Paul Verdayne had many acquaintances and friends in New York, and much
against their inclination he and the Boy soon found themselves absorbed
in the whirl of frivolities. They were not very favorably impressed. It
was all too extravagant for their Old World tastes--not too magnificent,
for they both loved splendor--but it shouted its cost too loudly in
their ears, and grated on their nerves and shocked their aesthetic
sense.
The Boy was a favorite everywhere, even more so, perhaps, than in
London. American society saw no mystery about him, and would not have
cared if it had. If his face seemed somewhat familiar, as it often had
to Opal Ledoux, no one puzzled his brains over it or searched the
magazines to place it. New York accepted him, as it accepts all
distinguished foreigners who have no craving for the limelight of
publicity, for his face value, and enjoyed him thoroughly. Women petted
him, because he was so witty and chivalrous and entertaining, and always
as exquisitely well-groomed as any belle among them; men were attracted
to him because he had ideas and knew how to express them. He was worth
talking to and worth listening to. He had formed opinions of his own
upon most subjects. He had thought for himself and had the courage of
his convictions, and Americans like that.
Naturally enough, before many days, at a fashionable ball at the Plaza
he came into contact with Opal Ledoux again.
It was a new experience, this, to see the girl he loved surrounded by
the admiration and attention of other men. In his own infatuation he had
not realized that most men would be affected by her as he was, would
experience the same maddening impulses--the same longing--the same
thirst for possession of her. Now the fact came home to him with the
force of an electric shock. He could not endure the burning glances of
admiration that he saw constantly directed toward her. What right had
other men to devour her with their eyes?
He hastened to meet her. She greeted him politely but coldly, expressing
some perfunctory regret when he asked for a dance, and showing him that
her card was already filled. And then her partner claimed her, and she
went away on his arm, smiling up into his face in a way she had that
drove men wild for her. "The wicked little witch!" Paul thought. "Would
she make eyes at every man like that? Dare she?"
A moment after, he heard her name, and instantly was all attention. The
two men just behind him were discussing her rather freely--far too
freely for the time and the place--and the girl, in Paul's estimation.
He listened eagerly.
"Bold little devil, that Ledoux girl!" said one. "God! how she is
playing her little game to-night! They say she is going to marry that
old French Count, de Roannes! That's the fellow over there, watching her
with the cat's eyes. I guess he thinks she means to have her fling
first--and I guess she thinks so too! As usual, it's the spectator who
sees the best of the game. What a curious girl she is--a living
paradox!"
"How's that?"
"Spanish, you know. Ought to have black hair instead of red--black eyes
instead of--well, chestnut about expresses the color of hers. I call
them witch's eyes, they're so full of fire and--the devil!"
"She's French, too, isn't she? That accounts for the eyes. The _beauté
du diable_, hers is! Couldn't she make a heaven for a man if she
would--or a hell?"
"Yes, it's in her! She's doomed, you know! Her grandmothers before her
were bad women--regular witches, they say, with a good, big streak of
yellow. Couldn't keep their heads on their shoulders--couldn't be
faithful to any one man. Don't know as they tried!"
"I'll bet they made it interesting for the fellow while it did last,
anyway! But this one will never be happy. She has a tragedy in her face,
if ever a woman had. But she's a man's woman, all right, and she'd make
life worth living if a fellow had any red blood in him. She's one of
those women who are born for nothing else in the world but to love, and
be loved. Can't you shoot the Count?"
"The Count!--Hell! He won't be considered at all after a little! She'll
find plenty of men glad to wake the devil in her--just to keep her from
yawning! But she's not very tractable even now, though her sins all lie
ahead of her! She's altogether too cool on the surface for her make-up,
but--well, full of suggestion, and one feels a volcano surging and
steaming just below the mask she wears, and has an insane desire to wake
it up! That kind of woman simply can't help it."
A third voice broke in on the conversation--an older voice--the voice of
a man who had lived and observed much.
"I saw her often as a child," he said, "a perilously wilful child,
determined upon her own way, and possessed of her own fancies about
this, that, and the other, which were seldom, if ever, the ideas of
anyone else. There was always plenty of excitement where she was--always
that same disturbing air! Even with her pigtails and pinafores, one
could see the woman in her eyes. But she was a provoking little
creature, always dreaming of impossible romances. Her father had his
hands full."
"As her husband will have, poor devil! If he's man enough to hold her,
all right. If he is not," with a significant shrug of the shoulders,
"it's his own lookout!"
"That old French _roué_ hold her? You're dreaming! She won't be faithful
to him a week--if he has a handsome valet, or a half-way manly groom!
How could she?" And they laughed coarsely.
The Boy gave them a look that should have annihilated all three, but
they weren't noticing the Boy. He could have throttled them! How dared
such lips as these pollute his darling's name! And yet these were
society men--they could dance with her, clasp her to them, and look into
those "witch eyes"--oh, the ignominy of it!
He looked across at Opal. How beautiful she was in her pale green gown,
her white shoulders and arms glistening beneath the electric light with
the sheen of polished marble, her red-brown hair glowing with its fiery
lure, while even across the room her eyes sparkled like diamonds,
lighting up her whole face. She was certainly enjoying herself--this
Circe who had tempted him across the seas. She seemed possessed of the
very spirit of mischief--and Paul forgot himself.
The orchestra was playing a Strauss waltz--it fired his blood. He walked
across the room with his masterful, authoritative air--the manner of a
man born to command. "Miss Ledoux," he said, and the crowd around her
instinctively made way for him, "this is our waltz, I believe!" and
whirled her away before she could answer.
Ah! it was delicious, that waltz! In perfect rhythm they clung together,
gliding about the polished floor, her bare shoulder pressing his arm,
her head with its bewildering perfume so near his lips, their hearts
throbbing fiercely in the ecstasy of their nearness--which was Love.
Oh to go on forever! forever!
The sweet cadence of the music died away, and they looked into each
other's eyes, startled.
"You seem to be acquiring the habit," she pouted, but her lips quivered,
and in response he whispered in her ear, "Whose waltz was it,
sweetheart?"
"I don't know, Paul--nor care!"
That was enough.
They left the room together.