Part 7

Mr. Satterthwaite, who knew far more of feminine secrets than it is good for any man to know, rendered immediate homage to the art with which she was made up. Her complexion appeared to be flawless, of a uniform creamy white. The very faint bistre shadows under her eyes were most effective. Her mouth was neither crimson nor scarlet, but a subdued wine color. She was dressed in a very daring creation of black and white, and carried a parasol of the shade of pinky-red which is most helpful to the complexion.

Franklin Rudge was looking happy and important.

_There goes a young fool_, said Mr. Satterthwaite to himself. _But I suppose it's no business of mine, and anyway he wouldn't listen to me. Well, well, I've bought experience myself in my time._

But he still felt rather worried, because there was a very attractive little American girl in the party, and he was sure that she would not like Franklin Rudge's friendship with the Countess at all.

He was just about to retrace his steps in the opposite direction when he caught sight of the girl in question coming up one of the paths toward him. She wore a well-cut suit, she had on sensible walking shoes, and carried a guide book. There are some Americans who pass through Paris and emerge clothed as the Queen of Sheba, but Elizabeth Martin was not one of them. She was "doing Europe" in a stern, conscientious spirit. She had high ideas of culture and art and she was anxious to get as much as possible for her limited store of money.

It is doubtful if Mr. Satterthwaite thought of her as either cultured or artistic. To him she merely appeared very young.

"Good morning, Mr. Satterthwaite," said Elizabeth. "Have you seen Franklin--Mr. Rudge--anywhere about?"

"I saw him just a few minutes ago."

"With his friend the Countess, I suppose," said the girl sharply.

"Er--with the Countess, yes," admitted Mr. Satterthwaite.

"That Countess of his doesn't cut any ice with me," said the girl in a rather high, shrill voice. "Franklin's just crazy about her. _Why_ I can't think."

"She's got a very charming manner, I believe," said Mr. Satterthwaite cautiously.

"Do you know her?"

"Slightly."

"I'm right down worried about Franklin," said Miss Martin. "That boy's got a lot of sense as a rule. You'd never think he'd fall for this sort of siren stuff. And he won't hear a thing; he gets madder than a hornet if anyone tries to say a word to him. Tell me, anyway--is she a real Countess?"

"I shouldn't like to say," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "She may be."

"That's the real Ha Ha English manner," said Elizabeth with signs of displeasure. "All I can say is that in Sargon Springs--that's our home town, Mr. Satterthwaite--that Countess would look a mighty queer bird."

Mr. Satterthwaite thought it possible. He forebore to point out that they were not in Sargon Springs but in the principality of Monaco, where the Countess happened to synchronize with her environment a great deal better than Miss Martin did.

He made no answer and Elizabeth went on toward the Casino. Mr. Satterthwaite sat on a seat in the sun, and was presently joined by Franklin Rudge. Rudge was full of enthusiasm.

"I'm enjoying myself," he announced with naïve enthusiasm. "Yes, sir! This is what I call seeing life--rather a different kind of life from what we have in the States."

The elder man turned a thoughtful face to him. "Life is lived very much the same everywhere," he said rather wearily. "It wears different clothes--that's all."

Franklin Rudge stared. "I don't get you."

"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "That's because you've got a long way to travel yet. But I apologize. No elderly man should permit himself to get into the habit of preaching."

"Oh! that's all right." Rudge laughed, displaying the beautiful teeth of all his countrymen. "I don't say, mind you, that I'm not disappointed in the Casino. I thought the gambling would be different--something much more feverish. It seems just rather dull and sordid to me."

"Gambling is life and death to the gambler, but it has no great spectacular value," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "It is more exciting to read about than to see."

The young man nodded his agreement.

"You're rather a big bug socially, aren't you?" he asked, with a diffident candor that made it impossible to take offense. "I mean you know all the duchesses and earls and countesses and things."

"A good many of them," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "And also the Jews and the Portuguese and the Greeks and the Argentines."

"Eh?" said Mr. Rudge.

"I was just explaining," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "that I move in English society."

Franklin Rudge meditated for a moment or two.

"You know the Countess Czarnova, don't you?" he said at length.

"Slightly," said Mr. Satterthwaite, making the same answer he had made to Elizabeth.

