and
that woman shall marry because they are on the same social scale?"
"Why talk of such things?" he answered. "How can it affect us? I am a
poor student--"
"And I a poorer girl," she interrupted, "on a visit all too brief."
"On a visit that must last forever. I worship you, and you love me."
"I have not said so," she murmured, so softly that I could scarcely
catch the words.
"Your eyes have told me; you will not sacrifice our love."
"Oh, if I were only a man," she said, placing both hands upon his
shoulders.
"What, then, my love?" and he would have embraced her.
"Nothing," she answered, and the look in her eyes restrained him. "Let
us go."
They passed on together, and I could not but smile at the manner in
which the wretched little flirt pretended to keep him from her, and yet
with every action strengthened the chain that bound him.
Then as they moved onward I discreetly followed, for I had fixed in my
mind that I would spoil this rustic love-making, and show her that I
knew her for what she was.
Not a poor girl, as she was pleased to term herself, but a common
actress from some booth of Montmartre, a skilled adventuress, who had
set herself to delude a foolish boy, knowing what was to be gained
thereby. And in truth he was a foolish boy, a most annoying one, a most
deceitful one, for I had made no progress when I had counted all was
won.
He left her at the gate of a tiny cottage, and, as soon as the bend in
the road had hidden him from view, I walked through the garden, and,
lifting the latch, boldly entered.
Mademoiselle had removed her hat, and stood resting her head against the
latticed window, gazing up the path that he had taken.
She turned as I entered, and stood looking towards me, and yet not with
so very much wonderment, for suddenly she broke into a smile.
"You have entered to rest a while," she said. "You are welcome; we are
not altogether strangers, for I have heard so much of you."
"Heard of me?" I queried, rather sharply, for this girl seemed to have
the manners of such as myself.
"Certainly," she replied, still smiling; "you are the _grand dame_ whose
carriage broke down, and who is so charmed with the rustic delights of
Lecrese that she prolongs her stay indefinitely," and there was a tinge
of becoming satire in her voice.
"How do you know that?"
"You are the only one who would walk in the woods in a costume fit only
for driving in the Bois de Boulogne," she answered, and I flushed with
annoyance, for she looked so cool, while I was hot with the glowing of
the sun and the burning of my temper.
"We cannot all pretend to rustic innocence, mademoiselle."
"Nor succeed, if we did, madame," she retorted, and then the flash of
anger left her face. "You will forgive me," she cried, taking my hand.
"I forget myself; you will rest and take tea with me."
I would have bargained my soul for a cup of tea, but I ignored the
offer, and continued, "I have come to speak with you on a matter of
importance."
"Be seated," she answered, coldly, and she, too, sat and waited.
She plagued me because of her calmness and dignity, the air of
superiority she assumed towards me.
"Don't you think this farce has been played long enough, mademoiselle?"
I asked, scornfully, and she merely raised her eyebrows, and maintained
her unruffled composure.
"This Arcadian love-making," I cried, reddening with vexation, "this
whispering of paradise, this thistle-down entanglement. Don't you think
it is time to say good-bye?"
"Quite," she answered, with supreme contempt. "Good-bye," and she
returned to the window.
Then something--who can follow the subtle changes that occur in a
woman's heart?--something came into mine, and instead of anger I felt a
pang of pity for the girl who so disdained me. I walked towards her, and
laid my hand upon her arm.
"You know it must be so," I said.
"Yes, it must be so."
"He is of one world and you of another."
"You know that?" she said, in surprise.
"Yes, I know who you are, and who he is. Your words in the wood an hour
since were romance, and romance is out of date. It is impossible. Your
paths lie asunder: you must take yours, and leave him his."
I had placed my arm around her shoulder, and somehow the contempt I felt
for this play-actress had vanished, and my eyes were misty as she turned
hers towards me. Then in a second she was crying softly in my arms.
"You will say good-bye," I whispered.
"Yes," she answered, her face still hidden, "I will say good-bye."
"To-day?"
"Yes, to-day--within an hour he will return, and then, with courage
taken into both my hands, I will say good-bye. I have been sadly
foolish, and now I will break his heart because I wasted wisdom until
too late."
I did not tell her that men's hearts, and the hearts of princes in
particular, do not break so easily. Neither did I say that the heart
that fluttered against my own was nearer breaking than his would ever
be, but I kissed her again, and so we waited until we heard his
Highness's whistle, as he approached the gate, and, gaining no response,
walked up to the door and knocked.
"Come in," I cried, for her permission was so choked that it could not
reach him, and he entered and stood gazing in annoyed bewilderment.
"You, madame?"
"I, monsieur."
"What does this mean?"
She walked across and took his hand, holding it tightly between both her
own.
"Only this, dear," she whispered, "we have had our dream, and now the
awakening comes. It was all my fault, and you must leave me, and forget
we ever met--but, no, do not forget; remember me as the wickedest woman
whom you have ever known. The one who falsely won your love, and then
spurned it, and left you with only a bitter knowledge of the evil of the
world."
"You mean that you have fooled me, and do not love me?" he said,
stonily.
"Yes, I have fooled you," she answered, and she seemed to shrink beneath
the lie that her love told her would teach him the sooner to forget.
"And you do not love me?" he repeated, his face growing gray in the
glowing sunlight.
"I do not love you," she answered, and the boy believed her.
"Good-bye," he said; "shall I murmur my gratitude for the few hours of
happiness in my fool's paradise?"
Then, while the sneers still hovered around his lips, while I counted
all was ended, she flung her arms around him, and drew his head down,
until his cheek touched hers.
"Not so, my own," she sobbed, "not so; we must part, but not like this.
I cannot live if you should think me so worthless. We must part; you
must go one way and I the other, but I love you, dear, I love you."
"Mademoiselle," I cried, sharply, "this is mere childishness, this is
the weakest folly;" and she, with her eyes glistening, turned again from
him, and answered, wearily:
"Yes, 'tis folly, 'tis madness--good-bye."
"No," he cried, wildly, "you shall not go!"
"She must--she shall," I answered, angrily.
"Are you bereft of reason that you would so disgrace yourself--your
State?"
"It is no disgrace to marry the noblest woman this world has seen," he
retorted, hotly, and I admired him for the blaze of passion in his eyes.
"You speak like a child," I cried. "She says good-bye because she knows
that you must part. Prince Ferdinand of Elvirna cannot wed a nobody."
"Prince Ferdinand!" she gasped, and, stepping back a pace, gazed through
her tears into his face.
"Eh! Prince Ferdinand," he answered, in scorn, "and curse the day that
made me so. I am no struggling student. Curse the day that made me
Prince, I say! Curse the day!"
"Prince Ferdinand," she repeated, and I thought the girl must be
bewitched, for she smiled.
I caught him by the arm and drew him towards me, for I could see by the
look on her face that she was no scheming adventuress.
"If there be disgrace," I cried, witheringly, "it is yours. You came
with deceit and falsehood. You won her heart, pretending to be such as
she, no better in the world's eyes, and no worse."
"Were I Prince a thousand times over, and a thousand times on that," he
answered, softly, "I would give it all for her."
"Happily, there must be two to the bargain, and she is too true a woman
to hold you, when she knows it means your social ruin."
"On the contrary, madame; now I know he is what he is I will marry him."
Her face was wreathed in smiles, smiles that had chased away the mist of
sorrow's tears, and I shuddered as I realized that I had brought about
the very end that I came to prevent.
"You will marry him?" I gasped.
"_Oui_, madame," she replied, and courtesied to the ground. "You know
me. Are we not what the world calls eligibles?"