semaine_ not to play!"
He put his hand cordially on Bulstrode's arm.
"Entre nous," he said, "I don't believe Falconer's horse has a chance
against Rothschild's Grimace. And you?"
"Oh, I shall back Jack Falconer's mare," the older man replied.
The Marquis played with his moustache. "She doesn't stand a show."
Bulstrode was walking slowly down the grand staircase by his
companion's side. "And you will back Grimace?" He ignored the young
man's prognostication.
De Presle-Vaulx said ingenuously: "_I_? Oh, seriously, I'm not
betting. I lost at baccarat last night, and I haven't a sou for the
race."
He looked boyish and regretful. The American put his hand in his
pocket and took out his portefeuille.
"Let me," he suggested pleasantly, "be your banker."
The light dry rustle of French bank-notes came agreeably from between
his fingers.
The young man hesitated, then put out his hand.
"A thousand thanks, Monsieur, you are too good--I _will_ back Grimace,
and after the race----"
Jimmy handed him the notes to choose from.
At the stair foot stood Molly and Mrs. Falconer.
"We went this afternoon to see Jack's horse," Miss Malines said to the
Marquis. Whatever she said, no matter how general, she said to
him--others might gather what they could. "Bon Jour's a beauty--a
dear, and as fit as possible. Oh, she's in great form! Jack's crazy
about her, and so is the jockey. I know Bon Jour will win! I'm going
to put twenty-five francs on her to-morrow."
Mary Falconer smiled radiantly. "And you, Jimmy," she took for
granted, "are of course betting on the favorite?"
"If you mean Grimace--" his tone was indifferent--"no, I shall back
your husband's horse."
"_Jimmy_!" Her tone changed, and her expression as well.
De Presle-Vaulx saw it, and he knew what women's voices can mean. He
was a Frenchman, and he understood what a slow, delicious flush, a
darkening of the eyes, a sharp note in the voice can signify of
feeling--as well as of gratitude, surprise and a little scorn. There
was all this in Mary Falconer's exclamation and her face.
"And Maurice!" Molly said, "of course, you're doing the same?"
The Marquis met his fiancee's clear eyes, her girlish enthusiasm and
her confidence. He bit his lip, shrugged, hesitated, looked at
Bulstrode, at Molly, and laughed. The presence of the others and the
custom of his country made it only a pretty courtesy--he lifted Molly's
hand to his lips.
"Of course--_chere Mademoiselle_, I am backing Bon Jour with all my
heart, _cela va sans dire_!"
Miss Malines regarded her friend with a pretty grimace and a smile.
As they walked along together all four, Bulstrode said to himself:
"He's a sport, a true sport--that's five thousand francs to the bad.
He was game, however, he's a good sport and, better yet, he's a true
lover!"
Whether or not Mary Falconer really had an exalted idea of the merits
of Bon Jour, or whether she thoroughly understood the situation, how
was her friend to know?
Falconer adored the horse, and the lady showed in the matter, as in
everything else, a fine loyalty to her husband, which was undoubtedly
one of the reasons why--but this is going too deeply into the domain of
Bulstrode's feelings, which, since he keeps them honorably sealed, it
is unworthy to surprise even in the interest of psychology.
Bulstrode saw that his friend was pleased: her color, her mounting
spirits at dinner, showed it. She spoke with interest of the races,
and with confidence greater than she had hitherto evinced in the
fortunes of her husband's racer--indeed she talked horse to Molly's
edification, her husband's delight, and Bulstrode's admiration. All
this--the sense that the party was, so to speak, with him--put Jack
Falconer in the best of spirits, and the unruffled course of the
dinner, and, above all, the humor of the elder of the two ladies, quite
repaid Jimmy Bulstrode for the sure loss of his stakes.
"Does she really think that I have faith in the horse?" he
wondered---meeting her charming eyes over the glass of champagne she
was drinking. They did not answer in text his question, but their glow
and the light of content in them answered for him other questions which
were perhaps of greater interest.
She was not unhappy. All his life, since his acquaintance with her, it
had been his aim, in so far as he could aid it, that she should not be
unhappy. His idea of affection was that in all cases it should bring
to the object--joy. In his own life these things which brought him, no
matter how pleasant they might be, the after taste of regret and misery
he strove with all his manliness to tear out: "and surely," he so
argued, "if my presence in her life cause her for one moment anything
but peace, it would be better that we had never looked into each
other's eyes."
