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 uomen univeraiiy i-iDiaiy 
 
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 Monsieur Beaucaire.The beautiful lady. H 
 
 3 1924 009 894 415 
 
B Cornell University 
 f Library 
 
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 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924009894415 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIBE 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
'Merci, Monsieur Je Diic' 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 BY 
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON 
 
 URIS LIBRARY 
 
 JAN 2 7 1986 
 
 «AB»EN CHT NEW TOEK 
 
 DOSBLEDAY, PAGE k COMPANY 
 
 1920 
 
 I 
 
CopyriBht, 18W, woo. 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
 
 Copyright, 1905, by 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CX»IPANY 
 
 Copyright, 1901, by Harper and Brotttexs 
 
 Copyright, 1907, by 
 
 THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 Copyright, 1907, by 
 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
 
 All riffhis Tesened, 
 
 including that of tranalaHon trrio foret^n tant/uagga 
 
 including the Scandinavian. 
 
0ONTE3SfTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Monsieur BeatKS^re 1 
 
 The Beautiful Lady 73 
 
 His Own People 161 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 THE young Frenchman did very well what 
 he had planned to do. His guess that the 
 Duke would cheat proved good. As the 
 unshod half-dozen figures that had been standing 
 noiselessly in the entryway stole softly into the 
 shadows of the chamber, he leaned across the table 
 and smilingly plucked a card out of the big Eng- 
 lishman's sleeve. 
 
 "Merci, M. le Due!" he laughed, rising and step- 
 ping back from the table. 
 
 The Englishman cried out, "It means the dirty 
 work of silencing you with my bare hands!" and 
 came at him. 
 
 "Do not move," said M. Beaucaire, so sharply 
 that the other paused. "Observe behind you." 
 
 The Englishman turned, and saw what trap he 
 had blundered into; then stood transfixed, impotent, 
 alternately scarlet with rage and white with the vital 
 shame of discovery. M. Beaucaire remarked, in- 
 
4 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 dicating the silent figures by a polite wave of the 
 hand, "Is it not a compliment to monsieur that I 
 procure six large men to subdue him? They are 
 quite devote' to me, and monsieur is alone. Could 
 it be that he did not wish even his lackeys to know 
 he play with the yo'ng Frenchman who Meestaire 
 Nash does not like in the pomp-room? Monsieur 
 is unfortunate to have come on foot and alone to 
 my apartment." 
 
 The Duke's mouth foamed over with chaotic 
 revilement. His captor smiled brightly, and made 
 a £ihght gesture, as one who brushes aside a boister- 
 ous insect. With the same motion he quelled to 
 stony quiet a resentful impetus of his servants to- 
 ward the Englishman. 
 
 "It's murder, is it, you carrion!" finished the 
 Duke. 
 
 M. Beaucaire lifted his shoulders in a mock shiver. 
 "What words! No, no, no! No killing! A such 
 word to a such host! No, no, not mur-r-der; only 
 disgrace!" He laughed a clear, light laugh with a 
 rising inflection, seeming to launch himself upon an 
 adventurous quest for sympathy. 
 
 "You Kttle devilish scullion!" spat out the Duke. 
 
 "Tut, tut! But I forget. Monsieur has pursue' 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 5 
 
 his studies of deportment, amongs' his fellow-coun- 
 trymen." 
 
 "Do you dream a soul in Bath will take your 
 word that I— that I " 
 
 "That M. le Due de Winterset had a card up his 
 sleeve?" 
 
 "You pitiful stroller, you stable-boy, bom in a 
 stable " 
 
 "Is it not an honor to be born where mooi^eur 
 must have been bred?" 
 
 "You scurvy foot-boy, you greasy barber, you 
 cutthroat groom — — " 
 
 "Overwhelm'!" The yoimg man bowed with 
 imperturbable elation. "M. le Due appoLot' me 
 to all the oflSce' of his househol'." 
 
 "You mustachioed fool, there are not five people 
 of quality in Bath will speak to you " 
 
 "No, monsieur, not on the parade; but how many 
 come to play with me here? Because I will play 
 always, night or day, for what one will, for any 
 long, and al — ways fair, monsieur." 
 
 "You outrageous varlet! Every one knows you 
 came to England as the French Ambassador's bar- 
 ber. What man of fashion will listen to you? Wh® 
 will believe you?" 
 
6 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 "All people, monsieur. Do you think I have not 
 calculate', that I shall make a failure of my Uttle 
 enterprise?" 
 
 "Bah!" 
 
 "Will monsieur not reseat himself?" M. Beau- 
 caire made a low bow. "So. We must not be too 
 tire' for Lady Malbourne's rout. Ha, ha! And 
 you, Jean, Victor, and you others, retire; go i^ the 
 hallway. Attend at the entrance, Francois. So; 
 now we shall talk. Monsiexu", I wish you to think 
 very cool. Then listen; I will be briefly. It is 
 that I am well known to be all, entire' hones'. Gam- 
 blist? Ah, yes; true and mos' profitable; but fair, 
 al — ways fair; every one say that. Is it not so? 
 Think of it. And — is there never a w'isper come to 
 M. le Due that not all people belief him to play al — 
 ways hones'? Ha, ha! Did it almos' be said to 
 him las' year, after when he play' with Milor' Tap- 
 pin'ford at the chocolate-house — — " 
 
 "You dirty scandal-monger!" the Duke burst out. 
 "I'U " 
 
 "Monsieur, monsieur!" said the Frenchman. "It 
 is a poor valor to insult a helpless captor. Can he 
 retort upon his own victim? But it is for you to 
 think of what I say. True, I am not reco'nize on 
 
MONSIEIll BEAUCAIRE 7 
 
 the parade; that my frien's who come here do not 
 present me to their ladies; that Meestaire Nash has 
 Teboff' me in the pomp-room; still, am I not known 
 for being hones' and fair in my play, and will I not 
 be beUef' , even I, when I lif' my voice and charge 
 you aloud with what is already w'isper'? Think of 
 it! You are a noble, and there will be some hang- 
 dogs who might not fall away from you. Only such 
 would be lef to you. Do you want it tol'? And 
 you can keep out of France, monsieiu"? I have lef 
 his service, but I have still the ear of M. de Mire- 
 poix, and he know' I never lie. Not a gentleman 
 will play you when you come to Paris." 
 
 The Englishman's white lip showed a row of scar- 
 let dots upon it. "How much do you want?" he 
 said. 
 
 The room rang with the gay laughter of Beaucaire. 
 "I hoi' your note' for seven-hunder' pound'. You 
 can have them, monsieur. Why does a such 
 great man come to play M. Beaucaire? Be- 
 cause no one else willin' to play M. le Due — he 
 cannot pay. Ha, ha! So he ccane' to good 
 Monsieur Beaucaire. Money, ha, ha! What I 
 want with money?" 
 
 His Grace of Winterset's features were set awry 
 
8 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 to a sinister pattern. He sat glaring at his com- 
 panion in a snarling silence. 
 
 "Money? Pouf!" snapped the little gambler. 
 "No, no, no! It is that M. le Due, impoverish', 
 somewhat in a bad odor as he is, yet command, the 
 entree ani/-where — onless I — Ha, ha! Eh, monsieur.''" 
 
 "Ha! You dare think to force me " 
 
 M. Beaucaire twirled the tip of his slender mus- 
 tache around the end of his white forefinger. Then 
 he said: "Monsieur and me goin' to Lady Mal- 
 boupie's ball to-night — ^M. le Due and me!" 
 
 The Englishman roared, "Curse your impudence!" 
 
 "Sit quiet. Oh, yes, that's all; we goin' together." 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "Certain. I make all my little plan'. 'Tis all 
 arrange'." He paused, and then said gravely, "You 
 goin' present me to Lady Mary Carlisle." 
 
 The other laughed in utter scorn. "Lady Mary 
 Carlisle, of all women alive, would be the first to 
 prefer the devil to a man of no birth, barber." 
 
 "'Tis all arrange'; have no fear; nobody question 
 mojttsieur's guest. You gbin' take me to-night " 
 
 "No!" 
 
 "Yes. And after — then I have the entrie. Is it 
 much I ask? This one little favor, and I never 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 9 
 
 w'isper, never breathe that — it is to say, I am al- 
 ways forever silent of monsieur's misfortune." 
 
 "You have the entree!" sneered -the other. "Go 
 to a lackeys' rout and dance with the kitchen maids. 
 If I would, I could not present you to Bath society. 
 I should have cartels from the fathers, brothers, and 
 lovers of every wench and madam in the place, even 
 I. You would be thrust from Lady Malbourne's 
 ioor five minutes after you entered it." 
 
 "No, no, no!" 
 
 "Half the gentlemen in Bath have been here to 
 play. They would know you, wouldn't they, fool? 
 You've had thousands out of Bantison, Rakell, 
 Guilford, and Townbrake. They would have you 
 lashed by the grooms as your ugly deserts are. You 
 to speak to Lady Mary Carlisle! 'Od's blood! 
 You! Also, dolt, she would know you if you es- 
 caped the others. She stood within a yard of you 
 when Nash expelled you the pump-room." 
 
 M. Beaueaire flushed slightly. "You think I 
 did not see?" he asked. 
 
 "Do you dream that because Winterset intro- 
 duces a low fellow he will be tolerated — that Bath 
 will receive a barber?" 
 
 "I have the distinction to call monsieur's atten- 
 
10 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 tion," replied the young man gayly, "I have re- 
 nounce' that profession." 
 
 "Tool!" 
 
 "I am now a man of honor!" 
 
 "Faugh!" 
 
 "A man of the parts," continued the young French- 
 man, "and of deportment; is it not so? Have you 
 seen me of a fluster, or gross ever, or, what shall I 
 say — bourgeois? Shall you be shame' for your 
 guest' manner? No, no! And my appearance, 
 is it of the people? Clearly, no. Do I not com- 
 pare in taste of apparel with your yo'ng English- 
 man? Ha, ha! To be hope'. Ha, ha! So I am 
 goin' talk with Lady Mary Carlisle." 
 
 "Bah!" The Duke made a savage burlesque. 
 " *Lady Mary Carlisle, may I assume the honor of 
 presenting the barber of the Marquis de Mire- 
 poix?' So, is it?" 
 
 "No, monsieur," smiled the young man. "Quite 
 not so. You shall have nothing to worry you, noth- 
 ing in the worl'. I am goin' to assassinate my poor 
 mustachio — also remove this horrible black peruke, 
 and emerge in my own hair. Behol'!" He swept 
 tiie heavy, curled mass from his head as he spoke, 
 vnd his hair, coiled under the great wig, fell to his 
 
MONSIEUIl BEAUCAIRE 11 
 
 shoulders, and sparkled yellow in the candle-light. 
 He tossed his head to shake the hair back from his 
 cheeks. "When it is dress', I am transform'; no- 
 body can know me; you shall observe. See how 
 little I ask of you, how very little bit. No one 
 shall reco'nize 'M. Beaucaire' or 'Victor.' Ha, ha! 
 'Tis all arrange'; you have nothing to fear." 
 
 "Curse you," said the Duke, "do you think I'm 
 going to be saddled with you wherever I go as long 
 as you choose?" 
 
 "A mistake. No. All I requi — ^AU I b^^ — ^is 
 this one evening. "Ks all shall be necessary. After, 
 I shall not need monsieur." 
 
 "Take heed to yourself — after!" vouchsafed the 
 Englishman between his teeth. 
 
 "Conquered!" cried M. Beaucaire, and clapped 
 his hands gleefully. "Conquered for the night S 
 Aha, it is riz'nable! I shall meet what you send 
 — after. One cannot hope too much of your pa- 
 tience. It is but natural you should attem' a little 
 avengement for the rascal trap I was such a wicked 
 fellow as to set for you. I shall meet some strange 
 frien's of yours after to-night; not so? I must try 
 to be not too much frighten'." He looked at the 
 Duk*" curiously. "You want to know why I create 
 
n MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 this tragedy, why 1 am so unkind as to entrap mon- 
 sieur?" 
 
 His Grace of Winterset replied with a chill glance; 
 a pulse in the nobleman's cheek beat less relent- 
 lessly; his eye raged not so bitterly; the steady pur- 
 ple of his own color was returning; his voice was 
 less hoarse; he was regaining his habit. '"Tis ever 
 the manner of the vulgar," he observed, "to wish 
 to be seen with people of fashion." 
 
 "Oh, no, no, no!" The Frenchman laughed. 
 "'Tis not that. Am I not already one of these 'men 
 of fashion'? I lack only the reputation of birth. 
 Monsieur is goin' supply that. Ha, ha! I shall 
 be noble from to-night. 'Victor,' the artis', is con- 
 demn' to death; his throat shall be cut with his 
 own razor. *M. Beaucaire' — " Here the young 
 man sprang to his feet, caught up the black wig, 
 clapped into it a dice-box from the table, and hurled 
 it violently through the open door. " 'M. Beau- 
 caire' shall be choke' with his own dice-box. Who 
 is the Phoenix to remain? What advantage have I 
 not over other men of rank who are merely bom to it? 
 I may choose my own. No! Choose for me, mon- 
 sieur. Shall I be chevalier, comte, vicomte, mar- 
 quis, what? None. Out of compliment to mon- 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 13 
 
 sieur can I wish to be anything he is not? No, 
 no! I shall be M. le Due, M. le Due de — de Cha- 
 teaurien. Ha, ha! You see? You are my con- 
 frere." 
 
 M. Beaucaire trod a dainty step or two, waving 
 his hand politely to the Duke, as though in invita- 
 tion to join the celebration of his rank. The Eng- 
 lishman watched, his eye still and harsh, already 
 gathering in craftiness. Beaucaire stopped sud- 
 denly. "But how I forget my age! I am twenty- 
 three," he said, with a sigh. "I rejoice too much 
 to be of the quality. It has been too great for me, 
 and I had always belief' myself free of such am- 
 bition. I thought it was enough to behol' the opera 
 without wishing to sing; but no, England have 
 teach' me I have those vulgar desire'. Monsieur, 
 I am goin' tell you a secret; the ladies of your coun- 
 try are very difl'runt than ours. One may adore 
 the demoiselle, one must worship the lady of Eng- 
 land. Our ladies have the — it is the beauty of 
 youth; yours remain comely at thirty. Ours are 
 flowerSi yours are stars! See, I betray myself, I 
 am so poor a patriot. And there is one among 
 these stars — ah, yes, there is one — the poor French- 
 man has observe' from his humble distance; ev«i 
 
14 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 there he could bask in the glowing!" M. Beaucaire 
 turned to the window, and looked out into the dark. 
 He did not see the lights of the town. When he 
 turned again, he had half forgotten his prisoner; 
 other pictures were before him. 
 
 "Ah, what radiance!" he cried. "Those people 
 up over the sky, they want to show they wish the 
 earth to be happy, so they smile, and make this lady. 
 Gold-haired, an angel of heaven, and yet a Diana 
 of the chase! I see her fly by me on her great 
 horse one day; she touch' his mane with her fingers. 
 I buy that clipping from the groom. I have it here 
 with my dear brother's picture. Ah, you! Oh, 
 yes, you laugh! What do you know! 'Twas all 
 I coxild get. But I have heard of the endeavor of 
 M. le Due to recoup his fortunes. This alliance 
 shall fail. It is not the way — that heritage shall be 
 safe' from him! It is you and me, monsieur! You 
 can laugh! The war is open', and by Toe! There 
 is one great step taken: until to-night there was noth- 
 ing for you to ruin, to-morrow you have got a noble 
 of France — jow own protege — to beside and sack. 
 And you are to lose, because you think such ruin 
 easy, and because you understand nothing — ^far 
 less — of divinity. How could you know? You 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 15 
 
 have not the fiber; the heart of a lady is a blank to 
 you; you know nothing of the vibration. There are 
 some words that were made only to tell of Lady 
 Mary, for her alone — bellissima, divine, glorieuse! 
 Ah, how I have watch' her! It is sad to me when 
 I see her surround' by your yo'ng captains, your 
 nobles, your rattles, your beaux — ^ha, ha! — ^and I 
 mus' hoF far aloof. It is sad for me — ^but oh, jus' 
 to watch her and to wonder! Strange it is, but I 
 have almos' cry out with rapture at a look I have 
 see* her give another man, so beautiful it was, so 
 tender, so dazzling of the eyes and so mirthful of 
 the Ups. Ah, divine coquetry ! A look for another, 
 ab-i^nel for many others; and even to you, one day, 
 a rose, while I — ^I, monsieur, cotJd not even be so 
 blessed as to be the groim' beneath her little shoe! 
 But to-night, monsieur — ^ha, ha! — to-night, mon- 
 sieur, you and me, two princes, M. le Due de Winter- 
 set and M. le Due de Chateaurien — ^ha, ha! you see? 
 — we are goin' arm-in-arm to that ball, and I am 
 goin' have one of those looks, I! And a rose! I! 
 It is time. But ten minute', monsieur. I make 
 my apology to keep you waitin' so long while I go 
 in the nex' room and execute my poor mustachio— 
 that will be my only murder for jus' this one even- 
 
16 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 ing — and inves' myself in white satin. Ha, ha! I 
 shall be very gran', monsieur. Francois, send Louis 
 to me; Victor, to order two chairs for monsieur and 
 me; we are goin' out in the worl' to-night!" 
 
CHAPTER n 
 
 THE chairmen swarmed in the street at Lady 
 Malboume's door, where the joyous vtJ- 
 gar fought with muddled footmen and tipsy 
 link-boys for places of vantage whence to catch a 
 gUmpse of quality and of raiment at its utmost. 
 Dawn was in the east, and the guests were depart- 
 ing. Singly or in pairs, glittering in finery, they 
 came mincing down the steps, the ghost of the night's 
 smirk fading to jadedness as they sought the dark re- 
 cesses of their chairs. From within soimded the 
 twang of fiddles still swinging manfully at it, and 
 the windows were bright with the hght of many 
 candles. When the door was flung open to call the 
 chair of Lady Mary Carlisle, there was an eager 
 pressure of the throng to see. 
 
 A small, fair gentleman in white satin came out 
 upon the steps, turned and bowed before a lady 
 who appeared in the doorway, a lady whose royal 
 
 loveliness was given to view for a moment in that 
 
 17 
 
18 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 glowing frame. The crowd sent up a hearty Eng- 
 lish cheer for the Beauty of Bath. 
 
 The gentleman smiled upon them deUghtedly. 
 "What enchanting people!" he cried. "Why did 
 I not know, so I might have shout' with them?" 
 The lady noticed the people not at all; whereat, 
 being pleased, the people cheered again. The gen- 
 tleman offered her his hand; she made a slow cour- 
 tesy; placed the tips of her fingers upon his own. 
 "I am honored, M. de Chateaurien," she said. 
 
 "No, no!" he cried earnestly. "BehoF a poor 
 Frenchman whom emperors should envy." Then 
 reverently and with the pride of his gallant oflfice 
 vibrant in every hne of his Hght figure, invested 
 in white satin and very grand, as he had prophesied, 
 M. le Due de Chateaurien handed Lady Mary Car- 
 lisle down the steps, an achievement which had 
 figured in the ambitions of seven other gentlemen 
 during the evening. 
 
 "Am I to be lef' in such onhappiness?" he 
 said in a low voice. "That rose I have beg' for so 
 long " 
 
 "Never!" said Lady Mary. 
 
 "Ah, I do not deserve it, I know so well! 
 But " 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 19 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 "It is the greatness of my onworthiness that alone 
 can claim your charity; let your kin' heart give this 
 little red rose, this great alms, to the poor beggar." 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 She was seated in the chair. "Ah, give the rose," 
 he whispered. Her beauty shone dazzlingly cm 
 him out of the dimness. 
 
 "Never!" she flashed defiantly as she was closed 
 in. "Never!" 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "Never!" 
 
 The rose fell at his feet. 
 
 "A rose lasts tUl morning," said a voice behind 
 him. 
 
 Turning, M. de Chateaurien looked beamingly 
 upon the face of the Duke of Winterset. 
 
 "'Tis abeady the daylight," he replied, pointing 
 to the east. "Monsieur, was it not enough honor 
 for you to han' out madame, the aunt of Lady Mary? 
 Lady Rellerton retain' much trace of beauty. 'Tis 
 strange you did not appear more happy." 
 
 "The rose is of an unlucky color, I think," ob- 
 served the Duke. 
 
20 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 "The color of a blush, my brother." 
 
 "Unlucky, I still maintain," said the other calmly. 
 
 "The color of the veins of a Frenchman. Ha, 
 ha!" cried the young man. "What price would be 
 too high? A rose is a rose! A good-night, my 
 brother, a good-night. I wish you dreams of roses, 
 red roses, only beautiful red, red roses!" 
 
 "Stay! Did you see the look she gave these 
 street folk when they shouted for her? And how 
 are you higher than they, when she knows? As 
 high as yonder horse-boy!" 
 
 "Red roses, my brother, only roses. I wish you 
 dreams of red, red roses!" 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 '¥ ■ ^WAS well agreed by the fashion of Bath 
 I that M. le Due de Chateaurien was a per- 
 
 ^^ son of sensibility and hMvt ton; that his 
 retinue and equipage surpassed in el^ance; that 
 his person was exquisite, his manner engaging. In 
 the company of gentlemen his ease was shghtly 
 tinged with graciousness (his single equal in Bath 
 being his Grace of Winterset); but it was remarked 
 that when he bowed over a lady's hand, his air be- 
 spoke only a gay and tender reverence. 
 
 He was the idol of the dowagers within a week 
 after his appearance; matrons warmed to him; 
 young belles looked sweetly on him, while the gen- 
 tlemen were won to admiration or envy. He was 
 of prodigious wealth: old Mr. Bicksit, who dared 
 not, for his fame's sake, fail to have seen all things, 
 had visited Chateaurien under the present Duke's 
 father, and descanted to the curious upon its gran- 
 deurs. The young noble had one fault, he was so 
 
 poor a gambler. He cared nothing for the hazards 
 
 21 
 
22 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 of a die or the turn of a card. Gayly admitting 
 that he had been bom with no spirit of adventure in 
 him, he was sure, he declared, that he failed of much 
 happiness by his lack of taste in such matters. 
 
 But he was not long wanting the occasion to prove 
 his taste in the matter of handling a weapon. A 
 certain led-captain, Rohrer by name, notorious, 
 amongst other things, for bearing a dexterous and 
 bloodthirsty blade, came to Bath post-haste, one 
 night, and jostled heartily against him in the pump- 
 room on the following morning. M. de Chateau- 
 rien bowed, and turned aside without offense, con- 
 tiuuing a conversation with some gentlemen near 
 by. CaptaiQ Rohrer jostled against him a second 
 time. M. de Chateaurien looked him in the eye, 
 and apologized pleasantly for being so much in the 
 way. Thereupon Rohrer procured an introduction 
 to him, and made some observations derogatory 
 to the valor and virtue of the French. 
 
 There was current a curious piece of gossip of 
 the French court: a prince of the blood royal, grand- 
 son of the late Regent and second in the line of suc- 
 cession to the throne of France, had rebelled against 
 the authority of Louis XV., who had commanded 
 him to marry the Princess Henriette, cousin to both 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 23 
 
 of them. The princess was reported to be openly 
 devoted to the cousin who refused to accept her 
 hand at the bidding of the king; and, as rumor ran, 
 the prince's caprice elected in preference the dis- 
 cipline of Vincennes, to which retirement the furious 
 king had consigned him. The story was the staple 
 gossip of all pohte Europe; and Captain Rohrer, 
 having in his mind a purpose to make use of it in 
 leading up to a statement that should be general 
 to the damage of all Frenchwomen, and which a 
 Frenchman might not pass over as he might a jog 
 of the elbow, repeated it with garbled truths to make 
 a scandal of a story which bore none on a plain rela- 
 tion. 
 
 He did not reach his deduction. M. de Cha- 
 teaurien, breaking into liis narrative, addressed him 
 very quietly. "Monsieur," he said, "none but 
 swine deny the nobleness of that good and gentle 
 lady. Mademoiselle la Princesse de Bourbon-Conti. 
 Every Frenchman know' that her cousin is a bad 
 rebel and ingrate, who had only honor and rispec' 
 for her, but was so wilfid he could not let even the 
 king say, 'You shall marry here, you shall marry 
 there.' My frien's," the young man turned to the 
 ethers, "may I ask you to close roun' in a circle 
 
£4 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 for one moment? It is clearly shown that the Duke 
 of Orleans is a scurvy fellow, but not — " he wheeled 
 about and touched Captain Rohrer on the brow 
 with the back of his gloved hand — "but not so 
 scurvy as thou, thou swine of the gutter!" 
 
 Two hours later, with perfect ease, he ran Cap- 
 tain Rohrer through the left shoulder — after which 
 he sent a basket of red roses to the Duke of Winter- 
 set. In a few days he had another captain to fight. 
 This was a ruflBing buck who had the astoxmding 
 indiscretion to proclaim M. de Chateaurien an im- 
 postor. There was no Chateaurien, he swore. The 
 Frenchman laughed in his face, and, at twilight 
 of the same day, pinked him carefully through the 
 right shoulder. It was not that he could not put 
 aside the insult to himself, he declared to Mr. Moly- 
 neux, his second, and the few witnesses, as he handed 
 his wet sword to his lackey — one of his station 
 could not be insulted by a doubt of that station — ■■ 
 but he fought in the quarrel of his friend Winterset, 
 This rascal had asserted that M. le Due had intro- 
 duced an impostor. Could he overlook the insiilt 
 to a friend, one to whom he owed his kind recep- 
 tion in Bath? Then, bending over his fallen ad- 
 versary, he whispered: "Naughty man, tell your 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 25 
 
 master find some better quarrel for the nex' he sen' 
 agains' me." 
 
 The conduct of M. de Chateaurien was pronounced 
 admirable. 
 
