Part 9

They all rose. She nodded to Graillot and Faraday. The prince moved to stand by the door. For a moment she and John were detached from the others.

"I want to see you alone," he said under his breath. "When can I?"

She hesitated.

"I am so busy!" she murmured. "Next week there are rehearsals nearly every minute of the day."

"To-morrow," John said insistently. "You have no rehearsals then. I must see you. I must talk to you without this crowd."

It was his moment. Her half-formed resolutions fell away before the compelling ring in his voice and the earnest pleading in his eyes.

"I will be in," she promised, "to-morrow at six o'clock."

XIV

After the departure of her guests, Louise seemed to forget the pressing appointment with her dressmaker. She stood before the window of her drawing-room, looking down into the street. She saw Faraday hail a taxicab and drive off by himself. She watched the prince courteously motion John to precede him into his waiting automobile. She saw the two men seat themselves side by side, and the footman close the door and take his place beside the chauffeur. She watched until the car took its place in the stream of traffic and disappeared. The sense of uneasiness which had brought her to the window was unaccountable, but it seemed in some way deepened by their departure together. Then a voice from just behind suddenly startled her.

"Lest your reverie, dear lady, should end in spoken words not meant for my ears, I, who often give myself up to reveries, hasten to acquaint you with the fact of my presence."

She turned quickly around. It was Graillot who had returned noiselessly into the room.

"You?" she exclaimed. "Why, I thought you were the first to leave."

"I returned," Graillot explained. "An impulse brought me back. A thought came into my mind. I wanted to share it with you as a proof of the sentiment which I feel exists between us. It is my firm belief that the same thought, in a different guise, was traveling through your mind, as you watched the departure of your guests."

She motioned him to a place upon the couch, close to where she had already seated herself.

"Come," she invited, "prove to me that you are a thought-reader!"

He sank back in his corner. His hands, with their short, stubby fingers, were clasped in front of him. His eyes, wide open and alert, seemed fixed upon her with the ingenuous inquisitiveness of a child.

"To begin, then, I find our friend, the Prince of Seyre, a most interesting, I might almost say a most fascinating, study."

Louise did not reply. After a moment's pause he continued:

"Let me tell you something which may or may not be unknown to you. A matter of eighty years ago, there was first kindled in the country places of France that fire which ultimately blazed over the whole land, devastating, murderous, anarchic, yet purifying. The family seat of the house of Seyre was near Orleans. In that region were many oppressors of the poor who, when they heard the mutterings of the storm, shivered for their safety. Upon not one of them did that furious mob of men and women pause to waste a single moment of their time. Without even a spoken word save one simultaneous, unanimous yell, they grouped together from all quarters--from every hamlet, from every homestead, men and women and even children--and moved in one solid body upon the Chateau de Seyre. The old prince would have been burned alive but for a servant who threw him a pistol, with which he blew out his brains, spitting at the mob. One of the sons was caught and torn almost to pieces. Only the father of our friend, the present Prince of Seyre, escaped."

"Why do you tell me all this?" Louise asked, shivering. "It is such a chapter of horrors!"

"It illustrates a point," Graillot replied. "Among the whole aristocracy of France there was no family so loathed and detested as the _seigneurs_ of Seyre. Those at the _chateau_, and others who were arrested in Paris, met their death with singular contempt and calm. Eugene of Seyre, whose character in my small way I have studied, is of the same breed."

Louise took up a fan which lay on the table by her side, and waved it carelessly in front of her face.

"One does so love," she murmured, "to hear one's friends discussed in this friendly spirit!"

"It is because Eugene of Seyre is a friend of yours that I am talking to you in this fashion," Graillot continued. "You have also another friend--this young man from Cumberland."

"Well?"

"In him," Graillot went on, "one perceives all the primitive qualities which go to the making of splendid manhood. Physically he is almost perfect, for which alone we owe him a debt of gratitude. He has, if I judge him rightly, all the qualities possessed by men who have been brought up free from the taint of cities, from the smear of our spurious over-civilization. He is chivalrous and unsuspicious. He is also, unfortunately for him, the enemy of the prince."

