A PARISIAN ROMANCE.
IB Y
A. D. HALL.
CHAPTER 1. l.OVl’s YOl’M: DIU.A.M, It was high noon ; one ot those rare and perfect days in May, when all nature seems to smile, and the human being most harassed by the bullets of fortune feels that after all, there are some moments in life that are well worth the living. The field and meadows of the village of .Sainte Roche, refreshed by the showers of the evening before, lay green and fair beneath the cloudless sky ; the little river rippled and sparkled between its grassy banks, a stream of liquid diamonds; the air was heavy with the odour of the blossoming fruit trees lining the white, little frequented roads that wound in graceful curves before the cottages and the few dwellings of more pretensions that the hamlet could boast, and whose margins of turf were sprinkled with wild flowers, blue, white, and yellow ; and the sun poured its radiance over all. Hashing upon the large gilded cross of the church and covering the white walls of the sacred edifice with a shimmering network of shadows, as its light sifted through the trembling leaves of the aspens. In the open space before the church, which could scarcely be dignified by the name of square, were gathered together all the idle population of the village, not such a crowd after all : perhaps thirty or forty people at the most. Half a dozen carriages waited before the portals, the most conspicuous being a handsome coupe, with white rosettes adorning the horses’ heads and long streamers of the same spotless hue attached to the shoulders of the coachman. The latter functionary sat bolt upright upon his box, motionless, save for an occasional whisk of the whip, to drive the flies from the backs of the horses, and, like a servant of good family, apparently entirely impervious to the familiar, and not altogether complimentary, comments of the übiquitous small boy. The ceremony that was being celebrated within was long, and the patience of the expectant villagers was beginning to be exhausted, when at last the battants were Hung open by the old verger, and the newly married couple appeared upon the threshold.
If the old familiar adage, ‘ Happy is the bride that the sun shines on,' be true, then the Baroness Chevrial, recently Mademoiselle Armando d’ Ambleuse ought to have been doubly blessed. But the face beneath the bands of hair of the colour of ripe wheat, crowned with the white bonnet, beautiful as it was, and calm and composed, did not wear that expression of blushing rapture which is usually to be seen upon the face of the girl who has just been united to the man of her choice. The bridegroom, however, was smiling enough, a man of perhaps forty - five, who, in the strong sunlight looked a little more, in spite of the clever work of his valet, who had once been in the service of a famous actor, and who was an artist in concealing the ravages of time and dissipation beneath a clever make up. With a step which was a trifle too elaborately springy in its atlectation of youth, Baron Chevrial led his bride down the carpeted steps, aided her to enter the coupe, carefully protecting her snowy draperies from contact with the wheels, and then, following her, seated himself by her side. The coachman touched up his horses, and amid the shouts of the bystanders, the carriage started of! at a rapid pace. The other carriages were soon filled with the gayly-dressed wedding party, and the crowd, the spectacle over, gradually dispersed, leaving the place deserted, save for two gentlemen, in frock coats, light trousers, high hats, and with a flower in their button holes, who still lingered upon the steps. One was young, twenty-three or tour years old, with a slender, well-knit figure, and whose features, while not regularly handsome, wore a bright, frank expression, which is perhaps more attractive than mere beauty. The other was much older, with a heavy grey moustache and Hair whitened upon the temples. I >octor Chesnel had passed many years in ministering to the ailments of the
body, but, nevertheless, or rather perhaps for that very reason, his interest in the troubles of heart and mind of his fellow-beings was keen, his sympathy unfailing, and his charity boundless. His one fault was an occasional bitterness of tongue ; his appreciation and dislike of any weakness were so strong and his powers of sarcasm so great that ho was sometimes led into saying more than he had intended ;
this fault, however, no one was more fully aware of or regretted more deeply than the good doctor himself. • Well,* said Uhesnel, laying his hand on his young companion’s shoulder, • the two loving hearts are made one, the sacrifice is accomplished I mean, the ceremony is completed, and there is no use in lingering here any longer. What are your plans for the rest of the day, De Targy ?’ ‘I thought I would go for a walk thi afternoon.’ • The very thing. You know lam taking a complete holiday to-day, and if you will not be bored by an old fellow like myself, I believe I’ll join you. The young man hesitated a moment, a hesitation so slight, however, as to be scarely perceptible, and then he answered, cordially : ‘By all means, my dear doctor. I shall be delighted to have your company.’ The two men descended the steps and were soon sauntering along the smooth highway. The sun was too hot at that time of day to admit of any very brisk exercise, and besides, fast walking is not so conducive to converacion as a more leisurely pace. • Mademoiselle d’ Ambleuse, I beg her pardon, the Baroness Chevrial,’ remarked the doctor, ‘ is a very beautiful woman, and her beauty has drawn a prize in the matrimonial market.’ His companion gave him a quick glance as he replied : • Do you really think so?’ • Why not? she will have everything that wealth and position can give her. What more can a woman want?’ ‘I don't know, but, if Madame Chevrial is what she promised to be when a girl of fourteen, she will require more to make her happy than mere matrimonial comforts.’ The doctor laughed good-naturedly, as he whisked the head oil a daisy with his cane. ‘Love, eh?’ he said. ‘Ah! youth, especially the male youth, is ever romantic. My dear fellow, Cupid has long ago been dethroned by Plutus.’ • 1 hope she will be happy,’ said De Targy, thoughtfully. ‘ Happy ! How can we tell when one is happy ? Do we know when we are so ourselves ? Happiness is everywhere and nowhere, and its proper definition has yet to be found/ De Targy was silent fora moment, then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he said, abruptly : ‘ Doctor, tell me something about the baron. You know I have been away so long from France, that, although Armande d’Ambleuse was one of my childhood’s playmates, and her father was my father’s intimate friend, I know very little of what her life has been the last few years, and, until two days ago, I had never laid eyes on the man she has married. What is he like ?’ ‘ He has been fairly good-looking, and is so still, thanks to the resources of art. He is an admirable painting upon a worn out canvas.’ ‘ Pshaw ! I don't mean his personal appearance. What is he like in mind and heart ?’ The doctor’s face changed, and his manner, which had been half-bantering, became very serious. ‘ The baron,’ he said, gravely, ‘is a strange man, a product of our nineteenth century. He has plenty of intelligence, is well educated, and not a boor. His manners, if he chooses, can be perfect, although, perhaps, ho is a gentleman by effort rather than by instinct. He inherited a comfortable fortune, which he has increased enormously by skilful speculations on the Bourse, and is now one of the first bankers in Paris. Of his qualities of heart, 1 cannot speak so highly. When his own interests are at stake he is merciless, and has no care for those he casts down and tramples upon in his own rise. He is self-indulgent to the last degree, and his own well being is the one thought of his existence. Take him, all in all,’ concluded the doctor, in a lighter tone, ‘he is one of tho most respected men in all Paris.' ‘ What !’ exclaimed De Targy, in amazement. ‘ How can people like such a selfish brute as you paint him to be ?’ ‘ Pardon me, my dear boy.’ rejoined the doctor, quietly, with a twinkle in his eye which belied the apparent cynicism of his words : • I said respected, not liked. We like a man for the good he does ; we respect him for his power to do evil.’ De Targy knew the doctor well enough to take this speech for what it was worth, so he laughed and said :
• You area living exemplification, doctor,
of the assertion that word, were given us to conceal our thoughts ; you so rarely say what you mean. To hear you, a stranger would take you for a misanthrope.’ ‘Heaven forbid !’ retorted Chesnel, grimly. ‘ Misanthropy is a terrible malady ; it makes one see things as they really are.* * 1 won’t attempt to discuss that question with you, my dear doctor. lam no match for you in an argument. But, seriously. I am greatly interested for his wife’s sake, in what you tell me of Chevrial. If he is as selfish as you say, what induces him to marry Mademoiselle d’ Ambleuse? She was entirely dependent upon relatives for support, and brought him no dowry whatever. Is he in love with her?’ * Hm-m-m ! If passion be love, I suppose he is. He coveted her beauty, and knew the only way to possess it was through the blessing of a priest. I told you he has never known how to deny himself anything. and it was so in this case. Besides, he is rich enough to overlook the lack of money, other things being equal. Then, too, you must remember, the baron is no longer so young as he once was, and when a man has reached a certain age, there is nothing like marriage to rejuvenate him.’ * And so he has taken Mademoiselle d’ Ambleuse as he would a dose of medicine,’ exclaimed De Targy, half angrily, * a sort of draught from Ponce de Leon’s fountain.’ * Something of that sort,’ replied the doctor, laughing. *1 remember meeting him at the races of Longchamp about a year ago. “ Well, baron,” 1 greeted him, “still young and victorious in the lists of love?’ “No, doctor,” he replied, “lam afraid I am growing old, so, at the first touch of gout, when 1 am obliged to stay by the fireside, I shall give myself the luxury of a real wife ” (those were his words) : “ if I can find some one really attractive, I shall take her.’” ‘ A charming prospect for my old playmate. Do you know the baron well, doctor ?’ * Yes, I am his physician, and so have had many opportunities of studying him closely. lam in his confidence.’ ‘ You abuse it a little,’ said De Targy, with a smile. The doctor shrugged his shoulders impatiently. * Bah !’ he said. * He is no friend of mine. He is simply a subject of observation. I study the workings of his mind and the vagaries of his moral nature as 1 would dissect a cadaver at the hospital. But let us talk of something pleasanter.’ For the next half-hour, the two men strolled on together, the doctor chatting gaily on al! sorts of subjects from ‘ Shakespeare to the musical glasses,’ touching them lightly, but yet in a way which showed that he was a man of vast reading and information. Hiscompanion wasmuchlesstalkative, answering chiefly in monosyllables, but this mattered little to Chesnel, who loved a good listener ; moreover he was very fond of the lad. whom he had known from boyhood, and was always glad to be in his company. At last they came to a cross-road, about four miles from Sainte Roche, and the doctor began to think of the walk back, and concluded that he had come about far enough. ‘ I say, my boy,’ stopping and leaning against the milestone, ‘ How far do you propose to go ? Isn’t it about time to think of retracing our steps?' De Targy blushed a little. ‘I had intended to go as far as Limon,’ he stammered. ‘To tell you the truth, doctor, I have a call to make there.’ The doctor stared. ‘ The devil you say !’ he growled. ‘ Why didn't you tell me that before? But, never mind, Henri,’ he added, kindly, pitying the young man’s evident embarrassment. ‘ I shall get back by myself very well.’ ‘ I am sorry,’ began De Targy, ‘and—’ ‘ Oh, that’s all right, my boy. ‘ Don't say anything more about it.’ ■ If you are sure you don’t mind, I would like to keep my engagement.’ • Why, of course, of course. I shall see you before I go back to Paris, I suppose ?’ ‘ Oh, yes.' With a wave of the hand, Chesnel turned and was soon lost to sight in a turn of the road. De Targy watched his retreating figure a moment, and then, vaulting over the low rail fence, struck across the fields at a more rapid gait, whistling softly to himself the refrain of a Spanish love song he had heard sung at Seville to the accompaniment of a mandolin.