 There was no surprise when the young foreigner 
 fell naturally into the long train of followers of the 
 beautiful Lady Mary Carlisle, nor was there great 
 astonishment that he should obtain marked favor 
 in her eyes, shown so plainly that my Lord Town- 
 brake, Sir Hugh Guilford, and the rich Squire Ban- 
 tison, all of whom had followed her through three 
 seasons, swore with rage, and his Grace of Winter- 
 set stalked from her aunt's house with black brows. 
 
 Meeting the Duke there on the evening after his 
 second encounter, de Chateaurien smiled upon him 
 brilliantly. "It was badly done; oh, so badly!" 
 he whispered. "Can you afford to have me strip' 
 of my mask by any but yourself.'* You, who in- 
 troduce' me? They will say there is some bad 
 scandal that I could force you to be my god-father. 
 You mus' get the courage yourself." 
 
 "I told you a rose had a short life," was the 
 answer. 
 
 "Oh, those roses! 'Tis the very greates' rizzon 
 to gather each day a fresh one." He took a red 
 
26 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 bud from his breast for an instant, and touched 
 it to his lips. 
 
 "M. de Chateaurien!" It was Lady Mary's 
 voice; she stood at a table where a vacant place had 
 been left beside her. "M. de Chateaurien, we have 
 been waiting very long for you." 
 
 The Duke saw the look she did not know she 
 gave the Frenchman, and he lost countenance for 
 a moment. 
 
 "We approach a cUmax, di, monsieiff?" said M. 
 de C3iateaurien. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THERE 'tell a clear September night, when 
 the moon was radiant over town and coun- 
 try, over cobbled streets and winding roads. 
 From the fields the mists rose slowly, and the air 
 was mild and fragrant, while distances were white 
 and full of mystery. AD of Bath that pretended to 
 fashion or condition was present that evening at a 
 fete at the house of a country gentleman of the neigh- 
 borhood. When the stately junket was concluded, 
 it was the pleasure of M. de Chateaurien to form 
 one of the escort of Lady Mary's carriage for the 
 return. As they took the road. Sir Hugh Guilford 
 and Mr. Bantison, engaging ia indistinct but vigor- 
 ous remonstrance with Mr. Molyneux over some 
 matter, fell fifty or more paces behind, where they 
 continued to ride, keeping up their argument. Half 
 a dozen other gallants rode in advance, muttering 
 among themselves, or attended laxly upon Lady 
 Mary's aunt on the other side of the coach, while 
 
 the happy Frenchman was permitted to ride close 
 
 27 
 
28 MONSIEUK BEAUCAIRE 
 
 to that adorable window which framed the fairest 
 face in England. 
 
 He sang for her a little French song, a song of 
 the voyageur who dreamed of home. The lady, 
 listening, looking up at the bright moon, felt a warm 
 drop upon her cheek, and he saw the tears sparkhng 
 upon her lashes. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," he whispered then, "I, too, have 
 been a wanderer, but my dreams were not of France; 
 no, I do not dream of that home, of that dear coun- 
 try. It is of a dearer country, a dream country — 
 a country of gold and snow," he cried softly, looking 
 at her white brow and the fair, lightly powdered 
 hair above it, "Gold and snow, and the blue sky 
 of a lady's eyes!" 
 
 "I had thought the ladies of France were dark, 
 sir." 
 
 "Cruel! It is that she will not understan' ! Have 
 I speak of the ladies of Prance? No, no, no! It 
 is of the f aires' country; yes, 'tis a province of heaven, 
 mademoiselle. Do I not renounce my allegiance to 
 France.'' Oh, yes! I am subjec' — ^no, content to 
 be slave — ^in the Ian' of the blue sky, the gold, and 
 the snow." 
 
 "A very pretty figure," answered Lady Mary, 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 29 
 
 her eyes downcast. "But does it not hint a notable 
 experience in the making of such speeches?" 
 
 "Tormentress! No. It prove' only the inspira- 
 tion it is to kno.w you." 
 
 "We English ladies hear plenty of the like, sir; 
 and we even grow brilliant enough to detect the as- 
 surance that lies beneath the courtesies of our ovm 
 gallants." 
 
 "Merci! I should beUeve so!" ejaculated M. 
 de Chateaurien; but he smothered the words upon 
 his lips. 
 
 Her eyes were not lifted. She went on: "We 
 come, in time, to believe that true feeling comes 
 faltering forth, not glibly; that smoothness betokens 
 the adept in the art, sir, rather than your true — 
 your true — " She was herself faltering; more, 
 blushing deeply, and halting to a full stop in terror 
 of a word. There was a silence. 
 
 "Your — true— lover," he said huskily. When 
 he had said that word both trembled. She turned 
 half way into the darkness of the coach. 
 
 "I know what make' you to doubt me," he said, 
 faltering himself, though it was not his art that 
 prompted him. "They have tol' you the Froich do 
 nothing al — ways but make love, is it not so? Yes, 
 
30 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 you think I am like that. You think I am like that 
 now!" 
 
 She made no sign. 
 
 "I suppose," he sighed, "I am unriz'nable; I 
 would have the snow not so col' — ^for jus' me." 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 "Turn to me," he said. 
 
 The fragrance of the fields came to them, and 
 from the distance the faint, clear note of a hxmting- 
 hom. 
 
 "Turn to me." 
 
 The lovely head was bent very low. Her little 
 gloved hand lay upon the narrow window ledge. 
 He laid his own gently upon it. The two hands 
 were shaking like twin leaves in the breeze. Hers 
 was not drawn away. After a pause, neither knew 
 how long, he felt the warm fingers turn and clasp 
 themselves tremulously about his own. At last 
 she looked up bravely and met his eyes. The horn 
 was wound again — nearer. 
 
 "AH the cold was gone from the snows — ^long 
 ago," she said. 
 
 "My beautiful!" he whispered; it was aU he could 
 say. "My beautiful!" But she clutched his arm, 
 startled. 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 31 
 
 '"Ware the road!" A wild halloo sounded ahead. 
 The horn wound loudly. '"Ware the road!" There 
 sprang up out of the night a flying thunder of hoof- 
 beats. The gentlemen riding idly in front of the 
 coach scattered to the hedge-sides; and, with drawn 
 swords flashing in the moon, a party of horsemen 
 charged down the highway, their cries blasting the 
 night. 
 
 "Barber! Kill the barber !" they screamed. "Bar- 
 ber! Kill the barber!" 
 
 Beaucaire had but time to draw his sword when 
 they were upon him. 
 
 "A mm!" his voice rang out clearly as he rose 
 in his stirrups. "A moi, Francois, Louis, Berquin! 
 A moi, Francois!" 
 
 The cavaliers came straight at him. He parried 
 the thrust of the first, but the shock of collision 
 hurled his horse against the side of the coach. 
 
 "Sacred swine!" he cried bitterly. "To endanger 
 a lady, to make this brawl in a lady's presence! 
 Drive on!" he shouted. 
 
 "No!" cried Lady Mary. 
 
 The Frenchman's assailants were masked, but 
 they were not highwaymen. "Barber! Barber!" they 
 shouted hoarsely, and closed in on him in a circle. 
 
32 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 "See how he use his steel!" laughed M. Beau- 
 caire, as his point passed through a tawdry waist- 
 coat. For a moment he cut through the ring and 
 cleared a space about him, and Lady Mary saw his 
 face shining in the moonUght. "Canaille!" he 
 hissed, as his horse sank beneath him; and, though 
 guarding his head from the rain of blows from 
 above, he managed to drag headlong from his saddle 
 the man who had hamstrung the poor brute. 
 The fellow came suddenly to the ground, and lay 
 there. 
 
 "Is it not a compliment," said a heavy voice, 
 "to bring six large men to subdue monsieur?" 
 
 "Oh, you are there, my frien'! In the rear-^a 
 a little in the rear, I thiuk. Ha, ha!" 
 
 The Frenchman's play with his weapon was a 
 revelation of skiU, the more extraordinary as he 
 held in his hand only a hght dress sword. But the 
 ring closed about him, and his keen defense could 
 not avail him for more than a few moments. Lady 
 Mary's outriders, the gallants of her escort, rode 
 up close to the coach and encircled it, not inter- 
 fering. 
 
 "Sir Hugh Guilford!" cried Lady Mary wildly, 
 "if you will not help him, give me your sword!" 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 33 
 
 She would have leaped to the ground, but Sir Hugh 
 held the door. 
 
 "Sit quiet, madam," he said to her; then, to the 
 man on the box, "Drive on." 
 
 "If he does, I'll kill him!" she said fiercely. "Ah, 
 what cowards! Will you see the Duke murdered?" 
 
 "The Duke!" laughed Guilford. "They will not 
 kill him, unless — ^be easy, dear madam, 'twill be 
 explained. Gad's life!" he muttered to Molyneux, 
 "'Twere time the varlet had his lashing! D'ye 
 hear her?" 
 
 "Barber or no barber," answered Molyneux, 
 "I wish I had warned him. He fights as few 
 gentlemen could. Ah— ah! Look at that! 'Tis 
 a shame!" 
 
 On foot, his hat gone, his white coat sadly rent 
 and gashed, flecked, too, with red, M. Beaucaire, 
 wary, alert, brilliant, seemed to transform himself 
 into a dozen fencing-masters; and, though his skill 
 appeared to lie in delicacy and quickness, his play 
 being continually with the point, sheer strength 
 failed to beat him down. The young man was 
 laughing like a child. 
 
 "Believe me," said Molyneux, "he's no barber! 
 No, and never was!" 
 
34 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 For a moment there was even a chance that 
 M. Beaucaire might have the best of it. Two of 
 his adversaries were prostrate, more than one were 
 groaning, and the indomitable Frenchman had 
 actually almost beat off the ruffians, when, by a 
 trick, he was overcome. One of them, dismounting, 
 ran in suddenly from behind, and seized his blade 
 in a thick leather gauntlet. Before Beaucaire 
 could disengage the weapon, two others threw 
 themselves from their horses and hurled him to 
 the earth. "A moil A moi, Francois!" he cried 
 as he went down, his sword in fragments, but his 
 voice unbroken and clear. 
 
 "Shame!" muttered one or two of the gentle- 
 men about the coach. 
 
 "'Twas dastardly to take him so," said Moly- 
 neux. "Whatever his deservings, I'm nigh of a 
 mind to offer him a rescue in the Duke's 
 face." 
 
 "Truss him up, lads," said the heavy voice. 
 "Clear the way in front of the coach. There sit 
 those whom we avenge upon a presumptuous 
 lackey. Now, Whiffen, you have a fair audience, 
 lay on and baste him." 
 
 Two men began to drag M. Beaucaire toward 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 35 
 
 a great oak by the roadside. Another took from 
 his saddle a heavy whip with three thongs. 
 
 "A moi, Francois!" 
 
 There was borne on the breeze an answer — 
 "Monseigneur! Monseigneur!" The cry grew louder 
 suddenly. The clatter of hoofs urged to an anguish 
 of speed sounded on the night. M. Beaucaire's 
 servants had lagged sorely behind, but they made 
 up for it now. Almost before the noise of their 
 own steeds they came riding down the moonlit 
 aisle between the mists. Chosen men, these servants 
 of Beaucaire, and like a thunderbolt they fell upon 
 the astounded cavaliers. 
 
 "Chateaurien! Chateaurien !" they shouted, and 
 smote so swiftly that, through lack of time, they 
 showed no proper judgment, discriminating nothing 
 between non-combatants and their master's foes. 
 They charged first into the group about M. 
 Beaucaire, and broke and routed it utterly. 
 Two of them leaped to the young man's 
 side, while the other four, swerving, scarce 
 losing the momentum of their onset, bore on 
 upon the gentlemen near the coach, who went 
 down beneath the fierceness of the onslaught, 
 cursing manfully. 
 
36 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 "Our just deserts," said Mr. Molyneux, his 
 mouth full of dust and philosophy. 
 
 Sir Hugh Guilford's horse fell with him, being 
 literally ridden over, and the baronet's leg was 
 pinned under the saddle. In less than ten minutes 
 from the first attack on M. Beaucaire, the attack- 
 ing party had fled in disorder, and the patrician 
 non-combatants, choking with expletives, con- 
 sumed with wrath, were prisoners, disarmed by the 
 Frenchman's lackeys. 
 
 Guilford's discomfiture had freed the doors of the 
 coach; so it was that when M. Beaucaire, struggling 
 to rise, assisted by his servants, threw out one hand 
 to balance himself, he found it seized between two 
 gmall, cold palms, and he looked into two warm, 
 dilating eyes, that were doubly beautiful because 
 of the fright and rage that found room in them, too. 
 
 M. le Due Chateaurien sprang to his feet without 
 the aid of his lackeys, and bowed low before Lady 
 Mary. 
 
 "I miake ten thousan' apology to be the cause 
 of a such melee in your presence," he said; and then, 
 turning to Francois, he spoke in French: "Ah, thou 
 scoundrel! A little, and it had been too late." 
 
 Francois knelt in the dust before him. "Pardon !" 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 37 
 
 he said. "Monseigneur commanded us to follow 
 far in the rear, to remain unobserved. The wind 
 malignantly blew against monseigneur's voice." 
 
 "See what it might have cost, my children," 
 said his master, pointing to the ropes with which 
 they would have bound him and to the whip lying 
 beside them. A shudder passed over the ladkey's 
 frame; the utter horror in his face echoed in the 
 eyes of his fellows. 
 
 "Oh, monseigneur!" Francois sprang back, and 
 tossed his arms to heaven. 
 
 "But it did not happen," said M. Beaucaire. 
 
 "It could not!" exclaimed Francois. 
 
 "No. And you did very well, my children — " 
 the young man smiled benevolently — "very well. 
 And now," he continued, turning to Lady Mary 
 and speaking in English, "let me be asking of our 
 gallants yonder what make' them to be in cabal 
 with highwaymen. One should come to a polite 
 understanding with them, you think? Not so.''" 
 
 He bowed, offering his hand to conduct her to 
 the coach, where Molyneux and his companions, 
 having drawn Sir Hugh from under his horse, were 
 engaged in reviving and reassuring Lady Rellerton, 
 who had fainted. But Lady Mary stayed Beaucaire 
 
38 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 with a gesture, and the two stood where they 
 were. 
 
 "Monseigneur'" she said, with a note of raillery 
 in her voice, but raillery so tender that he started 
 with happiness. His movement brought him a hot 
 spasm of pain, and he clapped his hand to a red 
 stain on his waistcoat. 
 
 "You are hurt!" 
 
 "It is nothing," smiled M. Beaucaire. Th«tt, 
 that she might not see the stain spreading, he held 
 his handkerchief over the spot. "I am a little — 
 but jus' a trifling — bruise'; 'tis all." 
 
 "You shall ride in the coach," she whispered. 
 "Will you be pleased, M. de Chateaurien?" 
 
 "Ah, my beautiful!" She seemed to wave before 
 him like a shining mist.- "I wish that ride might 
 las' for al — ways! Can you say that, mademoi- 
 selle?" 
 
 "Monseigneur," she cried in a passion of admira- 
 tion, "I would what you would have be, should be. 
 What do you not deserve.'' You are the bravest 
 man in the world !" 
 
 "Ha, ha! I am jus' a poor Frenchman." 
 
 "Would that a few Englishmen had shown them- 
 selves as 'poor' to-night. The vile cowards, not to 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 39 
 
 help you!" With that, suddenly possessed by her 
 anger, she swept away from him to the coach. 
 
 Sir Hugh, groaning loudly, was being assisted 
 into the vehicle. 
 
 "My little poltroons," she said, "what are you 
 doing with your fellow-craven. Sir Hugh Gxiilford, 
 there?" 
 
 "Madam," repKed Molyneux humbly, "Sir Hugh's 
 leg is broken. Lady Rellerton graciously permits 
 him to be taken in." 
 
 "Z do not permit it! M. de Chateaurien rides 
 with us." 
 
 "But " 
 
 "Sir! Leave the wretch to groan by the road- 
 side," she cried fiercely, "which plight I would were 
 that of all of you! But there will be a pretty story 
 for the gossips to-morrow! And I could almost 
 find pity for you when I think of the wits when you 
 return to town. Fine gentlemen you; hardy 
 bravoes, by heaven! to leave one man to meet 
 a troop of horse single-handed, while you huddle 
 in shelter until you are overthrown and disarmed 
 by servants! Oh, the wits! Heaven save you 
 from the wits !" 
 
 "Madam." 
 
40 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 "Address me no more! M. de Chateaurien, 
 Lady Rellerton and I will greatly esteeai the honor 
 of your company. Will you come?" 
 
 She stepped quickly into the coach, and was 
 gathering her skirts to make room for the French- 
 man, when a heavy voice spoke froBi the shadows 
 of the tree by the wayside. 
 
 "Lady Mary Carlisle will, no doubt, listen to a 
 word of counsel on this point." 
 
 The Duke of Winterset rode out into the moon- 
 light, composedly untieing a mask from about his 
 head. He had not shared the flight of his followers, 
 but had retired into the shade of the oak, whence 
 he now made his presence known with the utmost 
 coolness. 
 
 "Gracious heavens, 'tis Winterset!" exclaimed 
 Lady Rellerton. 
 
 "Turned highwayman and cutthroat," cried Lady 
 Mary. 
 
 "No, no," laughed M. Beaucaire, somewhat 
 unsteadily, as he stood, swaying a little, with one 
 hand on the coach-door, the other pressed hard 
 on his side, "he only oversee' ; he is jus' a little bash- 
 ful, sometime'. He is a great man, but he don' 
 want all the glory!" 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 41 
 
 "Barber," replied the Duke, "I must tell you 
 that I gladly descend to bandy words with you; 
 your monstrous impudence is a claim to rank I 
 cannot ignore. But a lackey who has himself 
 followed by six other lackeys " 
 
 "Ha, ha! Has not M. le Due been busy all this 
 evening to justify me? And I think mine mus' be 
 the bes' six. Ha, ha! You think?" 
 
 "M. de Chateaurien," said Lady Mary, "we are 
 waiting for you." 
 
 "Pardon," he replied. "He has something to 
 say; maybe it is bes' if you hear it now." 
 
 "I wish to hear nothing from him — ever!" 
 
 "My faith, madam," cried the Duke, "this saucy 
 fellow has paid you the last insult! He is so sure 
 of you he does not fear you will beheve the truth. 
 When all is told, if you do not agree he deserved 
 the lashing we planned to " 
 
 "I'll hear no more!" 
 
 "You will bitterly repent it, madam. For your 
 own sake I entreat " 
 
 "And I also," broke in M. Beaucaire. "Permit 
 me, mademoiselle; let him speak." 
 
 "Then let him be brief," said Lady Mary, "for 
 I am earnest to be quit of him. His explanation of 
 
42 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 an attack on my friend and on my carriage should 
 be made to my brother." 
 
 "Alas that he was not here," said the Duke, "to 
 aid me! Madam, was your carriage threatened? I 
 have endeavored only to expunge a debt I owed 
 to Bath and to avenge an insult offered to yourself 
 through " 
 
 "Sir, sir, my patience will bear httle more!" 
 
 "A thdusan' apology," said M. Beaucaire. "You 
 will Usten, I only beg, Lady Mary?" 
 
 She made an angry gesture of assent. 
 
 "Madam, I will be brief as I may. Two months 
 ago there came to Bath a French gambler calling 
 himself Beaucaire, a desperate fellow with the cards 
 or dice, and all the men of fashion went to play at 
 his lodging, where he won considerable sums. He 
 was small, wore a black wig and mustachio. He 
 had the insolence to show himself everywhere until 
 the Master of Ceremonies rebuffed him in the pump- 
 room, as you know, and after that he forebore his 
 visits to the rooms. Mr. Nash explained (and 
 was confirmed, madam, by indubitable information) 
 that this Beaucaire was a man of unspeakable, vile, 
 low birth, being, in fact, no other than a lackey of 
 the French king's ambassador, Victor by name, de 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 43 
 
 Mirepoix's barber. Although, his condition was 
 known, the hideous impudence of the fellow did 
 not desert him, and he remained in Bath, where none 
 would speak to him." 
 
 "Is your farrago nigh done, sir?" 
 
 "A few moments, madam. One evening, three 
 weeks gone, I observed a very elegant equipage 
 draw up to my door, and the Duke of Chateaurien 
 was annoimced. The young man's manners were 
 worthy — according to the French acceptance — 
 and 'twere idle to deny him the most monstrous 
 assurance. He declared himself a noble traveling 
 for pleasure. He had taken lodgings in Bath for 
 a season, he said, and called at once to pay his re- 
 spects to me. His tone was so candid— in truth, I 
 am the simplest of men, very easily gulled — and his 
 stroke so bold, that I did not for one moment sus- 
 pect him; and, to my poignant regret— though in 
 the humblest spirit I have shown myself eager to 
 atone — that very evening I had the shame of pre- 
 senting him to yourself." 
 
 "The shame, sir!" 
 
 "Have patience, pray, madam. Ay, the shame! 
 You know what figure he hath cut in Bath since that 
 evening. All ran merrily with him until several 
 
44 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 days ago Captain Badger denoxmced him as an im- 
 postor, vowing that Chateaurien was nothing." 
 
 "Pardon," interrupted M. Beaucaire. "'Castle 
 Nowhere' would have been so much better. Why 
 did you not make him say it that way, monsieur?" 
 
 Lady Mary started; she was looking at the Duke, 
 and her face was white. He continued: "Poor Cap- 
 tain Badger was stabbed that same day " 
 
 "Most befitting poor Captain Badger," muttered 
 Molyneux. 
 
 " — And his adversary had the marvelous inso- 
 lence to declare that he fought in my quarrel! This 
 afternoon the wounded man sent for me, and im- 
 parted a very horrifyiag intelligence. He had dis- 
 covered a lackey whom he had seen waiting upon 
 Beaucaire in attendance at the door of this Cha- 
 teaurien's lodging. Beaucaire had disappeared the 
 day before Chateaurien's arrival. Captain Badger 
 looked closely at Chateaurien at their next meet- 
 ing, and identified him with the missing Beaucaire 
 beyond the faintest doubt. Overcome with indig- 
 nation, he immediately proclaimed the impostor. 
 Out of regard for me, he did not charge him with 
 being Beaucaire; the poor soul was unwilling to put 
 upon me the humiliation of having introduced a 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 45 
 
 barber; but the secret weighed upon him till he sent 
 for me and put everything in my hands. I accepted 
 the odium; thinking only of atonement. I went 
 to Sir John Wimpledon's fete. I took poor Sir 
 Hugh, there, and these other gentlemen aside, and 
 told them my news. We narrowly observed this 
 man, and were shocked at our simplicity in not hav- 
 ing discovered him before. These are men of honor 
 and cool judgment, madam. Mr. Molyneux had 
 acted for him in the affair of Captain Badger, and 
 was strongly prejudiced in his favor; but Mr. Moly- 
 neux, Sir Hugh, Mr. Bantison, every one of them, 
 in short, recognized him. In spite of his smooth 
 face and his light hair, the adventurer Beaucaire 
 was writ upon him amazing plain. Look at him, 
 madam, if he will dare the inspection. You saw 
 this Beaucaire well, the day of his expulsion from 
 the rooms. Is not this he?" 
 
 M. Beaucaire stepped close to her. Her pale 
 face twitched. 
 
 "Look!" he said. 
 
 "Oh, oh!" she whispered with a dry throat, and 
 fell back in the carriage. 
 
 "Is it so?" cried the Duke. 
 . "I do not know — I — cannot tell." 
 
46 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 "One moment more. I begged these gentlemep 
 to allow me to wipe out the insult I had unhappily 
 offered to Bath, but particularly to you. They 
 agreed not to forestall me or to interfere. I left 
 Sir John Wimpledon's early, and arranged to give 
 the sorry rascal a lashing under your own eyes, 
 a satisfaction due the lady into whose presence he 
 had dared to force himself." 
 
 " 'Noblesse oblige'?" said M. Beaucaire in a tone 
 of gentle inquiry. 
 
 "And now, madam," said the Duke, "I will 
 detain you not one second longer. I plead the 
 good purpose of my intentions, begging you to 
 believe that the desire to avenge a hateful outrage, 
 next to the wish to serve you, forms the dearest 
 motive in the heart of Winterset." 
 
 "Bravo!" cried Beaucaire softly. 
 
 Lady Mary leaned toward him, a thriving terror 
 in her eyes. "It is false.''" she faltered. 
 
 "Monsieur should not have been born so high. 
 He could have made little book'." 
 
 "You mean it is false?" she cried breathlessly. 
 
 "'Od's blood, is she not convinced?" broke out 
 Mr. Bantison. "Fellow, were you not the ambassa< 
 dor's barber?" 
 
MONSIEUR BEAIICAIE-E 47 
 
 "It is all false?" she whispered. 
 
 "The mos' fine art, mademoiselle. How long 
 you think it take M. de Winterset to learn that 
 speech after he write it out? It is a mix of what 
 is true and the mos' chaste art. Monsieur has 
 become a man of letters. Perhaps he may enjoy 
 that more than the wars. Ha, ha!" 
 
 Mr. Bantison burst into a roar of laughter. "Do 
 French gentlemen fight lackeys? Ho, ho, ho! A 
 pretty country ! We English do as was done to-night, 
 have our servants beat them." 
 
 "And attend ourselves," added M. Beaucaire, 
 looking at the Duke, "somewhat in the background? 
 But, pardon," he mocked, "that remind' me. Fran- 
 cois, return to Mr. Bantison and these gentlemen 
 their weapons." 
 
 "Will you answer a question?" said Molyneux 
 mildly. 
 
 "Oh, with pleasure, monsieiu:." 
 
 "Were you ever a barber?" 
 
 "No, monsieur," laughed the young man. 
 
 "Pah!" exclaimed Bantison. "Let me question 
 him. Now, fellow, a confession may save you from 
 jail. Do you deny you are Beaucaire?" 
 