Louise laid down her fan. She no longer tried to conceal her agitation.

"Why are you so melodramatic?" she demanded. "They have scarcely spoken. This is, I think, their third meeting."

"When two friends," Graillot declared, "desire the same woman, then all of friendship that there may have been between them is buried. When two others, who are so far from being friends that they possess opposite qualities, opposite characters, opposite characteristics, also desire the same woman--"

"Don't!" Louise interrupted, with a sudden little scream. "Don't! You are talking wildly. You must not say such things!"

Graillot leaned forward. He shook his head very slowly; his heavy hand rested upon her shoulder.

"Ah, no, dear lady," he insisted, "I am not talking wildly. I am Graillot, who for thirty years have written dramas on one subject and one subject only--men and women. It has been given to me to study many varying types of the human race, to watch the outcome of many strange situations. I have watched the prince draw you nearer and nearer to him. What there is or may be between you I do not know. It is not for me to know. But if not now, some day Eugene of Seyre means you to be his, and he is not a person to be lightly resisted. Now from the skies there looms up this sudden obstacle."

"You do not realize," Louise protested, almost eagerly, "how slight is my acquaintance with Mr. Strangewey. I once spent the night and a few hours of the next morning at his house in Cumberland, and that is all I have ever seen of him. How can his presence here be of any serious import to Eugene?"

"As to that," Graillot replied, "I say nothing. If what I have suggested does not exist, then for the first time in my life I have made a mistake; but I do not think I have. You may not realize it, but there is before you one of those struggles that make or mar the life of women of every age. As for the men, I will only say this, and it is because of it that I have spoken at all--I am a lover of fair play, and the struggle is not even. The younger man may hold every card in the pack, but Eugene of Seyre has learned how to win tricks without aces. I stayed behind to say this to you, Louise. You know the young man and I do not. It is you who must warn him."

"Warn him?" Louise repeated, with upraised eyebrows. "Dear master, aren't we just a little--do you--melodramatic? The age of duels is past, also the age of hired bravos and assassins."

"Agreed," Graillot interrupted, "but the weapons of to-day are more dangerous. It is the souls of their enemies that men attack. If I were a friend of that young man's I would say to him: 'Beware, not of the enmity of Eugene of Seyre, but of his friendship!' And now, dear lady, I have finished. I lingered behind because the world holds no more sincere admirer of yourself and your genius than I. Don't ring. May I not let myself out?"

"Stop!" Louise begged.

Graillot resumed his seat. He watched with an almost painful curiosity the changes in Louise's face, which was convulsed by a storm of passionate apprehension. Yet behind it all he could see the truth. There was something softer in her face than he had ever perceived before, a tenderer light than he had ever seen in her eyes. He sighed and looked down at the carpet.

Louise rose presently and walked abruptly to the window. Then she came back and reseated herself by his side.

"You are the one friend I have in life who understands, dear master," she said. "Do I weary you if I speak?"

He looked steadfastly into her eyes. His plain, bearded face was heavy-browed, lined, tired a little with the coming of age.

"Louise," he declared, "it is only because I dare not lift my thoughts and eyes any higher that I count myself the greatest friend you ever could have in life!"

She caught at his hand, her head drooped a little.

"Don't overpower me," she faltered. "I can't--no, I can't!"

He watched in silence the twitching of her lips, the filling of her eyes. A momentary remorse struck him. Why should he afflict her at this moment with his own secret? He closed his eyes, and deliberately shut out the vision which had lured his tongue into the byways of unwonted sentiment. He spoke firmly and without emotion.

"Louise," he begged, "let me be your confidant! No man knows more of the game of life as it is played out between men and women. There is no one in whom you can place a greater trust."

Her fingers clutched his, her nails dug into his palm, but he did not flinch.

