As morning after morning passed without the arrival of other
mysterious boxes of flowers or of significant messages, the Marquise
began to watch Loris Dumaresque more than was usual with her. He was
the only one who knew; had he, educated by some spirit of jest, been
the sender of the blossoms?
And inconsistent as it may appear when one remembers her avowed fear
of discovery, yet from the moment that suspicion entered her mind the
charm was gone from the blossoms and the days to follow, and she felt
for the first time a resentment towards Monsieur Incognito.
Her reason told her this was an inevitable consequence, through
resentment forgetfulness would come.
But her heart told her--?
Her presence at the charitable fete held by Madame la General at the
Hotel Dulac was her first response, in a social way to the invitations
of her Parisian acquaintances. A charity one might support without in
any way committing oneself to further social plunges. She expected to
feel shy and strange; she expected to be bored. But since Maman wished
it so much--!
There is nothing so likely to banish shyness as success. The young
Marquise could not but be conscious that she attracted attention,
and that the most popular women of the court who had been pleased to
show their patronage by attendance, did not in the least eclipse
her own less pretentious self. People besieged Madame Dulac for
introductions, and to her own surprise the debutante found herself
enjoying all the gay nothings, the jests, the bright sentences
tossed about her and forming a foundation for compliments delicately
veiled, and the flattering by word or glance that was as the breath
of life to those people of the world.
She was dressed in white of medieval cut. Heavy white silk cord was
knotted about the slender waist and touched the embroidered hem. The
square neck had also the simple finish of cord and above it was the
one bit of color; a flat necklace of etruscan gold fitted closely
about the white throat, holding alternate rubies and pearls in their
curiously wrought settings. On one arm was a bracelet of the same
design; and the linked fillet above her dark hair gleamed, also, with
the red of rubies.
It was the age of tarletan and tinsel, of delicate zephyrs and
extremes in butterfly effects. Hoop-skirts were persisted in, despite
the protests of art and reason; so, the serenity of this dress,
fitting close as a habit, and falling in soft straight folds with a
sculpturesque effect, and with the brown-eyed Italian face above it,
created a sensation.
Dumaresque watched her graciously accepting homage as a matter of
course, and smiled, thinking of his prophecy that she would be
magnificent at twenty-five;--she was so already.
Some women near him commented on the simplicity of her attire.
"Oh, that is without doubt the taste of the dowager; failing to
influence the politics of the country she consoled herself with an
attempt to make a revolution in the fashions of the age."
"And is this sensation to illustrate her ideas?" asked another. "She
has rather a good manner--the girl--but the dress is a trifle
theatrical, suggestive of the pages of tragedies and martyred
virgins."
"Suggestive of the girl Cleopatra before she realized her power,"
thought the artist as he passed on. He knew that just those little
remarks stamped her success a certainty, and was pleased accordingly.
The dowager had expressed her opinion that Judithe would bury herself
in studies if left to herself, perhaps even go back to the convent. He
fancied a few such hours of adulation as this would change the ideas
of any girl of nineteen as to the desirability of convents.
He noticed that the floral bower over which she presided had little
left now but the ferns and green things; she had been adding money to
the hospital fund. Once he noticed the blossoms left in charge of her
aides while she entered the hall room on the arm of the most
distinguished official present, and later, on that of one of the
dowager's oldest friends. She talked with, and sold roses to the
younger courtiers at exorbitant prices, but it was only the men of
years and honors whom she walked beside.
Madame Dulac and Dumaresque exchanged glances of approval; as a
possible general in the social field of the future, she had commenced
with the tactics of absolute genius. Dumaresque wondered if she
realized her own cleverness, or if it was because she honestly liked
best to talk or listen to the men of years, experience, and undoubted
honors.
Mrs. McVeigh was there, radiant as Aurore and with eyes so bright one
would not fancy them bathed in tears so lately, or the smooth brow as
containing a single anxious motherly thought. But the Marquise having
heard that story of the son, wondered as she looked at her if the
handsome mother had not many an anxious thought the world never
suspected.
She was laughing frankly to the Marquise over the future just read in
her palm by a picturesque Egyptian, who was one of the novelties added
to Madame Dulac's list for the night.
Nothing less than an adoring husband had been promised her, and with
the exception of a few shadowed years, not a cloud larger than the
hand of a man was to cross the sky of her destiny.
"I am wishing Kenneth had come--my son, you know. Something has
detained him. I certainly would have liked him to hear that promise of
a step-father. Our Southern men are not devoid of jealousy--even of
their mothers."
Then she passed on, a glory of azure and silver, and the Marquise felt
a sense of satisfaction that the son had not come; the prejudice she
felt against that unabashed American would make his presence the one
black cloud across the evening.