 "Deny to a such judge?" 
 
48 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 "Ha!" said Bantison. "What more do you want, 
 Molyneux? Fellow, do you deny that you came to 
 London in the ambassador's suite?" 
 
 "No, I do not deny." 
 
 "He admits it! Didn't you come as his barber?" 
 
 "Yes, my frien', as his barber." 
 
 Lady Mary cried out faintly, and, shuddering, 
 put both hands over her eyes. 
 
 "I'm sorry," said Molyneux. "You fight like a 
 gentleman." 
 
 "I thank you, monsieur." 
 
 "You called yourself Beaucaire?" 
 
 "Yes, monsieur." He was swaying to and fro; 
 his servants ran to support him. 
 
 "I wish — " continued Molyneux, hesitating. "Evil 
 take me! — but I'm sorry you're hiu-t." 
 
 "Assist Sir Hugh into my carriage," said Lady 
 Mary. 
 
 "Farewell, mademoiselle!" M. Beaucaire's voice 
 was very faint. His eyes were fixed upon her face. 
 She did not look toward him. 
 
 They were propping Sir Hugh on the cushions. 
 The Duke rode up close to Beaucaire, but Francois 
 seized his bridle fiercely, and forced the horse back 
 on its haunches. 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 49 
 
 "The man's servants worship him," said 
 Molyneux. 
 
 "Ciirse your insolence!" exclaimed the Duke. 
 "How much am I to bear from this varlet and his 
 varlets? Beaucaire, if you have not left Bath by 
 to-morrow noon, you will be clapped into jaO, 
 and the lashing you escaped to-night shall be given 
 you thrice tenfold!" 
 
 "I shall be — in the — ^Assembly — ^Room' at nine 
 — o'clock, one week — ^from — ^to-night," answered the 
 yoimg man, smiling jauntily, though his lips were 
 colorless. The words cost him nearly all his breath 
 and strength. "You mus' keep — ^in the — ^back- 
 groun', monsieur. Ha, ha!" 
 
 The door of the coach closed with a slam. 
 
 "Mademoiselle — ^fare — well !" 
 
 "Drive on!" said Lady Mary. 
 
 M. Beaucaire followed the carriage with his 
 eyes. As the noise of the wheels and the hoof- 
 beats of the accompanying cavalcade grew fainter 
 in the distance, the handkerchief he had held against 
 Ms side dropped into the white dust, a heavy red 
 splotch. 
 
 "Only — proses," he gasped, and fell back in the 
 arms of his servants. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 I EATJ NASH stood at the door of the rooms^ 
 smiling blandly upon a dainty throng in 
 the pink of its finery and gay furbelows. 
 The great exquisite bent his body constantly in a 
 series of consummately adjusted bows: before a 
 great dowager, seeming to sweep the floor in august 
 deference; somewhat stately to the young bucks; 
 greeting the wits with gracious friendliness and a 
 twinkle of raillery; inclining with fatherly gallantry 
 before the beauties; the degree of his inclination 
 measured the altitude of the recipient as accurately 
 as a nicely calculated sand-glass measures the 
 hours. 
 
 The King of Bath was happy, for wit, beauty, 
 fashion — ^to speak more concretely: nobles, belles, 
 gamesters, beaux, statesmen, and poets — ^made 
 fairyland (or opera bouflfe, at least) in his domin- 
 ions; play ran higher and higher, and Mr. Nash's 
 coffers filled up with gold. To crown his pleasure, 
 
 a prince of the French blood, the yoimg Comte de 
 
 m 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCATRE 51 
 
 Beaujolais, just arrived from Paris, had reached 
 Bath at noon in state, accompanied by the Mar- 
 quis de Mirepoix, the ambassador of Louis XV. 
 The Beau dearly prized the society of the lofty, 
 and the present visit was an honor to Bath: hence 
 to the Meister of Ceremonies. What was better, 
 there would be some profitable hours with the 
 cards and dice. So it was that Mr. Nash smiled 
 never more benignly than on that bright evening. 
 The rooms rang with the silvery voices of women 
 and delightful laughter, while the fiddles went 
 merrily, their melodies chiming sweetly with the 
 joyance of his mood. 
 
 The skill and brazen effrontery of the ambassa- 
 dor's scoundrelly servant in passing himself off for 
 a man of condition formed the point of departure 
 for every conversation. It was discovered that 
 there were but three persons present who had not 
 suspected him from the first; and, by a singular 
 paradox, the most astute of all proved to be old 
 Mr. Bicksit, the traveler, once a visitor at Chateau- 
 rien; for he, according to report, had by a coup of 
 diplomacy entrapped the impostor into an ad- 
 mission that there was no such place. However, 
 like poor Captain Badger, the worthy old man 
 
52 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 had held his peace out of regard for the Duke of 
 Winterset. This nobleman, heretofore secretly dis- 
 liked, suspected of irregular devices at play, and 
 never admired, had won admiration and popularity 
 by his remorse for the mistake, and by the modesty 
 of his attitude in endeavoring to atone for it, with- 
 out presuming upon the privilege of his rank to 
 laugh at the indignation of society; an action the 
 more praiseworthy because his exposure of the 
 impostor entailed the disclosure of his own cul- 
 pability in having stood the villain's sponsor. To- 
 night, the happy gentleman, with Lady Mary 
 Carlisle upon his arm, went grandly about the 
 rooms, sowing and reaping a harvest of smiles. 
 'Twas said work would be begun at once to rebuild 
 the Duke's country seat, while several ruined Jews 
 naight be paid out of prison. People gazing on the 
 beauty aiid the stately but modest hero by her 
 side, said they would make a noble pair. She had 
 long been distinguished by his attentions, and he 
 had come brilliantly out of the episode of the French- 
 man, who had been his only real rival. Wherever 
 they went, there arose a buzz of pleasing gossip 
 and adulation. 
 
 Mr. Nash, seeing them near him, came forward 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 5S 
 
 with greetings. A word on the side passed between 
 the nobleman and the exquisite. 
 
 "I had news of the rascal to-night," whispered 
 Nash. "He lay at a farm till yesterday, when 
 he disappeared; his ruffians, too." 
 
 "You have arranged.''" asked the Duke. 
 
 "Fourteen baihffs are watching without. He 
 could not come within gunshot. If they clap eyes 
 on him, they will hustle him to jail, and his cut- 
 throats shall not avail him a hair's weight. The 
 impertinent swore he'd be here by nine, did he.''" 
 
 "He said so; and 'tis a rash dog, sir." 
 
 "It is just nine now." 
 
 "Send out to see if they have taken him." 
 
 "Gladly." The Beau beckoned an attendant, 
 and whispered ia his ear. 
 
 Many of the crowd had edged up to the two 
 gentlemen with apparent carelessness, to overhear 
 their conversation. Those who did overhear re- 
 peated it in covert asides, and this circulating 
 undertone, confirming a vague rumor that Beau- 
 caire would attempt the entrance that night, lent 
 a pleasurable color of excitement to the evening. 
 The French prince, the ambassador, and their 
 suites were annoimced. Polite as the assembly 
 
54 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 was, it was also curious, and there occurred a man- 
 nerly rush to see the newcomers. Lady Mary, 
 already pale, grew whiter as the throng closed 
 round her; she looked up pathetically at the Duke, 
 who lost no time in extricating her from the pressure. 
 
 "Wait here," he said; "I wiU fetch you a glass 
 of negus," and disappeared. He had not thought 
 to bring a chair, and she, looking about with an 
 increasing faintness and finding none, saw that 
 she was standing by the door of a small side-room. 
 The crowd swerved back for the passage of the 
 legate of France, and pressed upon her. She opened 
 the door, and went in. 
 
 The room was empty save for two gentlemen, 
 who were quietly playing cards at a table. They 
 looked up as she entered. They were M. Beau- 
 caire and Mr. Molyneux. 
 
 She uttered a quick cry and lejtned against the 
 wall, her hand to her breast. Beaucaire, though 
 white and weak, had brought her a chair before 
 MoljTieux could stir. 
 
 "Mademoiselle " 
 
 "Do not touch me!" she cried, with such frozen 
 abhorrence in her voice that he stopped short. 
 "Mr. Molyneux, you seek strange company!" 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAffiE 55 
 
 "Madam," replied Molyneux, bowing deeply, as 
 much to Beaucaire as to herself, "I am honored 
 by the presence of both of you." 
 
 "Oh, are you mad!" she exclaimed, contemp- 
 tuously. 
 
 "This gentleman has exalted me with his con- 
 fidence, madam," he replied. 
 
 "Will you add your ruin to the scandal of this 
 fellow's presence here? How he obtained en- 
 trance " 
 
 "Pardon, mademoiselle," interrupted Beaucaire. 
 "Did I not say I should come.? M. Molyneux 
 was so obliging as to answer for me to the four- 
 teen frien's of M. de Winterset and Meestaire 
 Nash." 
 
 "Do you not know," she turned vehemently 
 upon Molyneux, "that he will be removed the 
 moment I leave this room? Do you wish to be 
 dragged out with him? For your sake, sir, because 
 I have always thought you a man of heart, I give 
 you a chance to save yourself from disgrace — and 
 — ^your companion from jail. Let him shp out 
 by some retired way, and you may give me your 
 arm and we will enter the next room as if nothing 
 had happened. Come, sir " 
 
56 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 "Mademoiselle " 
 
 "Mr. Molyneux, I desire to hear nothing from 
 your companion. Had I not seen you at cards 
 with him I should have supposed him in attendance 
 as your lackey. Do you desire to take advantage 
 of my offer, sir?" 
 
 "Mademoiselle, I could not tell you, on that 
 night " 
 
 "You may inform your high-born friend, Mr. 
 Molyneux, that I heard everything he had to say; 
 that my pride once had the pleasure of Ustening 
 to his high-bom confession!" 
 
 "Ah, it is gentle to taunt one with his birth, 
 mademoiselle.'' Ah, no! There is a man in my 
 country who say strange things of that — that a 
 man is not his father, but himself." 
 
 "You may inform your friend, Mr. Molyneux, 
 that he had a chance to defend himself against 
 accusation; that he said all " 
 
 "That I did say all I could have strength to say. 
 Mademoiselle, you did not see — as it was right 
 ■ — ^that I had been stung by a big wasp. It was 
 nothing, a scratch; but, mademoiselle, the sky 
 went round and the moon dance' on the earth. 
 I could not wish that big wasp to see he had stung 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 57 
 
 me; so I mus' only say what I can have strength 
 for, and stan' straight till he is gone. Beside', 
 there are other rizzons. Ah, you mus' belief! My 
 Molyneux I sen' for, and tell him all, because he 
 show courtesy to the yo'ng Frenchman, and I 
 can trus' him. I trus' you, mademoiselle — long 
 ago — and would have tol' you ev'rything, excep' 
 jus' because — well, for the romance, the fon! You 
 belief? It is so clearly so; you do belief, made- 
 moiselle?" 
 
 She did not even look at him. M. Beaucaire 
 lifted his hand appealingly toward her. "Can 
 there be no faith in — ^in — " he said timidly, and 
 paused. She was silent, a statue, my Lady Dis- 
 dain. 
 
 "If you had not belief me to be an impostor; 
 if I had never said I was Chateaurien; if I had 
 been jus' that Monsieur Beaucaire of the story 
 they tol' you, but never with the heart of a lackey, 
 an hones' man, a man, the man you knew, himself, 
 could you — would you — " He was trying to speak 
 &mly; yet, as he gazed upon her splendid beauty, 
 he choked shghtly, and fumbled in the lace at 
 his throat with unsteady fingers — "Would you — 
 have let me ride by your side in the autumn moon- 
 
58 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 light?" Her glance passed by him as it might have 
 passed by a footman or a piece of fmmiture. He 
 was dressed magnificently, a multitude of orders 
 glittering on his breast. Her eye took no knowl- 
 edge of him. 
 
 "Mademoiselle — ^I have the honor to ask you; 
 if you had known this Beaucaire was hones', though 
 of peasant birth, would you " 
 
 Involuntarily, controlled as her icy presence 
 was, she shuddered. There was a moment of 
 silence. 
 
 "Mr. Molyneux," said Lady Mary, "in spite 
 of your discourtesy in allowing a servant to ad- 
 dress me, I offer you a last chance to leave this 
 room undisgraced. Will you give me your arm?" 
 
 "Pardon me, madam," said Mr. Molyneux. 
 
 Beaucaire dropped into a chair with his head 
 bent low and his arm outstretched on the table; 
 his eyes filled slowly in spite of himself, and two 
 tears rolled down the young man's cheeks. 
 
 "An' live men are jus' — names!" said M. 
 Beaucaire. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 IN the outer room, Winterset, unable to §ad 
 Lady Mary, and supposing her to have joined 
 Lady Rellerton, disposed of his negus, then 
 approached the two visitors to pay his respects 
 to the young prince, whona he discovered to be 
 a stripling of seventeen, arrogant-looking, but 
 pretty as a girl. Standing beside the Marquis de 
 Mirepoix — a man of quiet bearing — he was sur- 
 rounded by a group of the great, among whom 
 Mr. Nash naturally counted himself. The Beau 
 was felicitating himseK that the foreigners had 
 not arrived a week earlier, in which case he and 
 Bath would have been detected in a piece of gross 
 ignorance concerning the French nobility — ^making 
 much of de Mirepoix's ex-barber. 
 
 "'Tis a lucky thing that fellow was got out of 
 the way," he ejaculated, under cover. 
 
 "Thank me for it," rejoined Winterset. 
 
 An attendant begged Mr. Nash's notice. The 
 
 head bailiff sent word that Beaucaire had long 
 
 59 
 
60 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 since entered the building by a side door. It was 
 supposed Mr. Nash had known of it,, and the French- 
 man was not arrested, as Mr. Molyneux was in 
 his company, and said he would be answerable 
 for him. Consternation was so plain on the Beau's 
 trained face that the Duke leaned toward him 
 anxiously. 
 
 "The villain's in, and Molyneux hath gone 
 mad!" 
 
 Mr. Bantison, who had been fiercely elbowing 
 his way toward them, joined heads with them. 
 "You may well say he is in," he exclaimed, "and 
 if you want to know where, why, in yonder card- 
 room. I saw him through the half-open door." 
 
 "What's to be done?" asked the Beau. 
 
 "Send the bailiffs " 
 
 "Fie, fie! A file of bailiffs.? The scandal!" 
 
 "Then listen to me," said the Duke. "I'll select 
 haJf-a-dozen gentlemen, explain the matter, and 
 we'll put him in the center of us and take him 
 out to the bailiffs. 'Twill appear nothing. Do 
 you remain here and keep the attention of Beaujo- 
 lais and de Mirepoix. Come, Bantison, fetch 
 Townbrake and Harry Rakell yonder; I'll bring 
 the others." 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 61 
 
 Three minutes later, his Grace of Winterset 
 flung wide the card-room door, and, after his friends 
 had entered, closed it. 
 
 "Ah!" remarked M. Beaucaire quietly. "Six 
 more large men." 
 
 The Duke, seeing Lady Mary, started; but the 
 angry signs of her interview had not left her 
 face, and reassiu-ed him. He offered his hand 
 to conduct her to the door. "May I have the 
 honor?" 
 
 "If this is to be known, 'twill be better if I leave 
 after; I should be observed if I went now." 
 
 "As you will, madam," he answered, not dis- 
 pleased. "And now, you impudent villain," he 
 began, turning to M. Beaucaire, but to fall back 
 astounded. "'Od's blood, the dog hath murdered 
 and robbed some royal prince!" He forgot Lady 
 Mary's presence in his excitement. "Lay hands 
 on him!" he shouted. "Tear those orders from 
 him!" 
 
 Molyneux threw himself between. "One word!" 
 he cried. "One word before you offer an outrage 
 you will repent all your lives!" 
 
 "Or let M. de Winterset come alone," laughed 
 M. Beaucaire. 
 
62 MONSIEWR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 "Do you expect me t® fight a cutthroat barber, 
 and with bare hands?" 
 
 "I think one does not expec' monsieur to fight 
 anybody. Would I fight you, you think? That 
 was why I had my servants, that evening we play. 
 I would gladly fight almos' any one in the wori'; 
 but I did not wish to soil my hand with a " 
 
 "Stuff his lying mouth with his orders!" shouted 
 the Duke. 
 
 But Molyneux still held the gentlem«i back. 
 "One moment," he cried. 
 
 "M. de Winterset," said Beaucaire, "of what 
 are you afraid? You calculate well. Beaucaire 
 might have been belief — an impostor that you 
 yourself expose'? Never! But I was not goin*^ 
 reveal that secret. You have not absolve me of 
 my promise." 
 
 "Tell what you like," answered the Duke. "Tell 
 all the wild lies you have time for. You have 
 five minutes to make up your mind to go quietly." 
 
 "Now you absolve me, then? Ha, ha! Cfti, 
 yes! Mademoiselle," he bowed to Lady Mary, 
 'T have the honor to reques' you leave the room. 
 You shall miss no details if these frien's of yours 
 kill me, on the honor of a Frentii g^tleman." 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 6S 
 
 "A French what?" laughed Bantison. 
 
 "Do you dare keep up the pretense?" ciied 
 Lord Townbrake. "Know, you villain barber, 
 that your master, the Marquis de Mirepoix, is 
 in the next room." 
 
 Molyneux heaved a great sigh of relief. "Shall 
 I—" He turned to M. Beaucaire. 
 
 The young man laughed, and said: "Tell him 
 come here at once." 
 
 "Impudent to the last!" cried Bantison, as 
 Molyneux hurried from the room. 
 
 "Now you goin' to see M. Beaucaire's master," 
 said Beaucaire to Lady Mary. "'Tis true what 
 I say, the other night. I cross from France in his 
 suite; my passport say as his barber. Then to 
 pass the ennui of exile, I come to Bath and play 
 for what one will. It kill the time. But when the 
 people hear I have been a servant they come only 
 secretly; and there is one of them — ^he has absolve' 
 me of a promise not to speak — of him I learn some- 
 thing he cannot wish to be tol'. I make some 
 trouble to learn this thing. Why I should do this? 
 Well — that is my own rizzon. So I make this 
 man help me in a masque, the unmasking it was, 
 for, as there is no one to know me, I throw off 
 
64 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 my black wig and become myseK— and so I am 
 'Chateaurien,' Castle Nowhere. Then this man 
 I use', this Wititerset, he " 
 
 "I have great need to deny these accusations?" 
 said the Duke. 
 
 "Nay," said Lady Mary wearily. 
 
 "Shall I tell you why I mus' be 'Victor' and 
 'Beaucaire' and 'Chateaurien,' and not my- 
 self?" 
 
 "To escape from the bailiffs for debts for razors 
 and soap," gibed Lord Townbrake. 
 
 "No, monsieur. In France I have got a cousin 
 who is a man with a very bad temper at some 
 time', and he will never enjoy his relatives to do 
 what he does not wish " 
 
 He was interrupted by a loud commotion from 
 without. The door was flung open, and the young 
 Count of Beaujolais bounded in and threw his 
 arms about the neck of M. Beaucaire. 
 
 "Philippe!" he cried. "My brother, I have come 
 to take you back with me." 
 
 M. de Mirepoix followed him, bowing as a courtier, 
 in deference; but M. Beaucaire took both his hands 
 heartily. Molyneux came after, with Mr. Nash, 
 and closed the door. 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 65 
 
 "My warmest felicitations," said the Marquis. 
 "There is no longer need for your incognito." 
 
 "Thou best of masters!" said Beaucaire, touch- 
 ing him fondly on the shoulder. "I know. Yoiu* 
 courier came safely. And so I am forgiven! But 
 I forget." He turned to the lady. She had be- 
 gun to ti-emble exceedingly. "Faires' of all the 
 English fair," he said, as the gentlemen bowed 
 low to her deep courtesy, "I beg the honor to pre- 
 sen' to Lady Mary Carlisle, M. le Comte de Beaujo- 
 lais. M. de Mirepoix has already the honor. Lady 
 Mary has been very kind to me, my frien's; you 
 mus' help me make my acknowledgment. Made- 
 moiselle and gentlemen, will you give me that 
 favor to detain you one instan'?" 
 
 "Henri," he turned to the young Beaujolais, 
 "I wish you had shared my masque — I have been 
 so gay!" The surface of his tone was merry, but 
 there was an undercurrent, weary-sad, to speak 
 of what was the mood, not the manner. He made 
 the effect of addressing every one present, but 
 he looked steadily at Lady Mary. Her eyes were 
 fixed upon him, with a silent and frightened fas- 
 cination, and she trembled more and more. "I 
 am a great actor, Henri. These gentlemen are 
 
66 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 yet scarce convince' I am not a lackey! And I 
 mus' tell you that I was jus' now to be expelled 
 for having been a barber!" 
 
 "Oh, no!" the ambassador cried out. "He would 
 not be content with me; he would wander over a 
 strange country." 
 
 i "Ha, ha, my Mirepoix! And what is better, 
 one evening I am oblige' to fight some frien's of 
 M. de Winterset there, and some ladies and cav- 
 aliers look on, and they still think me a servant. 
 Oh, I am a great actor! 'Tis true there is not a 
 peasant in France who would not have then known 
 one 'born'; but they are wonderful, this English 
 people, holding by an idea once it is in their heads 
 — a mos' worthy quality. But my good Molyneux 
 here, he had speak to me with courtesy, jus' be- 
 cause I am a man an' jus' because he is al — ways 
 kind. (I have learn' that his great-grandfather 
 was a Frenchman.) So I sen' to him and tell him 
 ev'rything, and he gain admittance for me ha*e 
 to-night to await my frien's. 
 
 "I was speaking to messieurs about my cousin, 
 who will meddle in the affair' of his relativ'. WeU, 
 that gentleman, he make a marriage for me with 
 a good and accomplish' lady, very noble and very 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 67 
 
 beautiful — and amiable." (The young count at 
 his elbow started slightly at this, but immediately 
 appeared to wrap himself in a mantle of solemn 
 thought.) "Unfortunately, when my cousin ar- 
 range' so, I was a dolt, a little blockhead; I swear 
 to marry for myself and when I please, or never 
 if I like. That lady is all things charming and 
 gentle, and, in truth, she is — very much attach' 
 to me — why should I not say it? I am so proud 
 of it. She is very faithful and forgiving and sweet; 
 she would be the same, I think, if I— were even — 
 a lackey. But I? I was a dolt, a little unsensible 
 brute; I did not value such thing' then; I was too 
 yo'ng, las' June. So I say to my cousin, 'No, I 
 make my own choosing!' 'Little fool,' he answer, 
 'she is the one for you. Am I not wiser than you?' 
 And he was very angry, and, as he has influence 
 in France, word come' that he will get me put in 
 Vincennes, so I mus' run away quick till his anger 
 is gone. My good frien' Mirepoix is jus' leaving 
 for London; he take' many risk' for my sake; his 
 hairdresser die before he start', so I travel as that 
 poor barber. But my cousin is a man to be afraid 
 of when he is angry, even in England, and I mus' 
 not get my Mirepoix in trouble. I tnus' not be 
 
68 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 discover' till my cousin is ready to lau^ aboi^i it 
 aU and make it a joke. And there may be spie^; so 
 I change my name again, and come to Bath to amuse 
 my retreat with a little gaming — I am al — jways 
 fond of that. But three day' ago M. le Marquis 
 send me a courier to say that my brother, who 
 know where I had run away, is come from France 
 to say that my cousin is appease'; he need me for 
 his little theatre, the play cannot go on. I do not 
 need to espouse mademoiselle. All shall be for- 
 given if I retimi, and my brother and M. de Mire- 
 poix will meet me in Bath to f eKcitate. 
 
 "There is one more thiag to say, that is all. I 
 have said I learn' a secret, and use it to make a 
 man introduce me if I will not tell. He has 
 absolve' me of that promise. My fren's, I had 
 not the wish to ruin that man. I was not re- 
 ceive'; Meestaire Nash had rebofif me; I had no 
 other way excep' to use this fellow. So I say, 
 'Take me to Lady Malboume's ball as "Chatteau- 
 rien." ' I throw off my wig, and shave, and 
 behol', I am M. le Due de Castle Nowhere. Ha, 
 ha! You see?" 
 
 The yoimg man's manner suddenly changed. 
 He became haughty, menacing. He stretched out 
 
MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 69 
 
 his arm, and pointed at Winterset. "Now I am no 
 'Beaucaire,' messieurs. I am a French gentleman. 
 The man who introduce' me at the price of his 
 honor, and then betray' me to redeem it, is that 
 coward, that card-cheat there!" 
 
 Winterset made a horrible effort to laugh. The 
 gentlemen who siuroxmded him feU away as from 
 pestilence. "A French gentleman!" he sneered 
 savagely, and yet fearfully. "I don't know who 
 you are. Hide behind as many toys and ribbons 
 as you like; I'll laxow the name of the man who 
 dares bring such a charge!" 
 
 "Sir!" cried de Mirepoix sharply, advancing a 
 step towards him; but he checked himseK at once. 
 He made a low bow of state, first to the young 
 Frenchman, then to Lady Mary and the company. 
 "Permit me. Lady Mary and gentlemen," he said, 
 "to assume the honor of presenting you to His 
 Highness, Prince Louis-PhiUppe de Valois, Duke of 
 Orleans, Duke of Chartres, Duke of Nemours, 
 Duke of Montpensier, First Prince of the Blood 
 Royal, First Peer of France, Lieutenant-General of 
 French Infantry, Governor of Dauphine, Kiiight of 
 the Golden Fleece, Grand Master of the Order of 
 Notre Dame, of Moimt Carmel, and of St. Lazarus 
 
70 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 in Jerusalem; and cousin to His most Christian 
 Majesty, Louis the Fifteenth, King of France." 
 