"I do not know," she murmured, her voice trembling with agitation. "That is the truth of it all. I do not know where to go for guidance or inspiration. Life has suddenly become mysterious. Men seem always so strong and sure. It is only we poor women who lose our bearings."

Graillot patted her hands tenderly. Then he rose to his feet.

"You are not going?" she asked him.

"Dear Louise," he said, "I am going, because the time when I can help is not yet. Listen! More harm has been done in this world by advice than in any other way. I have no advice to give you. You have one sure and certain guide, and that is your own heart, your own instincts, your own sweet consciousness of what is best. I leave you to that. If trouble comes, I am always ready!"

XV

During the remainder of that afternoon and evening John was oppressed by a vague sense of the splendor of his surroundings and his companion's mysterious capacity for achieving impossibilities. Their visits to the tailors, the shirt-makers, the hosiers, and the boot-makers almost resembled a royal progress. All difficulties were waved aside. That night he dined, clothed like other men from head to foot, in the lofty dining room of one of the most exclusive clubs in London. The prince proved an agreeable if somewhat reticent companion. He introduced John to many well-known people, always with that little note of personal interest in his few words of presentation which gave a certain significance to the ceremony.

From the club, where the question of John's proposed membership, the prince acting as his sponsor, was favorably discussed with several members of the committee, they drove to Covent Garden, and for the first time in his life John entered the famous opera-house. The prince, preceded by an attendant, led the way to a box upon the second tier. A woman turned her head as they entered and stretched out her hand, which the prince raised to his lips.

"You see, I have taken you at your word, Eugene," she remarked. "So many evenings I have looked longingly from my stall at your empty box. To-night I summoned up all my courage, and here I am!"

"You give me a double pleasure, dear lady," the prince declared. "Not only is it a joy to be your host, but you give me also the opportunity of presenting to you my friend, John Strangewey. Strangewey, this is my very distant relative and very dear friend, Lady Hilda Mulloch."

Lady Hilda smiled graciously at John. She was apparently of a little less than middle age, with dark bands of chestnut hair surmounted by a tiara. Her face was the face of a clever and still beautiful woman; her figure slender and dignified; her voice low and delightful.

"Are you paying your nightly homage to Calavera, Mr. Strangewey, or are you only an occasional visitor?" she asked.

"This is my first visit of any sort to Covent Garden," John told her.

She looked at him with as much surprise as good breeding permitted. John, who had not as yet sat down, seemed almost preternaturally tall in that small box, with its low ceiling. He was looking around the house with the enthusiasm of a boy. Lady Hilda glanced away from him toward the prince, and smiled; then she looked back at John. There was something like admiration in her face.

"Do you live abroad?" she asked.

John shook his head.

"I live in Cumberland," he said. "Many people here seem to think that that is the same thing. My brother and I have a farm there."

"But you visit London occasionally, surely?"

"I have not been in London," John told her, "since I passed through it on my way home from Oxford, eight years ago."

"But why not?" she persisted.

John laughed a little.

"Well, really," he admitted, "when I come to think of it seriously, I scarcely know. I have lived alone with an elder brother, who hates London and would be very unhappy if I got into the way of coming up regularly. I fancy that I have rather grown into his way of thinking. I am quite satisfied--or rather I have been quite satisfied--to live down there all the year round."

"I have never heard anything so extraordinary in my life!" the woman declared frankly. "Is it the prince who has induced you to break out of your seclusion?"

"Our young friend," the prince explained, "finds himself suddenly in altered circumstances. He has been left a large fortune, and has come to spend it. Incidentally, I hope, he has come to see something more of your sex than is possible among his mountain wilds. He has come, in short, to look a little way into life."

Lady Hilda leaned back in her chair.

"How romantic!"

"The prince amuses himself," John assured her. "I don't suppose I shall stay very long in London. I want just to try it for a time."

She looked at him almost wistfully. She was a woman with brains; a woman notorious for the freedom of her life, for her intellectual gifts, for her almost brutal disregard of the conventions of her class. The psychological interest of John Strangewey's situation appealed to her powerfully. Besides, she had a weakness for handsome men.