While she was thinking of him the party about her separated, and she
took advantage of a moment alone to slip the alcove back of the
evergreens. It seemed the one nook unappropriated by the glittering
masses of people whose voices, near and far, suggested the murmur of
bees to her as she viewed it from her shadowy retreat, while covered
from sight herself.
The moonlight was shining through the window of the little alcove
screened by the tall palms. The music of a tender waltz movement
drifted softly across to her and made perfect her little retreat. She
was conscious that it had all been wonderfully and unexpectedly
perfect; the success, the adulation, had given her a new definite
faith in herself. How Maman would have enjoyed it. Maman, who would
want every little detail of the pleasant things said and done. She
wondered if it was yet too early to depart, she might reach home
before the dowager slept, and tell her all the glories of it.
So thinking, she turned to enter again the glare of light to find
Madame Dulac, or Madame Blanc, who had accompanied her, to tell them.
But another hand pushed aside the curtain of silk and the drooping
fronds of gigantic fern. Looking up she saw a tall, young man, wearing
a dark blue uniform, who bowed with grace, and stood aside that she
might pass if she chose. He showed no recognition, and there was the
pause of an instant. She could feel the color leave her face. Then,
with an effort, she raised her eyes, and tried to speak carelessly,
but the voice was little more than a whisper, in which she said:
"You!"
His face brightened and grew warm. The tone itself told more than she
knew; a man would be stupid who could not read it, and this one,
though youthful, did not look stupid.
"Madame Unknown," he murmured, in the voice she had not been able to
forget, "I am not so lost here as at Fontainbleau. May I ask some one
to present me to your notice?"
At that she smiled, and the smile was contagious.
"You may not," she replied frankly, recovering herself, and assuming a
tone of lightness to conquer the fluttering in her throat. "The list
of names I have had to remember this evening is most formidable,
another one would make the last feather here," and she tapped her
forehead significantly. "I was just about to flee from it all when--"
She hesitated and looked about her in an uncertain way. He at once
placed a chair for her. She allowed her hand to rest on the back of it
as if undecided.
"You will not be so unkind?" he said; and his words held a plea. She
answered it by seating herself.
"Well?"
At the interrogation he smiled.
"Will you not allow me, Madame, to introduce myself?"
"But, Monsieur Incognito, consider; I have remembered you best because
you have not done so; it was a novelty. But all those people whose
names were spoken to me this evening--pouf!" and she blew a feathery
spray of fern from her palms, "they have all drifted into oblivion
like that. Do you wish, then, to be presented and--to follow them?"
"I refuse to follow them there--from you."
His tones were so low, so even, so ardent, that she looked startled
and drew her breath quickly.
"You are bold, Monsieur," and though she strove to speak haughtily she
was too much of a girl to be severe when her eyes met his.
"Why not?" he asked, growing bolder as she grew more timid. "You grant
me one moment out of your life; then you mean to close the gates
against me--if you can. In that brief time I must condense all that
another man should take months to say to you. I have been speaking to
you daily, however, for six weeks and--"
"Monsieur! Six weeks?"
"Every day," he assented, smiling down at her. "Of course you did not
hear me. I was very confidential about it. I even tried to stop it
entirely when I was allowed to believe that Mademoiselle was Madame."
"But it is quite true--she is Madame."
"Certainly; yet you let me think--well, I forgive you for it now,
since I have found you again."
"Monsieur!"--she half arose.
"Will Mademoiselle have her fortune told?" asked a voice beside them,
and the beringed Egyptian pushed aside the palms, "or Monsieur,
perhaps?"
"Both of us," he assented with eagerness; "that is, if Mademoiselle
chooses." He dropped two pieces of gold in the beaded purse held out.
"Come," he half whispered to the Marquise, "let me see if oblivion is
really the doom fate reads against me."
She half put out her hand, thinking that after all it was only a part
of the games of the night--the little amusements with which purses
were filled for charity; then some sudden after thought made her draw
it back.
"You fear the decision?" he asked.
She did not fear the decision he meant, but she did fear--
"No, Monsieur, I am not afraid. Oh, yes; she may read my palm, it is
all a jest, of course."
The Egyptian held the man's hand at which she had not yet glanced. She
took the hand of the Marquise.
"Pardon, Madame, it is no jest, it is a science," she said briefly,
and holding their hands, glanced from one to the other.
"Firm hands, strong hands, both," she said, and then bent over that of
the Marquise; as she did so the expression of casual interest faded
from her face; she slowly lifted her head and met the gaze of the
owner.
"Well, well? Am I to commit murders?" she asked; but her smile was an
uneasy one; the gaze of the Egyptian made her shrink.
