Part 19

For a moment or two John was stunned. A wild impulse assailed him to leap up and confront them all, to choke the lie back down the throat of the man who had uttered it. Every nerve in his body was tingling with the desire for action. The stupor of his senses alone kept him motionless, and a strange, incomprehensible clarity of thought. He realized exactly how things were. This man had not spoken idly, or as a scandalmonger. He had spoken what he had accepted as a fact, what other people believed.

John rose to his feet and made his way toward the door. His face showed little sign of disturbance. He even nodded to some men whom he knew slightly. As he passed down the stairs, he met Graillot. Then once more the self-control became in danger. He seized the Frenchman savagely by the arm.

"Come this way," he said, leading him toward the card-room. "Come in here! I want to speak to you."

He locked the door--a most unheard-of and irregular proceeding. Graillot felt the coming of the storm.

"Well!" he exclaimed grimly. "Trouble already, eh? I see it in your face, young man. Out with it!"

John--who had won a hard match at rackets a few days before against a more experienced opponent simply because of his perfect condition--was breathing hard. There was a dull patch of color in his cheek, drops of sweat stood upon his forehead. He controlled his voice with difficulty. Its tone was sharp and unfamiliar.

"I was sitting in the smoking room there, a few moments ago," he began, jerking his head toward the door. "There were some men talking--decent fellows, not dirty scandalmongers. They spoke of Louise Maurel."

Graillot nodded gravely. He knew very well what was coming.

"Well?"

"They spoke, also, of the Prince of Seyre."

"Well?"

John felt his throat suddenly dry. The words he would have spoken choked him. He banged his fist upon the table by the side of which they were standing.

"Look here, Graillot," he cried, almost piteously, "you know it is not true, not likely to be true! Can't you say so?"

"Stop, my young friend!" the Frenchman interrupted. "I know nothing. It is a habit of mine to know nothing when people make suggestions of that sort. I make no inquiries. I accept life and people as I find them."

"But you don't believe that such a thing could be possible?"

"Why not?" Graillot asked steadily.

John could do no more than mumble a repetition of his words. The world was falling away from him. He was dimly conscious that one of the engravings upon the wall opposite was badly hung. For the rest, Graillot's face, stern, yet pitying, seemed to loom like the features of a giant, eclipsing everything else.

"I will not discuss this matter with you, my friend. I will only ask you to remember the views of the world in which we live. Louise Maurel is an artist, a great artist. If there has been such an affair as you suggest, between her and any man, if it were something which appealed to her affections, it is my opinion that she would not hesitate. You seem to think it an outrageous thing that the prince should have been her lover. To be perfectly frank, I do not. I should be very much more surprised at her marriage."

John made his escape somehow. He remembered opening the door, but he had no recollection of reaching the street. A few minutes later, however, he found himself striding down Piccadilly toward Hyde Park Corner.

The night was warm, and there were still plenty of people about. A woman touched his arm; her hackneyed greeting filled him with inexpressible horror. He stared at her, barely conscious of what he was doing, filled with an indescribable sickness of heart.

"You look about done up," she said in friendly fashion. "Come round to my flat and have a drink. You needn't stay if you don't want to."

He muttered something and passed on. A moment or two later, however, he retraced his steps. Out of the horror of his thought had come an irresistible impulse. He slipped some gold into her hand.

"Please take this and go home," he enjoined. "Go home at once! Get out of the streets and hide yourself."

She stared at him and at the money.

"Why, I've only just come out," she protested. "All the same, I'm dead tired. I'll go. Walk with me, won't you? You look as if you wanted looking after."

"I'm all right," he answered. "You go home."

She slipped the money carefully into her purse, and hailed a taxi.

"You shall have your own way," she declared. "Can't I drop you anywhere?"

He raised his hat, and, once more swinging around, passed on his way. Presently he found himself in the street where Louise lived. He looked at his watch--it was twenty minutes to three o'clock.