"Of course, it all sounds like a fairy tale," she declared. "Tell me exactly, please, how long you have been in London."

"About forty-eight hours," he answered.

"And what did you do last night?"

"I dined with two friends, we went to the Palace, and one of them took me to a supper club."

She made a little grimace.

"You began in somewhat obvious fashion," she remarked.

"I can vouch for the friends," the prince observed, smiling.

"At any rate," said Lady Hilda, "I am glad to think that I shall be able to watch you when you see Calavera dance for the first time."

The curtain rang up upon one of the most gorgeous and sensuous of the Russian ballets. John, who by their joint insistence was occupying the front chair in the box, leaned forward in his place, his eyes steadfastly fixed upon the stage. Both the prince and Lady Hilda, in the background, although they occasionally glanced at the performance, devoted most of their attention to watching him.

As the story progressed and the music grew in passion and voluptuousness, they distinctly saw his almost militant protest. They saw the knitting of his firm mouth and the slight contraction of his eyebrows. The prince and his friend exchanged glances. She drew her chair a little farther back, and he followed her example.

"Where did you find anything so wonderful as this?" she murmured.

"Lost among the hills in Cumberland," the prince replied. "I have an estate up there--in fact, he and I are joint lords of the manor of the village in which he has lived."

"And you?" she whispered, glancing at John to be sure that she was not overheard. "Where do you come in? An educator of the young? I don't seem to see you in that role!"

A very rare and by no means pleasant smile twisted the corners of his lips for a moment.

"It is a long story."

"Can I be brought in?" she asked.

He nodded.

"It rests with you. It would suit my plans."

She toyed with her fan for a moment, looked restlessly at the stage and back again at John. Then she rose from her place and stood before the looking-glass. From the greater obscurity of the box she motioned to the prince.

John remained entirely heedless of their movements. His eyes were still riveted upon the stage, fascinated with the wonderful coloring, the realization of a new art.

"You and I," Lady Hilda whispered, "do not need to play about with the truth, Eugene. What are you doing this for?"

"The idlest whim," the prince assured her quietly. "Look at him. Think for a moment of his position--absolutely without experience, entirely ignorant about women, with a fortune one only dreams of, and probably the handsomest animal in London. What is going to become of him?"

"I think I understand a little," she confessed.

"I think you do," the prince assented. "He has views, this young man. It is my humor to see them dissipated. The modern _Sir Galahad_ always irritated me a little."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"They'll never give him a chance, these women," she said. "Much better hand him over to me."

The prince smiled enigmatically, and Lady Hilda returned to her seat. John was still leaning forward with his eyes fixed upon Calavera, who was dancing alone now. The ballet was drawing toward the end. The music had reached its climax of wild and passionate sensuousness, dominated and inspired by the woman whose every movement and every glance seemed part of some occult, dimly understood language.

When the curtain rang down, John, like many others, was confused. Nevertheless, after that first breathless pause, he stood up and joined in the tumultuous applause.

"Well?" the prince asked.

John shook his head. "I don't know," he answered.

"Neither does any one else," Lady Hilda said. "Don't try to analyze your impressions for our benefit, Mr. Strangewey. I am exactly in your position, and I have been here a dozen times. Even to us hardened men and women of the world, this Russian music came as a surprise. There were parts of it you did not like, though, weren't there?"

"There were parts of it I hated," John agreed. "There were passages that seemed to aim at discord in every sense of the word."

She nodded sympathetically. They were on their way down the broad staircase.

"I wonder," she murmured, "whether I am going to be asked out to supper?"

"Alas, not to-night, dear lady," the prince regretted. "I am having a few friends at Seyre House."

She shot a glance at him and shrugged her shoulders. She was evidently displeased.

"How much too bad!" she exclaimed. "I am not at all sure that it is right of you to invite Mr. Strangewey to one of your orgies. A respectable little supper at the Carlton, and a cigarette in my library afterward, would have been a great deal better for both of you--certainly for Mr. Strangewey. I think I shall run away with him, as it is!"