There was nothing especially buoyant, in the attitude of the young
Marquis! His inclination to feminine will had cost him--he was so
familiar with the turf and the next day's programme to feel sure--five
thousand francs, which he had not the means to pay.
Later in the evening, very much later, indeed well on to one o'clock,
Bulstrode, wandering through the baccarat rooms--for no other purpose,
it would be said from his indifferent air, than to study types--saw
Maurice de Presle-Vaulx just leaving the Casino.
Bulstrode's air was as friendly and as naive as though he had not a
pretty clear idea of just how the tide of events was fluctuating toward
misfortune in the case of this young nobleman.
"What do you say," he suggested, "to getting something to drink or eat?
What do you say to a piece of _perdreau_ and some champagne?"
The Frenchman followed the older man, who in contrast to his pallor
looked the picture of health and spirits. Bulstrode cheerily led him
to a small table in the corner of the restaurant, where they sat
opposite one another, and for a little time applied themselves in
silence to the light supper served them.
The Marquis drank more than he ate, and Bulstrode dutifully finished
the game and toast, quite glad, in truth, to break the fast of a long
evening which he had spent in the close rooms: for no other reason than
unseen, to befriend--and unasked, to chaperone Molly's lover. Finally,
when he felt that the right moment to say something had come, he smiled
at the young man, and said frankly:
"Voyons, mon ami, don't you feel that you can talk to me a little more
freely than you could possibly to even so kind and charming a friend as
Mrs. Falconer? We are not of the same race, perhaps, but then under
certain circumstances such distinctions are not important. How do
you"--he handled the words as though in presenting them to the young
man he was afraid they might prick him--"How do _you_ now stand?--I
mean to say, the luck has been rather against you, I'm afraid."
Bulstrode would never be so near forty again, and De Presle-Vaulx was a
spoiled child--at all events, all that could be spoiled in him had been
taken care of by his mother, and in his own way he had spoiled a large
part of what remained. He looked up smartly, for he had been following
the pattern of the table-cloth. If the frankness of the other
threatened to offend him, as he met the kind eyes of the American he
found nothing there that could do otherwise than please him. He
shrugged with his national habit, then threw out his hands without
making any verbal reply, but his smile and his gesture comprehended so
much that Bulstrode intelligently exclaimed:
"Oh, but you don't mean to _say_----?"
"I have not, monsieur, much to lose," the scion of an old house replied
simply. "We have the reputation of being poor; but to-night and last
night have quite 'wiped me out,' as you say in America. Je suis ruine."
Bulstrode lit his cigar. De Presle-Vaulx took from his pocket one of
his own cigarettes and puffed at it gently. Bulstrode smoked silently,
and thought of the young man without looking at him. He liked him, and
did not understand him at all: not at all! He supposed, that with his
different traditions, his Puritanism, his New World point of view, he
could _never_ understand him, but he would enjoy trying to do so, for
aside from the quality of spoiled boy, there was something of the man
in De Presle-Vaulx to which the New Englander extremely responded.
His next remark was impersonal:
"Bon Jour, then, you think is not likely----?"
"_Mon cher Monsieur_! ... She is not even mentioned for place! Even in
the event of her winning," De Presle-Vaulx was gloomy, "I should be
able to discharge my debt to you and nothing more." Again he looked up
quickly. "I shall, of course, be quite able to discharge _that_; I
only mean to say that _en somme_, I am _roule completement roule_."
"What, then, are you going to do?"
De Presle-Vaulx looked at the end of his cigarette as though he took
counsel from it, and said measuredly:
"There is, in my position, but one thing possible for a man to do."
"You mean to say, marry, make a rich marriage?"
The Marquis flashed at him:
"A month ago, yes! that would have been the one way out of my
embarrassment: but I am no longer in the market. It is the other
alternative."
Bulstrode in no case caring to hear put in words a tragically
disagreeable means of solving the problems of debt and love, and having
less faith in this extravagant, explosive alternative than in the
_marriage de convenance_, did not urge the Frenchman further. He
simply brought out--his quiet eyes fixed on the other:
"And the little girl?--Molly--Miss Malines?----"
He gave him three chances to think of the pretty child, and for the
first De Presle-Vaulx's expression changed. He had with a nonchalance
submitted to the discussion of his fortune and his fate, but now he
distinctly showed dignity.