The house was in solemn darkness. He stood and looked up at it. There was no sign of a light, not even from the top windows. Its silence seemed to him more than the silence of sleep. He found himself wondering whether it was really inhabited, whether there were really human souls in this quiet corner, waiting peacefully for the dawn, heedless of the torment which was tearing his soul to pieces. Perhaps, behind that drawn blind, Louise herself was awake. Perhaps she was thinking, looking back into the past, wondering about the future. He took a step toward the gate.

"Are you going in there, sir?"

He turned quickly around. A policeman had flashed a lantern upon him. John suddenly became intensely matter-of-fact.

"No," he replied. "It is too late, I am afraid. I see that they have all gone to bed. Any chance of a taxi about here?"

"Most likely you'll find one at the corner," the policeman pointed out. "There's a rank there, and one or two of them generally stay late. Very much obliged, sir."

John had slipped a coin into the man's hand. Then he walked deliberately away. He found a taxicab and was driven toward the Milan. He let down both the windows and leaned out. He was conscious of a wild desire to keep away from his rooms--to spend the night anywhere, anyhow, sooner than go back to the little apartment where Louise had sat with him only a few hours ago, and had given herself into his arms. Every pulse in his body was tingling. He was fiercely awake, eager for motion, action, excitement of any sort.

Suddenly he remembered the night-club to which he had been introduced by Sophy on the first night of his arrival in London. The address, too, was there quite clearly in his disordered brain. He leaned out of the cab and repeated it to the driver.

XXXV

The little place was unexpectedly crowded when John entered, after having handed his hat and coat to a _vestiaire_. A large supper-party was going on at the further end, and the dancing space was smaller than usual. The _maitre d'hotel_ was escorting John to a small table in a distant corner, which had just been vacated, when the latter heard his name suddenly called by a familiar voice. Sophy, who had been dancing, abandoned her partner precipitately and came hurrying up to John with outstretched hands.

"John!" she exclaimed. "You, of all people in the world! What do you mean by coming here alone at this time of night? Fancy not telling me! Is anything the matter?"

"Nothing," he replied. "I really don't exactly know why I am here. I simply didn't want to go to bed."

She looked at him closely. It was clear that she was a little puzzled at his appearance.

"If it were not you, John," she declared, "I should say that you had been having more to drink than was good for you!"

"Then you would be very wrong," John assured her, "because I haven't had anything at all. I have come here to get something. Can't you come and sit with me?"

"Of course!" she assented eagerly. "The prince is giving a supper-party at the other end of the room there. We all came on together from the reception. Let us get away to your corner quickly, or they will see you and make you go and join them. I would much rather have you to myself. The people here seem so stupid to-night!"

John stood still, and made no movement toward the table which the _maitre d'hotel_ was smilingly preparing for them.

"Where is the prince?" he asked.

Sophy, struck by something in his voice, swung around and looked at him. Then she thrust both her arms through his, clasped her two hands together, and led him firmly away. A glimmering of the truth was beginning to dawn upon her.

"Tell me where you have been since you left the reception," she insisted, when at last they were seated together.

"Wait till I have ordered some wine," he said.

A waiter served them with champagne. When John's glass was filled, he drained its contents. Sophy watched him with surprise. She came a little closer to him.

"John," she whispered, "you must tell me--do you hear? You must tell me everything! Did you take Louise home?"

"Yes."

"What happened, then? You didn't quarrel with her?"

"Nothing at all happened," he assured her. "We parted the best of friends. It wasn't that."

"Then what? Remember that I am your friend, John dear. Tell me everything."

He poured himself more wine and drank it.

"I will tell you," he assented. "I went to a little club I belong to on the Adelphi Terrace. I sat down in the smoking room. There was no one there I knew. Some men were talking. They had been to the reception to-night. They were comparing French actresses and English. They spoke first of the French woman, Latrobe, and her lovers; then of Louise. They spoke quite calmly, like men discussing history. They compared the two actresses, they compared their lives. Latrobe, they said, had lovers by the score--Louise only one."

