The Strollers Part 41

Punches and juleps were hastily disposed of, and the imbibers quickly sought their places. This sudden influx, with its accompanying laughter and chattering, aroused the marquis from his lethargy. He started and looked around him in bewilderment. The noise and the light conversation, however, soon recalled his mind to a sense of his surroundings, and he endeavored to recover his self-possession.

Could it be possible it was but a likeness his imagination had converted into such vivid resemblance? A sudden thought seized him and he looked around toward the door of the box.

"Francois!" he called, and the valet, who had been waiting his master's pleasure without, immediately appeared.

"Sit down, Francois!" commanded the marquis. "I am not feeling well. I may conclude to leave soon, and may need your arm."

The servant obeyed, and the n.o.bleman, under pretense of finding more air near the door, drew back his chair, where he could furtively watch his man's face. The orchestra ceased; the curtain rose, and the valet gazed mechanically at the stage. In his way, Francois was as _blase_ as his master, only, of course, he understood his position too well to reveal that la.s.situde and ennui, the expression of which was the particular privilege of his betters. He had seen many great actresses and heard many peerless singers; he had delved after his fashion into sundry problems, and had earned as great a right as any of the n.o.bility to satiety and defatigation in his old age, but unfortunately he was born in a cla.s.s which may feel but not reveal, and mask alike content and discontent.

Again those tones floated out from the past; musical, soft! The marquis trembled. Did not the man notice? No; he was still looking gravely before him. Dolt; did he not remember? Could he not recall the times beyond number when he had heard that voice; in the ivy-covered cottage; in the garden of English roses?

Suddenly the valet uttered an exclamation; the stolid aspect of his face gave way to an obvious thrill of interest.

"My lord!" he cried.

"An excellent actress, Francois; an excellent actress!" said the marquis, rising. "Is that my coat? Get it for me. What are you standing there for? Your arm! Don't you see I am waiting?"

Overwrought and excitable, he did not dare remain for the latter portion of the drama; better leave before the last act, he told himself, and, dazed by the reappearance of that vision, the old man fairly staggered from the box.

The curtain fell for the last time, and Barnes, with exultation, stood watching in the wings. She had triumphed, his little girl; she had won the great, generous heart of New Orleans. He clapped his hands furiously, joining in the evidences of approval, and, when the ovation finally ceased and she approached, the old manager was so overcome he had not a word to say. She looked at him questioningly, and he who had always been her instructor folded her fondly to his breast.

"I owe it all to you," she whispered.

"Pooh!" he answered. "You stole fire from heaven. I am but a theatrical, bombastic, barnstorming Thespian."

"Would you spoil me?" she interrupted, tenderly.

"You are your mother over again, my dear! If she were only here now!

But where is Saint-Prosper? He has not yet congratulated you? He, our good genius, whose generosity has made all this possible!" And Barnes half-turned, when she placed a detaining hand on his arm.

"No, no!"

"Why, my dear, have you and he--"

"Is it not enough that you are pleased?" replied Constance, hastily, with a glance so shining he forgot all further remonstrances.

"Pleased!" exclaimed Barnes. "Why, I feel as gay as Momus! But we'll sing Te Deum later at the festive board. Go now and get ready!"

CHAPTER X

LAUGHTER AND TEARS

A supper was given the company after the performance by the manager, to which representatives of the press--artful Barnes!--had been invited. Of all the merry evenings in the bohemian world, that was one of the merriest. Next to the young girl sat the Count de Propriac, his breast covered with a double row of medals. Of the toasts drunk to Constance, the manager, poets Straws and Phazma, etc., unfortunately no record remains. Of the recollections of the wiry old lady; the impromptu verse of the rhymsters; the roaring speech of Mr. Barnes; the song and dainty flower dance by Susan and Kate--only the bare facts have descended to the chronicler.