"Don't, I beg of you, _speak_ of Mademoiselle Malines!" and then he
said more gently, "mille pardons, mon cher ami!"
Bulstrode smoked his Garcia meditatively. He had not attempted the
solving of other people's questions, had not played the good fairy for
a long time. He had the hazy feeling--such as he often experienced
just before stepping into the mysterious excitement of doing some good
deed, of undergoing the effects of a narcotic which put to sleep reason
and practical common-sense, and left alive only a desire to befriend.
In this case, determined not again to be the victim of sentimentality,
determined for once to unite common sense and common humanity, he
forcibly dissipated the haze and said:
"Your family! I have, as you know, understood from Mrs. Falconer, the
facts of the case. You must not be formal with me." He smiled
delightfully. "I am an American; you know we have all sorts of
barbarous privileges. We rush in quite where the older races fear to
tread ... and Molly Malines' father is an old friend of mine."
(Mr. Bulstrode did not say what kind of an old friend! or even allow
himself to remember the I.O.U.s and loans that his bankers had made to
the visionary, good-humored, sanguine, unfortunate stockbroker.)
"Your family--how do they take the idea of your marriage to a poor
American?"
De Presle-Vaulx pushed his coffee cup aside, leaned his arms on the
table, bent over, and said with more confidence:
"Oh, they are entirely opposed to it. That's one reason, to be quite
frank with you, why I have been so reckless."
He added: "My mother has refused her consent, and I can never hope to
alter my father's attitude. I have their letters to-day as well as
telegrams from Presle-Vaulxoron--they bid me 'come home immediately,'
and so far as my people are concerned, their refusal puts an end to the
affair!"
There was a mixture of amusement and reproach in Bulstrode's tone--"and
you have found nothing better to do than to throw away at baccarat what
money you had, and have found no other solution for the future than
to...?" he eyed the young man keenly, and a proper severity came into
his expression. "Nonsense," he said, and repeated the word with more
indulgence: "nonsense, _mon ami_!"
His reproof was borne:
"We are an old race, M. Bulstrode----"
Bulstrode had heard this allocution before. It gave lee-way to so
much; permitted so much; excused so much!
"... I don't need to tell you our traditions, or recall our customs.
You of course know them. If I marry without my parents' consent I
shall probably, during my mother's lifetime, never see her again, and I
am her only son. It means that I sever all relations with my people."
Bulstrode knocked the ash off his cigar and said thoughtfully:
"It's too bad! A choice, if there _is_ one, is always too bad. There
should in real things _be_ no choice. As soon as such a contingent
arises, it proves that neither thing is really worth while! When a man
loves a woman there can be no choice. My dear friend, when a
_man_"--he paused--"loves--there is nothing in the world _but the
woman_."
The Marquis looked at the fine face of the elder man. Years had, with
their gentle history, and kindly records, touched Jimmy Bulstrode
lightly. Every experience made him better to look at; "like a good
picture," Mrs. Falconer had said, "painted by a master, and only
growing more splendid." Nothing of the worldliness of the roue marked
his expression. His memories were clear and honorable, and the
Frenchman experienced a sensation of surprise and also one of
enlightenment as he looked at him and responded to his expression. He
had never seen any one quite like this man of the world, could not
think of his prototype in France.
He repeated:
"Nothing but the woman in the world--? Honor--" Bulstrode quickly
added, "and the woman--they are synonymous."
In watching his companion he wondered in how much of a tangle the
Frenchman's mind was, and just how deep his feet were sunk in the
meshes of conventionality and tradition, and decided: "Oh, is it too
much to believe that he could----!"
As if in answer to his thoughts, De Presle-Vaulx spoke in the simplest
manner possible:
"J'aime Molly."
Quite surprised at the simplicity, Bulstrode beamed on him and waited.
Then the other added:
"But I can't ask any woman to share poverty and debts, and I have no
way of making a living; I'm not bred for it."
"You are not an invalid?"
"On the contrary."
"You can work."
De Presle-Vaulx smiled: "I am afraid not! No De Presle-Vaulx has done
a stroke of work in three hundred years."