The country is like a beautiful woman, devoid of coquetry ; you must know her well to love her, but when once you have felt her charm, she attaches you to her forever. De Targy, in his travels, had always avoided cities as much as possible, and he was fully alive to all the charms of field and woodland. On this exquisite day, he rejoiced in the clear sky, the pure air, the springy turf, the song of the birds, and the thousand indications that winter bad released tho land from its chill embrace and fair summer was close at hand. He crossed the field with
a step as light as his heart, and plunging into the cool shades of a little wood, was soon on the borders of the pretty town of Limon. Five minutes' walk now brought him to a quaint, old-fashioned inn, with queer gables and odd mullioned windows. It had formerly been a manor-house, and still retained much of its ancient dignity. In fact, almost the only token that it was now a place of entertainment for man and beast wasa tall poet bearing a picture of alion rampant, and beneath the words ' Le Lion d’ Or.’ Beside the house descended a lane, and in a few moments stopped at a wooden gate, which led into the garden behind the hostelry. A pretty garden it was, cool ami shady, surrounded by a high bridge, tilled with ancestral trees and planted with oldfashioned flowers, hollyhocks, pinks, and marigolds, and with its sanded walks primly outlined in box. The picture that met De Targy’s eyes as he stood just without the gate was lovely enough to more than repay him for his long tramp. Beneath a branching oak, in a low wicker chair, reclined the while ■ robed form of a young girl. Her simple gown, which fell in graceful folds about her swells figure, was belted in at the waist by a broad blue ribbon, and a knot of the same azure hue confined her bright chestnut hair, which grew in low ripples over her broad, white brow, as in the bust of Clytie. One delicate hand supported her head, and the other held a dainty little volume, upon which the long-lashed eyes were fixed. She was so absorbed that De Targy’s quiet approach had passed unnoticed. For a moment or two, the young man stood in rapt contemplation of the exquisite vision before him, and then, feeling very much as if he were interrupting the devotions of some fair saint, he said, in a low voice:
‘May a mere mortal be allowed to intrude upon your domains, Titania ?’ The girl started, the book fell from her hand, and as her eyes met those which were bent upon her with a look of unmistakable admiration, a bright flush suflused the delicate oval of her cheeks, and she murmured, rising to her feet: • Ob, is it you. Monsieur de Targy ?’ • Yes.’ opening the gate and advancing to her side, * were you expecting me?’ ‘ I thought perhaps you might come,' she answered, demurely, lowering her eyes. The momentary colour had died away, and she was rapidly recovering her selfpossession. As she became calmer, it was the man’s turn to evince embarrassment. He stood twirling his hat, and not knowing exactly what to do next. ‘ Won’t you sit down ?’ she asked, resuming her seat and raising the book from where it had fallen. De Targy drew up a chair and accepted the invitation, resting his arm upon an old sun-dial, which, overgrown with ivy, worm eaten and weather stained, looked as if it had been there from time imemorial. ‘How pretty this garden is 1’ he rematked, a trifle awkwardly. ‘ls it not?’ she replied, brightly. ‘I love it. I have passed so many happy hours here. I have always been so grateful to the English lady who told Aunt Reine about this charming place. I feel so completely isolated from the world and all its troubles. ’ ‘ Is madam visible, by the way ?’ ‘No, she is suflering to-day from one of her bad headaches. Perhaps I should ask you into the house, but it is so much pleasanter here that 1 have not the heart to do so.' ‘Did you miss me yesterday?’ asked De Targy, somewhat inconsequentially. ‘ A little. Why did you not come ?’ ‘1 was afraid 1 had been coming he too often.’ ‘That is unkind. You could not do that.’ • Really ?’ • Really.’ De Targy’sheart bounded. Did she mean it ? Was it possible that she cared a little for him ? He longed to put his faith to the touch, but the words would not come to his lips. Perhaps she realised something of what was passing in his mind, for, as she glanced furtively at him beneath her long lashes, a bewitching smile played about her lips. For a few moments neither spoke, and then, she said, bolding up the book she had been reading : * You see, I think of you, even during your absence, truant. I have been reading your poems over again. • Yes !’ ‘ Yes. Aren’t you pleased ?’
• I am pleased to think that my poor efforts have helped you to kill time.’ ‘ Don't speak ot killing time. Who is it that says killing time is a sort of suicide? The days are not half long enough for me. Besides, I will not allow you to call these poems poor. They are lovely.’ ‘ You don’t know how happy it makes me to have you eay so.’ ‘lndeed ! Then what will you say when I tell you that I have committed one of them to memory, and, more than that, set it to music.' • You have ! Oh ! do sing it to me.' ‘ You must bring me my guitar, then.’ • Where is it.’
*On the sofa, in the parlour. Aek one of the maids for it.’ As he strode rapidly across the lawn Marcelle Rigaud followed his straight, manly figure with her eyes, a tender look in their brown depths. A month ago she was unaware of bis very existence, and now —and now she scarcely dared to confess even to herself how much his presence or absence meant to her. *lt is a Provencal air,’ she said, as he returned with the instrument, * that I found in an old music book of Aunt Reine’s, and it seemed to me that the melody was peculiarly fitted to the words ot your poem.’ De Targy threw himself down on th grass beside her, and with his eyes fixed with a hungry look upon the flower-like face above him, waited for her to begin. Marcelle passed the blue ribbon of the guitar about her neck, and, after sweeping the strings once or twice with her fingers, sang, in a low, rich voice, the following serenade: Cool tranquil shadows fill the silent woods; We are alone, far from the noisy world, A boundless ecstasy above us broods. And life's rude eare fades like a cloud unfurled. Hark, my belov’d. a flute, far, faraway. Breathed faintly forth a plaintive strain of love ; Borne on the fitful breeze ot waning day. No other sound is heard in all the grove. Oh, ecstasy of love! Oh, joy of life ! Oh. passing dream which I have made mine own ! Divine delight with which my soul is rife. Filled like a sea shell with the billows’ moan! Sleep, oh, my love, close thy great, calm eyes. Thy weary eyes, thy eyes so true and dear; And leaning o’er thee. I will drink thy sighs. The perfume of thy beauty blooming near. Not content with endowing Marcelle Rigaud with more than ordinary beauty, the gods had added the gift of a really wonderful voice, deep, clear, and silvery as a bell. With a little cultivation it would have created a furore, among the dilletante of even Paris, the most cultured city in the world. It can easily be imagined, then, what was the effect upon her single auditor, the man who adored her, and who now listened to bis own words, sungin a manner that gave them a meaning he had never fancied until now they possessed. As the last low, sweet notes died away, there was perfect silence. For some moments neither spoke, but the unuttered words were perhaps more eloquent than any speech could have been. De Targy’e eyes still rested upon the young girl, eagerly drinking in her beauty, and she, although apparently unconscious, instinctively felt that a crisis in her life was approaching. De Targy was the first to speak. ‘ No words,’ he said slowly, • can tell you the happiness it gives me to hear words of my composition sung by you. I—’ He stopped short. A sort of despair took possession of him an, in his modest estimation of himself, he thought that his longing to have this girl for his very own was as hopeless of fulfilment as the child’s desire for the moon. A woman’s wits are always quicker than a man's, especially in matters of the tender passion. Marcelle was as well acquainted with the state of his heart as she was with that of her own, and, feeling sure of the happy outcome of it all, she could afford to indulge in a little malicious enjoyment of his confusion. As a cat with a mouse, a woman delights to tease and torment her lover, before putting him out of his misery. So, Marcelle, looking down with a mischievous smile upon the poor fellow, who lay both literally and figuratively at her feet, said : •Monsieur de Targy, who was the inspiration of that poem, an Andalusian with dark hair and liquid eyes? or was it a blonde Gretchen of some German town ’’ Gathering all hie courage, determining to put a end now, once and for all, to his miserable suspense, De Targy replied, in a voice which shook a little in spite of himself : ‘Neither, Marcelle.’ This was the first time that he had ever addressed her by her Christian name, and the girl flushed crimson as she heard it. * Neither, Marcelle. I have had in my life, as has everv young man, passing fancies. I have lived much away from my family, and 1 felt the need of affection. Bub I knew always that it was not real love, the love which satisfies, the love which comforts. If you have read all the poems in that book you will know from them that I am speaking the truth.’