Sophy's hand stole into his. She was watching the twisting of his features. She understood so well the excitement underneath.

"I think I can guess," she whispered. "Don't hurt yourself telling me. Something was said about the prince!"

His eyes blazed down upon her.

"You, too?" he muttered. "Does the whole world know of it and speak as if it did not matter? Sophy, is it true? Speak out! Don't be afraid of hurting me. You call yourself my friend. I've been down, looking at the outside of her house. I dared not go in. There's a fire burning in my soul! Tell me if it is true!"

"You must not ask me that question, John," she begged. "How should I know? Besides, these things are so different in our world, the world you haven't found out much about yet. Supposing it were true, John," she went on, "remember that it was before you knew her. Supposing it should be true, remember this--your idea of life is too absurd. Is one creed made to fit human beings who may differ in a million different ways? A woman may be as good as any ever born into the world, and yet take just a little love into her life, if she be true and faithful in doing it. I don't believe there is a dearer or sweeter woman breathing than Louise, but one must have love. Don't I know it? A man may be strong enough to live without it, but a woman--never!"

The skirts of the women brushed their table as they danced, the rhythm of the music rose and fell above the murmur of laughter and conversation. John looked around the room, and a sort of despair crept in upon him. It was no good! He had come to London to understand; he understood nothing. He was made of the wrong fiber. If only he could change himself! If it were not too late! If he could make himself like other men!

He turned and glanced at his companion. Sophy was looking very sweet and very wistful. The warm touch of her fingers was grateful. Her sympathy was like some welcome flower in a wilderness. His heart ached with a new desire. If only he could make himself different! If only he could stretch out his hand for the flowers which made the lives of other men so sweet!

"I must not ask you any more questions, Sophy," he said. "You are her friend, and you have spoken very sweetly. To-morrow I will go and see her."

"And to-night, forget it all," she pleaded. "Wipe it out of your memory. Louise and your future belong to to-morrow. To-night she is not here, and I am. Even if you are furiously in love with her, there isn't any harm in your being just a little nice to me. Give me some champagne; and I want some caviar sandwiches!"

"I wonder why you are so good to me, Sophy!" he exclaimed, as he gave the order to a waiter. "You ought either to marry your young man down at Bath, or to have a sweetheart of your own, a companion, some one quite different."

"How different?"

"Some one who cared for you as you deserve to be cared for, and whom you cared for, too."

"I cannot take these things as lightly as I used to," she answered a little sadly. "Something has come over me lately--I don't know what it is--but I seem to have lost my taste for flirtations. John, don't look up, don't turn round! I have been afraid of the prince all the evening. When you came in, I fancied that you had been drinking. When the prince asked me something about you, an hour or so ago, I knew that he had. I saw him like it once before, about a year ago. Don't take any notice of him! Don't talk to him, if you can help it!"

John was scarcely conscious of her words. A new glow of excitement seemed to be taking entire possession of him, to be thrilling his blood, to be shining out of his eyes. He rose slowly to his feet. It was as if he were being drawn forward out of himself to meet some coming challenge.

Toward their table the prince was slowly making his way, skilfully avoiding the dancers, yet looking neither to the right nor to the left. His eyes were fastened upon John. If he had been drinking, as Sophy suggested, there were few signs of it. His walk was steady; his bearing, as usual, deliberate and distinguished.

He came to a standstill beside them. Sophy's fingers clutched at the tablecloth. The prince looked from one to the other.

"You have robbed me of a guest, Mr. Strangewey," he remarked; "but I bear you no ill-will. It is very seldom that one sees you in these haunts of dissipation."

"It is a gala night with me," John replied, his tone raised no more than usual, but shaking with some new quality. "Drink a glass of wine with me, prince," he invited, taking the bottle from the ice-pail and filling a tumbler upon the table. "Wish me luck, won't you? I am engaged to be married!"

"I wish you happiness with all my heart," the prince answered, holding his glass up. "May I not know the name of the lady?"

"No doubt you are prepared for the news," John told him. "Miss Maurel has promised to become my wife."