"Now there's a woman whom it's been very interesting to meet. One's inclined to think that the aristocracy of Europe is played out and effete. That may be true of the men, but the women are different. Isn't it a pleasure to meet an exquisite creature like the Countess? Witty, charming, intelligent, generations of civilization behind her, an aristocrat to her finger tips!"

"Is she?" asked Mr. Satterthwaite.

"Well, isn't she? You know what her family are?"

"No," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "I'm afraid I know very little about her."

"She was a Radzynski," explained Franklin Rudge. "One of the oldest families in Hungary. She's had the most extraordinary life. You know that great rope of pearls she wears?"

Mr. Satterthwaite nodded.

"That was given her by the King of Bosnia. She smuggled some secret papers out of the kingdom for him."

"I heard," said Mr. Satterthwaite, "that the pearls had been given her by the King of Bosnia."

The fact was indeed a matter of common gossip, it being reported that the lady had been a _chère amie_ of His Majesty's in days gone by.

"Now I'll tell you something more."

Mr. Satterthwaite listened, and the more he listened the more he admired the fertile imagination of the Countess Czarnova. No vulgar "siren stuff" (as Elizabeth Martin had put it) for her. The young man was shrewd enough in that way, clean-living and idealistic. No, the Countess moved austerely through a labyrinth of diplomatic intrigues. She had enemies, detractors--naturally! It was a glimpse, so the young American was to feel, into the life of the old régime with the Countess as the central figure, aloof, aristocratic, the friend of counselors and princes, a figure to inspire romantic devotion.

"And she's had any amount to contend against," ended the young man warmly. "It's an extraordinary thing, but she's never found a woman who would be a real friend to her. Women have been against her all her life."

"Probably," said Mr. Satterthwaite.

"Don't you call it a scandalous thing?" demanded Rudge hotly.

"N--No," said Mr. Satterthwaite thoughtfully. "I don't know that I do. Women have got their own standards, you know. It's no good our mixing ourselves up in their affairs. They must run their own show."

"I don't agree with you," said Rudge earnestly. "It's one of the worst things in the world today, the unkindness of woman to woman. You know Elizabeth Martin? Now she agrees with me in theory absolutely. We've often discussed it together. She's only a kid, but her ideas are all right. But the moment it comes to a practical test--why, she's as bad as any of them. Got a real down on the Countess without knowing a darned thing about her, and won't listen when I try to tell her things. It's all _wrong_, Mr. Satterthwaite. I believe in democracy--and--what's that but brotherhood between men and sisterhood between women?"

He paused earnestly. Mr. Satterthwaite tried to think of any circumstances in which a sisterly feeling might arise between the Countess and Elizabeth Martin and failed.

"Now the Countess, on the other hand," went on Rudge, "admires Elizabeth immensely, and thinks her charming in every way. Now what does that show?"

"It shows," said Mr. Satterthwaite dryly, "that the Countess has lived a considerable time longer than Miss Martin has."

Franklin Rudge went off unexpectedly at a tangent. "Do you know how old she is? She told me. Rather sporting of her. I should have guessed her to be twenty-nine, but she told me of her own accord that she was thirty-five. She doesn't look it, does she?"

Mr. Satterthwaite, whose private estimate of the lady's age was between forty-five and forty-nine, merely raised his eyebrows.

"I should caution you against believing all you are told at Monte Carlo," he murmured.

He had enough experience to know the futility of arguing with the lad. Franklin Rudge was at a pitch of white-hot chivalry when he would have disbelieved any statement that was not backed with authoritative proof.

"Here is the Countess," said the boy, rising.

She came up to them with the languid grace that so became her. Presently they all three sat down together. She was very charming to Mr. Satterthwaite, but in rather an aloof manner. She deferred to him prettily, asking his opinion, and treating him as an authority on the Riviera.

The whole thing was cleverly managed. Very few minutes had elapsed before Franklin Rudge found himself gracefully but unmistakably dismissed, and the Countess and Mr. Satterthwaite were left _tête-à-tête_.

She put down her parasol and began drawing patterns with it in the dust.

"You are interested in that nice American boy, Mr. Satterthwaite, are you not?"

Her voice was low with a caressing note in it.