"Not with your own hand," said the woman, slowly studying the
well-marked palm; "but you will live for awhile surrounded by death
and danger. You will hate, and suffer for the hate you feel. You will
love, and die for the love you will not take--you--"
But the Marquise drew her hand away petulantly.
"Oh! I am to die of love, then?--I!" and her light laugh was
disdainful. "That is quite enough of the fates for one evening;" she
regarded the pink palm doubtfully. "See, Monsieur, it does not look so
terrible; yet it contains all those horrors."
"Naturally it would not contain them," said the Egyptian. "You will
force yourself to meet what you call the horrors. You will sacrifice
yourself. You will meet the worst as the women of '93 ascended the
guillotine--laughing."
"Ah, what pictures! Monsieur, I wish you a better fortune."
"Than to die of love?" he asked, and met her eyes; "that were easier
than to live without it."
"Chut!--you speak like the cavalier of a romance."
"I feel like one," he confessed, "and it rests on your mercy whether
the romance has a happy ending."
She flashed one admonishing glance at him and towards the woman who
bent over his hand.
"Oh, she does not comprehend the English," he assured her; "and if she
does she will only hear the echo of what she reads in my hand."
"Proceed," said the Marquise to the Egyptian, "we wait to hear the
list of Monsieur's romances."
"You will live by the sword, but not die by the sword," said the
woman. "You will have one great passion in your life. Twice the woman
will come in your path. The first time you will cross the seas to her,
the second time she comes to you--and--ah!--"
She reached again for the hand of the Marquise and compared them. The
two young people looked, not at her, but at each other.
In the eyes of the Marquise was a certain petulant rebellion, and in
his the appealing, the assuring, the ardent gaze that met and answered
her.
"It is peculiar--this," continued the woman. "I have never seen
anything like it before; the same mark, the same, Mademoiselle,
Monsieur; you will each know tragedies in your experience, and the
lives are linked together."
"No!"--and again the Marquise drew her hand away. "It is no longer
amusing," she remarked in English, "when those people think it their
duty to pair couples off like animals in the ark."
Her face had flushed, though she tried to look indifferent. The
Egyptian had stepped back and was regarding her curiously.
"Do not cross the seas, Mademoiselle; all of content will be left
behind you."
"Wait," and the Monsieur Incognito put out his hand. "You call the
lady 'Mademoiselle,' but your guess has not been good;" and he pointed
to a plain ring on the hand of the Marquise.
"I call her Mademoiselle because she never has been a wife, and--she
never will be a wife. There are marriages without wedding rings, and
there are wedding rings without marriages; pardon!--" and passing
between the ferns and palms she was gone.
"That is true!" half whispered the Marquise, looking up at him; "her
words almost frighten me."
"They need not," and the caress in his eyes made her drop her own;
"all your world of Paris knows the romance of your marriage. You are
more of a celebrity than you may imagine; my knowledge of that made
me fear to approach you here."
"The fear did not last long," and she laughed, the coquetry of the sex
again uppermost. "For how many seconds did you tremble on the
threshold?"
"Long enough to avoid any friends who had planned to present me."
"And why?"
"Lest it might offend to have the person thrust on you whom you would
not know among less ceremonious surroundings."
"Yet you came alone?"
"I could not help that, I _had_ to see you, even though you refused to
recognize me; I had to see you. Did I not prophecy there in the wood
that we should meet again? Even the flowers you gave me I--"
"Monsieur, no more!" and she rose from the chair with a certain
decision. "It was a thoughtless, childish farce played there at
Fontainbleau. But--it is over. I--I have felt humiliated by that
episode, Monsieur. Young ladies in France do not converse with
strangers. Pray go back to England and forget that you found one so
indiscreet--oh! I know what you would say, Monsieur," as he was about
to speak. "I know many of these ladies of the court would only laugh
over such an episode--it would be but a part of their amusements for
the day; but I, I do not belong to the court or their fashions. I am
only ashamed, and ask that you forget it. I would not want any one to
think--I mean that I--"
She had commenced so bravely with her wise, firm little speech, but at
the finale she wavered and broke down miserably.
"Don't!"--he broke in as a tear fell on the fan she held; "you make
me feel like a brute who has persecuted you; don't cry. Come here to
the window; listen to me. I--I loved you that first day; you just
looked at me, spoke to me and it was all over with me. I can't undo
it. I can go away, and I _will_, rather than make you unhappy; but I
can't forget you. I have never forgotten you for an hour. That was
why. Oh, I know it is the wildest, maddest, most unpardonable thing I
am saying to you. Your friends would want to call me out and shoot me
for it, and I shall be happy to give them the chance," he added,
grimly. "But don't, for Heaven's sake, think that my memory of you
would be less than respectful. Why, I--I adore you. I am telling it to
you like a fool, but I only ask you to not laugh until I am out of
hearing. I--will go now--and do not even ask your forgiveness,
because--well I can't honestly say I am sorry."