He had risen to his feet and was standing close beside her. All his nervousness had vanished. He was very pale, but his voice was steady and his bearing composed. * What have you found in them except the melancholy inseparable from the feeling that everything in one’s life is incomplete and ephemeral ? The verses you have just sung, it is true, are full of satisfied happiness, bub while they are as sincere as the others they are less real. Do you understand me ? They did nob come from my brain by an effort of the will ; they came from my heart and I have
felt what they express ; but they were addressed to a fancied ideal rather than to any living woman. She had no name, no form.’ * You will doubtless some day find your ideal.’ * I have found it already,’ he cried, his voice quivering with passionate longing. *Oh ! Marcelle '. Marcelle ! don’t you see? don’t you understand ? I love you ! Put me out of my suspense, send mo away from you now, and I will never trouble you again —but—l love you 1’ With lips half parted, and the warm colour coming and going on her lovely face, ehe raised her eyes to his, eyes in which glowed the light that never was on land or sea. Then, with a little motion for him to follow her, ehe crossed to the old sun dial and pointing to a long black pencil mark upon its face, ehe said, softly : ‘See! Tuesday, when you went away, I marked the place where the shadow fell. And so, if you should leave me forever, a black shadow would fall across my life.’ His cause was won, and, mingled with ail the rapture that welled up in his heart, was the feeling almost akin to awe, which every honourable man experiences, when in his hands is placed the life of a pure young girl, for weal or woe, to make or to mar it at his pleasure. Gently he drew the unresisting form toward him. and very tenderly, very reverently, he laid his lips upon hers, in love’s sweet seal. Oh, ecstasy of love 1 Oh, joy of life. CHAPTER 11. IN THE MIDST OF LIFE. Henki de Targy was an only son. His father, a man of considerable property, whom Henri resembled in neither appearance nor disposition, in fact no father and son could be more unlike, was cold, reserved and self-contained ; he frowned upon all emotion and looked upon enthusiasm as something abnormal and disagreeable ; with hie son’s sensitiveness and impulsiveness, he had absolutely no sympathy ; from his earliest childhood, it had been Henri’s objeec to be as little as possible in his father’s presence, and even now, when he had arrived at man’s estate his paternal relative invariably inspired him with a mingled feeling of fear and repulsion. Madame de Targy, a woman of more than ordinary beauty and attainments, chilled and disappointed, from the earliest days of her married life, by her husband’s frigidity, had poured forth all the wealth of her affection upon her son, an affection which was fully reciprocated, for Henri adored his mother. The boy’s early education was obtained at the very best schools and lyceums of Paris, and at twenty, he set out for a lengthened tour in foreign lands. Monsieur de Targy, the elder, was by no means averse to his son’s leaving home ; so litte, sympathy and congeniality existed between them, that it was a relief rather than other wise to have him away. Perhaps, too, he was a trifle jealous of his wife’s affection, but if this were so, he never betrayed it by word or deed. He gave his eon a liberal allowance, for he was by no means avaricious ; it may be that he considered any money discussion beneath his dignity and an interference with his comfort. He asked no questions of Henri in regard to his plans and gave him no advice, nor did he expect or desire any confidence from him. The first year Henri spent in Germany, chiefly in Dresden. He lived in one of the little pavilions of the Grosser Garten, as a pupil of Doctor Peschle, the famous professor in the Korner College. His life was as regular and monotonous as possible, the greater part of each day being devoted to study and learned discussions with the Herr Doctor on the abstruse doctrines of German philosophy. The only variety was an occasional visit to the theatre, the open air concerts on tho Bruhlsche Terrase, the wonders of the Green Vaults or the superb picture-gallery, the finest in all Europe. He then spent a year in Italy and another in Spain, years not quite so full of rigorous application as the German one, but still far from being wasted in mere pleasure seeking. Of course a man of De Targy’s age and temperament had not been without many a passing flirtation with the dark ■ eyed senoritas of Spain and the azure orbed German madchens, but they had been merely flirtations and nothing more, pour passe le temps, that was all. As to the damsels of the half world, his nature was too refined and his ideals too high for him to find much pleasure in their company. Deep down in his heart, moreover, was a picture of some fair maiden, the adorable she who was to round out all hie existence, and be was determined to have nothing tn regret and wish undone when he should at last moot his fate. Such men are rare in this age of materialism, but, to the credit of human nature, they do exist. So it was with a heart whole and nothing in hie record to prevent his looking hie mother in the face, that Henri de Targy
returned to iiie native land after three years’ wandering*. Hie mother, whose life had been forlorn enough without her idol, and whose only consolation had beon his frequent letters, was overjoyed to hare her boy once more with her.
His father he found greatly changed ; he seemed to have aged in many way*, without any of that softening that year* sometimes brings to such harsh natures as his. He had become very irritable, the least trifle would bring on an outburst of passion, and Henri found his relation? with him more impossible and unpleasant than ever. It was early in April when he returned, and his family were established at their country-house at Sainte Roche, where it was their habit to pass eight months of the year, the other tour being devoted to Paris.
If it had not been for his unfeigned delight at being once more with his mother, Henri would have found life in the little village intolerably dull. There were but two or three families of his own rank in life there, and of these the Ambleuses with whom he had been most intimate in days gone by, were at present in Paris, for the purpose of purchasing the IrouMeaa of their niece, Armande, who was shortly to become Baroness Chevrial. Fortunately, Henri was fond of field sports, and the meadows about. Sainte Roche abounded in snipe and plover. One afternoon, as he was returning after a successful day among the birds, he was walking briskly through the little wood between Limon and Sainte Roche, when, at a turn in the path, he was suddenly startled to see a young girl sitting at the foot of a tree. Raising his hat with a word or two of inarticulate apology for his intrusion, he was about to pass on, when he was arrested by a plaintive exclamation of ‘ Monsieur !’ He turned quicaly and met a pair of brown eyes uplifted to his with an expression of pitiful supplication. • Pardon me, mademoiselle,’ he said. * Did vou call me ?’ The girl laughed now, but a laugh which died away in a sort of sob. * It is too absurd,* she said, • but, if I had let you go by, I am afraid I should have been obliged to stay here all night. In attempting to reach some flowers which grew within those bushes there, I turned my ankle and I simply cannot step upon it.’ Again the dark eyes were raised to his, and, Henri felt his heart give a sort of leap within bis breast. *By Jove ! but she’s a beauty !’ he thought, and then said aloud : • I am very fortunate, then, to have been passing at just this time. Is it very bad ?’ * I am afraid so. It pains me badly whenever I move.’ ‘ Try, if you cannot rise.’
The girl took his proffered hand, and managed gradually to rise to her feet, but at the first step she attempted to take, an expression of pain contracted her features and she clutched Henri’s arm in an effort to steady herself. *lt is no use,* she said. * I cannot bear my weight upon it.’ ‘ Do you live far from here ?’ asked Henri, drawing the little hand close within bis arm.* Don’t be afraid to lean upon me.’ ‘ Not far. Do you know where the Lion d’Or is, just the other side of the woods?' * Oh ! yes, very well.’ * 1 am staying there.’ It was not far, as she said, but it might as well have been miles, so far as her powers of locomotion went.
* It is a pretty serious matter.’said Henri, half laughing, * but I think we can manage it. 1 shall have to carry you, that’s all.’ The girl flushed and shrank a little from him, but a twinge from the injured ankh forced her to keep his arm. ‘You need have no fear,* he continued, gently, ‘ 1 can carry you easily, and there is really nothing else to be done.' She glanced up at him half-shyly, halfconfidently. * I am not afraid of you,’ she said, and then she smiled. •You will trust me, then ?’ * Needs must, I suppose.’
Instructing her to put one arm about his neck and rest her weight upon him, Henri stooped, and in another moment had raised her in his arms as easily and gently as if she had been a child. With her soft arm about his neck and her perfumed breath fanning his cheek, the way seemed all too short. When the inn was reached, Henri deposited his fair burden on the sofa in the parlour, and turned to explain the situation to a stout, rosycheeked lady who came hurrying in, in alarm, and whom the girl addressed as Auiiw Reine.
After ascertaining that the accident to the ankle was nothing serious, he took his leave, overwhelmed by the thanks of the aunt, which, however, he at once ungratefully forgot otter the half-whispered au revoir of the girl herself and the slight pressure of the hand, which sent the blood pulsing through his veins. Although it was rapidly growing dark, and he was certain to be late to dinner, he
lingered tor a full half-hour in tho public room of the inn, chattint; with the buxom landlady, and deftly extracting from the good woman all the information -he was in possession ot regarding her guests. It seemed that Madame t.'harterie, with her niece. Mademoiselle Marcelle Rigaud, had arrived there about two weeks before, and had taken rooms for the summer. The landlady was loud in their praises, but she seemed to know little of them, beyond the face that they seemed to be comfortably off, although not rich. The next day Henri called, as in duty bound, to inquire for the young lady, and this call led to another, until scarcely a day passed without his walking over to Limon and appearing at the Lion d’Or. It would have been difficult for him to explain the extraordinary fascination which Mademoiselle Rigaud exercised over him. Lovely as she undoubtedly was, he had seen many women quite as beautiful, many who were far more brilliant, but this girl with the brown eyes and the russet hair, drew him toward her as the magnet draws the needle. For the first time in his life Henri de Targy was irrevocably, hopelessly in love, and lie knew it. He knew that all his hopes of happiness were dependent on her lips, but, with the modesty which was a conspicuous characteristic of his nature, he was filled with racking fears as to the result. To any looker on, possessed of the slightest shrewdness, however, there would have been no doubt as to Marcelle’s feelings. Brought up in the utmost seclusion by her aunt, who was her only near relative, and but recently emancipated from the convent where she had received her education, this was the first time in which she had ever been thrown into intimacy with a young man, and Henri, with all the advantages which foreign travel had given him,appeared to her a very Admirable Crichton. His poems, which were the outcome of a rather pretty talent with here and there a more or less original thought, were as beautiful to her as the most exquisite creations of Victor Hugo or Alfred de Musset. Taking all circumstances into consideration, it is not strange, then, that her heart should, Psyche-like, have buret its chrysalis and unfolded its wings.
It is not to be supposed that Aunt. Reine, who with all her good humour was a person of considerable hard common sense, had been blind to the increasing intimacy between the young people and its probable results. She had instituted careful inquiries as to De Targy's character and his prospects in life, and being satisfied on both points, she had allowed things to take their course. She realised that with Marcelle’s slender fortune, and the meagre social advantages which she herself could offer her, it was more than doubtful if the girl would again meet with so desirable a parti. Perhaps, too, there was a little selfishness mingled with her resolve not to interfere ; fond as Madame Chatteris undoubtedly was of her young niece, she was fonder still of her own comfort, and she was far-sighted enough to perceive that she could obtain much more enjoyment out of life if unhampered by the wearisome and expensive chaporonage of a pretty girl. So the course of love for once flowed smoothly, until, as we have seen, it reached a happy harbour. It was with winged feet Henri de Targy returned home through the woods and meadows on the evening of the Chevrial Ambleuse nuptials, his soul singing a veritable piean of thanksgiving for the blessing which had been vouchsafed him. He could scarcely believe as yet his good fortune; the one woman he had ever loved, the one woman he should always love until death, the one woman who was the materialisation of all his dreams, had accepted him and confessed that his love was returned ; and her aunt had graciously signified her consent, provided, ot course, that the young man’s parents on their side made no objection. As far us this proviso was concerned, Henri had no fears ; his mother would naturally feel badly at the thought of being no longer first in her boy’s heart, but he knew that she loved him too dearly to throw any obstacle in the way of his happiness ; then, with the blind confidence of all lovers since tho world began, who are never able to see any spot upon the shining brightness of their idol, he felt that Marcelle’s perfection would soon win his mother and reconcile her to the proposed change. IVhathis father’s opinions might be troubled him still less. As long as Monsieur de Targy was not annoyed with any ot the details, he would probably, if past experience wa« any criterion, do the proper thing in regard to money matters, and interest himself no further in the whole affair, thankful that his son’s future had been arranged with so little trouble to himself. There had never existed any sympathy between the father and son, and there was not likely to be any now in this important crisis of the young man's life. So it was with roseate dreams of an unclouded future, and with a hoart overflowing with the joy of his new-found happiness.