"He's a nice young fellow," said Mr. Satterthwaite noncommittally.

"I find him sympathetic, yes," said the Countess reflectively. "I have told him much of my life."

"Indeed," said Mr. Satterthwaite.

"Details such as I have told to few others," she continued dreamily. "I have had an extraordinary life, Mr. Satterthwaite. Few would credit the amazing things that have happened to me."

Mr. Satterthwaite was shrewd enough to penetrate her meaning. After all, the stories that she had told to Franklin Rudge _might_ be the truth. It was extremely unlikely, and in the last degree improbable, but it was _possible_. No one could definitely say, "This is not so."

He did not reply, and the Countess continued to look out dreamily across the bay. And suddenly Mr. Satterthwaite had a strange and new impression of her. He saw her no longer as a harpy, but as a desperate creature at bay, fighting tooth and nail. He stole a sideways glance at her. The parasol was down; he could see the little haggard lines at the corners of her eyes. In one temple a pulse was beating.

It flowed through him again and again--that increasing certitude. She was a creature desperate and driven. She would be merciless to him or to anyone who stood between her and Franklin Rudge. But he still felt he hadn't got the hang of the situation. Clearly she had plenty of money. She was always beautifully dressed, and her jewels were marvelous. There could be no real urgency of that kind. Was it love? Women of her age did, he well knew, fall in love with boys. It might be that. There was, he felt sure, something out of the common about the situation.

Her _tête-à-tête_ with him was, he recognized, a throwing down of the gauntlet. She had singled him out as her chief enemy. He felt sure that she hoped to goad him into speaking slightingly of her to Franklin Rudge. Mr. Satterthwaite smiled to himself. He was too old a bird for that. He knew when it was wise to hold one's tongue.

He watched her that night in the Cercle Privé, as she tried her fortunes at roulette.

Again and again she staked, only to see her stake swept away. She bore her losses well, with the stoical _sang-froid_ of the old habitué. She staked _en plein_ once or twice, put the maximum on red, won a little on the middle dozen and then lost it again; finally she backed _manque_ six times and lost every time. Then with a little graceful shrug of the shoulders she turned away.

She was looking unusually striking in a dress of gold tissue with an underlying note of green. The famous Bosnian pearls were looped round her neck and long pearl earrings hung from her ears.

Mr. Satterthwaite heard two men near him appraise her.

"The Czarnova," said one. "She wears well, does she not? The Crown jewels of Bosnia look fine on her."

The other, a small man, stared curiously after her. "So those are the pearls of Bosnia, are they?" he asked. "_En vérité._ That is odd."

He chuckled softly to himself.

Mr. Satterthwaite missed hearing more, for at the moment he turned his head and was overjoyed to recognize an old friend.

"My dear Mr. Quin." He shook him warmly by the hand. "The last place I should ever have dreamed of seeing you."

Mr. Quin smiled, his dark, attractive face lighting up.

"It should not surprise you," he said. "It is Carnival time. I am often here in Carnival time."

"Really? Well, this is a great pleasure. Are you anxious to remain in the rooms? I find them rather warm."

"It will be pleasanter outside," agreed the other. "We will walk in the gardens."

The air outside was sharp, but not chill. Both men drew deep breaths.

"That is better," said Mr. Satterthwaite.

"Much better," agreed Mr. Quin. "And we can talk freely. I am sure that there is much that you want to tell me."

"There is indeed."

Speaking eagerly, Mr. Satterthwaite unfolded his perplexities. As usual he took pride in his power of conveying atmosphere. The Countess, young Franklin, uncompromising Elizabeth--he sketched them all in with a deft touch.

"You have changed since I first knew you," said Mr. Quin, smiling, when the recital was over.

"In what way?"

"You were content then to look on at the dramas that life offered. Now--you want to take part--to act."

"It is true," confessed Mr. Satterthwaite. "But in this case I do not know what to do. It is all very perplexing. Perhaps--" He hesitated. "Perhaps you will help me?"

"With pleasure," said Mr. Quin. "We will see what we can do."

Mr. Satterthwaite had an odd sense of comfort and reliance.

The following day he introduced Franklin Rudge and Elizabeth Martin to his friend Mr. Harley Quin. He was pleased to see that they got on together. The Countess was not mentioned, but at lunch time he heard news that aroused his attention.