Sorry! She thought of those days when she had wakened to a new world
because his eyes and his voice haunted her; she heard him acknowledge
the same power, and he spoke of forgiveness as though convicted of a
fault. Well, she had not been able to prevent the same fault, so, how
dared she blame him? He need not know, of course, how well she had
remembered; yet she might surely be a little kind for all that.
"Monsieur Incognito!"
Her voice had an imperious tone; she remembered she must not be too
kind. He was already among the palms, in the full light of the salon,
and he was boy enough for all the color to leave his face as he heard
the low command. She had heard him declare his devotion, yet she had
recalled him.
"Madame," he said, and stood stubbornly the width of the alcove from
her, though he was conscious of all tender words rushing to his lips.
She was so adorable; a woman in mentality, but the veriest girl as to
the emotions his words had awakened.
"Monsieur," she said, without looking at him, "I do not truly believe
you meant to offend me; therefore I have nothing to forgive."
"You angel!" he half whispered, but she heard him.
"No, I am not that," and she flashed a quick glance at him, "only I
think I comprehend you, and to comprehend is to forgive, is it not?
I--I cannot listen to the--affection you speak of. Love and marriage
are not for me. Did not the Egyptian say it? Yes; that was quite true.
But I can shake hands in good-bye, Monsieur Incognito. Your English
people always do that, eh? Well, so will I."
She held out her hand; he took it in both his own and his lips touched
it.
"No! no!" she said softly, and shook her head; "that is not an English
custom." He lifted his head and looked at her.
"Why do you call me English?" he asked, and she smiled, glad to break
that tenseness of feeling by some commonplace.
"It was very simple, Monsieur; first it was the make of your hat,
I read the name of the maker in the crown that day in the park;
then you spoke English; you said you had just arrived from England;
and the English are so certain to get lost unless they go in
groups--therefore!"
She had enumerated all those reasons on her white fingers. She glanced
at him, with an adorable smile as a finale, so confident she had
proven her case.
"And you French have no fondness for the English people," he said
slowly, looking at her. "I wear an American uniform tonight; suppose I
am an American? I am tempted to disobey and tell you who I am, in
hopes you will not send me into exile quite so soon."
"No, no, _no_!" she breathed hurriedly. "You must go; and you must
remain Monsieur Incognito; thus it will be only a comedy, a morsel of
romance. But if I knew you well--ah! I do not know what it would be
then. I am afraid to think. Yes, I confess it, Monsieur, you make me
afraid. I tell myself you are a foreign ogre, yet when you speak to
me--ah!"
She put out her hands as he came close. But he knelt at her feet,
kissing her hands, her wrists, the folds of her dress, then lifted his
face glowing, ardent, to her own.
"I shall make you love me some day," he whispered; "not now, perhaps,
but some day."
She stared at him without a word. She had received proposals of
marriage, dignified, ceremonious affairs submitted to her by the
dowager, but from this stranger came the first avowal of love she had
ever listened to. A stranger; yet he held her hand; she felt herself
drawn towards him by a force she could not combat. Her other arm was
over the back of a chair, slowly she lifted it, then he felt her hand
touch his hair and the touch was a caress.
"My queen!"
"Co--now," she said so lowly. It was almost a whisper. He arose,
pressed her hand to his lips and turned away, when a woman's voice
spoke among the palms:
"Did you say in this corner, Madame? I have not found him; Kenneth!"
"It is my mother," he said softly, and was about to draw back the
alcove draperies when the Marquise took a step towards him, staring
strangely into his face.
"_Your Mother!_" and her tones expressed only doubt and dread. "No,
no! Why, I--I know the voice; it is Madame McVeigh; she called
Kenneth, her son--"
He smiled an affirmative.
"Yes; you will forgive me for having my name spoken to you after all?
But there seems to be no help for it. So you see I am not English
despite the hat, and my name is Kenneth McVeigh."
His smile changed to quick concern as he noticed the strange look on
her face, and the swaying movement towards the chair. He put out his
hand, but she threw herself back from him with a shuddering movement
of repulsion.
And a moment later the palms parted beside Mrs. McVeigh, and she was
startled at sight of her son's face.
"Kenneth! Why, what is wrong?"
"A lady has fainted there in the alcove," he said, in a voice which
sounded strange to her; "will you go to her?"
"Fainted? Why, Kenneth!--"
"Yes; I think it is the Marquise de Caron."