 "Those are a few of my brother's names," whis- 
 pered Henri of Beaujolais to Molyneux. "Old 
 Mirepoix has the long breath, but it take' a strong 
 man two day' to say all of them. I can suppose 
 this Winterset know' now who bring the diarge!" 
 
 "Castle Nowhere!" gasped Beau Nash, falling 
 back upon the burly prop of Mr. Bantison's shoulder. 
 
 "The Duke of Orleans will receive a message 
 from me within the hour!" said Winterset, as he 
 made his way to the door. His face was black with 
 rage and shame. 
 
 "I tol' you that I would not soil my hand with 
 you," answered the young man. "If you s^id a 
 message no gentleman will bring it. Whoever shall 
 bear it wiU receive a Httle beating from Francois." 
 
 He stepped to Lady Mary's side. H«- head was 
 bent low, her face averted. She seemed to breathe 
 with diflSculty, and leaned heavily upon a chair. 
 "Monseigneur," she faltered in a half whispCT, "caa 
 you — forgive me.'' It is a bitter — ^mistake — ^I have 
 made. Forgive." 
 
 "Forgive?" he answered, and his voice was as 
 broken as hers; but he went on, more firmly: "It 
 
MONSrEUR BEAUCAIRE 71 
 
 is— nothing — less than nothing. There is — only 
 jus' one — in tiie — whole worl' who would not hav - 
 treat' me the way that you treat' me. It is to her 
 that I am goin' to make reparation. You know 
 something, Henri? I am not goin' back only be- 
 cause the king forgive' me. I am goin' to please 
 him; I am goin' to espouse mademoiselle, our cousin. 
 My frien's, I ask your felicitations." 
 
 "And the king does not compel him!" exclaimed 
 young Henri. 
 
 "Henri, you want to fight me?" cried his brother 
 sharply. "Don' you think the King of France is a 
 wiser man than me?" 
 
 He oflFered his hand to Lady Mary. 
 "Mademoiselle is fatigue'. Will she honor 
 me?" 
 
 He walked with her to the door, her hand flutter- 
 ing faintly in his. From somewhere about the gar- 
 ments of one of them a little cloud of faded rose- 
 leaves fell, and lay strewn on the floor behind them. 
 He open,ed the door, and the lights shone on a 
 multitude of eager faces turned toward it. There 
 was a great hum of voices, and, over all, the fiddles 
 wove a wandering air, a sweet French song of the 
 voya^eur. 
 
72 MONSIEUR BEAUCAIRE 
 
 He bowed very low, as, with fixed and glistening 
 eyes, Lady Mary Carlisle, the Beauty of Bath, 
 passed slowly by him and went out of the room. 
 
 THE END 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 'OTHING could have been more painful to 
 my smsitiveness than to occupy myself, 
 confused with blushes, at the centre of the 
 whole world as a living advertisement of the least 
 amusing ballet in Paris. 
 
 To be the day's sensation of the boulevards one 
 must possess an eccentricity of appearance conceived 
 by nothing short of genius; and my misfortimes had 
 reduced me to present such to all eyes seeking mirth. 
 It was not that I was one of those people in uniform 
 who carry placards and strange figures upon their 
 backs, nor that my coat was of rags; on the con- 
 trary, my whole costume was delicately rich and 
 well chosen, of soft grey and fine linen (such as you 
 see worn by a marquis in the p4sage at Auteuil) 
 according weU with my usual air and count^iance, 
 sometimes esteemed to resemble my father's, which 
 were not wanting in distinction. 
 To add to this, my duties were not exhausting to 
 
 the body. I was required only to sit without a hat 
 
 75 
 
76 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 from ten of the morning to midday, and from four 
 until seven in the afternoon, at one of the small 
 tables under the awning of the Cafe de la Paix at 
 the corner of the Place de I'Op^ra — that is to say, 
 the centre of the inhabited world. In the morning 
 I drank my coffee, hot in the cup; in the afternoon 
 I sipped it cold in the glass. I spoke to no one; not 
 a glance or gesture of mine passed to attract notice. 
 
 Yet I was the centre of that centre of the world. 
 AH day the crowds surrounded me, laughing loudly; 
 all the voyous making those jokes for which I found 
 no repartee. The pavement was sometimes blocked; 
 the passing coachmen stood up in their boxes to 
 look over at me, small infants were elevated on 
 shoulders to behold me; not the gravest or most 
 sorrowful came by without stopping to gaze at me 
 and go away with rejoicing faces. The boulevards 
 rang to their laughter — all Paris laughed! 
 
 For seven days I sat there at the appointed times, 
 meeting the eye of nobody, and lifting my coffee 
 witJb fingers which trembled from embarrassment at 
 this too great c-onspicuosity! Those mournful hours 
 passed, one by the year, while the idling bourgeois 
 and lite travellers made ridicule; and the rabble 
 exhausted all effort to draw plays of wit from me. 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 77 
 
 I have told you that I carried no placard, that 
 my costume was ekgant, my demeanour modest in 
 all degree. 
 
 "How, then, this excitement?" would be your 
 disposition to inquire. "Why this sensation.''" 
 
 It is very simple. My hair had been shaved 
 oflf, all over my ears, leaving only a little above the 
 back of the nedk, to give an appearance of far- 
 reaching baldness, and on my head was painted, 
 in ah! so briUiant lestters of distinctness: 
 
 Foke-Rouge 
 
 Revue 
 
 de 
 
 Prmtemps 
 
 Tous les Soirs! 
 
 Such was the nieceeeity to which I was at that 
 time reduced! Ckie has heard that the North- 
 Americans invent the most singular advertising, but 
 I wiU not believe they surpass the Parisian. My- 
 self, I say I cannot express my suflFerings imder the 
 notation of the crowds that moved about the Cafe 
 de la Paix! "Hie !l^rench are a terrible people when 
 
78 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 they laugh sincerely. It is not so much the amusing 
 things which cause them amusement; it is often the 
 strange, those contrasts which contain something 
 horrible, and when they laugh there is too frequently 
 some person who is uncomfortable or wicked. I aaa 
 giad that I was bom not a Frenchman; I should 
 regret to be native to a counfa-y where they invetnt 
 such things as I was doing in the Place de TOpera; 
 for, as I tell you, the idea was not aaine. 
 
 As I sat with my eyes drooping bd!ore the gaze 
 of my terrible and applauding audiences, how I 
 mentally formed cursing words against the day wh^i 
 my misfortimes led me to apply at the Th^tre 
 Folie-Rouge for work! I had esqpected an audition 
 and a r61e of comedy in the Revae; for, pesrhaps 
 laddng any experience of the stage, I am a Neapoli- 
 taji by birth, though a residrait of the Continent at 
 large since the age of fifteen. All Neapolitans can 
 act; ail are actors; comedians of the greatest, as 
 every traveller is cognizant. There is a thing in 
 the air of our beautiful slop^ which makes the 
 people of a great instinctive musicalness and deeep- 
 tiveness, with passions like those burning in the 
 old mountain we have thwe. They are ready to 
 play, to sing — or to ^cplode, yet, imitating that 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 79 
 
 amusing Vesuvio, they never do this last when you 
 are in expectancy, or, as a spectator, hopeful of it. 
 How could any person wonder, then, that I, find- 
 ing myself suddenly destitute in Paris, should apply 
 at the theatres? One after another, I saw myself 
 no farther than the director's door, imtil (having 
 had no more to eat the day preceding than three 
 green almonds, which I took from a cart while the 
 good female was not looking) I reached the Folie- 
 Rouge. Here I was astonished to find a polite re- 
 ception from the director. It eventuated that 
 they wished for a person appearing like myself — 
 a person whom they would outfit with clothes of 
 quality in all parts, whose external presented a 
 gentleman of the great world, not merely one of 
 the gaJant-vmnini, but who would impart an air to 
 a table at a cafe where he might sit and partake. 
 The contrast of this with the emplacement of tlie 
 embellishment on his bald head-top was to be the 
 success of the idea. It was plain that I had no 
 baldness, my hair being very thick and I but twenty- 
 four years of age, when it was explained that my 
 hair could be shaved. They asked me to accept, 
 alas! not a part in the Revue, but a specialty as a 
 sandwidi-man. Knowing the English tongue as 
 
80 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 I do, I may afford the venturesomeness to play upon 
 it a little: I asked for bread, and they offered me 
 not a role, but a sandwich ! 
 
 It must be undoubted that I possessed not the 
 disposition to make any fun with my accomplish- 
 ments during those days that I spent under the 
 awning of the Cafe de la Paix, I had consented to 
 be the advertisement in greatest desperation, and 
 not considering what the reality would be. Having 
 consented, honour compelled that I fulfil to the 
 ending. Also, the costume and outfittings I wore 
 were part of my emolument. They had been con- 
 structed for me by the finest tailor; and though I 
 had impulses, often, to leap up and fight through 
 the noisy ones about me and run far to the open 
 country, the very garments I wore were fetters 
 binding me to remain and suffer. It seemed to me 
 that the hours were spent not in the centre of a 
 ring of human persons, but of un-well-made panta- 
 loons and ugly skirts. Yet all of these pantaloons 
 and skirts had such scrutinous eyes and expressions 
 of mirth to laugh hke demons at my conscious, burn- 
 ing painted head; eyes which spread out, astonished 
 at the sight of me, and peered and winked and 
 grinned from the big wrinkles above the gaiters of 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 81 
 
 Zouaves, from the red breeches of the gendarmes, 
 the knickerbockers of the cychsts, the white ducks 
 of sergents de ville, and the knees of the boulevar- 
 diers, bagged with sitting cross-legged at the little 
 tables. I could not escape these eyes; — ^how scorn- 
 fully they twinkled at me from the spurred and 
 glittering officers' boots! How with amaze from 
 the American and English trousers, both turned 
 up and creased like folded paper, both with some 
 dislike for each other but for all other trousers 
 more. 
 
 It was only at such times when the mortification 
 to appear so greatly embarrassed became strongei 
 than the embarrassment itself that I could by will 
 power force my head to a straight construction and 
 look out upon my spectators firmly. On the second 
 day of my ordeal, so facing the laughers, I found 
 myself glaring straight into the monocle of my 
 half-brother and ill-wisher. Prince Caravacioli. 
 
 At this, my agitation was sudden and very great, 
 for there was no one I wished to prevent pwceiving 
 my coBdition more than that old Antonio Cara- 
 vacioli! I had not known that he was in Paris, 
 but I could have no doubt it was himself: The 
 monoele, the handsome nose, the toupee, the yellow 
 
m THE BEAUTIP'UL LADY 
 
 skin, the dyed-black moustache, the splendid height 
 —it was indeed Caravacioli! He was costumed for 
 the automobile, and threw but one glance at me as 
 he crossed the pavement to his car, which was in 
 waiting. There was no change, not of the faintest, 
 in that frosted tragic mask of a countenance, and 
 I was glad to think that he had not recognized me. 
 
 And yet, how strange that I should care, since 
 all his life he had declined to recognize me as what 
 I was! Ah, I should have been glad to shout his 
 age, his dyes, his artificialities, to all the crowd, 
 so to touch him where it would most pain him! 
 For was he not the vainest man in the whole world? 
 How well I knew his vulnerable point : the monstrous 
 -depth of his vanity in that pretence of youth which 
 he preserved through superhuman pains and a 
 genius of a valet, most excellently! I had much 
 to pay Antonio for myself, more for my father, most 
 for my mother. This was why that last of all the 
 world I would have wished that old fortune-htmtrar 
 to know how far I had been reduced! 
 
 Then I rejoiced about that change which my unreal 
 baldness produced in me, giving me a look of forty 
 years instead of twenty-four, so thai my oldest 
 friend must take at least three stares to know me. 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 83 
 
 Also, my costume would disguise me from the few 
 acquaintances I had in Paris (if they chanced to 
 cross the Seine), as they had only seen me in the 
 shabbiest; while, at my last meeting with Antonio, 
 I had berai as fine in the coat as now. 
 
 Yet Hiy encouragement was not so joyful that my 
 gaze lifted often. On the very last day, in the 
 afternoon when my observers were most and noisiest, 
 I lifted my eyes but once during the final half- 
 hour — but such a once that was! 
 
 The edge of that beautiful grey pongee skirt came 
 upon the rim of my lowered eyehd Uke a cool shadow 
 over hot sand. A sergerd had just made many of 
 the people move away, so there remained only a 
 thin ring of the laughing pantaloons about me, 
 when this divine skirt presented its apparition to 
 me. A pair of North-American trousers accom- 
 panied it, turned up to show the ankle-bones of a 
 rich pair of stockings; neat, enthusiastic and humor- 
 ous, I judged them to be; for, as one may discover, 
 my only amusement during my martyrdom — if this 
 misery c^n be said to possess such alleviatings — 
 had been the study of feet, pantaloons, and skirts. 
 The trousers in this case detained my observation no 
 time. They were but the darkest comer of the 
 
84 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 chiaroscuro of a Rembrandt — the mellow glow of 
 gold was all across the grey skirt. 
 
 How shall I explain myself, how make myself 
 understood? Shall I be thought sentimentalistic or 
 but mad when I declare that my first sight of the 
 grey pongee skirt caused me a thrUl of excitation, 
 of tenderness, and— oh-i-me!— of self -consciousness 
 more acute than all my former mortifications. It 
 was so very different from all other skirts that had 
 shown themselves to me those sad days, and you may 
 understand that, though the pantaloons far out- 
 numbered the skirts, many hundreds of the latter 
 had also been objects of my gloomy observa- 
 tion. 
 
 This skirt, so imHke those which had passed, 
 presented at once the qualifications of its superiority. 
 It had been constructed by an artist, and it was 
 worn by a lady. It did not pine, it did not droop; 
 there was no more an atom of hanging too much 
 than there was a portion inflated by flamboyancy; 
 it did not assert itself; it bore notice without seeking 
 it. Plain but exquisite, it was that great rarity — 
 goodness made charming. 
 
 The peregrination of the American trousers sud- 
 denly stopped as they caught sight of me, and that 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 85 
 
 precious skirt paused, precisely in oppositi<Hi to 
 my little table. I heard a voice, that to which 
 the skirt pertained. It spoke the English, but not 
 in the manner of the inhabitants of London, who 
 seem to sing undistinguishably in their talking, 
 although they are comprehensible to each other. 
 To an Italian it seems that many North-Americans 
 and English seek too often the assistance of the 
 nose in talking, though ia diflFerent manners, each 
 equally iaagreeable to our ears. The iateUigent 
 among our lazzaroni of Naples, who beg from tourists, 
 imitate this, with the purpose of reminding the 
 generous IxaveUer of his home, in such a way to 
 soften his heart. But there is some diflference: 
 the Italian, the Frenchman, or German who learns 
 English sometimes misunderstands the American: 
 the Englishman he sometimes understands. 
 
 This voice that spoke was North-American. Ah, 
 what a voice! Sweet as the mandolins of Sorrento! 
 Cleaj; as the bells of Capri! To hear it, was Uke 
 coming upon sight of the almond-blossoms of Sicily 
 for the first time, or the tuhp-fields of HoUand. 
 Never before was such a voice! 
 
 "Why did you stop, Rufus.''" it said. 
 
 "Look!" replied tie American trousers; so that 
 
86 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 I knew the pongee lady had not observed me of 
 herself. 
 
 Instantaneously there was an exclamation, and 
 a pretty grey parasol, closed, fell at my feet. It is 
 not the pleasantest to be an object whidx causes 
 people to be startled when they behold you; but I 
 blessed the agitation of this lady, for what caused 
 her parasol to fall from her hand was a start of pity. 
 
 "Ah!" she cried. "The poor man!" 
 
 She had perceived that I was a gentleman. 
 
 I bent myself forward and lifted the parasol, 
 though not my eyes — I could not have looked up 
 into the face above me to be Caesar! Two hands 
 came down into the circle of my observati<Mi; one 
 of these was that belonging to the troustas, thin, 
 long, and white; the other was the grey -gloved hand 
 of tlie lady, and never had I seen such a hand— the 
 hand of an angel in a suede glove, as the grey skirt 
 was the mantle of a saint made by Doucet. I 
 speak of saints and angels; and to the large world 
 these may sound Uke cold words. — It is only ia Italy 
 where some people are found to adore theua still. 
 
 I lifted the parasol tow^ard that glove as I would 
 have moved to set a candle on an altar. Then, at 
 a thought, I placed it not in the ^ove, but in the 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 87 
 
 thin hand of the gentleman. At the same time 
 the voice of the lady spoke to me — I was to have 
 the joy of remembering that this voice had spoken 
 four words to me. 
 
 "Je vous remercie, monsieur," it said. 
 
 "Pas de quoi!" I murmured. 
 
 The American trousers in a loud tone made 
 reference in the idiom to my miserable head: "Did 
 you ever see anything to beat it?" 
 
 The beautiful voice answered, and by the gentle- 
 ness of her sorrow for me I knew she had no thought 
 that I might understand. "Come away. It is too 
 pitiful!" 
 
 Then the grey skirt and the little round-toed shoes 
 beneath it passed from my sight, quickly hidden 
 from me by the increasing crowd; yet I heard the 
 voice a moment more, but fragmentarily: "Don't 
 you see how ashamed he is, how he must have been 
 starving before he did that, or that some one depen- 
 dent on him needed — " 
 
 I caught no more, but the sweetness that this 
 beautiful lady imderstood and felt for the poor 
 absurd wretch was so great that I could have wept. 
 I had not seen her face; I had not looked up — even 
 when she went. 
 
88 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 "Who is she?" cried a scoundrel voyou, just as 
 she turned. "Madame of the parasol? A friend of 
 monsieur of the ornamented head?" 
 
 "No. It is the first lady in waiting to his wife, 
 Madame la Duchesse," answered a second. "She 
 has been sent with an equerry to demand of monsei- 
 gneur if he does not wish a little sculpture upon his 
 dome as well as the colour decorations!" 
 
 "'Tis true, my ancient?" another asked of me. 
 
 I made no repartee, continuing to sit with my 
 chin dependent upon my cravat, but with things 
 not the same in my heart as formerly to the arrival 
 of that grey pongee, the grey glove, and the beau- 
 tiful voice. 
 
 Since King Charles the Mad, in Paris no one has 
 been completely free from lunacy while the spring- 
 time is happening. There is sometMng in the sun 
 and the banks of the Seine. The Parisians drink 
 sweet and fruity champagne because the good wines 
 are already in their veins. These Parisians are 
 bom intoxicated and remain so; it is not fair play 
 to require them to be like other human people. 
 Their deepest feeling is for the arts; and, as every 
 one has declared, they are farceurs in their trag- 
 edies, tragic in their comedies. They prepare the 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 89 
 
 last epigram in the tumbril; they drown themselves 
 with enthusiasm about the alliance with Russia. 
 In death they are witty; in war they have poetic 
 spasmis; in love they are mad. 
 
 The strangest of all this is that it is not only the 
 Parisians who are the insane ones in Paris; the 
 visitors are none of them in behaviour as elsewhere. 
 You have only to go there to become as lunatic as 
 the rest. Many travellers, when they have departed, 
 remember the events they have caused there as a 
 person remembers in the morning what he has said 
 and thought in the moonlight of the night. 
 
 In Paris it is moonlight even in the morning; and 
 in Paris one falls in love even more strangely than 
 by moonlight. 
 
 It is a place of glimpses: a veil fluttering from a 
 motor-car, a little lace handkerchief fallen from a 
 victoria, a figure crossing a lighted window, a black 
 hat vanishing in the distance of the avenues of the 
 Tuileries. A young man writes a ballade and dreams 
 over a bit of lace. Was I not, then, one of the least 
 extravagant of this mad people? Men have fallen 
 in love with photographs, those greatest of lairs; 
 was I so wild, then, to adore this grey skirt, this 
 small shoe, this divine glove, the gblden-honey 
 
90 THE BEATJTIFUL LADY 
 
 voice — of aU in Paris the only one to pity and to 
 understand? Even to love the mystery of that 
 lady and to build my dreams upon it? — ^to love all 
 the more because of the mystery? Mystery is the 
 last word and the completing charm to a young 
 man's passion. Few sonnets have been written to 
 wives whose matrimony is more than five years of 
 age — is it not so? 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 WHEN my hour was finished and I in 
 liberty to leave tJiat horrible comer, I 
 pushed out of the crowd and walked 
 down the boulevard, my hat covering my sia, and 
 w«at quickly. To be in love with my mystery, 
 I thought, that was a strange happiness! It was 
 enough. It was romance! To hear a voice which 
 speaks two sentences of pity and silver is to have a 
 chime of bells in the heart. But to have a shaven 
 head is to be a monk! And to have a shaven head 
 with a sign painted upon it is to be a pariah. Alas ! 
 I was a person whom the Parisians laughed at, not 
 with! 
 
 Now that at last my martyrdom was coaduded, 
 I had some shuddering, as when one places in his 
 mouth a morsel of unexpected flavour. I wondered 
 where I had found the courage to bear it, and how 
 I had resisted hurling myself iato the river, though, 
 as is known, that is no longer safe, for most of those 
 
 who attempt it are at once rescued, arrested, fined, 
 
 91 
 
92 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 and imprisoned for throwing bodies into the Seine, 
 which is forbidden. 
 
 At the theatre the frightful badge was reoaoved 
 from my head-top and I was given three hundred 
 francs, the price of my shame, refusing an offer to 
 repeat the performance during the following week. 
 To imagine such a thing made me a choking in my 
 throat, and I left the bureau in some sickness. This 
 increased so much (as I approached the Madeleine, 
 where I wished to mount an omnibus) that I entered 
 a restaurant and drank a small glass of cognac. 
 Then I called for writing-papers and wrote to the 
 good Mother Superior and my dear little nieces at 
 their convent. I enclosed two hundred and fifty 
 francs, ^<dii<^ sum I had fallen behind in my pay- 
 ments for their education and sustenance, and I 
 felt a moment's happiness that at least for a while 
 I need not fear that my poor brother's orphans 
 might become objects of charity — «, fear which, 
 accompanied by my own hunger, had led me to 
 become the joke of the boulevards. 
 
 Feeling rich with my r&maining fifty francs, I 
 ordered the waiter to bring me a goulasch and a 
 carafe of blond beer, after the consummation of 
 which I spent an houi in iJie reading of a news- 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 93 
 
 paper. Can it be credited that the journal of my 
 perusement was the one which may be called the 
 North-American paper of the aristocracies of Europe? 
 Also, it contains some names of the people of the 
 United States at the hotels and elsewhere. 
 
 How eagerly I scanned those singular columns! 
 Shall I coufess to what purpose? I read the long 
 lists of uncontinental names over and over, but I 
 lingered not at all upon those hke "Muriel," "Her- 
 mione," "Tiolet," and "Sibyl," nor over "Balthurst," 
 "SkeflSngtcm-Sligo," and "Covering-Legge"; no, my 
 search was for the Sadies and Mamies, the Thomp- 
 sons, Van Dusens, and Bradys. In that lies my 
 preposterous secret. 
 
 You will see to what infatuation those words of 
 pity, that sense of a beautiful presence, bad led me. 
 To fall im love must one behold a face? Yes; at 
 thirty. At twenty, when one is something of a 
 poet — -No: it is sufficient to see a grey pongee skirt! 
 At fifty, when one is a philosopher — No: it is enough 
 to perceive a soul! I had done both; I had seen the 
 skirt; I had perceived the soul! Therefore, while 
 hungry, I neglected my goulasch to read these lists 
 of names of the United States again and again, 
 only that I might have the thought that one of them 
 
94 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 — though I knew not which — ^might be this lady's, 
 and that in so infinitesimal a degree I had been near 
 hea- again. Will it be estimated extreme imbecility 
 in me when I ventured the additional confession 
 that I felt a great warmth and tenderness toward 
 the possessors of all these names, as being, if not 
 herself, at least her compatriots? 
 
 I am now brought to the admission that before 
 to-day I had experienced some prejudices against 
 the inhabitants of the North-American republic, 
 though not on accoimt of great experience of my 
 own. A year previously I had made a disastrous 
 excursion to Monte Carlo in the company of a young 
 gentleman of London who had been for several 
 weeks in New York and Washington and Boston, 
 and appeared to know very much of the country. 
 He was never anything but tired in speaking of it, 
 and told me a great amount. He said many times 
 that in the hotels there was never a concierge or 
 portier to give you information where to discover 
 the best vaudeville; there was no concierge at all! 
 Li New York itself, my friend told me, a facchino, 
 or species of porter, or some such good-for-nothing, 
 had said to him, including a slap on the shoulder, 
 ■"Wdl, brother, did you receive your delayed lu^age 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 95 
 
 correctly?" (In this instance my studies of the 
 North-American idiom lead me to believe that my 
 friend was intentionally truthful in regard to the 
 principalities, but mistaken in his observation of 
 detail.) He declared the recent willingness of the 
 English to take some interest in the United-State- 
 sians to he a mistake; for they were noisy, without 
 real confidence in themselves; they were restless and 
 merely imitative instead of inventive. He told me 
 that he was not exceptional; all Englishmen had 
 thought similarly for fifty or sixty years; therefore, 
 naturally, his opinion carried great weight with me. 
 And myself, to my astonishment, I had often seen 
 parties of these republicans become all ears and 
 whispers when somebody called a prince or a countess 
 passed by. Their reverence for age itself, in any- 
 thing but a horse, had often surprised me by its 
 artlessness, and of all strange things in the world, 
 I have heard them admire old customs and old 
 families. It was strange to me to listen, when I 
 had believed that their land was the only one where 
 happily no person need worry to remember who had 
 been his great-grandfather. 
 
 The greatest of my own had not saved me from the 
 decoration of the past week, yet he was as much 
 
96 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 mine as he was Antonio Caravacioli's; and Anto- 
 nio, tliough impoverished, had his motor-car and 
 dined well, since I happened to see, in my perusal 
 of the journal, that he had been to dinner the evening 
 before at the English Embassy with a great company. 
 "Bravo, Antonio! Find a rich foreign wife if you 
 can, since you cannot do well for yourself at home!" 
 And I could say so honestly, without spite, for all 
 his hatred of me, — ^because, until I had paid my 
 addition, I was still the possessor of fifty francs! 
 