"Mirabelle is arriving in Monte this evening," he confided excitedly to Mr. Quin.

"The Parisian stage favorite?"

"Yes. I daresay you know--it's common property--she is the King of Bosnia's latest craze. He has showered jewels on her, I believe. They say she is the most exacting and extravagant woman in Paris."

"It should be interesting to see her and the Countess Czarnova meet tonight."

"Exactly what I thought."

Mirabelle was a tall, thin creature with a wonderful head of dyed fair hair. Her complexion was a pale mauve with orange lips. She was amazingly chic. She was dressed in something that looked like a glorified bird of paradise, and she wore chains of jewels hanging down her bare back. A heavy bracelet set with immense diamonds clasped her left ankle.

She created a sensation when she appeared in the Casino.

"Your friend the Countess will have a difficulty in outdoing this," murmured Mr. Quin in Mr. Satterthwaite's ear.

The latter nodded. He was curious to see how the Countess comported herself.

She came late, and a low murmur ran round as she walked unconcernedly to one of the center roulette tables.

She was dressed in white--a mere straight slip of marocain, such as a debutante might have worn, and her gleaming white neck and arms were unadorned. She wore not a single jewel.

"It is clever, that," said Mr. Satterthwaite with instant approval. "She disdains rivalry and turns the tables on her adversary."

He himself walked over and stood by the table. From time to time he amused himself by placing a stake. Sometimes he won, more often he lost.

There was a terrific run on the last dozen. The numbers 31 and 34 turned up again and again. Stakes flocked to the bottom of the cloth.

With a smile, Mr. Satterthwaite made his last stake for the evening, and placed the maximum on Number 5.

The Countess in her turn leaned forward and placed the maximum on Number 6.

"_Faites vos jeux_," called the croupier hoarsely. "_Rien ne va plus. Plus rien._"

The ball spun, humming merrily. Mr. Satterthwaite thought to himself: _This means something different to each of us. Agonies of hope and despair, boredom, idle amusement, life and death._

Click!

The croupier bent forward to see.

"_Numéro cinq, rouge, impair et manque._"

Mr. Satterthwaite had won!

The croupier, having raked in the other stakes, pushed forward Mr. Satterthwaite's winnings. He put out his hand to take them. The Countess did the same. The croupier looked from one to the other of them.

"_A Madame_," he said brusquely.

The Countess picked up the money. Mr. Satterthwaite drew back. He remained a gentleman. The Countess looked him full in the face and he returned her glance. One or two of the people round pointed out to the croupier that he had made a mistake, but the man shook his head impatiently. He had decided. That was the end. He raised his raucous cry.

"_Faites vos jeux, Messieurs et Mesdames._"

Mr. Satterthwaite rejoined Mr. Quin. Beneath his impeccable demeanor he was feeling extremely indignant. Mr. Quin listened sympathetically.

"Too bad," he said, "but these things happen. We are to meet your friend Franklin Rudge later. I am giving a little supper party."

* * * * *

The three met at midnight, and Mr. Quin explained his plan.

"It is what is called a 'Hedges and Highways' party," he explained. "We choose our meeting-place, then each one goes out and is bound in honor to invite the first person he meets."

Franklin Rudge was amused by the idea. "Say, what happens if they won't accept?"

"You must use your utmost powers of persuasion."

"Good. And where's the meeting-place?"

"A somewhat Bohemian café--where one can take strange guests. It is called Le Caveau."

He explained its whereabouts, and the three parted. Mr. Satterthwaite was so fortunate as to run straight into Elizabeth Martin and he claimed her joyfully. They reached Le Caveau and descended into a kind of cellar, where they found a table spread for supper and lit by old-fashioned candles in candlesticks.

"We are the first," said Mr. Satterthwaite. "Ah! here comes Franklin--"

He stopped abruptly. With Franklin was the Countess. It was an awkward moment. Elizabeth displayed less graciousness than she might have done. The Countess, as a woman of the world, retained the honors.

Last of all came Mr. Quin. With him was a small dark man, neatly dressed, whose face seemed familiar to Mr. Satterthwaite. A moment later he recognized him. It was the croupier who earlier in the evening had made such a lamentable mistake.