"It's time, then"--Bulstrode was tart--"that you broke the record. Why
don't you?" He said as though suddenly illumined--"make me your
banker, draw on me for whatever sum you will, and since you have faith
in her and are so well supported by the public opinion--bet on Grimace.
I believe, with you, that he is sure to win. You would recoup much of
your loss here."
De Presle-Vaulx pushed back his chair and exclaimed: "Monsieur!"
"Oh," shrugged Bulstrode, "a woman's caprice, my dear fellow! A
foolish little whim of a girl! You can't be expected to mix sport and
flirtation to the tune of two or three thousand dollars."
He smiled deceptively.
The young man laughed bitterly:
"So that is something of what you think of me? for I see you are not
serious! It's a folly, of course, a sentimental folly," he met
Bulstrode's eyes that silently accused him of a like--"but only a man
in love knows what sentimental follies are worth! There is"--the young
man was suddenly serious, "a sort of prodigality in love only
understood by certain temperaments, certain races: it may be
degenerate: I suppose it is, and to push it quite to the last phase,
is, of course, cowardly, certainly very weak, and men like you,
Monsieur, will deem it so."
"You mean--?" and now Bulstrode's tone urged him to make himself clear.
"I mean," said De Presle-Vaulx firmly, "rather than renounce this woman
I adore I will without doubt--(given the tangle in which the whole
matter is!...") and he could not for the life of him put his intention
into words. He smiled nevertheless unmistakably. Bulstrode leaned
across the table and put his hand on the other's arm.
"Then you don't love her well enough not to break her heart? Or well
enough to live a commonplace life for her?"
"I don't know how to do it."
"Well," said Bulstrode, "I have run upon quite a good many hard
moments, perhaps some, in their way, as difficult as this, and I have
never thought of getting out of the muddle. Perhaps it _is_ a
question, as you say, of temperament and race. I am inclined also to
think, stubbornly, that it is a question of the quality of the love
that one has for the woman. You won't think it impertinent of me, my
dear friend,"--and his tone was such that no one could have thought it
impertinent--"you won't, I am sure, take it amiss if we talk this over
to-morrow, and if I try to show you something that means _life_,
instead of what you plan."
"You know you as good as stood for De Presle-Vaulx."
Bulstrode held Mrs. Falconer's parasol, her fan, as well as a gold bag
purse full of louis, a handkerchief and his own cane and field-glass.
For the lady, standing on a chair the better to see the race-track, was
applauding with enthusiasm the result of the first handicap. She had
placed a bet on a horse called Plum-Branch "from a feeling of
sentiment," as she said, because she had, that day, quite by chance,
selected a hat with a decorative plum-branch amongst other garnitures.
"I am _standing_, certainly, Jimmy," she replied to his remark, "and to
the peril of my high heels!-- _There_, I've won! and won't you, like an
angel, go and cash my bets?--give me the purse, you might have your
hand picked! You can put my winnings in your pocket; they're not so
enormous."
During his absence she watched the scene around her with animation.
The spotless day, if one might so call it, when the sky and the turf
and the whole world looked as though washed clean, and nature, seen in
the warm sunlight, seemed to palpitate and flutter in the wind that
gently stirred ends of ribbon or tips of plumes, and set the fragrance
of the country air astir. Back of the lady the tribune was like a
floral display: here and there a corner red as roses, there a mass of
lily-white dresses enlivened by pink and blue parasols, and the green
_pesage_ stretched between the spectators and the race-track in bands
of emerald, whilst across it promenaded or stood in groups those
interested in the races. Mrs. Falconer acknowledged a friend here and
there, glanced affectionately over to where Molly and the Marquis,
seated near, fixed their attention on the race-course, where the
winner, flying his blue ribbon, cantered triumphantly around the track.
One of a little group Falconer, the worse for many cocktails, stood by
the railing, talking familiarly with his jockey, whilst Bon Jour,
blanketed to the eyes, was being led up and down the outside track
alongside of her rival, Rothschild's Grimace.
Bulstrode returning, gave his friend a handful of gold, which she put
into her purse, and he repeated: "You remember that you stood, as it
were, for De Presle-Vaulx?"
"I do," she said, "if you think the race-course is the place to take me
to account for anything so serious, I do remember, and I do stand.
What is the trouble that he needs me?"
"He needs," Bulstrode was serious, "a good many things, it seems to me,
in order to get firmly on the plane where he should be!"