The prince shrugged his shoulders.

"It is unfortunate," he sighed, "but we are both engaged. If you will give us the opportunity some other evening--"

"I am not at all sure that I shall have anything more to do with you, Eugene," she declared. "You are not behaving nicely. Will you come and see me while you are in town, Mr. Strangewey?" she added, turning to John. "I suppose you can be trusted to reach No. 21 Pont Street without your Mephistophelian chaperon?"

"I should like to very much," he replied. "I think," he added, a little hesitatingly, "that I have read one of your books of travel. It is very interesting to meet you."

"So my fame has really reached Cumberland!" she laughed. "You must come and talk to me one afternoon quite soon. Will you? I want so much to hear your impressions of London. I am always in between six and seven; or if you want to come earlier, I will try to be in if you telephone."

"I will come with pleasure," John promised.

They stood for a few moments in the crowded vestibule until Lady Hilda Mulloch's car was called. The prince stood back, allowing John to escort her to the door. She detained him for a moment after she had taken her seat, and leaned out of the window, her fingers still in his hand.

"Be careful!" she whispered. "The prince's supper parties are just a little--shall I say banal? There are better things if one waits!"

XVI

The reception-rooms of Seyre House, by some people considered the finest in London, were crowded that night by a brilliant and cosmopolitan assembly. For some time John stood by the prince's side and was introduced to more people than he had ever met before in his life. Presently, however, he was discovered by his friend Amerton.

"Queer thing your being here, a friend of the prince and all that!" the young man remarked. "Where's Miss Sophy this evening?"

"I haven't seen her," John replied. "I don't believe she is invited."

"Did you hear that Calavera is coming?" Amerton inquired.

John nodded.

"She's expected any moment. I wonder what she's like off the stage!"

"You wait and see," Lord Amerton sighed. "There isn't another woman in Europe to touch her. Why, they say that even our host is one of her victims. Like to be introduced to some of the girls, or shall we go and have a drink?"

John was hesitating when he felt a hand upon his shoulder. The prince's voice sounded in his ear.

"Strangewey," he said, "I am privileged to present you to Mme. Aida Calavera. _Madame_, this is the friend of whom I spoke to you."

John turned away from the little group of girls and young men toward whom Amerton had been leading him. Even though the prince's speech had given him a moment's breathing-space, he felt himself constrained to pause before he made his bow of ceremony.

The woman was different from anything he had imagined, from anything he had ever seen. In the ballet a writhing, sensuous figure with every gesture a note in the octave of passion, here she seemed the very personification of a negative and striking immobility. She was slender, not so tall as she had seemed upon the stage, dressed in white from head to foot. Her face was almost marblelike in its pallor, her smooth, black hair was drawn tightly over her ears, and her eyes were of the deepest shade of blue.

During that momentary pause, while he searched among a confused mixture of sensations for some formula of polite speech, John found time to liken her in his mind to something Egyptian. She raised her hand, as he bowed, with a gesture almost royal in its condescension. The prince, with quiet tact, bridged over the moment during which John struggled in vain for something to say.

"Mr. Strangewey," he remarked, "paid his first visit to Covent Garden to-night. He has seen his first ballet, as we moderns understand the term. I cannot help envying him that delight. He naturally finds it difficult to realize this additional good fortune. Will you excuse me for one moment?"

The prince departed to welcome some later arrivals. The noisy little group standing close at hand, from which John had been diverted, passed on into the refreshment-room, and the two were, for a few moments, almost isolated.

Even then John felt himself tongue-tied. Standing where she was, with that background of dark oil-paintings lit only by shaded electric lamps, she was more than ever like a wonderful old Egyptian statue into which some measure of slow-moving life had been breathed. He recognized almost with wonder the absence of any ornament of any sort on her neck or fingers.

"You were pleased with the performance, I hope?"