 Fifty francs will continue life in the body of a 
 judicial person a long time in Paris, and combining 
 that knowledge and the good goulasch, I sought 
 diligently for "Mamies" and "Sadies" with a revived 
 spirit. I found neither of those adorable names — 
 in fact, only two such diminutives, which are more 
 charming than our Italian ones: a Miss Jeanie Archi- 
 bald Zip and a Miss Fannie Sooter. None of the 
 names was harmonious with the grey pongee — in 
 truth, most of them were no prettier (however less 
 processional) than royal names. I could not please 
 myself that I had come closer to the rare lady; I 
 must be contented that the same sky covered us 
 both, tkat the noise of the same city rang in her 
 ears as in mine. 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 97 
 
 Yet that was a satisfaction, and to know that it 
 was true gave me mysterious breathlessness and 
 made me hear fragments of old songs during my walk 
 that night. I walked very far, imder the trees of 
 the Bois, where I stopped for a few moments to 
 smoke a cigarette at one of the tables outside, at 
 Armenonville. None of the laughing women there 
 could be the lady I sought; and as my rrfusing to 
 conmiand anything caused the waiter uneasiness, in 
 spite of my prosperous appearance, I remained but 
 a few moments, then trudged on, all the long way 
 to the Caf6 de Madrid, where also she was not. 
 
 How did I assure myself of this since I had not 
 seen her face? I cannot tell you. Perhaps I should 
 not have known her; but that night I was sure that 
 I should. 
 
 Yes, as sure of that as I was sure that she was 
 beautiful! 
 
CHAPTER m 
 
 NEARLY the whole of the next day, endeav- 
 ouring to look preoccupied, I haunted the 
 lobbies and vicinity of the most expensive 
 hotels, unable to do any other thing, but ashamed 
 of myself that I had not returned to my former 
 task of seeking employment, although still reassured 
 by possession of two louis and some silver. I dined 
 well at a one-franc coachman's restaurant, where my 
 elegance created not the slightest surprise, and I felt 
 that I might live in this way indefinitely. 
 
 However, dreams often conclude abruptly, and 
 two louis always do, as I foimd, several days later, 
 when, after paying the rent for my imspeakable 
 lodgiag and lending twenty francs to a poor, bad 
 painter, whom I knew and whose wife was ill, I 
 found myself with the choice of obtaining funds on 
 my finery or not eating, either of which I was very 
 loath to do. It is not essential for me to tell any 
 
 person that when you seek a position it is better 
 
 98 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 99 
 
 that you appear not too greatly in need of it; and 
 my former garments had prejudiced many against 
 me, I fear, because they had been patched by a 
 friendly concierge. Pantaloons suffer as terribly as 
 do antiques from too obvious restorations; and while 
 I was only grateful to the good woman's needle 
 (except upon one occasion when she forgot to remove 
 it), my costume had reached, at last, great sympa- 
 thies for the shade of Praxiteles, feehng the same 
 melancholy over original intentions so far misrep- 
 resented by renewals. 
 
 Therefore I determined to preserve my fineries 
 to the uttermost; and it was fortunate that I did so; 
 because, after dining for three nights upon nothing 
 but looking out of my window, the fourth moniing 
 brought me a letter from my English friend. I had 
 written to him, asking if he knew of any people who 
 wished to pay a salary to a young man who knew 
 how to do nothing. I place his reply in direct 
 annexation : 
 
 "Henbibtta Stbiiot, Cavbhdish Square, May H. 
 
 "My deak Ansolini, — Why haven't you made 
 some of your relatives do something? I imder- 
 stand that they do not like you; neither do my own, 
 but after our crupper at Monte Carlo what could 
 
100 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 mine do, except provide? If a few pounds (precious 
 few, I fear!) be of any service to yo ., let me know. 
 In the mean time, if you are serious about a position, 
 I may, preposterously enough, set you in the way of 
 it. There is an old thundering Yankee h^e, whom 
 I met in the States, and who believed me a god 
 because I am the nephew of my awful uncle, for 
 whose career he has ever had, it appears, a life-long 
 admiration, sir! Now, by chance, meeting this 
 person in the street, it developed that he has need of 
 a man, precisely such a one as you are not: a sober, 
 tutorish, middle-aged, dissenting parson, to trot 
 about the Continent tied to a dancing bear. It is 
 the old gentleman's cub, who is a species of Caliban 
 in fine Unen, and who has taken a few too many 
 liberties in the land of the free. In fact, I believe 
 he is much a youth of my own kind with similar 
 admiration for baccarat and good cellars. His 
 father must return at once, and has decided (the 
 cub's native heath and friends beiug too wild) to 
 leave him in charge of a proper guide, philosopher, 
 courier, chaplain, and friend, if such can be foimd, 
 the same required to travel with the cub and keep 
 him out of mischief. I thought of your letter directly, 
 and I have given you the most tremendous recom- 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 101 
 
 m«idati(»i — ^part of it quite true, I suspect, though 
 I am not a judge of learning. I explained, however, 
 that you are a master of languages, of elegant 
 though subdued deportment, and I extolled at 
 length your saintly habits. Altogether, I fear there 
 may have been too much of the virtuoso in my 
 interpretation of you; few would have recognized 
 from it the gentleman who closed a table at Monte 
 Carlo and afterwards was closed himself in the 
 handsome and spectacular fashion I remember with 
 both deHght and regret. Briefly, I lied hke a master. 
 He almost had me in the matter of yoiu- age; it was 
 important that you should be middle-aged. I 
 swore that you were at least thirty-eight, but, 
 owing to exemplary habits, looked very much 
 younger. The cub himself is twenty-fom*. 
 
 "Hence, if you are reaUy serious and determined 
 not to appeal to your people, call at once upon Mr. 
 Lambert B. Poor, at the H6tel d'lena. He is the 
 father, and the cub is with him. The elder Yankee 
 is primed with my praises of you, and must engage 
 some one ai once, as he sails in a day oe two. Go — 
 with my blessing, an air of piety, and as much age 
 as you can assujne. When the father has d^arted, 
 throw the cub into the Seine, but preserve his 
 
102 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 pocket-book, and we shall have another go at those 
 infernal tables. Vale! J. G. S." 
 
 I found myself smiling — ^I fear miserably — over 
 this kind letter, especially at the wonder of my 
 friend that I had not appealed to my relatives. 
 The only ones who would have liked to help me, if 
 they had known I needed something, were my two 
 little nieces who were in my own care; because my 
 father, being but a poet, had no family, and my 
 mother had lost hers, even her eldest son, by marry- 
 ing my father. After that they would have nothing 
 to do with her, nor were they asked. That ras- 
 cally old Antonio was now the head of all the Cara- 
 vacioli, as was I of my own outcast branch of our 
 house — -that is, of my two little nieces and myself. 
 It was partly of these poor infants I had thought 
 when I took what was left of my small inhCTitance 
 to Monte Carlo, hoping, since I seemed to be in- 
 capable of increasing it in any other way, that 
 number seventeen and black would hand me over a 
 fortune as a waiter does wine. Alas! Luck is not 
 always a fool's servant, and the kind of fortune she 
 handed me was of that species the waiter brings 
 you in the other bottle of champagne, the gold of a 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 103 
 
 bubbling brain, lasting an hour. After this there 
 is always something evil to one's head, and mine, 
 alas! was shaved. 
 
 Half an hour after I had read the letter, the little 
 paper-flowCT makers in the attic window across 
 from mine may have seen me shaving it — without 
 pleasure — again. What else was I to do? I could 
 not well expect to be given the guardianship of an 
 erring young man if I presented myself to his parent 
 as a gentleman who had been sitting at the Cafe 
 de la Paix with his head painted. I could not 
 wear my hat through the interview. I could not 
 exhibit the thick five days' stubble, to appear in 
 contrast with the heavy fringe that had been 
 spared; — ^I could not trim the fringe to the shortness 
 of the stubble; I should have looked like Pierrot. 
 I had only, then, to remain bald, and, if I obtained 
 the post, to shave in secret — a harmless and mournful 
 imposition. 
 
 It was well for me that I came to this determina- 
 tion. I believe it was the appearance of maturity 
 which my head and dining upon thoughts lent me, ^ 
 as much as my friend's praises, which created my 
 success with the amiable Mr. Lambert R. Poor. I 
 witness that my visit to him provided one of the 
 
104 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 most astonishing interviews of my life. He was an 
 instance of those strange beings of tke Western 
 r^ublic, at whom we are perhaps too prone to pass 
 from one of ourselves to another the secret smile, 
 because of some little imperfections of manner. It 
 is a type which has grown more and more familiar 
 to us, yet never less strange: the man in costly but 
 severe costume, big, with a necessary great waist- 
 coat, not noticing the loudness of his own voice; as 
 ignorant of the thousand tiny things which we 
 observe and feel as he would be careless of them 
 (except for his wife) if he knew. We laugh at him, 
 sometimes even to his face, and he does not perceive 
 it. We are a little afraid that he is too large to 
 see it; hence too large for us to comprehend, and in 
 spite of our laughter we are always consciouis of a 
 force — yes, of a presence! We jeer slyly, but we 
 respect, fear a little, and would trust. 
 
 Such was my patron. He met me with a kind 
 greeting, looked at me very earnestly, but smiling 
 as if he understood my good intentions, as one 
 understands the friendliness of a capering poodle, 
 yet in such a way that I could not feel resentment, 
 for I could see that he looked at almost every one 
 in the same fashion. 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 105 
 
 My friend had done wonders for me; and I made 
 the best accoimt of myself that I could, so that 
 within half an hour it was arranged that I should 
 take charge of his son, with an honorarium which 
 gave me great rejoicing for my nieces and my ac- 
 cumulated appetite. 
 
 "I think I can pick men," he said, "and I think 
 that you are the man I want. You're old enough and 
 you've seen enough, and you know enough to 
 keep one fool boy in order for six months." 
 
 So frankly he spoke of his son, yet not without 
 affection and confidence. Before I left, he sent for 
 the youth himself, Lambert R. Poor, Jr., — not at 
 all a Caliban, but a most excellent-appearing, tall 
 gentleman, of astonishingly meek countenance. He 
 gave me a sad, slow look from his blue eyes at first; 
 then with a brightening smile he gently shook my 
 hand, murmuring that he was very glad in the 
 prospect of knowing me better; after which the 
 parent defined before hSm, with singular elaboration, 
 my duties. I was to correct all things in his behavior 
 which I considered improper or absurd. I was to 
 dictate the line of travel, to have a restraining 
 influence upon expenditures; in brief, to control the 
 young man as a governess does a child. 
 
106 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 To all of his parent's instructions Poor Jr. returned 
 a dutiful nod and expressed perfect acquiescence. 
 The following day the elder sailed from Cherbourg, 
 and I took up my quarters with the son. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 "T is with the most extreme mortification that 
 I record my ensuing experiences, for I ieit that 
 I could not honourably accept my salary 
 without earning it by carrying out the parait Poor's 
 wishes. That first morning I endeavoured to direct 
 my pupil's steps toward the Musee de Cluny, with 
 the purpose of inciting him to instructive study; 
 but in the mildest, yet most immovable manner, 
 he proposed Longchamps and the races as a sub- 
 stitute, to conclude with dinner at La Cascade and 
 supper at Maxim's or the Cafe Blanche, in case we 
 should meet engaging company. I ventured the 
 vainest efforts to reason with him, making for myseK 
 a very uncomfortable breakfast, though without 
 effect upon him of any visibility. His air was 
 uninterruptedly mild and modest; he rarely lifted 
 his eyes, but to my most earnest argument replied 
 only by ordering more eggs and saying in a chas- 
 tened voice: 
 
 "Oh no; it is always best to begin school with a 
 
 vacation. To Longchamps — we!" 
 
 107 
 
108 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 I should say at once that through this young 
 man I soon became an amateur of the remarkable 
 North-American idioms, of humour and incom- 
 parable brevities often more interesting than those 
 evolved by the thirteen or more dialects of my own 
 Naples. Even at oiu: first breakfast I began to 
 catch lucid glimpses of the intention in many of his 
 almost incomprehensible statements. I was able, 
 even, to penetrate his meaning when he said that 
 although he was "strong for aged parent," he himself 
 had suffered much anguish from overwork of the 
 "earnest youth racquette" in his late travels, and 
 now desired to "create considerable trouble for 
 Paris." 
 
 Naturally, I did not wish to begin by antagonizing 
 my pupil — an estrangement at the commencement 
 would only lead to his deceiving me, or a continued 
 quarrel, in which case I should be of no service to 
 my kind patron, so that after a strained interval 
 I considered it best to surrender. 
 
 We went to Longchamps. 
 
 That was my first mistake; the second was to 
 yield to him concerning the latter part of his pro- 
 gramme; but opposition to Mr. Poor Jr. had a 
 curious effect of inutility. He had not in the least 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 109 
 
 the air of obstinacy, — ^notbiag could have been less 
 like rudeness; he neither frowned nor smiled; no, he 
 did not seem even to be insisting; on the contrary, 
 never have I beheld a milder countenance, nor heard 
 a pleasanter voice; yet the young man was so com- 
 pletely baflfling in his mysterious way that I con- 
 sidered him imique to my experience. 
 
 Thus, when I urged him not to place large wagers 
 in the pesage, his whispered reply was strange and 
 simple — "Watch me!" This he conclusively said as 
 he deposited another thousand-franc note, which, 
 within a few moments, accrued to the French 
 Government. 
 
 Longchamps was but the beginning of a series of 
 days and nights which wore upon my constitution — 
 not indeed with the intensity of mortification which 
 my former conspicuosity had engendered, yet my 
 sorrows were stringent. It is true that I had been, 
 since the age of seventeen, no stranger to the gaieties 
 and dissipations afforded by the capitals of Europe; 
 I may say I had exhausted these, yet always with 
 some degree of quiet, iacluding intervals of repose. 
 I was tired of all the great foolishnesses of youth, 
 and had thought myself done with them. Now I 
 found myself plimged into more uproarious waters 
 
110 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 than I had ever known— L who had hoped to begin 
 a life of usefulness and peace, was forced to dwell in 
 the midst of a riot, pursuing my extraordinary charge. 
 
 There is no need that I should describe those 
 days and nights. They remain in my memory as a 
 confusion of bad music, crowds, motor-cars and 
 champagne of which Poor Jr. was a distributing 
 centre. He could never be persuaded to the Louvre, 
 the Camavalet, or the Luxembourg; in truths he 
 seldom rose in time to reach the museums, for 
 they usually close at four in the afternoon. Always 
 with the same inscrutable meekness of countenance, 
 each night he methodically danced the cake-walk 
 at Maxim's or one of the Montmartre restaurants, 
 to the cheers of acquaintances of many nationahties, 
 to whom he offered Hbations with prodigal enormity. 
 He carried with him, about the boulevards at night, 
 in the highly powerful car he had hired, large 
 parties of strange people, who would loudly sing 
 airs from the Folie-Rouge (to my unhappy shudder- 
 ings) all the way from the fatiguing Bal Bullier to 
 the Cafe de Paris, where the waiters soon became 
 affluent. 
 
 And how many of those gaily dressed and smiling 
 ladies whose bright eyes meet yours on the veranda 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 111 
 
 of the The^iie Marigny were provided with excessive 
 suppers and souvenir fans by the inexhaustible 
 Poor Jr.! He left a trail of piak hundred-franc 
 notes behind him, Kke a running boy dropping 
 paper in the Enghsh game; and he kept showers of 
 gold louis dancing in the air about him, so that when 
 we entered the various cafes or "American bars" a 
 cheer (not vocaJ but to me of perfect audibiUty) 
 went up from the hungry and thirsty and borrowing, 
 and from the attendants. Ah, how tired I was of it, 
 and how I endeavoured to discover a means to 
 draw him to the museums, and to Notre Dame and 
 the Pantheon ! 
 
 And how many times did I unwiUingly find my- 
 self in the too enhvening company of those pretty 
 supper-girls, and what jokings upon his head-top 
 did the poor bald gentleman not imdergo from those 
 same demoiselles with the bright eyes, the wonderful 
 hats, and the fluffy dresses ! 
 
 How often among those gay people did I find 
 myself sadly dreaming of that grey pongee skirt and 
 the beautiful hoart that had understood! Should 
 I ever see that lady? Not, I knew, alas! in the 
 whirl about Poor Jr.! As soon look ior a nun at 
 the Cafe Blanche! 
 
112 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 For some reason I came to be persuaded that 
 she had left Paris, that she -had gone away; and I 
 pictured her — ^a little despairingly — on the borders 
 of Lucerne, with the white Alps in the sky above 
 her, — or perhaps listening to the evening songs on 
 the Grand Canal, and I would try to feel the httle 
 rocking of her gondola, making myself dream that 
 I sat at her feet. Or I could see the grey flicker of 
 the pongee skirt in the twilight distance of cathedral 
 aisles with a chant sounding from a chapel; and, so 
 dreaming, I would start spasmodically, to hear the 
 red-coated orchestra of a cafe blare out into "Be- 
 deha," and awake to the laughter and rouge and 
 blague which that dear pongee had helped me for 
 a moment to forget! 
 
 To all places Poor Jr., though never imkindly, 
 dragged me with him, even to make the balloon 
 ascent at the Porte Maillot on a windy evening. 
 Without embarrassment I confess that I was terrified, 
 that I clung to the ropes with a clutch which frayed 
 my gloves, while Poor Jr. leaned back against the 
 side of the basket and gazed upward at the great 
 swaying ball, with his hands in his pockets, humming 
 the strange ballad that was his favorite musical com- 
 position: 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 113 
 
 "The prettiest girl I ever saw 
 Was sipping cider through a straw-aw-hawl" 
 
 In that horrifying basket, scrambhng for a foot- 
 hold while it swung through arcs that were guHs, 
 I beUeved that my sorrows approached a sudden 
 conclusion, but finding myself again upon the secure 
 earth, I decided to come to an understanding with 
 the yoimg man. 
 
 Accordingly, on the following morning, I entered 
 his apartment and addressed myself to Poor Jr. as 
 severely as I could (for, truthfully, in all his foUies I 
 had foimd no ugHness in his spirit — o«ly a good- 
 natured and inscrutable desire of wild amusement), 
 reminding him of the authority his father had 
 deputed to me, and having the venturesomeness to 
 hint that tiie son should show some respect to my 
 superior age. 
 
 To my consternation he repUed by inquiring if I 
 had shaved my head as yet that morning. I could 
 only drop in a chair, stammering to know what he 
 meant. 
 
 "Didn't you suppose I knew?" he asked, elevating 
 himself slightly on his elbow from the pillow. 
 "Three weeks ago I left my aged parent in London 
 
114 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 and ran over here for a day. I saw you at the 
 Cafe de la Paix, and even then I loiew that it was 
 shaved, not naturally bald. When you came here 
 I recognized you lUce a shot, and that was why I 
 was glad to accept you as a guardian. I've enjoyed 
 myself considerably of late, and you've been the best 
 part of it, — ^I think you are a wonderation! I 
 wouldn't have any other governess for the world, 
 but you surpass the orchestra when you beg me to 
 respect your years! I will bet you four dollars to 
 a lead franc piece that you are younger than I am!" 
 
 Imagiae the completeness of my dismay! Al- 
 thougli he spoke in tones the most genial, and without 
 unkindness, I felt myself a man of tatters before him, 
 ashamed to have him know my sorry secret, hope- 
 less to see all chance of authority over him gone at 
 once, and with it my opportunity to earn a salary 
 so generous, for if I could continue to be but an 
 amusement to him and only part of his deception of 
 Lambert R. Poor, my sense of honour must be fit for 
 the guillotine indeed. 
 
 I had a Uttle struggle with myself, and I think I 
 must have wiped some amount of the cold perspira- 
 tion from my absurd head before I was able to make 
 an answer. It may be seen what a coward I was. 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 115 
 
 and how I feared to begin again that search for 
 employment. At last, however, I was in self-control, 
 so that I might speak without being afraid that my 
 voice would shake. 
 
 "I am sorry," I said. "It seemed to me that 
 my deception would not cause any harm, and that 
 I might be useful in spite of it — enough to earn my 
 living. It was on account of my being very poor; 
 and there are two little children I must take care 
 of. — Well, at least, it is over now. I have had great 
 shame, but I must not have greater." 
 
 "What do you mean?" he asked me, ratha* 
 sharply. 
 
 "I will leave immediately," I said, going to the 
 door. "Since I am no more than a joke, I can be of 
 no service to your father or to you; but you must 
 not think that I am so unreasonable as to be angry 
 with you. A man whom you have beheld reduced 
 to what I was, at the Cafe de la Paix, is surely a joke 
 to the whole world! I will write to your father 
 before I leave the hotel and explain that I feel 
 myself unqualified — " 
 
 "You're going to write to him why you give it 
 up!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "I shall make no report of espionage," I answered. 
 
116 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 with, perhaps, some bitterness, "and I will leave the 
 letter for you to read and to send, of yourself. It 
 shall only teU him that as a man of honour I cannot 
 keep a position for which I have no qualification." 
 
 I was going to open the door, bidding him adieu, 
 when he called out to me. 
 
 "Look here!" he said, and he jumped out of bed 
 in his pyjamas and came quickly, and held out his 
 hand. "Look here, Ansolini, don't take it that way. 
 I know you've had pretty hard times, and if you'll 
 stay, I'll get good. I'll go to the Louvre with you 
 this afternoon; we'll dine at one of the Duval restau- 
 rants, and go to that new religious tragedy after- 
 wards. If you like, we'll leave Paris to-niorrow. 
 There's a little too much movement here, maybe. 
 For God's sake let your hair grow, and we'U go 
 down to Italy and study bones and ruins and delight 
 the aged parent ! — It's all right, isn't it.'*" 
 
 I shook the hand of that kind Poor Jr. with a 
 feeling in my heart that kept me from saying how 
 greatly I thanked him — and I was sure that I could 
 do anything for him in the world! 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THREE days later saw us on the pretty 
 waters of Lake Leman, in the bright 
 weather when Mont Blanc heaves his 
 great bare shoulder of ice mUes into the blue sky, 
 with no mist-cloak about him. Sailing that lake 
 in the cool morning, what a contrast to- the cham- 
 pagne houp-la nights of Paris! And how docile was 
 my pupil! He suffered me to lead him through the 
 Castle of Chillon like a new-born lamb, and even 
 would not play the little horses in the Kursaal at 
 Geneva, although, perhaps, that was because the 
 stakes were not high enough to interest him. He 
 was nearly always silent, and, from the moment of 
 our departure from Paris, had fallen into dreamful- 
 ness, such as would come over myself at the thought 
 of the beautiful lady. It touched my heart to find 
 how he was ready with acquiescence to the slightest 
 suggestion of mine, and, if it had been the season, 
 I am almost credulous that I could have conducted 
 
 him to Baifeuth to hear Parsifal! 
 
 117 
 
118 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 There were times when his mood of gentle sorrow 
 was so like mine that I wondered if he, too, knew 
 a grey pongee skirt. I wondered over this so much, 
 and so marvellingly, also, because of the change in 
 him, that at last I asked him. 
 
 We had gone to Lucerne; it was clear moonlight, 
 and we smoked on our little balcony at the Schweit- 
 zerhof , puflBng our small clouds in the enonnoiig.4gce 
 of the strangest panorama of the world, that august 
 disturbation of the earth by gods in battle, left te be 
 a land of tragic fables since before Pilate was there, 
 and remaining the same after William Tell was not. 
 I sat looking up at the mountains, and he leaned on 
 the rail, looking down at the lake. Somewhere a 
 woman was singing from Pagliacci, and I slowly 
 arrived at a conscioxisness that I had sighed aloud 
 once or twice, not so much sadly, as of longing to 
 see that lady, and that my companion had per- 
 mitted similar sounds to escape him, but more 
 mournfully. It was then that I asked him, in ear- 
 nestness, yet with the manner of making a joke, if 
 he did not think often of some one in North 
 America. 
 
 "Do you believe that could be, and I making the 
 disturbance I did in Paris?" he returned. 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 119 
 
 "Yes," I told him, "if you are trying to forget 
 her." 
 
 "I should think it might look more as if I were 
 trying to forget that I wasn't good enough for her 
 and that she knew it!" 
 
 He spoke in a voice which he would have made 
 full of ease — "oflF-hand," as they say; but he failed 
 to do so. 
 
 "That was the case?" I pressed him, you see, but 
 smilingly. 
 
 "Looks a good deal like it," he replied, smoking 
 much at once. 
 
 "So.? But that is good for you, my friend!" 
 
 "Probably." He paused, smoking still more, and 
 then said, "It's a benefit I could get on just as well 
 without." 
 
 "She is in North America?" 
 
 "No; over here." 
 
 "Ah! Then we will go where she is. That wiU 
 be even better for you! Where is she?" 
 
 "I don't know. She asked me not to follow her. 
 Somebody else is doing that." 
 
 The young man's voice was steady, and his face, 
 as usual, showed no emotion, but I should have 
 been an Italian for nothing had I not understood 
 
120 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 quickly. So I waited for a little while, then spoke 
 ofjOld Pilatus out there in the sky, and we went to 
 bed very late, for it was our last night in Lucerne. 
 
 Two days later we roared our way out of tlje 
 gloomy St. Gotthard and wound down the pass, out 
 into the sunshine of Italy, into that broad plain of 
 mulberries where the silk worms weave to enrich the 
 proud Milanese. Ah, those Milanese! They are 
 like the people of Turin, and look down upon us 
 of Naples; they find us only amusing, because our 
 minds and movements are too quick for them to 
 understand. I have no respect for the IMilanese, 
 except for three things: they have a cathedral, a 
 picture, and a dead man. 
 