The prince's hand was as steady as a rock. He raised his glass to his lips.

"I drink to you both with the greatest pleasure," he said, looking John full in the face. "It is a most remarkable coincidence. To-night is the anniversary of the night when Louise Maurel pledged herself to me in somewhat different fashion!"

John's frame seemed for a moment to dilate, and fire flashed from his eyes.

"Will you be good enough to explain those words?" he demanded.

The prince bowed. He glanced toward Sophy.

"Since you insist," he replied. "To-night, then, let me tell you, is the anniversary of the night when Louise Maurel consented to become my mistress!"

What followed came like a thunder-clap. The prince reeled back, his hand to his mouth, blood dropping upon the tablecloth from his lips, where John had struck him. He made a sudden spring at his assailant. Sophy, shrieking, leaped to her feet. Every one else in the place seemed paralyzed with wonder.

John seized the prince by the throat, and held him for a moment at arm's length. Then he lifted him off his feet as one might lift a child from the floor. Holding his helpless victim in a merciless grip, he carried him across the room and deliberately flung him over the table toward his empty chair.

There was a crash of glass and crockery which rang through the momentarily hushed room. The dancers had stopped in their places, the bow of the violinist lay idle upon the strings of his instrument. The waiters were all standing about like graven images. Then, as the prince fell, there was a shout, and all was pandemonium. They rushed to where he was lying motionless, a ghastly sight, across the wreck of his flower-strewn supper-table.

Sophy held John by the arm, clutching it hysterically, striving to drag him away. But to John the room was empty. He stood there, a giant, motionless figure, his muscles still taut, his face tense, his eyes aflame, glaring down at the prostrate figure of the man on whom he had wreaked the accumulated fury of those last days and weeks of madness.

XXXVI

Toward nine o'clock on the following morning John rose from a fitful sleep and looked around him. Even before he could recall the events of the preceding night he felt that there was a weight pressing upon his brain, a miserable sense of emptiness in life, a dull feeling of bewilderment. Although he had no clear recollection of getting there, he realized that he was in his own sitting room, and that he had been asleep upon the couch. He saw, too, that it was morning, for a ray of sunlight lay across the carpet.

As he struggled to his feet, he saw with a little shock that he was not alone. Sophy Gerard was curled up in his easy chair, still in evening clothes, her cloak drawn closely around her, as if she were cold. Her head had fallen back. She, too, was asleep. At the sound of his movement, however, she opened her eyes and looked at him for a moment with a puzzled stare. Then she jumped to her feet.

"Why, we have both been asleep!" she murmured, a little weakly.

At the sound of her voice it all came back to him, a tangled, hideous nightmare. He sat down again upon the couch and held his head between his hands.

"How did I come here?" he asked. "I can't remember!"

She hesitated. He answered the unspoken question in her eyes.

"I remember everything that happened at the club," he went on slowly. "Is the prince dead?"

She shook her head.

"Of course not! He was hurt, though, and there was a terrible scene of confusion in the room. The people crowded around him, and I managed, somehow, to drag you away. The manager helped us. To tell the truth, he was only too anxious for you to get away before the police arrived. He was so afraid of anything getting into the papers. I drove you back here, and, as you still seemed stunned, I brought you up-stairs. I didn't mean to stay, but I couldn't get you to say a single coherent word. I was afraid to leave you alone!"

"I suppose I was drunk," he said, in a dull tone. "I remember filling my glass over and over again. There is one thing, though," he added, his voice gaining a sudden strength; "I was not drunk when I struck the prince! I remember those few seconds very distinctly. I saw everything, knew everything, felt everything. If no one had interfered, I think I should have killed him!"

"You were not drunk at all," she declared, with a little shiver, "but you were in a state of terrible excitement. It was a long time before I could get you to lie down, and then you wouldn't close your eyes until I came and sat by your side. I watched you go to sleep. I hope you are not angry with me! I didn't like to go and leave you."