"And that is----?"
"On his feet, my dear friend."
"Well, he is head over heels in love," she nodded, "but when he finally
lands I think you will find Maurice perfectly perpendicular."
"He won't," returned the other, "at all events, land in the bosom of
his family."
"No?"--she looked away from the race-course and laughed--"you mean to
say, Jimmy, has he heard, then?"
"I mean to say that _they_ are quite clear in their minds about his
marriage! They seem to have all the firmness that the young man lacks.
Tell me," he asked his friend, "just what do you know about the matter?
What happened that you so strongly took up his cause with Molly? You
have not told me yet."
She relinquished the interests of the moment to those of the
sentimental question.
"It seems," she said, lowering her tone, "that they have been secretly
engaged for a year. Nothing that an American girl can do would
surprise me, but you can imagine that I was overwhelmed at his part in
the matter. When Molly joined me in Fontainebleau, De Presle-Vaulx
promptly followed, and I naturally obliged her to tell me everything.
I was dismayed at the lack of _tenue_ he had shown. I had a plain talk
with him. He said that he had first met Molly at some dance or other
in the American colony, I don't know where; that he understood that
American girls disposed of their own lives; that he loved her and
wanted to marry her, and that he was only waiting to gain the consent
of his family before writing to her father. He seemed delighted to
talk with me and perfectly conventional in his feelings. He further
told me that his parents until now knew nothing, that he had not been
able to tear himself away from Molly long enough to go down to the
country where they were and see them. I forced him to write at once;
exacted myself that until he received their answer there should be
nothing between Molly and him but the merest distant acquaintance. I
did not know that he had heard from the Marquise or his father. You
seemed to have suddenly entirely gained his confidence and taken my
place." She looked over at the young couple. "Poor Molly!" she
exclaimed. "He has not, I should say, told her: she looks so happy and
so serene! It's of course only a question of _dot_, otherwise there
could be no possible objection. She is perfectly beautiful, the
sweetest creature in the world; and she is a born Marquise!"
Bulstrode interrupted her impatiently:
"It would be more to the purpose if he were a born bread-winner and she
were a dairy-maid!"
"Jimmy, how vulgar you are!"
"Very--" he was wonderfully sarcastic for him--"money is a very vulgar
thing, my dear friend; it's as vulgar as air and bread and butter. It
is like all other clean, decent vulgarity, it can be abused, but it's
necessary to life."
Mrs. Falconer opened her eyes wide on this new Bulstrode.
"Why, what has happened to you?"
He made a comprehensive gesture: "Oh, I am always supporting a family!"
he said with an amusing attempt at irritability. "I am always
supporting a family that is not mine, that does not sit at my
hearthstone or at my table. I am always marrying other people to some
one else, and dressing other people's children!"
He finished with a laugh: "There, No. 5 is up! Aren't you interested
in this race?"
Mrs. Falconer and Bulstrode had walked a little from where the young
couple chattered indifferent to everything but each other.
"No; I am only interested in what you are saying. What have you
planned to do or thought out for them, Jimmy? What do your rebellious
phrases imply? _Are_ you really going to make a home for----?"
Bulstrode said stubbornly. "No! I am going to show him how to make
one for himself."
He stopped short where he stood: he had resumed the care of her
parasol, her fan, and purse.
Her face, as she took in his exposition of his plan for the
regeneration of a decayed nobility, was inscrutable. Instead of
exclaiming, she stopped to speak a moment to some people who passed,
shook hands with the owner of the favorite, and when they were once
again alone said to her friend:
"Isn't it too delightful! the whole scene? I mean to say, how
perfectly they do it all. How thoroughly gay it is, how debonnair,
graceful, and _bien compris_. Look at the wonderful color of the
_pesage_, and the life of the whole thing! These Latin most thoroughly
understand the art of living. You scarcely ever see a care-worn face
in France. Look at Jack now! Did you ever see such anxiety as he
represents? If Bon Jour is beaten I don't know _what_ will become of
him. What shall I do with him?"
Bulstrode's interest on this subject was tepid.
"Oh, he'll be all right!" he said indifferently. "Take him to the
Dublin Horse Fair."
And then as though she had not capriciously left the other topic, Mrs.
Falconer asked:
"Just what _is_ your plan for Molly and her Marquis? May I not know?"