So fancy must picture the wreaths of smoke; the superabundance of flowers, the fragrance of cigars mingling with the perfume of fading floral beauties; the pale dark-eyed girl presiding, upon her dusky hair a crown of laurel, set there, despite her protestations, by Phazma and Straws; the devotion of the count to his fair neighbor; the almost superhuman pride of noisy Barnes; the attention bestowed by Susan upon Saint-Prosper, while through his mind wandered the words of a French song:

"Adieu, la cour, adieu les dames; Adieu les filles et les femmes--"

Intermixed with this sad refrain the soldier's thoughts reverted to the performance, and amidst the chatter of Susan, he reviewed again and again the details of that evening. Was this the young girl who played in school-houses, inns or town halls, he had asked himself, seated in the rear of the theater? How coldly critical had been her auditors; some of the faces about him ironical; the bored, tired faces of men who had well-nigh drained life's novelties; the artificially vivacious faces of women who played at light-heartedness and gaiety!

Yet how free from concern had she been, as natural and composed as though her future had not depended upon that night! When she won an ovation, he had himself forgotten to applaud, but had sat there, looking from her to the auditors, to whom she was now bound by ties of admiration and friendliness.

"Don't you like her?" a voice next to him had asked.

Like her? He had looked at the man, blankly.

"Yes," he had replied.

Then the past had seemed to roll between them: the burning sands; the voices of the troops; the bugle call! In his brain wild thoughts had surged and flowed--as they were surging and flowing now.

"Is he not handsome, Constance's new admirer?" whispered Susan. "What can he be saying? She looks so pleased! He is very rich, isn't he?"

"I don't know," answered Saint-Prosper, brusquely.

Again the thoughts surged and surged, and the past intruded itself!

Reaching for his gla.s.s, he drank quickly.

"Don't you ever feel the effects of wine?" asked the young woman.

His glance chilled her, it seemed so strange and steely!

"I believe you are so--so strong you don't even notice it," added Susan, with conviction. "But you don't have half as good a time!"

"Perhaps I enjoy myself in my way," he answered.

"What is your way?" she asked quickly. "You don't appear to be wildly hilarious in your pleasures." And Susan's bright eyes rested on him curiously. "But we were speaking about the count and Constance. Don't you think it would be a good match?" she continued with enthusiasm.

"Alas, my t.i.tled admirer got no further than the beginning. But men are deceivers ever! When they _do_ reach the Songs of Solomon, they pa.s.s on to Exodus!"

"And leave the fair ones to Lamentations," said Straws, who had caught her last remarks.

"Or Revelations!" added Phazma.

At the sound of their laughter, Constance looked coldly their way, until a remark from the count at her right, and, "As I was saying, my dear," from the old lady at her left, engrossed the young girl's attention once more. But finally the great enemy of joy--the grim guardian of human pleasure--the reaper whose iron hands move ever in a circle, symbolical of eternity--finally, Time reminded Barnes that the hour had surely arrived when the curtain should descend upon these festivities. So he roared out a last blithe farewell, and the guests departed one by one, taking with them flowers in memory of the occasion, until all had left save Constance, the count, Saint-Prosper and the manager. Barnes was talking somewhat incoherently, holding the soldier by the coat and plunging into successive anecdotes about stage folk, while Saint-Prosper, apparently listening, observed the diplomat and Constance, whose conversation he could overhear.

"As I said to the Royal Infanta of Spain, flattery flies before truth in your presence, Mademoiselle," sighed the count. And then raising her hand to his lips, "_Ah, ma chere Mademoiselle, que je vous adore!_" he whispered.

She withdrew it hastily, and, ogling and gesticulating, he bowed himself out, followed by the manager.

Leaning against the chair, her figure outlined by the glow from the crystal chandelier, her face in shadow, the hand the diplomat had pressed to his lips resting in the exposed light on the mahogany, the gaiety went out of her face, and the young girl wearily brushed the hair from her brow. As if unaware of the soldier's presence, she glanced absently at the table in its wrecked glory, and, throwing her lace wrap over her arm, was moving toward the door, when he spoke.

"Miss Carew!"

She paused, standing with clasped hands before him, while the scarf slipped from her arm and fell at her feet.

"May I not also tell you how glad I am--that you succeeded to-night?"