"How could I be angry?" he protested. "You are far kinder to me than I deserve. I expect I should have been in a police cell but for you!"

"And now," she begged, coming over to him and speaking in a more matter-of-fact tone, "do let us be practical. I must run away, and you must go and have a bath and change your clothes. Don't be afraid of your reputation. I can get out by the other entrance."

He made no movement. She laid her hand on his arm. In the sunlight, with a little patch of rouge still left on her cheek, with her disordered hair and tired eyes, she looked almost ghastly.

"Remember," she whispered, "you have to go to see Louise!"

He covered his face with his hands.

"What's the use of it?" he groaned. "It's only another turn of the screw!"

"Don't be foolish, John," she admonished briskly. "You don't actually know anything yet--nothing at all; at least, you are not sure of anything. And besides, you strange, impossible person," she went on, patting his hand, "don't you see that you must judge her, not by the standards of your world, in which she has never lived, but by the standards of her world, in which she was born and bred? That is only fair, isn't it?"

He made no answer. She watched him anxiously, but there was no sign in his face.

"Pull yourself together, John," she continued. "Ring for some tea, get your bath, and then have it out with Louise. Remember, life is a very big thing. You are dealing this morning with all it may mean to you."

He rose listlessly to his feet. There was a strange, dull look in his face.

"You are a dear girl, Sophy!" he said. "Don't go just yet. I have never felt like it before in my life, but just now I don't want to be left alone. Send a boy for some clothes, and I will order some tea."

She hesitated.

"My own reputation," she murmured, "is absolutely of no consequence, but remember that you live here, and--"

"Don't be silly!" he interrupted. "What does that matter? And besides, according to you and all the rest of you here, these things don't affect a man's reputation--they are expected of him. See, I have rung the bell for breakfast. Now I am going to telephone down for a messenger-boy to go for your clothes."

They breakfasted together, a little later, and she made him smoke. He stood before the window, looking down upon the river, with his pipe in his mouth and an unfamiliar look upon his face.

"Do you suppose that Louise knows anything?" he asked at length.

"I should think not," she replied. "It is for you to tell her. I rang up the prince's house while you were in your bathroom. They say that he has a broken rib and some bad cuts, sustained in a motor accident last night, but that he is in no danger. There was nothing about the affair in the newspapers, and the prince's servants have evidently been instructed to give this account to inquirers."

A gleam of interest shone in John's face.

"By the bye," he remarked, "the prince is a Frenchman. He will very likely expect me to fight with him."

"No hope of that, my belligerent friend," Sophy declared, with an attempt at a smile. "The prince knows that he is in England. He would not be guilty of such an anachronism. Besides, he is a person of wonderfully well-balanced mind. When he is himself again, he will realize that what happened to him is exactly what he asked for."

John took up his hat and gloves. He glanced at the clock--it was a little past eleven.

"I am ready," he announced. "Let me drive you home first."

His motor was waiting at the door, and he left Sophy at her rooms. Before she got out, she held his arm for a moment.

"John," she said, "remember that Louise is very high-strung and very sensitive. Be careful!"

"There is only one thing to do or to say," he answered. "There is only one way in which I can do it."

He drove the car down Piccadilly like a man in a dream, steering as carefully as usual through the traffic, and glancing every now and then with unseeing eyes at the streams of people upon the pavements. Finally he came to a standstill before Louise's house and stopped the engine with deliberate care. Then he rang the bell, and was shown into her little drawing-room, which seemed to have become a perfect bower of pink and white lilac.

He sat waiting as if in a dream, unable to decide upon his words, unable even to sift his thoughts. The one purpose with which he had come, the one question he designed to ask, was burning in his brain. The minutes of her absence seemed tragically long. He walked up and down, oppressed by the perfume of the flowers. The room seemed too small for him. He longed to throw open all the windows, to escape from the atmosphere, in which for the first time he seemed to find some faint, enervating poison.

Then at last the door opened and Louise entered. She came toward him with a little welcoming smile upon her lips. Her manner was gay, almost affectionate.