that Henri turned into the avenue which led to his father's house, a large, square, old-fashioned mansion with white walls and green blinds, the apotheosis of well-to-do bourgeoisie. As he ran up the stone steps and before he could ring, the massive door was thrown open by a respectable-looking man, in a sober livery, whose face wore an expression of the utmost seriousness. Without noticing him, Henri threw his hat down upon the table, and asked, cheerily: * Where is my mother, Francois’’ The man hesitated a moment. * Pardon me. Monsieur Henri,' he said, • but Doctor Chesnel wishes to see you at once in Monsieur’s study,' Something in the man’s voice made Henri turn and glance hurriedly in hie face. What he saw there was not reassuring. ' What is it, Francois’’ he asked, quickly, his bright face clouding. * Has anything happened ?’ * The doctor will tell you, Monsieur Henri,’ was the solemn reply. Without waiting to question the man further, oppressed with a nameless dread, Henri turned and mounted the stairs two steps at a time. As he entered his father’s study, which was a large room in the front of the house, connected by a narrow passage with the bedroom occupied by Monsieur de Targy, the doctor rose from a chair beside the table and advanced to meet him with the grave manner of one who has ill-tidings to disclose. * What has happened, doctor ?' * My dear boy, I have very bud news for you.’ Henri turned white as chalk. * My mother !' he gasped. ‘ No, no,’ returned the doctor, quickly. ‘ Your mother is safe and well. Be calm. Sit down here and I will tell you all about it.’ And putting his arm through that of the now trembling young man, he led him to a chair and forced him into it. Then, seating himself near him, he said : *lt is your father. He has been taken suddenly ill.’ A sigh, possibly one of relief, escaped from Henri’s lips. *On his return from the wedding he fainted, and when I reached the house, after leaving you, I found them vainly endeavouring to restore him to consciousness. It was fortunate that I arrived when I did.’ * Is it serious, doctor ?' ‘lt is useless for me to conceal from you what it is. It is heart failure, and I have feared an attack of this sort for some time. At his request I made an examination some months ago, and discovered then very serious organic trouble.’ ‘ Is he conscious now ’’ * Yes, your mother is with him.’
Henri rose and turned toward the door which led to the bedroom, but the doctor motioned him back.
‘No,’ he said, ‘you must not go in. The attack came, as I understand, during some discussion that he was having with your mother, and, as soon as he fully regained his consciousness, he insisted upon being left alone with her. Frankly, Henri, my skill is powerless here, the end is not far oil, and I considered it beet to allow him to have his way.' ‘ Do you mean, doctor, that my father is in immediate danger ’’ exclaimed Henri. * Yes. It is a question of hours.’
The shock to Henri was great. Although he had cared but little for his father, it was impossible to hear of his being thus suddenly stricken down with no apparent warning, without a feeling of awe. There was but little conversation between the two men after this. They sat there in the dimly lighted study, each absorbed by his own thoughts, silently awaiting they knew not what. Suddenly the stillness was broken by the sound of the opening of a door, and in another moment Madame de Targy stood before them. She still wore the superb reception dress of grey silk and purple velvet she had appeared in at the wedding, but she had removed her jewels. Her snow white hair had become unloosened and hung in elf locks about her pallid face; the lines about her mouth were drawn, and her eyes, in their hollow sockets, had that vacant stare seen in somnambulists.
With an exclamation of horror Henri started to his feet. His mother had aged ten years since the morning. Without a word he stretched out his arms to her, but with an imperious gesture she waved him back :
*Do not come near me I Do not touch me 1 Leave me tn myself,’ she said in a voice which sounded far away, it was so low and hollow.
Boor Henri was completely unnerved at the spectacle of his mother, who was usually so calm and self possessed, in this state of physical and mental bouhversement. • Mother 1 Mother 1’ he cried, in an agonised tone of entreaty. The voice that she had so loved seemed to rouse her ; her eyes, as they rested upon
the beloved face of her only child, lost something of their stony look. ‘Oh, Henri.’ she murmured ‘my boy! my boy ! What will become of you ’ What will become of you ’’ The doctor, who had not moved from his seat, was lost in amazement. Was it possible that after all this woman had loved
the man who lay dying just beyond the partition, and who. during their whole married life, had never shown her any affection, but who, on the contrary, had treated her with a coldness that amounted at times almost to brutality? * Mother I Mother !’ cried Henri again, advancing and shaking her band. * While there’s life there’s hope.’
‘Hope!’ she repeated. ‘Hope? There ia no such thing as hope for us. Heaven knows that it is not of myself, but of you that I think. How will you, who have been brought up as you have, bear —’ Suddenly she stopped, and, snatching away her hand, which had rested passively in Henri's clasp, she buret into a horrible mirthless laugh, which made both her listeners shiver. * There, there !’ she said. • I don’t know what I am saying. It is so sudden, Henri, you know—so sudden—so sudden. As she spoke, she caught up her heavy train in one hand, and waving the other vacantly, she tottered, rather than walked, from the study, and in another moment, the door of her own apartment, across the hall, was heard to close. * Poor woman I Poor woman !’ said the doctor, • she is completely unstrung. There is no cause for anxiety, my boy ; it is but natural that it should be so. The shock has proved too much for her.’ All that evening, as Henri sat by the bedside of his father, who had again lapsed into unconsciousness, his brain was like a kaleidoscope, in the constant shifting of his thoughts from one thing to another. His love for Marcelle, her acceptance of that love, Madame Charteris’ consent, the Baron Chevrial and his newly made bride, his father's sudden seizure, all these things crossed and recrossed each other in a sort of fantastical dance through his wearied head ; but the thing that troubled him the most and to which he returned again and again, without obtaining any satisfactory solution, was his mother’s strange behaviour. It was impossible that his fainer's sudden seizure could be the cause of it ; she had long ceased to feel any affection for him, and, although, as the doctor bad said, it was undoubtedly a great shock to her, that would not in itself account for her extraordinary emotion. Worn out with vain speculation, Henri at last threw himself down on the sofa, leaving the doctor and Francois to watch beside the sick bed, and soon, overcome by the varied emotions of the day, fell into a deep slumber. About three o'clock in the morning he was roused by the doctor. A decided change for the worse had taKen place. Madame de Targy, looking much more composed, stood near the head of the bed. Henri went to her side, and together they awaited the approach of the mysterious angel. Monsieur de Targy never recovered consciousness, but. as the first rays of the rising sun gilded the waking world, he breathed bis last, dying, as he had lived, unloving and unloved. If it be true that a man’s place in this world is measured by the void he leaves behind him, it would be difficult to discover the benefit of this man’s life. CHAPTER 111. TUB DE TARGY’S BALL. Tub apartment, an premier, No. 67 Avenue de 1’ Alma, near the Arc de Triomphe, was ablaze with light; carriage after carriage load of ladies in wonderfully concocted masses of satin, tulle, and lace, with their attendant cavaliers in black coats and white cravats, was deposited beneath the red and white striped awning stretched across the sidewalk ; bursts of music Boated now and then down from the windows, and all was gayety and laughter. For, tonight, Monsieur and Madame Henri de Targy were giving a giand ball to celebrate their return to the world, after two years of mourning. The event was one of more than usual interest, moreover, as it was young Madame de Targy’s debut in Parisian society. Since her marriage, which had been solemnised very quietly about six months after the death of her husband’s father, she had lived in the country, seeing no society beyond the few families in the neighbourhood, and Dr. Chesnel, an old friend of the De Targys. At last, however, the period of mourning was terminated, and, at the special request of Madame de Targy the elder, the family had returned to Paris, and the young wife was to assume the place in society to which her husband’s wealth and position entitled her. Rumours of her exceeding beauty had reached the metropolis, in spite of her seclusion at Sainte Roche, and it was whispered that Juliani, the famous tenor of the Italians, bad declared her voice to be phenomenal. All this was sufficient to cause considerable curiosity to sue her, and there were very few regrets to the in vita tions to the ball. In one of the antechambers leading from the grand salon were gathered together ■two or three of the jeunesse doree of the gay
capital, irreproachably attired from the tips of their patent-leather shoes to the crown of their carefully brushed heads. One, a young fellow of not more than two-and-twenty, but with the blase look, real or affected, of a man ot fifty who had completely exhausted life, reclined with halfclosed eyes in a low arm-chair, while his companions applauded with cries of * Brava ! Brava 1’ a duo, which had just been sung in the next room, by the mistress of the house and her teacher. Signor Juliani. ‘That was really admirable,’ said one, as the applause died away. ‘Very good, quite remarkable. The little woman has much talent, has she not, Tirandel !' The one addressed as Tirandel opened his eyes, stared for a moment at the speaker, and then, as if the effort to speak was really too much for him, made a feeble motion of the head in token of assent. 'Tirandel !’ indignantly ejaculated his friend, whose name was Laubanere, and who was a successful young broker on the Bourse. * How can you be so apathetic when such music is going on? Have you no soul ?’ ‘ Soul ?’ drawled Tirandel, without moving a muscle or in the slightest degree altering his comfortable position. Don’t know. Have a body.' Laubanere laughed. * Well, at all events, your body is in a very bad attitude for a ball, you know ’ ' Tired I’ and the tone of his voice was in accordance with his words. ‘But, tell me,’ said Laubanere, approaching and leaning over the back of his chair, * how happens it that you once more shed the light of your countenance upon society ?’ ‘ Must go somewhere.’ • You have the club.’ • Bores me. .Stopped smoking.’ ‘ Poor fellow 1 But I say, Tirandel.’ Tirandel moved slightly, and then said, with as much impatience as his laziness, real or assumed, would allow him to exhibit : ‘ Don’t yell ! Nerves.’ ‘But, my dear fellow, you don’t know what you are missing. The rooms are full of pretty women, I assure you.’ ‘ All the same to me.’ •Hear him, Vaumartin,’ laughed Laubanere, turning to a third young man, who had approached to listen to the colloquy. * Did you ever see Buch a fellow ?’ Vaumartin was evidently not a man to have much sympathy with Tirandel’s lackadaisical airs, if airs they wore. He was one of those men, by no means infrequent in society, who have sprung from no one knows where and who by push and wirepulling have managed to obtain a foothold and keep it. ‘ What is the matter with you, Tirandel ?’ he asked, in a voice as rasping as a saw. ‘ Jilase ! Wornjout!’ murmured Tirandel, softly. • The devil 1 Don’t vou do anything for it ?' * Trying water cure.’ * Has it done you any good ?’ Tirandel shrugged his shoulders, or rather made a weak movement that was meant to be a shrug. ’ ‘Not much, evidently,’ said Vaumartin. • Think I’m a little better.’ Both his companions roared. ‘Great heaven!' exclaimed Laubanere. ‘ What must you have been before you tried it.’ ‘How are you, Laubanere?' said a voice from the door-way. ‘ Good-evening, Monsieur Vaumartin.’ Laubanere started, and turning, bowed obsequiously. * Good-evening, baron,’ he replied, in response to the salutation of the newcomer. We have already caught a glimpse of Baron Chevrial at the church door in Sainte Roche, but in the last two years, he has altered somewhat and not for the better. His face is thinner, and the cheeks, in spite of their rather too brilliant colouring, look sunken. The little eyes, beneath the carefully pencilled brows, are dull and fishy, and below them are puffed ridges which no art can conceal. His hair, however, is quite ae thick and black as ever. It has long been a matter of hot discussion ■ n club and boudoir whether the baron’s chevelure is due to nature or a very skilful wig-maker, but the question has never yet been satisfactorily solved. The baron advanced into the room, dangling in one hand a monocle, attached by a thin gold chain to the lapel of his vest, und stroking with the other his slender moustache which was waxed into two stiff points and turned straight up from the corners of his mouth—a mouth, by the way, which would not have mot with favour from physiognomists, the upper lip being thin and bloodless, and the lower heavy, protruding, and of a deep purplish hue.