 We came to our hotel in the soft tw^ilight, with 
 the air so balmy one wished to rise and float 
 in it. This was the hour for the Cathedral; there- 
 fore, leaving Leonardo and his fresco for the to-mor- 
 row, I conducted my uncomplaining ward forth, 
 and through that big arcade of which the people 
 are so proud, to the Duomo. Poor Jr. showed few 
 signs of life as we stood before that immenseness; 
 he said patiently that it resembled the postals, and 
 followed me inside the portals with languor. 
 
 It was aU grey hollowness in the vast place. The 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 121 
 
 windows showed not any colour nor light; the 
 splendid pillars soared up into the air and dis- 
 appeared as if they mounted to heights of invisibility 
 in the sky at night. Very far away, at the other end 
 of the church it seemed, one lamp was burning, 
 high over the transept. One could not see the chains 
 of support nor the roof above it; it seemed a great 
 star, but so much all alone. We walked down the 
 long aisle to stand near to it, the darkness growing 
 deeper as we advanced. When we came almost 
 beneath, both of us gazing upward, my companion 
 unwittingly stumbled against a lady who was stand- 
 ing silently looking up at this light, and who had 
 failed to notice our approach. The contact was 
 severe enough to dislodge from her hand her folded 
 parasol, for which I began to grope. 
 
 There was a hurried sentence of excusation from 
 Poor Jr., followed by moments of silence before she 
 replied. Then I heard her voice in startled exclama- 
 tion: 
 
 "Rufus, it is never you}" 
 
 He called out, almost loudly, 
 
 "Alice!" 
 
 Then I knew that it was the second time I had 
 lifted a parasol from the ground for the lady of the 
 
122 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 grey pongee and did not see her face; but this time 
 I placed it in her own hand; for my head bore no 
 shame upon it now. 
 
 In the surprise of encountering Poor Jr. I do not 
 think she noticed that she took the parasol or was 
 conscious of my presence, and it was but too secure 
 that my young friend hsd forgotten that I lived. 
 I think, in truth, I should have forgotten it myself, 
 if it had not been for the leaping of my heart. 
 
 Ah, that foolish dream of mine had proven true: 
 I knew her, I knew her, unmistaking, without doubt 
 or hesitancy — and in the dark! How should I know 
 at the mere sound of her voice? I think I knew 
 before she spoke! 
 
 Poor Jr. had taken a step toward her as she fell 
 back; I could only see the two figures as two shadows 
 upon shadow, while for them I had melted altogether 
 and was forgotten. 
 
 "You think I have followed you," he cried, "but 
 you have no right to think it. It was an accident, 
 and you've got to believe me!" 
 
 "I believe you," she answered gently. "Why 
 should I not?" 
 
 "I suppose you want me to clear out again," he 
 went on, "and I v/ill; but I don't see why." 
 
TE[E BEAUTIFUL LADY 128 
 
 Her voice answered him out of the shadow: "It 
 is oiJy you who make a reason why. I'd give any- 
 thing to be friaids with you; you've always known 
 that." 
 
 "Why can't we be?" he said, sharply and loudly. 
 "I've changed a great deal. I'm very sensible, and 
 I'll never bother you again — that other way. Why 
 shouldn't I see a little of you?" 
 
 I heard her laugh then — ^happUy, it seemed to me, 
 — and I thought I perceived her to extend her hand 
 to him, and that he shook it briefly, in his fashion, 
 as if it had been the hand of a man and not that of 
 the beautiful lady. 
 
 "You know I should Uke nothing better in the 
 world — since you tell me what you do," she an- 
 swered. 
 
 "And the other man?" he asked her, with the 
 same hinting of sharpness in his tone. "Is that aJl 
 settled?" 
 
 "Almost. Woidd you hke me to tell you?" 
 
 "Only a httle— please!" 
 
 His voice had dropped, and he spoke very quietly, 
 which startlingly caused me to realize what I was 
 dcHDg. I went out of hearing then, very softly. Is 
 it credible that I found myself trembliiig when I 
 
124 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 reached the twiKt piazza? It is true, and I knew 
 that never, for one moment, siace that tragic, divine 
 day of her pity, had I wholly despaired of beholding 
 her again; that in my most sorrowful time there had 
 always been a little, little morsel of certaia knowl- 
 edge that I should some day be near her once 
 more. 
 
 And now, so much was easily revealed to me: 
 it was to see her that the good Lambert R. Poor, Jr., 
 had come to Paris, preceding my patron; it was he 
 who had passed with her on the last day of my 
 shame, and whom she had addressed by his central 
 name of Rufus, and it was to his hand that I had 
 restored her parasol. 
 
 I was to look upon her face at last — I knew it — and 
 to speak with her. Ah, yes, I did tremble! It was 
 not because I feared she might recognize her poor 
 slave of the painted head-top, nor that Poor Jr. 
 would tell her. I knew him now too well to think 
 he would do that, had I been even that other of 
 whom he had spoken, for he was a brave, good boy, 
 that Poor Jr. No, it was a trembling of another 
 kind — something I do not know how to explaia to 
 those who have not trembled in the same way; and 
 I came alone to my room in the hotel, stiU trembliog 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 125 
 
 a little and having strange quickness of breathiag in 
 my chest. 
 
 I did not make any light; I did not wish it, for 
 the precious darkness of the Cathedral remained 
 with me — ^magic darkness in which I beheld floating 
 clouds made of the dust of gold and vanishing 
 melodies. Any person who knows of these singular 
 things comprehends how little of them can be told; 
 but to those people who do not know of them, it 
 may appear all great fooHshness. Such people are 
 either too yoimg, and they must wait, or too old — 
 they have forgotten ! 
 
 It was an hour afterward, and Poor Jr. had 
 knocked twice at my door when I lighted the room 
 and opened it to him. He came in, excitedly flushed, 
 and, instead of taking a chair, began to walk quickly 
 up and down the floor. 
 
 "I'm afraid I forgot all about you, Ansolini," 
 he said, "but that girl I ran into is a — a Miss 
 Landry, whom I have known a long — " 
 
 I put my hand on his shoulder for a moment and 
 said: 
 
 "I think I am not so dull, my friend!" 
 
 He made a blue flash at me with his eyes, then 
 smiled and shook his head. 
 
126 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 "Yes, you are right," he answered, re-beginning 
 his fast pace over the carpet. *'It was she that I 
 meant in Lucerne — ^I don't see why I should not tell 
 you. In Paris she said she didn't want me to see 
 her again until I could be — ^friendly — the old way — 
 instead of something considerably different, which 
 I'd grown to be. Well, I've just told her not only 
 that I'd behave Hke a friend, but that I'd changed 
 and felt like one. Pretty much of a lie that was!" 
 He laughed, without any amusement. "But it was 
 successful, and I suppose I can keep it up. At 
 any rate we're going over to Venice with her and 
 her mother to-morrow. Afterwards, we'll see them 
 in Naples just before they sail." 
 
 "To Veaiice with them!" I could not repress 
 crying out. 
 
 "Yes; we join parties for two days," he said, and 
 stopped at a window and looked out attentively at 
 nothing before he went on: "It won't be very long, 
 and I don't suppose it will ever happen again. The 
 other man is to meet them in Rome. He's a country- 
 man of yours, and I believe — ^I beUeve it's — about 
 —settled!" 
 
 He pronounced these last words in an even voice, 
 but how slowly! Not more slowly tlKnn the con- 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 127 
 
 struction of my own response, which I heard myself 
 making: 
 
 "This covmtryman of mine — who is he?" 
 
 "One of your kind of Kentucky Colonels," Poor 
 Jr. laughed mournfully. At first I did not under- 
 stand; then it came to me that he had sometimes 
 previously spoken in that idiom of the nobles, and 
 that it had been his custom to address one of his 
 Parisian followers, a vicomte, as "Colonel." 
 
 "What is his name.?" 
 
 "I can't pronoimce it, and I don't know how to 
 speU it," he answered. "And that doesn't bring me 
 to the vei^e of the grave! I can bear to forget it, at 
 least until we get to Naples !" 
 
 He turned and went to the door, saying, cheerfully: 
 "Well, old horse-thief" (such had come to be his 
 name for me sometimes, and it was pleasant to 
 hear), "we must be dressing. They're at tius hotel, 
 and we dine with them to-night." 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 H 
 
 OW can I tell of the lady of tbe pongee — 
 
 now that I beheld her? Do you think 
 
 that, when she came that night to the 
 
 salon where we were awaiting her, I hesitated to 
 
 lift my eyes to her face because of a fear that it 
 
 would not be so beautiful as the misty sweet face 
 
 I had dreamed would be hers? Ah, no! It was the 
 
 beauty which was in her heart iJiat had made me 
 
 hers; yet I knew that she was beautiful. She was 
 
 fair, that is all I can tell. I cannot tell of her eyes, 
 
 her height, her mouth; I saw her through those 
 
 clouds of the dust of gold — she was all glamour and 
 
 light. It was to be seen that every one fell in love 
 
 with her at once; that the chef d'orchestre came and 
 
 played to her; and the waiters — ^you should have 
 
 observed them! — ^made silly, tender faces through 
 
 the great groves of flowers with which Poor Jr. had 
 
 covered the table. It was most difficult for me to 
 
 address her, to call her "Miss Landry." It seemed 
 
 impossible that she should have a name, or that I 
 
 «hould speak to her except as "you." 
 
 128 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 129 
 
 Ev«i, I cannot tell very much of her mother, 
 except that she was adorable because of her adorable 
 relationship. She was florid, perhaps, and her con- 
 versation was of commonplaces and echoes, hke my 
 Dwn, for I could not talk. It was Poor Jr. who made 
 the talking, and in spite of the spell that was on me, 
 I foimd myself full of admiration and sorrow for 
 that brave fellow. He was all gaieties and little 
 stories ra a way I had never heard before; he kept 
 us in quiet laughter; in a word, he was charming. 
 The beautiful lady seemed content to listen with 
 the greatest pleasure. She talked very little, except 
 to encourage the young man to continue. I do not 
 think she was brilliant, as they call it, or witty. 
 She was much more than that in her comprehension, 
 in her kindness — ^her beautiful kindness ! 
 
 She spoke only once directly to me, except for the 
 ^ttle things one must say. "I am almost sure I 
 have met you, Signor Ansolini." 
 
 I felt myself burning up and knew that the con- 
 flagration was visible. So frightful a blush cannot 
 be prevented by will-power, and I felt it continuing 
 in hot waves long after Poor Jr. had effected salva- 
 tion for me by a small joke upon my cosmopo- 
 litanism. 
 
130 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 Little sleep visited me that night. The darkness 
 of my room was luminous and my closed eyes became 
 painters, painting so radiatingly with divine colours 
 — ^painters of wonderfxil portraits of this lady. 
 Gallery after gallery swam before me, and the morn- 
 ing brought only more! 
 
 What a ride it was to Venice that day! What 
 magical airs we rode through, and what a thieving 
 old trickster was Time, as he always becomes when 
 one wishes hours to be long! I think Poor Jr. had 
 made himself forget everything except that he was 
 with her and that he must be a friend. He 
 committed a thousand ridiculousnesses at the 
 stations; he filled one side of the compartment 
 with the pretty chianti-bottles, with terrible 
 cakes, and with fruits and flowers; he never 
 ceased his joking, which had no tiresomeness in it, 
 and he made the little journey one of continuing, 
 happy laughter. 
 
 And that evening another of my foolish dreams 
 came true! I sat in a gondola with the lady of the 
 grey pongee to hear the singing on the Grand Canal; 
 — ^not, it is true, at her feet, but upon a little chair 
 beside her mother. It was my place — ^to be, as I 
 had been all day, escort to the mother, and guide 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 131 
 
 and courier for that small party. Contented enough 
 was I to accept it ! How could I have hoped that the 
 Most Blessed Mother would grant me so much 
 nearness as that? It was not happiness that I felt, 
 but something so much more precious, as though 
 my heart-strings were the strings of a harp, and 
 sad, beautiful arpeggios ran over them. 
 
 I could not speak much that evening nor could 
 Poor Jr. We were very silent and listened to the 
 singing, om* gondola just touching the others on 
 each side, those in turn touching others, so that a 
 musician from the barge could cross from one to 
 another, presenting the hat for contributions. In 
 spite of this extreme propinquity, I feared the col- 
 lector would fall into the water when he received the 
 offering erf Poor Jr. It was "Gra-a-az', Mi-lorl 
 Graz'I" a hundred times, with bows and grateful 
 smiles indeed! 
 
 It is the one place in the world where you listen 
 to a bad voice with pleasure, and none of the voices 
 are good: — ^they are harsh and worn with the night- 
 singing— yet all are beautiful because they are 
 aichanted. 
 
 They sang some of our own Neapolitan songs 
 that night, and last of all the loveliest of all, "La 
 
132 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 Luna Nuova." It was to the cadence of it that our 
 gondoliers moved us out of the throng, and it still 
 drifted on the water as we swung, far down, into 
 sight of the lights of the Lido: 
 
 "Luna d'ar-gen-io fal-lo so-gnar — 
 Ba-da-lo in fron-te non lo de-star. . . ." 
 
 Not so sweetly came those measures as the low 
 voice of the beautiful lady speaking then. 
 
 "One could never forget it, never!" she said. 
 "I might hear it a thousand other times and forget 
 them, but never this first time." 
 
 I perceived that Poor Jr. turned his face abruptly 
 toward hers at this, but he said nothing, by which 
 I understood not only his wisdom but his for- 
 bearance. 
 
 "Strangely enough," she went on, slowly, "that 
 song reminded me of something in Paris. Do you 
 remember" — she turned to Poor Jr. — "that poor 
 man we saw in front of the Cafe de la Paix with the 
 sign painted upon his head.?" 
 
 Ah, the good night, with its friendly cloak! 
 The good, kind night! 
 
 "I remember," he answered, with some shortness. 
 "A little faster, boatman !" 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 133 
 
 "I don't know what made it," she said, "I can't 
 account for it, but I've been thinking of him all 
 through tliat last song." 
 
 Perhaps not so strange, since one may know how 
 wildly that poor devil had been thinking of her! 
 
 "I've thought of him so often," the gentle voice 
 went on. "I felt so sorry for him. I never felt sorrier 
 for any cue in my life. I was sorry for the poor, thin 
 cab-horses in Paris, but I was sorrier for him. I 
 think it was the saddest sight I ever saw. Do you 
 suppose he still has to do that, Rufus?" 
 
 "No, no," he answered, in haste. "He'd stopped 
 before I left. He's all right, I imagine. Here's the 
 Danieli." 
 
 She fastened a shawl more closely about her 
 mother, whom I, with a ringing in my ears, was 
 trying to help up the stone steps. "Rufus, I hope," 
 the sweet voice continued, so gently — "I hope 
 he's found something to do that's very grand! 
 Don't you? Something to make up to him for 
 doing that!'' 
 
 She had not the faintest dream that it was I. 
 It was just her beautiful heart. 
 
 The next afternoon Venice was a bleak aad 
 em.pty setting, the jewel gone. How vacant it 
 
134 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 looked, how vacant it was! We made not any 
 effort to penetrate the galleries; I had no heart 
 to urge my friend. For us the whole of Venice 
 had become one bridge of sighs, and we sat in the 
 shade of the piazza, not watching the pigeons, and 
 listening very little to the music. There are times 
 when St. Mark's seems to glare at you with By- 
 zantine cruelty, and Venice is too hot and too 
 cold. So it was then. Evening found us staring 
 out at the Adriatic from the terrace of a cafe on 
 the Ledo, our coflfee cold before us. Never was 
 a greater difference than that in my companion 
 from the previous day. Yet he was not sijent. 
 He t^ked of her continually, having found that 
 he could talk of her to me — ^though certainly he 
 did not know why it was or how. He told me, 
 as we sat by the grey-growing sea, that she had 
 spoken of me. 
 
 "She liked you, she liked you very much," he 
 said. "She told me she liked you because you 
 were quiet and melancholy. Oh Lord, though, 
 she likes every one, I suppose! I believe I'd have 
 a better chance with her if I hadn't always known 
 her. I'm afraid that this damned Italian — ^I beg 
 your pardon, Ansolini! — " 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 135 
 
 "Ah, no," I answered. "It is sometimes well 
 said." 
 
 "I'm afraid his picturesqueness as a Kentucky 
 Colonel appeals to her too much. And then he 
 is new to her — a new type. She only met him 
 in Paris, and he had done some things in the 
 Abyssinian war — " 
 
 "What is his rank?" I asked. 
 
 "He's a prince. Cheap down this way, aren't 
 they? I only hope" — and Poor Jr. naade a groan — 
 "it isn't going to be the old story — and that he'll be 
 good to her if he gets her." 
 
 "Then it is not yet a betrothal?" 
 
 "Not yet. Mrs. Landry told me that Alice had 
 liked him well enough to promise she'd give him 
 her answer before she sailed, and that it was going 
 to be yes. She herself said it was almost settled. 
 That was just her way of breaking it to me, I 
 fear." 
 
 "You have given up, my friend?" 
 
 "What else can I do? I can't go on following her, 
 keeping up this play at second cousin, and she 
 won't have anything else. Ever since I grew up 
 she*s been rather sorrowful over me because I didn't 
 do anything but try to amuse myself — ^that was one 
 
136 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 of the reasons she couldn't care for me, she said, 
 when I asked her. Now this fellow wins, who hasn't 
 done anything either, except his one campaign. 
 It's not that I ought to have her, but while I suppose 
 it's a real fascination, I'm afraid there's a little 
 glitter about being a princess. Even the best of 
 our girls haven't got over that yet. Ah, well, about 
 me she's right. I've been a pretty worthless sort. 
 She's right. I've thought it all over. Three days 
 before they sail we'll go down to Naples and hear 
 the last word, and whatever it is we'll see them off 
 on the 'Princess Irene.' Then you and I'll come 
 north and sail by the first boat from Cher- 
 bourg." 
 
 "I— I?" I stammered. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "I'm going to make the aged 
 parent shout with immanly glee. I'm going to 
 ask him to take me on as a hand. He'll take 
 you, too. He uses something like a tiousand 
 Italians, and a man to manage thena who can 
 talk to them hke a Dutch uncle is what he has 
 always needed. He hked you, and he'll be glad 
 to get you." 
 
 He was a good friend, that Poor Jr., you see, and 
 I dwok iiie hand that he offered me very hard. 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 137 
 
 knowing how great would have been his embarrass- 
 ment had I embraced him in our own fashion. 
 
 "And perhaps you will sail on the 'Princess Irene,' 
 after all," I cried. 
 
 "No," he shook his head sadly, "it will not happen. 
 I have not been worth it." 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THAT Naples of mine is like a soiled coronet 
 of white gems, sparkling only from far 
 away. But I love it altogether, near or 
 far, and my heart would have leaped to return to 
 it for its own sake, but to come to it as we did, know- 
 ing that the only lady in the world was there. . . • 
 Again, this is one of those things I possess no knowl- 
 edge how to teU, and that those who know do know. 
 How I had longed for the time to come, how I had 
 feared it, how I had made pictures of it! 
 
 Yet I feared not so much as my friend, for he 
 had a dim, small hope, and I had none. How could 
 I have? I — a man whose head had been painted? 
 I — ^for whom her great heart had sorrowed as for 
 the thin, beaten cab-horses of Paris! Hope? All 
 I could hope was that she might never know, and 
 I be left with some little shred of dignity in her eyes! 
 
 Who cannot see that it was for my friend to fear? 
 At times, with him, it was despair, but of that 
 brave kind one loves to see — ^never a quiver of the 
 
 138 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 139 
 
 Kp, no winking of the eyes to keep tears back. And 
 I, although of a people who express everything in 
 every way, I understood what passed within him 
 and found time to sorrow for him. 
 
 Most of all, I sorrowed for him as we waited 
 for her on the terrace of the BertoUni, that perch 
 on the clifif so high that even the noises of the town 
 are dulled and mingle with the soimd of the thick 
 surf far below. 
 
 Across the city, and beyond, we saw, from the 
 terrace, the old mountain of the warm heart, smok- 
 ing amiably, and the lights of Torre del Greco at 
 its feet, and there, across the bay, I beheld, as I 
 had nightly so long ago, the lamps of CasteUamare, 
 of Sorrento; then, after a stretch of water, a 
 twinkling which was Capri. How good it was 
 to know that all these had not taken advantage 
 of my long absence to run away aud vanish, as 
 I had half feared they would. Those who have 
 lived here love them well; and it was a happy 
 thought that the beautiful lady knew them now, 
 and shared them. I had never known quite aU 
 their loveliness until I felt that she knew it too. 
 This was something that I must never tell her — 
 yet what happiness there was in itJ 
 
140 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 I stood close to the railing, with a rambling 
 gaze over this enchanted earth and sea and sky, 
 while my friend walked nervously up and down 
 behind me. We had come to Naples in the late 
 afternoon, and had found a note from Mrs. Landry 
 at our hotel, asking us for dinner. Poor Jr. had 
 not spoken more than twice siace he had read 
 me this kind invitation, but now I heard a low 
 exclamation from him, which let me know who 
 was approaching; and that foolish trembling got 
 hold of me again as I turned. 
 
 Mrs. Landry came first, with outstretched hand, 
 making some talk excusing delay; and, after a few 
 paces, followed the loveliest of aU the world. Be- 
 side her, in siUiouette against the white window 
 lights of the hotel, I saw the very long, thin figure 
 of a man, which, even before I recognized it, car- 
 ried a certain ominousness to my mind. 
 
 Mrs. Landry, in spite of her florid contentedness, 
 had sometimes a fluttering appearance of trivial 
 agitations. 
 
 "The Prince came down from Rome this morn- 
 ing," she said nervously, and I saw my friend 
 throw back his head Uke a man who declines the 
 eye-bandage when they are going to shoot him. 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 141 
 
 "He is dhung with us. I know you will be glad 
 to meet him." 
 
 The beautiful lady took Poor Jr.'s hand, more 
 than he hers, for he seemed dazed, in spite of the 
 straight way he stood, and it was easy to behold 
 how white his face was. She made the presaita- 
 tion of us both at the same time, and as the other 
 man came into the Ught, my mouth dropped open 
 with wonder at the singular chances which the 
 littleness of our world brings about. 
 
 "Priace Caravacioli, Mr. Poor. And iiiis is 
 Signor Ansolini." 
 
 It was my half-brother, that dd Antonio! 
 
CHAPTER Vni 
 
 NEVER lived any person with more pos- 
 session of himself than Antonio; he bowed 
 to each of us with the utmost amiability » 
 and for expression — all one saw of it was a little 
 streak of light in his eye-glass. 
 
 *'It is yourseM, Raffaele?" he said to me, in 
 the politest manner, in our own tongue, the others 
 thioking it some commonplace, and I knew by 
 his voice that the meeting was as surprising and 
 as exasperating to him as to me. 
 
 Sometimes dazzling flashes of light explode across 
 the eyes of blind people. Such a thing happened 
 to my own, now, in the darkness. I found myself 
 hot all over with a certain rashness that came to 
 me. I felt that anything was possible if I would 
 but dare enough. 
 
 "I am able to see that it is the same T/owrself !" 
 I answered, and made the faintest eye-turn toward 
 Miss Landry. Simultaneously bowing, I let my 
 
 hand fall upon my pocket — a language which he 
 
 142 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 143 
 
 understood, and for which (the Blessed Mother 
 be thanked!) he perceived that I meant to offer 
 battle inunediately, though at that moment he 
 offered me an open smile of benevolence. He knew 
 nothing of my new cause for war; there was enough 
 of the old! 
 
 The others were observing us. 
 
 "You have met?" asked the gentle voice of 
 Miss Landry. "You know each other?" 
 
 "Exceedingly!" I answered, bowing low to her. 
 
 "The dinner is waiting in our own salon," said 
 Mrs. Landry, interrupting. She led the way with 
 Antonio to an open door on the terrace where 
 servants were attending, and such a forest of flowers 
 on the table and about the room as almost to cause 
 her ^cort to stagger; for I knew, when I caught 
 sight of them, that he had never been wise enough 
 to send them. Neither had Poor Jr. done it out 
 of wisdom, but because of his large way of per- 
 forming everything, and his wish that loveUest 
 things should be a background for that lady. 
 
 Alas for him! Those great jars of perfume, 
 orchids and hyacinths and roses, almost shut her 
 away from his vision. We were at a small round 
 table, and she directly in opposition to him. Upon 
 
144 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 her right was Antonio, and my heart grew cold 
 to see how she listened to him. 
 
 For Antonio could talk. At that time he spoke 
 English even better than I, though without some 
 knowledge of the North-American idiom which 
 my travels with Poor Jr. had given me. He was 
 one of those splendid egoists who seem to talk 
 in modesty, to keep themselves behind scenes, 
 yet who, when the curtain falls, are discovered to 
 be the heroes, after aU, though shown ia so deli- 
 cate a fashion that the audience flatters itself in 
 the discovery. 
 
 And how practical was this fellow, how many 
 years he had been developing his fascinations! 
 I was the only person of that small company who 
 coTild have a suspicion that his moustache was 
 dyed, that his hair was toupee, or that hints of 
 his real age were scorpions and adders to him. 
 7 should not have thought it, if I had not known 
 it. Here was my advantage; I had known his 
 monstrous vanity all my life. 
 
 So he talked of himself in his various surreptitious 
 ways until coffee came. Miss Landry listening 
 eagerly, and my poor friend making no effort; 
 for what were his quiet United States absurdities 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 145 
 
 compaxed to the whole-world gaieties and Abys- 
 sinian adventures of this Othello, particularly for 
 a young girl to whom Antonio's type was un- 
 familiar? For the first time I saw my young man's 
 brave front desert him. His mouth drooped, and 
 his eyes had an appearance of having gazed long 
 at a bright light. I saw that he, unhappy one, 
 was at last too sure what her answer woidd be. 
 
