CHAPTER IV.

AT THE BAGATELLE THEATRE.

“Why did she love him? Curious fool, be still, Is human love the growth of human will?”

When Lady Beranger and her party enter a large stage-box and settle themselves noiselessly in their seats, the first act of ‘Hearts _versus_ Diamonds’ has begun, and the big bass is booming out a lugubrious overture to Ferdinand--the deserted lover’s reproaches to his faithless and diamond-worshipping Lady Yolande.

On the whole Carlton Conway looks superbly handsome and effective, when, as Ferdinand, he takes up a highly picturesque pose right in the centre of the stage. His head erect, his chest well thrown out, a little after Kyrle Bellew; his shirt-front ample; his tail-coat, and waistcoat and trousers, his patent leather boots, unimpeachable; and a gardenia from Hooper’s, in Oxford Street, although he can ill-afford the half-a-crown paid for it, fresh and snowy and fragrant, reposing on his broad breast.

With one white hand uplifted, the forefinger pointing in scorn; the third finger sparkling with a tiny but pure brilliant (Zai’s gift), he hurls:

“Oh, cursed hunger of pernicious gold, What bands of faith can impious lucre hold?”

in a deep, impassioned voice, that fairly electrifies his audience, but makes very little impression apparently on the Lady Yolande, who has quite made up her mind to give up love and poverty for a comfortable mansion in Mayfair and plenty of diamonds and money.

Miss Flora Fitzallan, as the Lady Yolande, is at her best to-night. She looks, in fact, as if a whole page of “Debrett” was devoted to her ancestry, thereby proving that we are not what we seem, and often seem what we are not.

In the palest of blue brocades, heavily embroidered with silver, and a tuft of pale blue ostrich tips placed jauntily a little on one side of her head, and a long Court train, edged with the very best imitation ermine, she looks quite good enough for a leader of Society.

On the finger of scorn being pointed at her, the Lady Yolande laughs tragically, and with an artistic twirl of her skirt swoops down close to the foot-lights, and while her glance roves over the _jeunesse dorée_ gathered in the stalls, cries in a contralto voice:

My name is Blue-blood! In the House of Lords My father sits and has his say; My mother was a Mistress of the Robes, Before those awful Tories had their sway! Thou forgettest, Ferdinand, that sangre azul flows Through all my veins; that in my face Not only love, but high ambition glows, With which, alas! thou never canst keep pace! Lapped in soft luxury, born in marble halls, Vassals and serfs to answer to my calls, I could not brave the humiliating woe Of in this world coming down so low. Ferdinand, forgive me! and let me go! Without my purse full, I should surely pine, I love good dinners, and I love good wine; My beauty decked in velvets, satins, lace, A jewelled diadem to crown my face. Ferdinand, I leave thee! heart-broken, with a sigh, But without gold and diamonds I should die!--die!

Upon this confession Ferdinand shows the laceration of his feelings by striking another attitude, an attitude of giant but picturesque despair. He folds his arms tightly across his chest, strides heavily towards her, and wears generally a depressed appearance.

“Oh!” he exclaims, lifting up his fine eyes to the gods in the gallery. “Lend me, I pray, strength to bear her perfidy.”

As his glance slowly travels earthwards he espies Zai, and starts slightly, but the sight of her sweet face gives real pathos and eloquence to his voice as he murmurs tenderly:

“Yolande! Beloved Yolande! Thou knowest not the vulture that gnaws my heart, or thou would’st pause in thy fiendish work. False Yolande! Thou hast _never_ known what heart is, but--

“‘I will tell thee what it is to love. It is to build with human thoughts a shrine, Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove, Where life seems young and like a thing divine. All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine, To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss. Above, the stars in cloudless beauty shine. Around, the streams their flowery margins kiss, And if there’s Heaven on earth--that Heaven is surely this!’”

Carl Conway is really a very fair actor, and his voice is both musical and _entrainante_, and he spouts these lines with a wonderful passion and softness that appeal to all the women present, and as he speaks them, ever and anon his handsome brown eyes rest a second on the stage-box where poor little Zai sits well back in her corner.

Her eyes fixed on the beloved face, she forgets the existence of anyone else, her cheeks are flushed with excitement, her heart throbs fast, and a suspicion of a tear shines on her long lashes. Not a word does she utter, not a word does she hear; engrossed in this, the first love of her life, the play itself goes on without her taking in the gist of it. All she sees is Carl--Carl, with his superb face, and with his eyes full of the old, old passion as they linger on her and seem loth to turn away.

The curtain falls and rises twice over, and she thanks Providence that for once her people leave her alone so that she may gaze her fill. Who knows when they two will meet again--and how?

The girl’s poor heart grows cold as ice when the _dénouement_ of the play comes, and Ferdinand, praying for the boon of a last kiss, the Lady Yolande yields her proud lips to him.

Yields them _con amore_, too, it seems to Zai, as she shrinks back from the sight with a jealous pang that makes her shiver and clasp her little hands desperately together.

Then the curtain falls for the last time, and she looks up and catches Lord Delaval’s eye.

It seems to be searching her very soul with a fixed, keen gaze that has something regretful about it, though his lips have a half-mocking smile.

“That fellow, Conway, really acts tolerably,” he says aloud to Gabrielle. “Did you notice the ring of pathos and truth in his voice? And yet those sort of chaps lead such a hollow life of shams and tricks, that they can’t possibly have a genuine feeling in them. What do you think of Flora Fitzallan, Miss Beranger?”

“Just what one thinks of such creatures,” Gabrielle answers contemptuously, “outside all paint and powder. Inside----”

“Pray don’t give your opinion on people like Miss Fitzallan, Gabrielle. They are not fit subjects for your discussion; at any rate before me and my daughters!” Lady Beranger remarks severely.

Gabrielle elevates her brows and shrugs her shoulders. Then, as her stepmother sweeps away, she says:

“I think one thing about Miss Fitzallan, Lord Delaval. I think she has a _grande passion_ for Carl Conway, and I expect she does not try to hide it--_off the stage_!”

And Zai hearkens in bitterness of spirit, but does not love Carl one whit the less.

“I say, Zai, did you see that Lady Yolande kiss Carl? She kissed him _right on the mouth_. And I have heard that it is not _convenable_ to do that sort of thing on the stage!” Baby whispers.

And still Zai holds her tongue, but as she listens, it seems to her that it is the last straw to break the camel’s back.