Every detail of hie dress was perfection. The cut of his evening coat, with it- single gaidenia in the button-hole, was a model, and the set of the white expanse of his shirt front. Beau Brummel or tho f ount d'
Orsay, had those worthies lived in these days, would have envied. • How aro you, dear boy ?’ said the baron, addressing young Tirandel with a familiar pat on the shoulder, as if the young man had been one of his own contemporaries. • You are late, baron,’ observed Laubanere, deferentially. Baron Chevrial was one of the kings of the Bourse, and it behoved the young broker to court his favour. ‘ Yes, yes. I was detained at the opera : behind the scenes, bien entendu,' with a sly wink and an unctious chuckle. ‘ But what has been going on here? Whom were they applauding as I came up the stairs ?' • The mistress of the house, Madame de Targy,’ replied Laubanere, ' who has been singing with Juliani.’ • With Juliani, the tenor ?’ • Yes.’ ‘ Ah 1’ was the baron’s answer, but there was a world of disagreeable innuendo in the long drawn out monosyllable. Laubanere and Vaumartin laughed as in duty bound. The old relations of patron and client still exist in these modern days, though perhaps lese openly than in an tiquity. Ae for Tirandel, for the first time during the evening, he showed some signs of intelligence. An expression of disgust at the baron’s implication swvpt over his handsome face, and he said in a way which showed that beneath all his laziness and indifference, there lurked the instincts of a gentleman. • Madame de Targy bears a spotless reputation. Juliani has been giving her lessons.’ ‘ Oh !' retorted Chevrial, with a halfsneer. ‘ Behold our friend, Tirandel, in a new character, that of knight-errant. Well, all I can say is, that I envy Monsieur Juliani.' • I must tell you, iny dear baron,’ interrupted Laubanere, quickly, ‘ that Madame Chevrial accompanied them charmingly.’ ‘My wife?’ remarked Chevrial, indiffer ently. • That does not astonish me ; she is a very fine pianist, my wife. She possesses all accomplishments. But, tell me,’ with more animation, ‘Has Madame de Targy any talent ? 1 have never heard her.' ‘ Yes, much talent.’ • Of the hrst order, my dear baron, of the first order!’ declared Vaumartin. 'A superb voice ! That young woman has a hundred thousand francs in her throat. This opinion was announced in the tone of a priest of Apollo, delivering an oracle, which there is no gainsaying. Monsieur Vaumartin believed that if you only speak loudly and authoritatively enough, the majority of people will listen to you and accept what you say as truth, and he carried this belief into all tho actions of his life. But he found now, as he had on more than one previous occasion, the baron an exception to the majority. ‘ A hundred thousand francs in the throat — bah !’ was Chevrial’s comprehensive comment. •I assure you, baron, that she sings very well.'replied Vaumartin. ‘She is a great artist.’ The baion smiled in pitying disdain. ‘ Yes, in a drawing-room.’ he said, sweetly. * 1 have no doubt of it. It is like society amateurs playing a comedy ; in private, it is charming, but, on the stage of a theatre, it would be something quite different.’ ‘Yes, indeed, baron, that is true,’ remarked Laubenere, who was always only too ready to agree with the man of success. But Vaumartin was too self opinionated to relinquish the point, and, besides, he rarely had dealings on the Bourse. • I beg to differ with you, gentlemen,’ he persisted. * You can believe me or not, as you like, but, no later than night before last 1 heard, in a parlour, some society people play one of De Musset’s pieces, and I assure you that those ladies and gentlemen, simple amateurs as they were, would not have been out of place ’ At the Theatre - Francais, I suppose, dear boy,’ interrupted the baron. ' Is that what you were going to say !’ Vanmartin hesitated a moment. • Well, yes, he said, boldly, determined not to abate an inch of his position, ‘ certainly, at the Theatre-Francais.’ Even Tirandel laughed at this. • Well,’ said the baron, * whether she has a voice for the stage or a voice for the parlor, the little woman is devilish pretty. She has a figure which would tempt an anchorite.’ And adjusting hie monocle, with a hand which a close obeervei would have per-
ceived was just the least little bit tremulous, the baron cast upon the lady under discussion, who was standing just beyond the arched door-way, such a look as a Satyr might have bent upon a nymph he had discovered bathing in some woodland stream. * Really, it is incredible/ he murmured, 1 how she appeals to my imagination.’ The young mistress of the house, accompanied by half a dozen of her guests, among whom were her aunt, Madame Charteris, and our old friend, Doctor Chesnel, entered the room.
Very lovely was Marcelle in a Worth gown of silver tissue and a white satin train embroidered with golden lillies. Upon her arm and neck, as polished ae marble, gloamed diamonds and sapphires, and above the rippling masses of her bronzehued hair was poised an exquisite, jewelled butterfly. The excitement had flushed her delicately moulded cheeks, and lent an udditonal brightness to her dark brown eyes. After acknowledging the salutes of the four gentlemen, whose conversation we have been listening to, she turned to her aunt, and said, smilingly, evidently in reply to some remark just made : • Then vou really think that I have made progress ?’ ‘Prodigious, my dear, prodigious,’ replied Madame Charteris, whose more than plump figure was tightly compressed in a gorgeous costume of scarlet and black, and whose good-humoured face beamed with pleasure at the success ot her niece. ‘ Your voice is now simply perfection.’ ‘You really made me shed tears,’ observed Madame de Luce, a pretty young woman, whose elderly husband had considerately died a few years before and left her in possession of an ample income. ‘ You have the golden voice of Patti/ said Vaumartin, in his loud voice. ‘ With a suggestion of Nilsson, besides/ added the baron, bowing low with his most fascinating air. Marcelle smiled and blushed with gratified vanity. ‘ Oh, gentlemen,’ she said, • you are really too good.’ Baron Chevrial raised his little eyes to her fresh, flower-like face with a look of undisguised admiration, which had in it something indescribably repulsive. With an involuntary movement, Dr. Chesnel, who caught the look, stepped between them, hiding Marcelle from the roue’s baneful gaze, and said, almost affectionately • • My dear little lady, you have given your old friend great pleasure, and made him very proud of you.’ ‘ My dear doctor/ said Marcelle, smiling innocently up at him, ‘ 1 saw your good, kind face before me, and that gave me confidence. It is the first time, you know, that 1 have sung in public * But/ she continued, turning to a tall, handsome Italian, who had entered the room with her and still stood by her side, ‘you. Signor Juliani, to whom 1 owe all, say nothing.’ ‘ Ah, madam,' replied the Italian, in a rich, melodious voice, ‘ 1 am under the spell, like everyone else.’ ‘ But/ proceeded Marcelle, ‘ it is really to you that all these delightful compliments should be addressed, to you, who have done me the extreme honor to give me lessons.’ ‘Oh, the honor,’answered Signor J uliani, with a laugh, and a graceful, deprecating wave of the hand. • Is it really true. Signor Juliani/asked Vaumartin, • that you intend to leave Paris as they say. ‘Oh! no !’ exclaimed Madame Charteris and Madame de Luce in concert. • Oh • no ! no ! Signor Juliani.’ ‘I regret to say, ladies/ replied the tenor, ‘that such is my ultimate intention.’ • But that is too bad, quite too bad/ pouted Madame de Luce. • It is frightful, frightful,’ said Madame Charteris, ‘You are a horrid man. Monsieur Vaumartin !’ Then, as that gentleman did not seem to hear her, ‘ Monsieur Vaumartin!’ she repeated, ‘will you give me your arm to the supper room?’ Not overdelighted. Vaumartin started io obey her request, and, as he passed the baron, he whispered in disgust : ‘This is the fifteenth woman I have taken into supper this evening.’ ‘ You aro so amiable and so handsome,’ murmured the baron, hypocritically. At this moment the strains of a waltz floated in from the salon, and Marcelle said to Tirandel, who hud been standing a little apart from the rest, gloomy and silent. • Don't you dance, Monsieur Tirandel ?’ Tho youth of two-and-twenty, who was
convinced that he had exhausted all the world had to oiler, replied sadly : 'No, madam.* * And you, Monsieur Chevrial. Oh I by tho way,’ with a charming smile, ‘I must thank you for having come this evening, you, who go so little into society. It is a miracle to see you, and a miracle for which I am deeply grateful.* The baron approached close to her side with that peculiarly insinuating manner, which it was his habit to assume towards women and which he believed to be irresistible. * You do not know, madam, he said, in low, smooth tones, ‘ what an irresistible attraction you exercise over my weak heart.’ Marcelle started, and instinctively drawing a little away from him, replied constrainedly : 'lndeed ! Well, in return, I adore your wife. She came to see me several times, you know, when we were at Sainte Roche, and I am sure, now that I have come to Baris, we shall be great friends. You have no idea how well she played my accompaniment to-night.’ •Would that I could play your accompaniment !’ exclaimed the baron, with a leering smile, which was intended to be fascinating.
‘ But you can’t, you know,’ returned Marcelle, laughing, and gathering up her train, with its golden embroideries, to return to the salon.