 For myself, I said very little — I waited. I hoped 
 and believed Antonio would attack me in his clever, 
 disguised way, for he had always hated me and 
 my dead brother, and he had never failed to prove 
 himself too skilled for us. In my expectancy of 
 his assault there was no mistake. I comprehended 
 Antonio very well, and I knew that he feared I 
 might seek to do him an injury, particularly 
 after my inspired speech and gesture upon the 
 terrace. Also, I felt that he would, if possible, 
 anticipate my attempt and strike first. I was 
 willing; for I thought myself in possession of his 
 vulnerable point — ^never dreaming that he might 
 know my own! 
 
 At last when he, with the coffee and cigarettes, 
 took the knife in his hand, he placed a veil over 
 the point. He began, laughingly, with the picture 
 
146 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 of a pickpocket he had helped to catch in London. 
 London was greatly inhabited by pickpockets, 
 according to Antonio's declaration. Yet, he con- 
 tinued, it was nothing in comparison to Paris. 
 Paris was the rendezvous, the world's home, for 
 the criminals, adventurers, and rascals of the 
 world, English, Spanish, South-Americans, North- 
 Americans — and even Italians! One must beware 
 of people one has met in Paris! 
 
 "Of course," he concluded, with a most amiable 
 smile, "there are many good people there also. 
 That is not to be forgotten. If I should dare to 
 make a risk on such a trifle, for instancy I would 
 lay a wager that you" — ^he nodded toward Poor 
 Jr. — "made the acquaintance of Ansolini in Paris?" 
 
 This was of the greatest ugliness in its under- 
 neath significance, though the manner was dis- 
 arming. Antonio's smile was so cheerful, his eye- 
 glass so twinkling, that none of them could have 
 been sure he truly meant anything harmful of 
 me, though Poor Jr. looked up, puzzled and 
 frowning. 
 
 Before he could answer I pulled myself together, 
 as they say, and leaned forward, resting my elbows 
 upon the table. "It is true," and I tried to smile 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 147 
 
 as amiably as Antonio. "These coincidences occur. 
 You meet all the great frauds of the world in Paris. 
 Was it not there" — ^I turned to Mrs. Landry — 
 "that you met the young Prince here?" 
 
 At this there was no mistaking that the others 
 perceived. The secret battle had begun and was 
 not secret. I saw a wild gleam in Poor Jr.'s eyes, 
 as if he comprehended that strange things were 
 to come; but, ah, the face of distress and wonder 
 upon Mrs. Landry, who beheld the peace of both a 
 Prince and a dinner assailed; and, alas! the strange 
 and hurt surprise that came from the lady of the 
 pongee! Let me not be a boastful fellow, but I 
 had borne her pity and had adored it — ^I could 
 face her wonder, even her scorn. 
 
 It was in the flash of her look that I saw my great 
 chance and what I must try to do. EJiowiug 
 Antonio, it was as if I saw her falling into the deep 
 water and caught just one contemptuous glance 
 from her before the waves hid her. But how much 
 juster should that contempt have beai if I had 
 not tried to save her! 
 
 As for that old Antonio, he might have known 
 enough to beware. I had been timid with him 
 always, and he counted on it now, but a man who 
 
148 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 has shown a painted head-top to the people of 
 Paris will dare a great deal. 
 
 "As the Prince says," replied Mrs. Landry, 
 with many flutters, "one meets only the most 
 agreeable people in Paris!" 
 
 "Paris!" I exclaimed. "Ah, that home of in- 
 genuity! How they paint there! How they live, 
 and how they dye — ^their beards!" 
 
 You see how the poor Ansolini played the buffoon. 
 I knew they feared it was wine, I had been so silent 
 until now; but I did not care, I was beyond care. 
 
 "Our young Prince speaks truly," I cried, raising 
 my voice. "He is wise beyond his years, thi? 
 youth! He will be great when he reaches middle 
 age, for he knows Paris and understands North 
 America! Like myself, he is grateful that the 
 people of your continent enrich our own! We 
 need all that you can give us! Where should we 
 be — any of us" (I raised my voice still louder and 
 waved my hand to Antonio) — "where should we 
 be, either of lis" (and I bowed to the others) "with- 
 out you?" 
 
 Mrs. Landry rose with precipitousness, and the 
 beautiful lady, very red, followed. Antonio, un- 
 mistakably stung with the scorpions I had set 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 149 
 
 «pon him, sprang to the door, the palest yeflow 
 man I have ever beheld, and let the ladies pass 
 before him. 
 
 The next moment I was left alone with Poor 
 Jr. and his hyacinth trees. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 FOR several minutes neither d us spoke. 
 Tlien I looked up to meet my friend's 
 gaze of perturbation. 
 
 A waiter was proffering cigars. I took one, and 
 waved Poor Jr.'s hand away from the box of which 
 the waiter made offering. 
 
 "Do not remain!" I whispered, and I saw his 
 sad peaplexity. "I know her answer has not been 
 given. Will you present him his chance to re- 
 ceive it — ^just when her sympathy must be stronger 
 for him, since she will think he has had to bear 
 rudeness?" 
 
 He went out of the door quickly. 
 
 I did not smoke. I pretended to, while the 
 waiters made the arrangements of the table and 
 took themselves off. I sat there a long, long time 
 waiting for Antonio to do what I hoped I had 
 betrayed him to do. 
 
 It befell at last. 
 
 150 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 151 
 
 Poor Jr. came to the door and spoke in his steady 
 voice. "AnsoHni, will you come out here a mo- 
 ment?" 
 
 Then I knew that I had succeeded, had made 
 Antonio afraid that I would do the thing he him- 
 self, in a panic, had already done — speak evil of 
 another privately. 
 
 As I reached the door I heard him call oitt fool- 
 ishly, "But, Mr. Poor, I beg you — " 
 
 Poor Jr. put his hand on my shoulder, and we 
 walked out into the dark of the terrace. Antonio 
 was leaning against the railing, the beautiful stand- 
 ing near. Mrs. Landry had sunk into a chair 
 beside her daughter. No other people wei-e etpon 
 the terrace. 
 
 "Prince Caravacioli has been speaking ol you," 
 said Poor Jr., very quietly. 
 
 "Ah?" said I. 
 
 "I listened to what he said; then I UAd hma 
 that you were my friend, and that I considered it 
 fair that you should hear what he had to sajy. I 
 will repeat what he said, Ansolini. If I noistake 
 anything, he can interrupt me." 
 
 Antonio laughed, and in such a way, so sineerely, 
 so gaily, that I was frightened. 
 
150 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 "Very good!" he cried. "I am content. Re- 
 peat all." 
 
 "He began," Poor Jr. went on, quietly, though 
 his hand gripped my shoulder to almost painful- 
 ness — "he began by saying to these ladies, in my 
 presence, that we should be careful not to pick 
 up chance strangers to dine, in Italy, and — and 
 he went on to give me a repetition of his friendly 
 warning about Paris. He hinted things for a while, 
 until I asked him to say what he knew of you. 
 Then he said he knew all about you; that you 
 were an outcast, a left-handed member of his own 
 family, an adventurer — " 
 
 "It is finished, my friend," I said, interrupting 
 him, and gazed with all my soul upon the beau- 
 tiful lady. Her face was as white as Antonio's 
 or that of my friend, or as my own must have 
 been. She strained her eyes at me fixedly; I saw 
 the stars standing stiU in them, and I knew the 
 moment had come. 
 
 "This Caravaciolo is my half-brother," I said. 
 
 Antonio laughed again. "Of what kind!" 
 
 Oh, he went on so easily to his betrayal, not 
 knowing the United-Statesians and their sentiment, 
 as I did. 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 153 
 
 "We had the same mother," I continued, as 
 quietly as I could. "Twenty years after this young 
 — ^this somewhat young — ^Prince was bom she 
 divorced his father, CaravacioU, and married a 
 poor poet, whose bust you can see on the Pincian 
 in Rome, though he died in the cheapest hotel in Si- 
 enna when my true brother and I were children. 
 This young Prince would have nothing to do with 
 my mother after her second marriage and — " 
 
 "Marriage!" Antonio laughed pleasantly again. 
 He was admirable. "This is an old tale which 
 the hastiness of our American friend has forced 
 us to rehearse. The marriage was never recog- 
 nized by the Vatican, and there was not twenty 
 years — " 
 
 "Antonio, it is the age which troubles you, after 
 all!" I said, and laughed heartily, loudly, and a 
 long time, in the most good-natured way, not to 
 be undone as an actor. 
 
 "Twenty years," I repeated. "But what of it? 
 Some of the best men in the world use dyes and 
 false—" 
 
 At this his temper went away from him suddenly 
 and completely. I had struck the right point 
 indeed! 
 
154 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 "You caxninorista!" he cried, and became only 
 himself, his hands gesturing and flying, all his 
 pleasant manner gone. "Why should we listen 
 one second more to such a fisherman! The very 
 seiners of the bay who sell dried sea-horses to the 
 tourists are better gentlemen than you. You can 
 shrug your shoulders! I saw you in Paris, though 
 you thought I did not! Oh, I saw you well! Ah! 
 At the Cafe de la Paix!" 
 
 At this I cried out suddenly. The sting and 
 surprise of it were more than I could bear. In 
 my shame I would even have tried to drown his 
 voice with babblings, but after this one cry I could 
 not speak for a while. He went on triumphantly: 
 
 "This rascal, my dear ladies, who has persuaded 
 you to ask him to dinner, this camel who claims 
 to be my excellent brother, he, for a few francs, 
 in Paris, shaved his head and showed it for a week 
 to the people with an advertisement paiated upon 
 it of the worst ballet in Paris. This is the gentle- 
 man with whom you ask CaravacioU to dine!" 
 
 It was beyond my expectation, so astonishing 
 and so cruel that I could only look at him for a 
 moment or two. I felt as one who dreams himseU 
 falling fOTever. Then I stepped forward and spoke, 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 155 
 
 in thickness of voice, being tmable to lift my 
 head: 
 
 "Again it is true what he says. I was that man 
 of the painted head. I had my true brother's 
 little daughters to care for. They were at the 
 convent, and I owed for them. It also was partly 
 for myself, because I was hungry. I could find 
 not any other way, and so — but that is all." 
 
 I turned and went stumbling away from them. 
 
 In my agony that she should know, I could 
 do nothing but seek greater darkness. I felt my- 
 self beaten, dizzy with beatings. That thing which 
 I had done in Paris discredited me. A man whose 
 head-top had borne an advertisement of the Folie- 
 Rouge to think he could be making a combat with 
 the Prince CaravacioU! 
 
 Leaning over the railing in the darkest comer 
 of the terrace, I felt my hand grasped secondarily 
 by that good friend of mine. 
 
 "God bless you!" whispered Poor Jr. "On my 
 soul, I believe he's done himself. Listen!" 
 
 I turned. That beautiful lady had stepped out 
 into the light from the salon door. I could see her 
 face shining, and her eyes — ah me, how glorious 
 they were! Antonio followed her. 
 
156 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 "But wait," he cried, pitifully. 
 
 "Not for you!" she answered, and that voice of 
 hers, always before so gentle, rang out as the Roman 
 trumpets once rang from this same cliff. "Not for 
 you! I saw him there with his painted head and I 
 understood ! You saw him there, and you did nothing 
 to help him! And the two little children — your 
 nieces, too, — and he your brother!" 
 
 Then my heart melted and I found myself choking, 
 for the beautiful lady was weeping. 
 
 "Not for you. Prince Caravacioli," she cried, 
 through her tears, — "Not for you!" 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 ALL of the beggars in Naples, I think, all of 
 the flower-girls and boys, I am sure, and 
 all the wandering serenaders, I will swear, 
 were under our wradows at the Vesuve, from six 
 o'clock on the morning the "Princess Irene" sailed; 
 and there need be no wonder when it is known that 
 Poor Jr. had thrown handfuls of silver and five-lire 
 notes from our balcony to strolling orchestras and 
 singers for two nights before. 
 
 They wakened us with "Addio, la bella Napoli, 
 addio, addio!" sung to the departing benefactor. 
 When he had completed his toilet and his coflfee, 
 he showed himself on the balcony to them for a 
 moment. Ah! What a resounding cheer for the 
 signore, the great North-American nobleman! And 
 how it swelled to a magnificent thundering when 
 another largess of his came flying down among them! 
 
 Who could have reproved him.? Not Raffaele 
 Ansolini, who was on his knees over the bags and 
 
 rugs! I think I even made some prolongation of 
 
 157 
 
158 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 that position, for I was far from assured of my 
 countenance, that bright morning. 
 
 I was not to sail in the "Princess Irene" with 
 those dear friends. Ah no! I had told them that I 
 must go back to Paris to say good-bye to my little 
 nieces and sail from Boulogne — and I am sure they 
 believed that was my reason. I had even arranged 
 to go away upon a train which would make it not 
 possible for me to drive to the dock with them. I 
 did not wish to see the boat carry them away from 
 me. 
 
 And so the farewells were said in the street in all 
 that crowd. Poor Jr. and I were waiting at the door 
 when the carriage galloped up. How the crowd 
 rushed to see that lady whom it bore to us blushing 
 and laughing! Clouds of gold-dust came before my 
 eyes again; she wore once more that ineffable grey 
 pongee! 
 
 Servants ran forward with the effects of Poor Jr., 
 and we both sprang toward the carriage. 
 
 A flower-girl was offering a great basket of loose 
 violets. Poor Jr. seized it and threw them like a 
 blue rain over the two ladies. 
 
 "Bravo! Bravo!" 
 
 A hundred bouquets showered into the carriage, 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 159 
 
 and my friend's silver went out in another shower 
 to meet them. 
 
 "Addio, la bella Napoli!" came from the singers 
 and the violins, but I cried to them for "La Lima 
 Nova." 
 
 "Good-bye — for a little while — good-bye!" 
 
 I knew how well my friend liked me, because he 
 shook my hand with his head turned away. Then 
 the grey glove of the beautiful lady touched my 
 shoulder — the lightest touch in all the world — as 
 I stood close to the carriage while Poor Jr. climbed 
 in. 
 
 "God-bye. Thank you — and God bless you!" 
 she said, in a lov/ voice. And I knew for what she 
 thanked me. 
 
 The driver cracked his whip like an honest Neapo- 
 litan. The horses sprang forward. "Addio, addio !" 
 
 "Luna d'argento fallo sognar — 
 Bacialo infronte non lo destar" 
 
 I sang with the musicians, waving and waving and 
 waving my handkerchief to the departing carriage. 
 Now I saw my friend lean over and take the 
 beautiful lady by the hand, and together they stood 
 up in the carriage and waved their handkerchiefs to 
 
160 THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 me. Then, but not because they had passed out 
 of sight, I could see them not any longer. 
 
 They were so good — that kind Poor Jr. and the 
 beautiful lady; they seemed like dear children — ^as 
 if they had been my own dear children. 
 
 THE END 
 
fflS OWN PEOPLE 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 A CHANGE OF LODGING 
 
 THE glass-domed "palm-room" of the Grand 
 Continental Hotel Magnifique in Rome is 
 of vasty heights and distances, filled with a 
 mellow green light which filters down languidly 
 through the upper foliage of tail palms, so that the 
 two hundred people who may be refreshing or dis- 
 playing themselves there at the tea-hour have 
 something the look of under-water creatures playing 
 upon the sea-bed. They appear, however, to be 
 unaware of their condition; even the ladies, most 
 like anemones of that gay assembly, do not seem to 
 know it; and when the Hxmgarian band (crustacean- 
 hke in costume, and therefore well within the pic- 
 ture) has sheathed its flying tentacles and withdrawn 
 by dim processes, the tea-drinkers all float out 
 through the doors, instead of bubbling up and away 
 through the filmy roof. In truth, some such exit 
 as that was imagined for them by a young man who 
 remained in the aquarium after they had all gone, 
 
 late one afternoon of last winter. They had been 
 
 163 
 
164 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 marvelous enough, and to him could have seemed 
 little more so had they made such a departure. He 
 coidd almost have gone that way himself, so charged 
 was he with the uplift of his behef that, in spite of 
 the brilliant strangeness of the hour just past, he 
 had been no fish out of water. 
 
 While the waiters were clearing the little tables, 
 he leaned back in his chair in a content so rich it was 
 nearer ecstasy. He could not bear to disturb the 
 possession joy had taken of him, and, like a half- 
 awake boy chnging to a dream that his hitherto 
 unkind sweetheart has kissed him, lingered on in 
 the enchanted atmosphere, his eyes still full of all 
 they had beheld with such dehght, detaining and 
 smihng upon each revelation of this fresh memory — 
 the flashingly lovely faces, the dreamily lovely faces, 
 the pearls and laces of the anemone ladies, the 
 color and romantic fashion of the uniforms, and 
 the old princes who had been pointed out to him: 
 splendid old men wearing white mustaches and 
 single eye-glasses, as he had so long hoped and 
 dreamed they did. 
 
 "Mine own people!" he whispered. "I have come 
 unto mine own at last. Mine own people!" After 
 long waiting (he told himself), he had seen them — ■ 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 165 
 
 the people he had wanted to see, wanted to know, 
 wanted to be o// Ever since he had begun to read of 
 the "beau monde" in his schooldays, he had yearned 
 to know some such sumptuous reahty as that which 
 had come true to-day, when, at last, in Rome he had 
 seen — ^as he wrote home that night — "the finest es- 
 sence of Old- World society minghng in Cosmopolis." 
 Artificial odors (too heavy to keep up with the 
 crowd that had worn them) still himg about him; 
 he breathed them deeply, his eyes half-closed and 
 his hps noiselessly formed themselves to a quotation 
 from one of his own poems: 
 
 While trails of scent, like cobweb's films 
 
 Slender and faint and rare. 
 Of Toses, and rich, fair fabrics. 
 
 Cling on the stirless air. 
 The sibilance of voices. 
 
 At a wave of Milady's glove. 
 Is stilled 
 
 He stopped short, interrupting himself with a 
 half-cough of laughter as he remembered the inspira- 
 tion of these verses. He had written them three 
 months ago, at home in Cranston, Ohio, the evening 
 after Anna McCord's "coming-out tea." "Milady" 
 meant Mrs. McCord; she had "stilled" the conversa- 
 tion of her guests when Mary Kramer (whom the 
 
166 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 poem called a "sweet, pale singer") rose to sing 
 Mavoumeen; and the stanza closed with the right 
 word to rhyme with "glove." He felt a contemptu- 
 ous pity for his little, untraveled, provincial seK of 
 three months ago, if, indeed, it could have been 
 himself who wrote verses about Anna McCord's 
 "coming-out tea" and referred to poor, good old 
 Mrs. McCord as "Milady"! 
 
 The second stanza had intimated a conviction of 
 a kind which only poets may reveal: 
 
 She sang to that great assembly. 
 
 They thought, as they praised her tone; 
 
 But she and my heart knew better: 
 Her song was for me alone. 
 
 He had told the truth when he wrote of Mary 
 Kramer as pale and sweet, and she was paler, but 
 no less sweet, when he came to say good-by to her 
 before he sailed. Her face, as it was at the final 
 moment of the protracted farewell, shone before him 
 very clearly now for a moment: young, plaintive, 
 white, too lamentably honest to conceal how much 
 her "God-speed" to him cost her. He came very 
 near telling her how fond of her he had always been; 
 came near giving up his great trip to remain with 
 her always. 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 167 
 
 "Ah !" He shivered as one shivers at the thought 
 of disaster narrowly averted. "The fates were good 
 that I only came near it!" 
 
 He took from his breast-pocket an engraved card, 
 without having to search for it, because during the 
 few days the card had been in his possession the 
 action had become a habit. 
 
 "Comtesse de Vaurigard," was the name engraved, 
 and below was written in pencil: "To remember 
 Monsieur Robert Russ Mellin he promise to come 
 to tea Hotel Magnifique, Roma, at five o'clock 
 Thursday." 
 
 There had been disappointment in the first stages 
 of his journey, and that had gone hard with Mellin. 
 Europe had been his goal so long, and his hopes of 
 pleasure grew so high when (after his years of saving 
 and putting by, bit by bit, out of his salary in a 
 real-estate office) he drew actually near the shining 
 horizon. But London, his first stopping-place, had 
 given him some dreadful days. He knew nobody, 
 and had not understood how heavily sheer ionehness 
 — which was something he had never felt until 
 then — would weigh upon his spirits. In Cranston, 
 where the young people "grew up together," and 
 
168 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 where he met a dozen friends on the street in a 
 half -hour's walk, he often said that he "liked to be 
 alone with himseM." London, after his first excite- 
 ment in merely being there, taught him his mistake, 
 chilled him with weeks of forbidding weather, puzzled 
 and troubled him. 
 
 He was on his way to Paris when (as he recorded 
 in his journal) a Ught came into his life. This 
 illumination first shone for him by means of one 
 Cooley, son and inheritor of all that had belonged 
 to the late great Cooley, of Cooley Mills, Connecticut. 
 Young Cooley, a person of cherry manners and bright 
 waistcoats, was one of Mellin's few sea-acquain- 
 tanc^; they had played shuffle-board together on 
 the steamer during odd half -hours when Mr. Cooley 
 f oxmd it possible to absent himseK from poker in the 
 smoking-room; and they encountered each other 
 again on the channel boat crossing to Calais. 
 
 "Hey!" was Mr. Cooley's lively greeting. "I 'm 
 meetin' lots of people I know, to-day. You rimnia' 
 over to Paris, too? Come up to the boat-deck and 
 meet the Countess de Vaiurigard." 
 
 "Who?" said Mellin, red with pleasure, yet 
 fearing that he did not hear aright. 
 
 "The Countess de Vaurigard. Queen! met her in 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 169 
 
 London. Sneyd introduced me to her. You re- 
 member Sneyd on the steamer? Baldish English- 
 man — ^red nose — doesn't talk much — ^younger 
 brother of Lord Rugden, so he says. Played poker 
 some. Well, yes!" 
 
 "I saw him. I did n't meet him." 
 
 "You did n't miss a whole lot. Fact is, before we 
 landed I almost had him sized up for queer, but 
 when he introduced me to the Countess I saw my 
 mistake. He must be the real thing. She certainly 
 is! You come along up and see." 
 
 So Mellin followed, to make his bow before a thin, 
 dark, charmingly pretty young woman, who smiled 
 up at him from her deck-chair through an enhancing 
 mystery of veils; and presently he found himself 
 sitting beside her. He could not help trembling 
 slightly at first, but he would have given a great 
 deal if, by some miraculous vision, Mary Kramer 
 and other friends of his in Cranston could have seen 
 him engaged in what he thought of as "conversa- 
 tional badinage" with the Comtesse de Vaurigard. 
 
 Both the lady and her name thrilled him. He 
 thought he remembered the latter in Froissart: it 
 conjured up "baronial halls" and "donjon keeps," 
 rang resonantly in hLs mind like "Let the portcullis 
 
170 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 fall!" At home he had been wont to speak of the 
 "oldest families in Cranston," complaining of the 
 invasions of "new people" into the social territory 
 of the McCords and Mellins and Kramers — a 
 pleasant conception which the presence of a De 
 Vaurigard revealed to him as a petty and shameful 
 fiction; and yet his humility, like his little fit of 
 trembling, was of short duration, for the gay gen- 
 iality of Madame de Vaurigard put him amazingly 
 at ease. 
 
 At Calais young Cooley (with a matter-of-course 
 air, and not seeming to feel the need of asking 
 permission) accompanied her to a compartment, 
 and Mellin walked with them to the steps of the 
 coach, where he paused, murmuring some words of 
 farewell. 
 
 Madame de Vaiu-igard turned to him with a 
 prettily assumed dismay. 
 
 "What! You stay at Calais?" she cried, pausing 
 with one foot on the step to ascend. "Oh! I am 
 sorry for you. Calais is ter-rible!" 
 
 "No. I am going on to Paris." 
 
 "So? You have frien's in another coach which 
 you wish to be wiz?" 
 
 "No, no, indeed," he stammered hastily. 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 171 
 
 "Well, my frien'," she laughed gayly, "w'y don' 
 you come wiz us?" 
 
 Blushing, he followed Cooley into the coach, to 
 spend five happy hours, utterly oblivious of the 
 bright French landscape whirling by outside the 
 window. 
 
 There ensued a month of conscientious sightseeing 
 in Paris, and that unfriendly city afforded him only 
 one glimpse of the Countess. She whizzed by him 
 in a big touring-car one afternoon as he stood on an 
 "isle of safety" at the foot of the Champs Elysees. 
 Cooley was driving the car. The raffish, elderly 
 Englishman (whose name, Mellin knew, was Sneyd) 
 sat with him, and beside Madame de Vaurigard in 
 the tonneau lolled a gross-looldng man — unmis- 
 takably an American — with a jovial, red, smooth- 
 shaven face and several chins. Brief as the glimpse 
 was, Mellin had time to receive a distinctly disagree- 
 able impression of this person, and to wonder how 
 Heaven could vouchsafe the society of Madame de 
 Vaurigard to so coarse a creature. 
 
 All the party were dressed as for the road, gray 
 with dust, and to all appearances in a merry mood. 
 Mellin's heart gave a leap when he saw that the 
 Countess recognized him. Her eyes, shining under 
 
172 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 a white veil, met his for just the instant before she 
 was quite by, and when the machine had passed a 
 little handkerchief waved for a moment from the 
 side of the tonneau where she sat. 
 
 With that he drew the full breath of Romance. 
 
 He had always liked to believe that "grandes 
 dames" leaned back in the luxurious upholstery of 
 their victorias, landaidettes, daumonts or auto- 
 mobiles with an air of inexpressible though languid 
 hauteur. The Newport letter in the Cranston 
 Telegraph often referred to it. But the gayety of 
 that greeting from the Countess' Uttle handkerchief 
 was infinitely refreshiug, and Mellin decided that 
 animation was more becomiag than hauteur — even 
 to a "grande dame." 
 