"Let me introduce you to the company, M. Pierre Vaucher," said Mr. Quin.

The little man seemed confused. Mr. Quin performed the necessary introductions easily and lightly. Supper was brought--an excellent supper. Wine came--very excellent wine. Some of the frigidity went out of the atmosphere. The Countess was very silent, so was Elizabeth. Franklin Rudge became talkative. He told various stories--not humorous stories, but serious ones. And quietly and assiduously Mr. Quin passed round the wine.

"I'll tell you--and this is a true story--about a man who made good," said Franklin Rudge impressively. He had shown no lack of appreciation of the champagne.

He told his story--perhaps at somewhat unnecessary length. It was, like many true stories, greatly inferior to fiction.

As he uttered the last word, Pierre Vaucher, opposite him, seemed to wake up. He also had done justice to the champagne. He leaned forward across the table.

"I, too, will tell you a story," he said thickly. "But mine is the story of a man who did not make good. It is the story of a man who went, not up, but down the hill. And, like yours, it is a true story."

"Pray tell it to us, monsieur," said Mr. Satterthwaite courteously.

Pierre Vaucher leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. "It is in Paris that the story begins. There was a man there, a working jeweler. He was young and lighthearted and industrious in his profession. They said there was a future before him. A good marriage was already arranged for him, the bride not too bad-looking, the dowry most satisfactory. And then, what would you think? One morning he sees a girl. Such a miserable little wisp of a girl, Messieurs. Beautiful? Yes, perhaps, if she were not half-starved. But anyway, for this young man, she has a magic that he cannot resist. She has been struggling to find work, she is virtuous--or at least that is what she tells him. I do not know if it was true."

The Countess's voice came suddenly out of the semi-darkness. "Why should it not be true? There are many like that."

"Well, as I say, the young man believed her. And he married her--an act of folly! His family would have no more to say to him. He had outraged their feelings. He married--I will call her Jeanne--it was a good action. He told her so. He felt that she should be very grateful to him. He had sacrificed much for her sake."

"A charming beginning for the poor girl," observed the Countess sarcastically.

"He loved her, yes, but from the beginning she maddened him. She had moods--tantrums--she would be cold to him one day, passionate the next. At last he saw the truth. She had never loved him. She had married him so as to keep body and soul together. That truth hurt him, it hurt him horribly, but he tried his utmost to let nothing appear on the surface. And he still felt he deserved gratitude and obedience to his wishes. They quarreled. She reproached him--Mon Dieu, what did she not reproach him with?

"You can see the next step, can you not? The thing that was bound to come. She left him. For two years he was alone, working in his little shop with no news of her. He had one friend--absinthe. The business did not prosper so well.

"And then one day he came into the shop to find her sitting there. She was beautifully dressed. She had rings on her hands. He stood considering her. His heart was beating--but beating! He was at a loss what to do. He would have liked to have beaten her, to have clasped her in his arms, to have thrown her down on the floor and trampled on her, to have thrown himself at her feet. He did none of these things. He took up his pincers and went on with his work. 'Madame desires?' he asked formally.

"That upset her. She did not look for that, see you. 'Pierre,' she said, 'I have come back.' He laid aside his pincers and looked at her. 'You wish to be forgiven?' he said. 'You want me to take you back? You are sincerely repentant?' 'Do you want me back?' she murmured. Oh! very softly she said it.

"He knew she was laying a trap for him. He longed to seize her in his arms, but he was too clever for that. He pretended indifference.

"'I am a Christian man,' he said. 'I try to do what the Church directs.' 'Ah!' he thought, 'I will humble her, humble her to her knees.'

"But Jeanne, that is what I will call her, flung back her head and laughed. Evil laughter it was. 'I mock myself at you, little Pierre,' she said. 'Look at these rich clothes, these rings and bracelets. I came to show myself to you. I thought I would make you take me in your arms and when you did so, then--_then_ I would spit in your face and tell you how I hated you!'

"And on that she went out of the shop. Can you believe, Messieurs, that a woman could be as evil as all that--to come back only to torment him?"

"No," said the Countess. "I would not believe it, and any man who was not a fool would not believe it either. But all men are blind fools."