‘ May I not even be your partner in a waltz?’ asked the baron, pleadingly. Marcelle would gladly have refused. She did not like the man ; there was something about him that shocked and repelled her. Bub still it would not do to be rude to him in her own house, so she was forced to accept his proffered arm, inwardly resolving. however, to cut the waltz as short as possible. CHAPTER IV. BARON CHEVKIAL’S OPINIONS. It was no great pleasure for Henri de Targy to come to Paris and.plunge into the giddy whirl of society. He had been thoroughly happy in the country with his adored Marcelle, but he did not consider it right to immure her in the house at Sainte Roche, and so had determined to give her a season in Paris. As he stood half hidden behind the curtains of a deep bay-window, and looked out at the gayly decorated rooms, the flashing lights and the medley of magnificent toilets he could not help a feeling of regret for his quiet home in the country with Marcelle sitting opposite him at the fireside. Nevertheless, his heart swelled with pride a« he saw her coming toward him, by ail odds the most bcaatiful woman in that assemblage of beautiful women. As she caught sight of him standing alone in tho shadowy window, she dropped the arm of the doctor with whom she was walking, and saying, ‘ There is Henri, moping ah by himself. I must speak to him,’ slipped in beside him. ‘ Why are you here all alone ?’ she asked, laying her hand on his arm, caressingly. ‘ Aren’t you enjoying it?’ • I enjoy your pleasure,’ was the tender reply. ‘Oh, you bad boy, bub I want you to enjoy it yourself.’ • Are you sure you are not getting too tired ?’ • No. Oh, Henri, I never was so happy in my life !’ And she impulsively threw both arms about his neck and kissed him. •My dear !’ he exclaimed, glancing quickly out into the salon, with a man’s nervous dread of being ridiculous. ‘How could you ?’ The bright face clouded over in an instant and the pretty lip trembled. As Henri saw this a pang smote him to think that any thoughtless word of his should cause her pain, and drawing ber further within the curtained window, he put his arm about her, saying soothingly : ‘ Forgive me, dear ! Kiss me, wherever you like, in the ball room, in tho stieet, in the theatre, in church—’ She looked up at him, a delicious smile upon her lips. •Idid, once,’ she said, demurely- ‘ You did. my darling !’ he murmured, passionately, straining her closer to him. • May 1 never forget it.’ For a moment she remained nestled close to the heart of her lover husband, and then, gently disengaging herself from his embrace she said, laughingly : ‘ H<»w absurd ot us ! Come back with me at once to our guests.’ Do Targy was not the only one to whom the ball was not a source ol unmitigated delight. Baron Chevrial, though for \ afbiy dillerent reasons, was b red and disgusted. His waltz with Marcelle had not been so pleasant as he had imagined it would be. The fair mistress of the house either did not or would not understand the honeyed speeches he poured into her ear. and, as he had come to the ball for the express purpose of winning her good graces, he felt himself a highly abused man and was inclined to rail at fa*e.
After the dinner, he returned to the anteroom, where he found Vaumartin, who had managed to escape from the clutches of hungry Madame Charteris, and Tirandel, who had resumed hia lazy attitude in the most comfortable arm chair. •What!’ exclaimed Vaumartin. ’ls your waltz already over ?' The baron was somewhat out of temper, and thoroughly out of breath. * Yes,’ he said, breathing heavily. ‘I only made two turns of the room. The weather is so damp to day, that I have no strength in my legs. Confound that little woman 1 It is astonishing how she appeals to my imagination.* Vaumartin smiled. * AU women appeal to your imagination, Chevrial.’ The baron's little eyes half closed, with a sly look, as he nodded assent. * More or less, more or lees, my boy, but, this one positively drives me wild. ‘ And Rosa Guerin ?’ murmured Tirandel, lazily. *Oh ! Rosa Guerin ie quite another sort.' ‘ And the—the—what you may call it—of the—the circus’’ ‘ You are losing your memory, Tirandel,’ retorted Chevrial. • The—what you may call it of the circus is another sort still. AU species of women have their charm. By the way,’ he added, with a faint click of the tongue, and a sort of smacking of the lips,’ did you notice the little maid-servant in Che dressing room, the one that took charge of the wraps ?’ 'Oh I’said Tirandel, with a slight, a very slight, upraising of the eyebrows. • the maid-servant now.’ * Exactly,’ laughed Vaumartin. ‘ Very pretty, very pretty, upon my word.’ pursued Chevrial, taking no notice of his companions’ remarks. ‘ A figure bv Watteau. But to return to her mistress ; she is really a superb bit of female flesh, highly superior, a mixture of delicacy and strength, health without coarseness. She will probably become intimate with my wife. lam delighted with the idea—yes, delighted,’ he added, with a nod of the head and a slow smile. Vaumartin grinned, and Tirandel really deigned to open big eyes wide. ‘ Look here, baron,’ he said, with as near an approach to spirit as he ever permitted himself to indulge in. ‘’Ware hawk! No chance there.’ The baron surveyed him snearingly from head to foot. ‘ Why no chance?’ he asked contemptuously. ‘ Because,’ replied Tirandel, resuming his languid drawl, * this is an ideal match. They adore each other. They embrace in every corner.’ The baron’s features relaxed in a smile of conscious power. ‘My dear fellow,’ he said, pityingly, ‘ you don’t know what you are talking about. There is one established rule which never fails. ’ ‘ Really ?’ ‘ Really. In matters of love, with time and money, nothing is impossible. Look at Jupiter in ancient times, and scores of modern instances.’ ‘ But,’ said Vaumartin, * your rule would probably fail here. These De Targys are very rich. They have at least a hundred thousand francs a year.’ The baron snapped his fingers. * Well, a hundred thousand francs a year. What of it ’ In Paris a fashionable young woman can easily spend half of that in dross. Besides, have they as much as that? I have heard it said that De Targys father lost considerable money before he died.’ ‘ Ah I’ ‘ And certainly the son’s marriage did not better things ; his wife had nothing. She had been comfortably enough brought up by her aunt, but she had no fortune of her own, an insignificant dowry. It was a love match, the least likely to last of all ! And, then,’ lowering his voice, * there are mysteries in the house, you know.’ Vaumartin looked surprised.
* No,’ he answered, * I did not know. You forget that I have been in St. Petersburg for the last three years. Come, tell me all about it,’ he added, throwing himself into a chair beside Tirandel, whose eyes were closed, and who was evidently already in a doze ‘ Well, hero goes, then,’ said the baron, following his friend’s example. ‘About two years ago, not long before his son’s marriage—by the way, it happened on that most auspicious occasion, my own wedding day — the elder De Targy died suddenly, and there were, in connection with his death, certain singular circumstances ; there were even rumours of suicide. What is positive, however, is, that since that time Madame de Targy, the dowager I mean, has fallen into a very strange condition.’ ‘ A little crazy, isn’t she?’ ‘ No, not exactly crazy, but extraordinary, odd, peculiar. She used to be quite a pleasant sort of woman. I have seen her when she was very agreeable, very agreeable indeed. But she suddenly aged enormously, and she never shows herself now. She does noteven go out, I believe.
She passes all her days, and even all her nights, they say, in pacing like a spectre up and down her apartments, above hereand —in short, there is a mystery, a some thing ’ ‘Skeleton 1’ muttered Tirandel. Chevrial started nervously. * What do you say ?’ he asked, querulously. * I thought you were asleep.’ * Was !’ was the yawning reply. ‘ Heard you say mystery I Suggested skeleton.’ * Well, don't be so abrupt in your suggestions. It ie the weather, I suppose. I am shaky to-night. You happen to be right, however. There is a skeleton in some closet here, and one that should, perhaps, be ferreted out.’ * It is very likely all mere idle gossip,’ said Vaumartin, rising. ‘ At all events, these young people certainly know how to entertain ; their ball has been a success.’ * It is the first time they have received since the death of the father,’ rejoined Chevrial, ‘ and they have naturally made all the display possible.’ •The devil!’ exclaimed Vaumartin, as he raised the portiere, which had been drawn across the arch leading into tho salon. ‘The 100 ms are nearly deserted. Almost everyone has gone.’ * So late ! Let us go, too, then. Come, Tirandel,’ giving him a shake. • You can’t sleep there all night.’ Tirandel opened his eyes, yawned, and rose slowly to his feet. ‘ Confound it !’ he drawled. ‘ One can’t be comfortable anywhere !’ And he sauntered after the others, who had already disappeared. Vaumartin had spoken the truth. There was no one in the room save the host and hostess, Madame Charteris, and a very beautiful woman with golden hair and deep blue eyes, the Baroness Chevrial. ‘ My wife !’ muttered the baron to himself, as he caught sight of her. • Humph ! I had forgotten all about her.’ * My dear Marcelle,’ Aunt Reine was saying gushingly, ‘everything has been delightful—ah ! Monsieur Vaumartin, you
are always on hand when I want you. You can take me to my carriage.’ ‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ but bis looks belied his wotds.
However, he submittbed to the inevitable and the good woman sailed oil on his arm, followed slowlv by Tirandel, who bad murmured some unintelligible farewell to his hostess, which might have been expressive of his enjoyment of the ball or the reverse. ‘Your wife has been so kind, baron,’ said Marcelle, brightly. ‘ She promised me to remain till the end of my first ball, and, you see, she has kept her word.’ The baroness smiled sweetly, as she took the hand of the pretty young matron, flushed with her first social triumphs. *1 have stayed,’ she said, ‘because I always like to be in your house. It is such a pleasure to witness the happiness of you and your good husband,' with a little nod to Henri, who stood close beside bis wife. At these words, the baron’s eyes contracted. ‘ That is meant for me,’ be thought, but in this he did the baroness an injustice, for her remarks had been without any arriere-pensive whatever. ‘ Pardon me, is not this monsieur’s?* Chevrial turned and saw standing just behind him, carrying an overcoat and a hat, the pretty maid he had noticed in the dressing-room. The baron’s expression changed. ‘Exactly,’ he said, with a bold stare of admiration. * A little help, please.’ As the girl finished helping him into his overcoat, he slipped a piece of silver into her hand, and whispered, with his back turned to Che others : ‘You have the hands of a duchess, my dear.’ The girl drew back offended and half alarmed, and the baron calmly advanced to take farewell of Marcelle. • Once more, baron, thank you for coming.’ ‘ Ah 1 madam, I love the world, I love lights, music, handsome toilets and beaati-
ful women. 1 have had a most delightful evening, and it is for me to thank you,’ and he bowed low over her hand. ‘ Good night, dear madam,’ said his wife. • We shall be friends, shall we not ?’ exclaimed Marcelle, impulsively. •We are so, already,’ was the earnest response. ‘Maria,’ said Marcelle, a few moments later. • Madam ?’ • You can tell the servants they can retire. It is too late to put things to rights to-night.’ ‘ Very well, madam.’ ’And I shall not want you again to-night; you must be fatigued.’ ‘Oh ! no, madam. I was so interested in looking at the dresses.' Maria had been Madam De Targy's maid since her marriage ; she was a good girl, and Marcelle allowed her a certain familiarity. ’There were some pretty dresses, were there not ?’ ’Oh! yes, madam. Madam de Chevrial’s was beautiful.’ • Yes, she looked very handsome.’ ‘ Yes, madam, and she is a very kind lady; it is a shame that she should have such a queer man for her husband.’ ‘ What ?’ ’ Ah, madam, he always says such horrid things to you and puts his face so close to you. I never saw such a monkey.’ Henri, who had thrown himself down upon a divan, laughed aloud, and even Marcelle could not restrain a smile, although she said severely enough : • That will do, Maria. Good-night.' When the girl had left the room, she came over to her husband, and bending down to kiss hie forehead, said tenderly : • Good-morning.' ’ My darling 1’ and he drew her down beside him, the love light as strong in his eyes as it had been in the little garden of the Lion d’ Or. • Did you love me this evening ?’ she asked, coquettishly. ’ I always love you ’ • But this evening in particular?’ He smiled affectionately. •Ah I you want compliments. Well, this evening in particular, I not only loved you, I was proud of you.' • Go on,’ she said, nestling close to him,
regardless of the crumpling of her superb embroidered draperies. ‘ Yes, I was proud of you. You were in your element, in the midst of all this social elegance, which you love and which suits you, charming your guests and charmed yourself, dancing like a fairy, singing like a bird, happy and triumphant as a young queen. I was proud of you and I adored you.’ ’lt is very sweet to hear you say this,’ she murmured. ‘You really sang sujierbly to-night.’ • Do you know what Signor Juliani said to me to-night ?’ • What ?’ ‘He said it was a shame I dil not sing in opera.’ ‘ Indeed !’ ‘ And that an engagement was open to me whenever I wanted it. Oh !' she continued, with sparkling eyes, ‘ how I would like that—that is. if you were willing. Would you give your consent?’ ’ No,’ replied Henri, laughingly, but firmly. Marcelle laughed, too. ‘ I expected that reply,’ she said. ‘ No, no, my dear, your proper surroundings are such scenes as to-night. Do you know, luxury, dress, laces, diamonds, become you so well that really, my darling, I cannot imagine you poor.’ • Nor can I. And yet 1 should be poor, if it were not for you.’ ‘ Not at all. If you had not met me, you would have continued to live with your aunt.’ ‘ Aunt Reine was certainly very good to me ; she spoiled me, in fact But once out of her house, once married, I must have been poor. Where could I have found another man as good and generous as you, with an unselfish heart like yours, to choose me in spite of my small fortune ? For I had nothing, had I ? Almost nothing ?’ • Oh, I beg your pardon,’ he said, quickly. • You had a very—a very respectable dowry.’ Marcelle was silent for a moment, end then she said, thoughtfully, playing with the magnificent jewels upon her white fingers: ‘Would you believe it? I never knew exactly how much my dowry was. I was such a child. My education had been so unpractical that I knew ab.-olutely nothing
of business matters. 1 thought it quite natural that you should take me for my pretty face, with a Hower tor my only ornament. Tell me, how much was my dowry ?’ Henri hesitated. • 1 do not remember,' he said, ’exactly.' ’ No,’ she insisted, with a pretty moue, ‘tell me—please.’ ‘Well—eighty thousand francs.’ ‘ Income ?’ ‘Oh, no,’ he laughed. Marcelle’s face grew grave. ‘ Poor fellow I’ she said, tenderly. • But,’ imploringly, ‘ you are happy ?’ He drew her close into his arms. ‘So happy, my darling, so happy, that the very excess of my happiness almost frightens me.’ ‘ Ah ! how I love you !’ sho murmured. CHAPTER V. SKELETONS. From the night of her ball young Madame de Targy was a pronounced success. Her toilets, her beauty, her voice were the theme of every tongue, and Marcelle’s cup of joy was brimming over. She revelled in luxury and all the power that money and position give ; not that she was frivolous or heartless, far from it; she loved her husband with her whole heart, and his will was her law ; she loved him. and she was grateful to him for all the beauty and sunshine he had poured into her life. Perhaps she was a little intoxicated by all the adulation she received, but she had a staunch friend and wise adviser in Madame Chevrial, to guide her steps amid the shoals and pitfalls that lie beneath the brilliant, fascinating exterior of Parisian society. Armande Chevrial was a woman of far more than ordinary strength of character. Her marriage bad been one purely of con venience, arranged by her relatives and in which she had been but little consulted. In a worldly point of view, it was certainly a great match for a penniless girl, and as is too often the case in such circumstances, uncle and aunt had refused to look beneath the dazzling glitter of the baron’s gold. Knowing but little of lite, as is the rule with most French girls, she had acquiesced in the decision of her family, and accepted
Chevrial’s hand. Her awakening came only too soon. The baron's resolve at refoi mation, made, it must be confessed for purely selfish reasons, was short-lived, and Armande bad not been married six months before she knew that her husband was a selfish, unprincipled roue, entirely aban doned to the gratification of his own passions, and utterly regardless of the feelings of others so long as his own ends were gained. There wre one terrible scene be tween them, of bitter upbraiding and hopeless pleading on her part, and sneering sarcasm and cynical bravado on his, but it was the last. From that time she went her way and he his. Whatever she may have sutlcred in silence, the world never know it. Her manner to him was perfect ; she indulged in no further reproaches and she respected his wishes. On his part, he wa.s well satisfied with an arrangement which permitted him to follow hie own sweet will without restraint or annoyance. The passing fancy which Armando’s beauty bad inspired in him, had long ago dwindled to nothing. So long as she did honour to his name and wealth, dressed magnificently and entertained perfectly, that was all he demanded of her. He knew that she despised him, but that, in general, w'ae a matter of supreme indifference to him. It was not strange, therefore, that Armande, in her loveliness, should have been strongly attracted to Marcelle de Targy. Henri had been her friend from childhood, and, moreover, Marcelle’s clinging, sensitive nature appealed powerfully to her own more self reliant one. Her happiest moments were those spent in the peace and sunshine of the De Targy household. Sunshine ? Yes, but—and unfortunately there is always a but—there was one cloud upon the otherwise clear horizon. Since the sudden death of her husband, the dowager Madame de Targy, as we have already heard Chevrial had become a changed woman. Formerly devoted in her piety and strict in the observance of her religion, she now never entered a church. Her melancholy increased more and more, reaching at times what “eemed absolute despair. Although she wished and indeed insisted that Henri and Marcelle should join in all the pleasures that the world could give them, she resolutely eschewed all society herself and saw no one outside
of her own family, save Doctor Cheenel and occasionally Madame Chevrial. When Henri had asked her permission to marry Mademoiselle Rigaud, she had at once given her consent and had even urged that the marriage take place at once. She seemed fond of Marcelle, but her usual condition was one of apathetic inditlerence. If Henry had not been so madly in love with his wife, a love which was so great that it completely absorbed him, his mother’s condition would have been a terrible thing to him, and, as it was, it could not fail to worry him at times. Doctor Cheenel, with whom he had many a long talk on the subject, declared that his science was powerless against a mental affection. Madame de Targy’s physical health was perfect, but she seemed to be besieged by some one fixed idea which poisoned her whole existence Henri, at the doctor’s instigation, had once attempted to obtain her confidence, but with no effect save to throw his mother into a state of terrible nervous agitation which lasted several days. It was altogether inexplicable ; and it was the one little drop of gall in the young couple’s over-flowing beaker of happiness. CHAPTER VI. BEFORE ASP BEHIND THE SCENES. The curtain had just fallen upon tbe second act of *La Juire.’ The magnificent auditorium of the opera house was crowded with all that was conspicuous in fashion or art, and the sweep of the horse-shoe was like a parterre of beautiful faces, superb toilets and blazing jewels. It was the first appearance in Paris of the great tenor, Juliani, as Eleazar, in a gorgeous revival of Halevy’s opera, and a representative audience had gathered together to do him honour. vVhen, in addition to Juliani in a new role, it was announced that Krauss would sing Rachel, and that Mademoiselle Rosa Guerin, the favouite danseuse, with tbe grace of a Taglioni and the figure of a Cerito, would dance, it was not strange that all Paris should desire to be present the first night, and that single orchestra seats should have brought an enormous premium. Among all the beautiful women gathered together that night, there were probably none more beautiful than the two who sat in the Baron Chevrial’s box, the financier’s wife and young Madame de Targy. Lorgnettes from all parts of the house were levelled at the contrasting types, the one severe and classical in the purity of its outlines, and the other bright and riant e in its brilliancy of colouring. Henri de Targy, as he stood in the back of the box and watched his wife’s smiling face as she chatted gayly with the young eZq/atlfcs, who had crowded in during the enir' acte, rejoiced in her enjoyment; but if troubles destroy happiness, it is equally true that pleasures disturb it; and be could not restrain a slight feeling of regret for the old, quiet days at Sainte Roche, when every moment of Marcelle’s time had belonged to him and to him alone. With her it was far different. She adored Paris, and everything in its glitter and splendour was novel and delightful to her. She was like a young bird just trying its wings and conscious of its power, and she had not yet learned the truth of that saying of Christine of Sweden, ‘ The one who seeks too eagerly for amusement ends by obtaining naught but ennui.' ‘Juliani is surpassing himself to-night,’ said Vaumartin, who with Tirandel, looking as sleepy and handsome as ever, had entered the box. * Yes,’ said Madame Chevrial, his voice is particularly well suited to tbe music. I have never seen him when ho was so fine.’ • He has given up his projected tour, I understand.’
* Ask Madame de Targy,’ said the baron, who from a point of vantage behind Marcelle’s chair bad been ogling the house. ‘She is an intimate friend of bis.’
* Hardly that,’ said Marcelle, blushing slightly, * but I am very proud to be a pupil of his. No, be has not abandoned bis tour to South America, but he baa postponed it, I believe, for six months.’ * Does he go alone?’ * No, he will take with him an opera troupe, and be his own impresario. He finds great advantage in that, be says.' *lt is a pity his most promising pupil cannot be the leader of the troup,’ said Vaumartin, with a flattering bow. * Ah ! I am not my own mistress, and my husband would not hoar of it.’ and she lifted her eyes to Do Targy with a smile full of affection. She had not yet learned to disguise ber feelings, and it was patent to even the most careless observer that Marcello de Targy was that anomaly in Parisian society, a wife in love with her husband.
Baron Chevrial bent over her chair, until his mustache almost touched her fair, white neck.
•How I envy Monsieur de Targy,' he said, in low, silky tones. ‘What would I not give for a smile like that.’ Marcolle made no reply, but she shivered
slightly, and drew her opera cloak over her shoulders.
Armande Chevrial caught the halfwhispered words and a look of contempt swept across her face. She knew her husband only too well, and she registered a vow that, if she could help it, the purity of Marcelle’s mind should not be sullied by attentions and speeches which were little less than an insult. Marcelle herself had led too retired a life to have any just appreciation of a man of the baron’s type, but, without knowing exactly why, he never addressed her that she did not feel repelled. She would have avoided him on every possible occasion, had it not been for the sincere affection she felt for his wife. The appearance of the musicians was the signal that the curtain was about to rise, and the young men who had been visiting their friends in the boxes, gradually drifted back to their seats on the floor of the house. The third act is devoted to the fete* in honour of the emperor, and almost entirely taken up with tbe gorgeous ballet of * The Enchanted Tower.’ After some preliminary and rather uninteresting evolutions by coryphees, in gauze skirts and low-cut bodices of all the colours of the rainbow, amid a crash of music the doors of tbe pavilion, erected in the centre of tbe stage, flew open, and within, at the head of the broad flight of steps, appeared the bright, particular star of the ballet, Roea Guerin. At sight of its favourite, the vast audience broke into a roar of applause, quite equal to that with which it had welcomed Juliani himself.
The dancer was dressed in clouds of palegrey tulle, garlanded with crimson roses, and a single half-opened bud nestled in the masses of her dark hair. Her exquisitely modelled neck and her arms as beautifully proportioned as we imagine the lost arms of the Venue of Milo to have been, were unmarred by any jewel or ornament whatever. Her figure was simply perfection, as lithe and proudly poised as that of a young goddess. Her face was not what could be called handsome, the forehead was too high and the grey eyes were set too closely together, and it was a face that first interested and finally fascinated. Her dancing was grace itself and possessed, moreover, a distinct stamp of inaividuality. She danced not only with her feet, but with her brains. There were none of those senseless gyrations, those meaningless smirks, those tour* de force, indulged in by most ballet dances, but her every action was the result of thought and her whole performance was full of delicate suggestion. It was little wonder that the Parisians, who, frothy and laughter loving as they are, are unrivalled critics in the world of art, had without a dissenting voice, pronounced her queen of her profession.
Baron Chevrial had but slight appreciation of music, but in the beauties of the female form he was a connoisseur, and all the time that Mademoiselle Guerin was upon the stage, he kept his opera-glass fixed upon her. Hie applause at the close of her pas seul was enthusiastic, possibly a little too much so. • Considering that he is with his wife,’ observed Vaumartin to Tirandel, who eat beside him in the stalls, ‘our friend the baron's appreciation of Rosa is a trifle too marked to be entirely in gooa taste.’ * Beast I’ ejaculated Tirandel, laconically. More than one man in the house shared this opinion of the king of finance, but had the baron been aware of all the uncomplimontary things said of him, he would have cared but little. Like Bismarck, he had no need of the liking of his fellow-beings, and was passably indifferent to criticism. In tbe next intermission, Chevrial excused himself to the ladies and wandered out into the lobby, crowded with men, young and old, all in the regulation black coat and white cravat, the unbecoming livery of modern society. As he strolled up and down, smoking a cigarette, he was met everywhere with smiling nods and more than once button holed by some speculator on the Bourse. Although his personal character was well known and the strict honesty of his dealings more than suspected, be was too much of a power in the financial world to be treated with anything but courtesy and a semblance of respect. Men, as a rule, overlook much more easily the faults of a rascal who has it in his power to benefit them, than those of an honest man from whom they can derive no advantage. The baron was far too clever not to realise the motive of the fawning adulation he received. His opinion of mankind was anything but a lofty one. He had once been heard to remark that if one had enough money to purchase all the consciences that were for sale, bought them at what they were worth and sold them at the price their owners estimated them, no more payable business could be imagined. He could undoubtedly have cited many examples to prove the truth of this opinion, but, had he attempted to base all liis transactions upon it, he would probably have eventually met with shipwreck.
His cigarette finished, be left the brilliantly lighted lobby, with its gilding and frescoes, and mounting the stairs, entered a long, narrow passage to the left of tbe boxes on the second tier. A few steps in front of him, proceeding in tbe same direction, was a broad-shouldered figure, which he recognised as that of Doctor Ghesnel. ‘ Doctor !* be called, quickening his steps a little. ‘Doctor?’ The doctor turned, not too well pleased at the encounter. * Good-evening, baron,' he said, politely enough. The baron laughed. * Caught, eh, dear fellow,* he said, with a knowing wink. * Bound on the same errand as myself.’ * Bound in the same direction, but hardly on the same errand.’ * Bah 1 Why did you seek the appointment of physician to the opera. To flirt with the damsels of the ballet, my dear doctor, to flirt with the damsels of the ballet.' * I can afford to,’ was the dry response. • You cannot.’ * Disagreeable, as usual.’ ‘ Disagreeable ? No, sensible. You are looking badly, baron. Your nerves are in a worse condition than ever. See, how your hands tremble, and your voice is unsteady.’ * Great heaven, doctor,’ replied the baron, paling a little beneath his rouge. * I must have a little amusement. You would deprive me of everything.* ‘Be advised in time,’ was the brief response. •1 will I will. I am taking care of myself. I may be permitted a few minutes chat with Rosa, I suppose?' ‘ You are wasting your time, there.’ The baron smiled with the air of a conqueror. * Ab, no. I have a plan there which cannot fail of success. In matters of that sort, the opportunity is sure to come. Chance fails man less often than man fails chanceAnd I flatter myself that I know how to take advantage of the proper moment.’ The doctor made no reply. They had reached a small door at the end of the passage, with a little slide in the panel. Doctor Cbesnel knocked twice in a peculiar manner, the slide shot back, and the upper part of a man’s face appeared in the opening. In another moment, the door swung back, and thetwo gentlemen passed through to the regions behind the scenes. Threading the mazes of ropes and scenery in the midst of hurrying carpenters and stage hands, they finally reached their destination—the Foyer de la Danse. It was a long, low room, full of ballet girls in abbreviated skirts, and with their necks and arms covered with cloaks and shawls as a protection against the draught. Some of them, grasping a brass rod which ran along one side of the room about four feet from the floor, were practicing exercises to render the muscles more flexible, others were chatting among themselves, or bantering young fellows in full dress, who, by some means had obtained admittance to the sacred precincts. Seated on low benches were a lot of old women, the mothers, real or hired for the sake of respectability, of the young ladies of the corps de ballet. Their hands were busy with knitting work and their tongues were clicking in unison over the last scandal of the coulisses.
At one end of the room, wrapped in a magnificent fur-lined mantel which covered her from neck to foot and completely hid her ballet costume, stood Roea Guerin, talking to a distinguished-looking man with white hair and moustache, who looked like a cabinet minister, but who wds really a reporter for the ‘ Figaro.’ ‘ Ah ! the good doctor l’ she exclaimed, as the two gentlemen approached, with a charming smile which displayed two rows of faultless teeth, the chief beauty of ber face. ‘And you, mon vieux,’ she added, turning to the baron. * You have quite deserted me lately.’ Tbe baron bent and touched his lips to the band extended to him, a hand rather large, perhaps, but white and well-formed. ‘lt is your heartlessness that has driven me from your side,’ he murmured. ‘ My heartlessness !’ she retorted, with a merry laugh. Hear him, doctor 1 One would think he was a beardless boy sighing for his first flame. My dear baron, that part of your anatomy that has done you service ‘or a heart must be quite riddled by tbe shafts of the little love god.’ The doctor joined in her merry laughter. Rosa Guerin was a prime favourite with him. He liked her frankness and good humour, and he respected her because, surrounded as she was by temptation, she had managed thus far to preserve a spotless reputation. The baron, not a whit abashed by her raillery, said, with a look which he meant to be fascinating, but which was really ridiculous in its languishing servility : • Will you ever be obdurate ?’ ‘ There is but one way to win me, baron. The blessing of the church upon our union. But for the present, charming as your society is, I must tear myself away. I
have my costume to change. Good-night, doctor.’
• Good-night, my dear. You do not look as if you needed my services.’, ‘ No. thank Heaven for that. I am disgustingly healthy !' • It is cruel to tear yourself away,’ murmured the baron, his little eyes gloating upon the splendid specimen of womanhood before him. • When my duty calls, mon cher, pleasure must give way. Oh Iby the way, lam worried about those investments.* The baron’s face assumed an expression of keen interest. ■ Indeed,' he asked. ■ Why ?’ ‘Not time to tell you now. I will call upon you to-morrow, perhaps. Your advice is invaluable to me.’ ‘ Would that my love was also.’ Her clear grey eyes swept over his face, haggard with dissipation, and his attenuated form, with a look of amusement. ‘ Keep those sweet speeches for those who believe them,’ she retorted. ‘Au re voir I’ and she moved away with the broad, free grace, peculiar to herself. •That woman always reminds me of Diana,’ said the doctor. ‘Confound her !’ replied the baron, nervously gnawing his lip. ‘She’s cold enough for Diana, in all conscience.’ Ab present. Rosa was certainly Chevrial’s reigning divinity. Her indifference piqued him, and the more impossible it seemed to catch the charming bird, the more eager he became in her pursuit. The doctor stopped to inquire for one of the company who was ill. and his questions answered, he turned to look for hie companion. He found him playing the agree able to two girls, rather prettv in a some what coarse way, who seemed only too flattered at his attentions. • Well, are you going back for the fourth act?’ ‘ No, no,’ said the baron, with a vacuous grin. ‘lt is much pleasanter here than listening to the equalling inside.’ ‘As you please,’ replied the doctor, coldly. ‘ What a mockery of fate,’ he thought, as he returned to the auditorium, ‘ that a man like that should have won such a wife as he has. Ah ! marriage is indeed a lottery, and a lottery where fools and knaves win the prizes.'
(To be Continued.}
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Bibliographic details
New Zealand Graphic, Volume XV, Issue II, 13 July 1895, Page 42
Word Count
17,010A PARISIAN ROMANCE. New Zealand Graphic, Volume XV, Issue II, 13 July 1895, Page 42
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Acknowledgements
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