 That night he wrote (almost without effort) the 
 verses published in the Cranston Telegraph two 
 weeks later. They began : 
 
 Marquise, ma belle, with your kerchief of lace 
 
 Awave from your flying car. 
 And your slender hand-^ 
 
 The hand to which he referred was the same 
 which had arrested his gondola and his heart simul- 
 taneously, five days ago, in Venice. He was on his 
 way to the station when Madame de Vaurigard's 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 173 
 
 gondola shot out into the Grand Canal from a narrow 
 channel, and at her signal both boats paused. 
 
 "Ah! but you fly away!" she cried, lifting her 
 eyebrows mournfully, as she saw the steamer-trunk 
 in his gondola. "You are goin' return to America.''" 
 
 "No. I'm just leaving for Rome." 
 
 "Well, in three day' I am goin' to Rome!" She 
 clapped her hands lightly and laughed. "You know 
 this is three time' we meet jus' by chance, though 
 that second time it was so quick — 'pff! like that — we 
 didn't talk much togezzer! Monsieur Mellin," she 
 laughed again, "I think we mus' be frien's. Three 
 time' — an' we are both goin' to Rome! Monsieur 
 Mellin, you believe in Fate?" 
 
 With a beating heart he did. 
 
 Thence came the invitation to meet her at the 
 Magnifique for tea, and the card she scribbled for 
 him with a silver pencil. She gave it with the 
 prettiest gesture, leaning from her gondola to his 
 as they parted. She turned again, as the water 
 between them widened, and with her "Au revoir" 
 offered him a faintly wistful smile to remem- 
 ber. 
 
 All the way to Rome the noises of the train beat 
 out the measure of his Parisian verses: 
 
174 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 Marquise, ma belle, with your kerchief of lace 
 Awave from your flying car — ■ 
 
 He came out of his reverie with a start. A dozen 
 men and women, dressed for dinner, with a gold-fish 
 oflScer or two among them, swam leisurely through 
 the aquarium on their way to the hotel restaurant, 
 They were the same kind of people who had sat at 
 the little tables for tea — ^people of the great world, 
 thought Mellin: no vulgar tourists or "trippers" 
 among them; and he shuddered at the remembrance 
 of his pension (whither it was time to return) and 
 its conscientious students of Baedeker, its dingy 
 halls and permanent smell of cold food. Suddenly 
 a high resolve lit his face: he got his coat and hat 
 from the brass-and-blue custodian in the lobby, 
 and without hesitation entered the "bureau." 
 
 "I 'm not quite satisfied where I am staying — 
 where I 'm stopping, that is," he said to the clerk. 
 "I think I '11 take a room here." 
 
 "Very well, sir. Where shall I send for your 
 luggage?" 
 
 "I shall bring it myself," replied Mellin coldly, 
 "in my cab." 
 
 He did not think it necessary to reveal the fact 
 that he was staying at one of the cheaper pensions: 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 175 
 
 and it may be mentioned that this reticence (as 
 well as the somewhat chilling, yet careless, manner 
 of a gentleman of the "great world" which he 
 assumed when he returned with his trunk and bags) 
 very substantially increased the rate put upon the 
 room he selected at the Magnifique. However, it 
 was with great satisfaction that he found himself 
 installed in the hotel, and he was too recklessly 
 exhilarated, by doing what he called the "right 
 thing," to waste any time wondering what the 
 "right thing" would do to the diminishing pad of 
 express checks he carried in the inside pocket of his 
 waistcoat. 
 
 "Better Uve a fortnight like a gentleman," he 
 said, as he tossed his shoes into a buhl cabinet, 
 "than vegetate like a tourist for a year." 
 
 He had made his entrance into the "great world" 
 and he meant to hold his place in it as one "to the 
 manor born." Its people should not find him 
 lacking: he would wear their manner and speak 
 their language — no gaucherie should betray him, 
 no homely phrase escape his lips. 
 
 This was the chance he had always hoped for, 
 and when he fell asleep in his gorgeous, canopied 
 bed, his soul was uplifted with happy expectations. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 MUSIC ON THE PINCIO 
 
 THE following afternoon found him still in 
 that enviable condition as he stood listening 
 to the music on the Pincian Hill. He had 
 it of rumor that the Fashion of Rome usually took 
 a turn there before it went to tea, and he had it 
 from the lady herself that Madame de Vaurigard 
 would be there. Presently she came, recHning in a 
 victoria, the harness of her horses flashing with gold 
 in the simshine. She wore a long ermine stole; her 
 hat was ermine; she carried a muff of the same fur, 
 and Mellin thought it a perfect finish to the picture 
 that a dark gentleman of an appearance most dis- 
 tinguished should be sitting beside her. An Italian 
 noble, surely! 
 
 She saw the American at once, nodded to him 
 and waved her hand. The victoria went on a Uttle 
 way beyond the turn of the drive, drew out of the 
 Line of carriages, and stopped. 
 
 "Ah, Monsieiu* Mellin," she cried as he came up 
 176 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 177 
 
 "I am glad! I was so foolish yesterday I didn' 
 give you the address of my little apartment an' 
 I forgot to ask you what is your hotel. I tol' you 
 I would come here for my drive, but still I might 
 have lost you for ever. See what many people! 
 It is jus' that Fate again." 
 
 She laughed, and looked to the Italian for sym- 
 pathy in her kindly merriment. He smiled cordially 
 upon her, then lifted his hat and smiled as cordially 
 upon Mellin. 
 
 "I am so happy to fin' myself in Rome that I 
 forget"— Madame de Vaurigard went on- — "ever'sing! 
 But now I mus' make sure not to lose you. What is 
 your hotel?" 
 
 "Oh, the Magnifique," Mellin answered carelessly. 
 "I suppose everybody that one knows stops there. 
 One does stop there, when one is in Rome, does n't 
 one?" 
 
 "Everybody go' there for tea, and to eat, some- 
 time, but to stay — ah, that is for the American!" 
 she laughed. "That is for you who are all so abom- 
 in-a6-ly rich!" She smiled to the Italian again, 
 and both of them smiled beamingly on MelUn. 
 
 "But that is n't always our fault, is it?" said 
 Mellin easily. 
 
178 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 "Aha! You mean you are of the new generation, 
 of the yo'ng American' who come over here an' try 
 to spen' these immense fortune' — those 'pife' — your 
 father or your gran 'father make! I know quite 
 weU. Ah?" 
 
 "Well," he hesitated, smiling, "I suppose it does 
 look a little by way of being like that." 
 
 "Wicked fellow!" She leaned forward and tapped 
 his shoulder chidingly with two fingers. "I know 
 what you wish the mos' in the worl' — you wish to 
 get into mischief. That is it! No, sir, I will jus' 
 take you in han' !" 
 
 "When will you take me?" he asked boldly. 
 
 At this, the pleasant murmur of laughter — ^half 
 actual and half suggested — with which she under- 
 lined the conversation, became loud and clear, as 
 she allowed her vivacious glance to strike straight 
 into his uptm-ned eyes, and answered : 
 
 "As long as a Uttle tiu-n rouja' the hUl, now. 
 Cavaliere Corni " 
 
 To Mellin's surprise and delight the Italian 
 immediately descended from the victoria without 
 the sUghtest appearance of irritation; on the con- 
 trary, he was urbane to a fine degree, and, upon 
 Madame de Vaurigard's formally introducing him 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 179 
 
 to Mellin, saluted the latter with grave politeness, 
 expressing in good English a hope that they might 
 meet often. When the American was installed at 
 the Countess' side she spoke to the driver in Italian, 
 and they began to move slowly along the ilex ave- 
 nue, the coachman reining his horses to a walk. 
 
 "You speak Italian?" she inquired. 
 
 "Oh, not a great deal more than a smattering," 
 he replied airily — a truthful answer, inasmuch as a 
 vocabulary consisting simply of "quanty costy" and 
 "troffo" cannot be seriously considered much more 
 than a smattering. Fortunately she made no test 
 of his linguistic attainment, but returned to her 
 former subject. 
 
 "Ah, yes, all the worl' to-day know' the new class 
 of American," she said — "your class. Many year' 
 ago we have another class which Europe did n' Uke. 
 That was when the American was terri-ble! He 
 was the — what is that you call)' — oh, yes; he 'make 
 himself,' you say: that is it. My frien,' he was 
 abomin-oftZe.' He brag'; he talk' through the nose; 
 yes, and he was niggardly, rich as he was! But you, 
 you yo'ng men of the new generation, you are gentle- 
 men of the idleness; you are aristocrats, with polish 
 an' with culture. An* yet you throw your money 
 
180 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 away — ^yes, you throw it to poor Europe as if to a 
 beggar!" 
 
 "No, no," he protested with an indulgent laugh 
 which confessed that the truth was really "Yes, yes." 
 
 "Your smile betray' you !" she cried triumphantly. 
 "More than jus' bein' guilty of that fault, I am goin' 
 to tell you of others. You are not the ole-time — 
 what is it you say.'' — ^Ah, yes, the 'goody-goody.' 
 I have heard my great American frien'. Honor-able 
 Chanlair Pedlow, call it the Sonday-school. Is it 
 not.'' Yes, you are not the Sonday-school yo'ng 
 men, you an' your class!" 
 
 "No," he said, bestowing a long glance upon a 
 stout nurse who was sitting on a bench near the 
 drive and attending to twins in a perambulator. 
 "No, we 're not exactly dissenting parsons." 
 
 "Ah, no!" She shook her head at him prettily. 
 "You are wicked! You are up into all the mischief! 
 Have I not hear what wild sums you risk at your 
 game, that poker? You are famous for it." 
 
 "Oh, we play," he admitted with a reckless 
 laugh, "and I suppose we do play rather high." 
 
 "High!" she echoed. "Souzandsl But that is 
 not all. Ha, ha, ha, naughty one! Have I not 
 observe' you lookin' at these pretty creature", the 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 181 
 
 Kttle contadina-girl, an' the poor ladies who have 
 hii-e' their carriages for two Kre to drive up and down 
 the Pindo in their bes' dress an' be admire' by the 
 yo'ng American while the music play'? Which one, 
 I wonder, is it on whose wrist you would mos' like 
 to fasten a bracelet of diamon's? Wicked, I have 
 watch' you look at them " 
 
 "No, no," he interrupted earnestly. "I have 
 not once looked away from you, I could n't!" 
 
 Their eyes met, but instantly hers were lowered; 
 the bright smile with which she had been rallying 
 him faded, and there was a pause during which he 
 felt that she had become very grave. When she 
 spoke, it was with a little quaver, and the con- 
 trolled pathos of her voice was so intense that it 
 evoked a sympathetic catch in his own throat. 
 
 "But, my frien', if it should be that I cannot wish 
 you to look so at me, or to speak so to me?" 
 
 "I beg your pardon!" he exclaimed, almost 
 incoherently. "I did n't mean to hurt your feeHngs. 
 I would n't do anything you 'd think ungentle- 
 manly for the world !" 
 
 Her eyes lifted again to his with what he had no 
 difficulty in recognizing as a look of perfect trust; 
 but, behind that, he perceived a darkling sadness. 
 
182 fflS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 "I know it is true," she murmured — "I know. 
 But you see there are time' when a woman has 
 sorrow — sorrow of one kind — when she mus' be sure 
 that there is only — only rispec' in the hearts of her 
 frien's." 
 
 With that, the intended revelation was complete, 
 and the young man understood, as clearly as if she 
 had told him in so many words, that she was not 
 a widow and that her husband was the cause of 
 her sorrow. His quickened instinct marvelously 
 divined (or else it was conveyed to him by some 
 intangible method of hers) that the Count de 
 Vaurigard was a very bad case, but that she would 
 not divorce him. 
 
 "I know," he answered, profoundly touched. 
 "I understand." 
 
 In silent gratitude she laid her hand for a second 
 upon his sleeve. Then her face brightened, and she 
 said gayly: 
 
 "But we shall not talk of Ttie! Let us see how we 
 can keep you out of mischief at leas' for a little 
 while. I know very well what you will do to-night: 
 you will go to Salone Margherita an' sit in a box 
 like all the wicked Americans — — " 
 
 "No, indeed, I shall not!" 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 183 
 
 "Ah, yes, you will!" she laughed. "But until 
 dinner let me keep you from wickedness. Come 
 to tea jus' wiz me, not at the hotel, but at the little 
 apartment I have taken, where it is quiet. The 
 music is finish', an' all those pretty girl' are goin' 
 away, you see. I am not selfish if I take you from 
 the Pincio now. You will come?" 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 GLAMOUR 
 
 IT was some fair dream that would be gone too 
 soon, he told himself, as they drove rapidly 
 through the twilight streets, down from the 
 Pincio and up the long slope of the Quirinal. They 
 came to a stop in the gray courtyard of a palazzo, 
 and ascended in a sleepy elevator to the fifth floor. 
 Emerging, they encountered a tall man who was 
 turning away from the Countess' door, which he 
 had just closed. The landing was not lighted, and 
 for a moment he failed to see the American following 
 Madame de Vaurigard. 
 
 "Eow, it 's you, is it," he said informally. "Wait- 
 in' a devil of a long time for you. I 've gawt a 
 message for you. He 's comin'. He writes that 
 Cooley— " 
 
 "Attention!" she interrupted under her breath, 
 
 and, stepping forward quickly, touched the bell. 
 
 "I have brought a frien' of our dear, droll Cooley 
 
 with me to tea. Monsieur Mellin, you mus' make 
 
 184 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 185 
 
 acquaintance with Monsieur Sneyd. He is English, 
 but we shall forgive him because he is a such ole 
 Men' of mine." 
 
 "Ah, yes," said Mellin. "Remember seeing you 
 on the boat, running across the pond." 
 
 "Yes, ev coss," responded Mr. Sneyd cordially. 
 "I waws n't so fawchnit as to meet you, but dyuh 
 eold Cooley's talked ev you often. Heop I sh'U see 
 maw of you hyuh." 
 
 A very trim, very intelligent-looking maid opened 
 the door, and the two men followed Madame de 
 Vaurigard into a square hall, hung with tapestries 
 and lit by two candles of a Brobdingnagian species 
 Mellin had heretofore seen only in cathedrals. Here 
 Mr. Sneyd paused. 
 
 "I weon't be bawthring you," he said. "Just a 
 wad with you, Cantess, and I 'm oS." 
 
 The intelligent-looking maid drew back some 
 heavy curtains leading to a salon beyond the hall, 
 and her mistress smiled brightly at Mellin. 
 
 "I shall keep him to jus' his one word," she said, 
 as the young man passed between the curtains. 
 
 It was a nobly proportioned room that he entered, 
 so large that, in spite of the amount of old furniture 
 it contained, the first impression it gave was one of 
 
186 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 spaciousness. Panels of carved and blackened wood 
 lined the walls higher than his head; above them, 
 Spanish leather gleamed here and there with Bicker- 
 ings of red and gilt, reflecting dimly a small but brisk 
 wood fire which crackled in a carved stone fireplace. 
 His feet slipped on the floor of polished tiles and 
 wandered from silky rugs to lose themselves in 
 great black bear skins as in unmown sward. He 
 went from the portrait of a "cinquecento" cardinal 
 to a splendid tryptich set over a Gothic chest, from 
 a cabinet sheltering a collection of old glass to an 
 Annunciation by an unknown Primitive. He told 
 himself that this was a "room in a book," and became 
 dreamily assured that he was a man in a book. 
 Finally he stumbled upon something almost gro- 
 tesquely out of place: a large, new, perfectly-ap- 
 pointed card-table with a sliding top, a smooth, 
 thick, green cover and patent compartments. 
 
 He halted before this incongruity, regarding it 
 with astonishment. Then a light laugh rippled 
 behind him, and he turned to find Madame de 
 Vaurigard seated in a big red Venetian chair by the 
 fire. 
 
 She wore a black lace dress, almost severe in 
 fashion, which gracefully emphasized her slender- 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 187 
 
 ness; and she sat with her knees crossed, the fire- 
 light twinkling on the beads of her slipper, on her 
 silken instep, and flashing again from the rings 
 upon the slender fingers she had clasped about her 
 knee. 
 
 She had lit a thin, long Russian cigarette. 
 
 "You see?" she laughed. "I mus' keep up with 
 the time. I mus' do somesing to hold my frien's 
 about me. Even the ladies like to play now — that 
 breedge w'ich is so tiresome — they play, play, play! 
 And you — you Americans, you refuse to endure us 
 if we do not let you play. So for my frien's when 
 they come to my house — ^if they wish it, there is 
 that foolish httle table. I fear" — she concluded 
 with a bewitching affectation of sadness — "they 
 prefer that to taUdn' wiz me." 
 
 "You know that could n't be so, Comtesse," he 
 said. "I would rather talk to you than — than " 
 
 "Ah, yes, you say so. Monsieur!" She looked at 
 him gravely; a little sigh seemed to breathe upon 
 her lips; she leaned forward nearer the fire, her face 
 wistful in the thin, rosy light, and it seemed to him 
 he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life. 
 
 He came across to her and sat upon a stool at her 
 feet. "On my soul," he began huskily, "I swear " 
 
188 mS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 She laid her finger on her lips, shaking her head 
 gently; and he was silent, while the intelligent 
 maid — at the moment entering — arranged a tea- 
 table and departed. 
 
 "American an' Russian, they are the worse," 
 said the Countess thoughtfully, as she served him 
 with a generous cup, laced with rum, "but the 
 American he is the bes' to play toiz." MeUin found 
 her irresistible when she said "wiz." 
 
 "Why is that?" 
 
 "Oh, the Russian play high, yes — ^but the Ameri- 
 can" — she laughed delightedly and stretched her 
 arms wide — "he make' it all a joke! He is beeg like 
 his beeg country. If he win or lose, he don' care! 
 Ah, I mus' tell you of my great American frien', 
 that Honor-able Chanlair Pedlow, who is comin' to 
 Rome. You have heard of Honor-able Chanlair 
 Pedlow in America?" 
 
 "I remember hearing that name." 
 
 "Ah, I shall make you know him. He is a man of 
 distinction; he did sit in your Chamber of Deputies 
 — what you call it?^yes, your Con-gress. He is 
 funny, eccentric — always he roar hke a lion — 
 Bourn! — ^but so simple, so good, a man of such fine 
 heart — so lovable!" 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 189 
 
 "I '11 be glad to meet him," said MeUin coldly. 
 
 "An', oh, yes, I almos' forget to tell you," she 
 went on, "your Men', that dear Cooley, he is on 
 his way from Monte Carlo in his automobile. I 
 have a note from him to-day." 
 
 "Good sort of fellow, little Cooley, in his way," 
 remarked her companion graciously. "Not espe- 
 cially intellectual or that, you know. His father was 
 a manufacturer chap, I believe, or something of the 
 sort. I suppose you saw a lot of him in Paris?" 
 
 "Eh, I thought he is dead!" cried Madame de 
 Vaurigard. 
 
 "The father is. I mean, little Cooley." 
 
 "Oh, yes," she laughed softly. "We had some gay 
 times, a little party of us. We shall be happy here, 
 too; you will see. I mus' make a little dinner very 
 soon, but not imless you will come. You will.'*" 
 
 "Do you want me very much?" 
 
 He placed his empty cup on the table and leaned 
 closer to her, smihng. She did not smile in response; 
 instead, her eyes fell and there was the faintest, 
 pathetic quiver of her ower Up. 
 
 "Already you know that," she said in a low 
 voice. 
 
 She rose quickly, turned away from him and 
 
190 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 walked across the room to the curtains which opened 
 upon the hall. One of these she drew back. 
 
 "My frien,' you mus' go now," she said in the 
 same low voice. "To-morrow I Avill see you again. 
 Come at four an' you shall drive with me — ^but not — 
 not more — now. Please!" 
 
 She stood waiting, not looking at him, but with 
 head bent and eyes veiled. As he came near she 
 put out a limp hand. He held it for a few seconds 
 of distinctly emotional silence, then strode swiftly 
 into the Lall. 
 
 She immediately let the curtain fall behind him, 
 and as he got his hat and coat he heard her catch 
 her breath sharply with a sound like a little sob. 
 
 Dazed with glory, he returned to the hotel. In 
 the lobby he approached the glittering concierge 
 and said firmly: 
 
 "What is the Salone Margherita? Can you get 
 me a box there to-night?" 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 GOOD-FELLOWSHIP 
 
 HE confessed his wickedness to Madame de 
 Vaurigard the next afternoon as they 
 drove out the Appian Way. "A fellow 
 mxist have just a bit of a fling, you know," he said; 
 "and, really, Salone Margherita isn't so tremendously 
 wicked." 
 
 She shook her head at him in friendly raillery. 
 "Ah, that may be;, but how many of those little 
 dancing-girl' have you invite to supper afterward?" 
 
 This was a delicious accusation, and though he 
 shook his head in virtuous denial he was before long 
 almost convinced that he had given a rather dashing 
 supper after the vaudeville and had not gone quietly 
 back to the hotel, only stopping by the way to 
 purchase aji orange and a pocketful of horse-chest- 
 nuts to eat in his room. 
 
 It was a -happy drive for Robert Russ Mellin, 
 
 though not happier than that of the next day. 
 
 Three afternoons they spent driving over the Cam- 
 
 ISl 
 
192 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 pagna, then back to Madame de Vaurigard's apart' 
 ment for tea by the firelight, till the enraptured 
 American began to feel that the dream in whidi he 
 had come to Uve must of happy necessity last forever. 
 
 On the fourth afternoon, as he stepped out of the 
 hotel elevator into the corridor, he encouirtered Mr. 
 Sneyd. 
 
 "Just stottin', eh?" said the Englishman, taking 
 an envelope from his pocket, "Lucky I caught you. 
 This is for you. I just saw the Cantess and she 
 teold me to give it you. Herry and read it and kem 
 on t' the Amairikin Baw. Chap I want you to meet. 
 Eold Cooley's thyah too. Gawt in with his tourin'- 
 caw at noon." 
 
 "You will forgive, dear friend," wrote Madame de Vaurigard, 
 "if I ask you that we renounce our drive to-day. You see, I wish 
 to have that little dinner to-night and must make preparation. 
 Honorable Chandler Pedlow arrived this morning from Paris and 
 that droll Mr. Cooley I have learn is coincidentally arrived also. 
 You see I think it would be very pleasant to have the dinner to 
 welcome these friends on their arrival. You will come surely — or I 
 shall be so truly miserable. You know it perhaps too well! We 
 shall have a happy evening if you come, to console us for renouncing 
 our drive. A thousand of my prettiest wishes for you. 
 
 "Helenb." 
 
 The signature alone consoled him. To have that 
 note from her, to own it, was like having one of her 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 193 
 
 gloves or her fan. He would keep it forever, he 
 thought; indeed, he more than half expressed .a senti- 
 ment to that effect in the response which he wTote in 
 the aquarium, while Sneyd waited for him at a 
 table near by. The Englishman drew certain con- 
 clusions in regard to this reply, since it permitted a 
 waiting friend to consume three long tumblers of 
 brandy-and-soda before it was finished. However, 
 Mr. Sneyd kept his reflections to himself, and, when 
 the epistle had been dispatched by a messenger, 
 took the American's arm and led him to the 
 "American Bar" of the hotel, a region hitherto un- 
 explored by Mellin. 
 
 Leaning against the bar were Cooley and the 
 man whom MeUin had seen loUing beside Madame 
 de Vaurigard in Cooley's automobile in Paris, the 
 same gross person for whom he had instantly con- 
 ceived a strong repugnance, a feeling not at once 
 altered by a closer view. 
 
 Cooley greeted Mellin uproariously and Mr. 
 Sneyd introduced the fat man. "Mr. Mellin, the 
 Honorable Chandler Pedlow," he said; nor was 
 the shock to the first-named gentleman lessened by 
 young Cooley's adding, "Best feller in the world!" 
 
 Mr. Pedlow's eyes were sheltered so deeply be- 
 
194 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 neath florid rolls of flesh that aU one saw of them 
 was an inscrutable gleam of blue; but, small though 
 they were, they were not shifty, for they met Mellin's 
 with a squareness that was almost brutal. He 
 offered a fat paw, wet by a fuU glass which he set 
 down too suddenly on the bar. 
 
 "Shake," he said, in a loud and husky voice, "and 
 be friends! Tommy," he added to the attendant, 
 "another round of Martinis." 
 
 "Not for me," said Mellin hastily. "I don't 
 often—" 
 
 "What!" Mr. Pedlow roared suddenly. "Why, 
 the first words Coimtess de Vaurigard says to me 
 this afternoon was, 'I want you to meet my yoimg 
 friend MeUin,' she says; 'the gamest little Indian 
 that ever come down the pike! He's game,' she 
 says — 'he'll see you aU under the table!' That 's 
 what the smartest little woman in the world, the 
 Countess de Vaurigard, says about you." 
 
 This did not seem very closely to echo Madame 
 de Vaurigard's habit of phrasing, but Mellin per- 
 ceived that it might be only the fat man's way of 
 putting things. 
 
 "You ain't goin' back on her, are you?" contiuued 
 Mr. Pedlow. "You aia't goin' to make her out a 
 
mS OWN PEOPLE 195 
 
 liar? I tell you, when the Countess de Vaurigard 
 says a man's game, he is game!" He laid his big 
 paw cordially on Mellin's shoulder and smiled, 
 lowering his voice to a friendly whisper. "And I 'U 
 bet ten thousand dollars right out of my pants 
 pocket you are game, too!" 
 
 He pressed a glass into the other's hand. Smiling 
 feebly, the embarrassed Mellin accepted it. 
 
 "Make it four more. Tommy," said Pedlow. 
 "And here," continued this thoughtful man, "I 
 don't go bandying no ladies' names around a bar- 
 room — that ain't my style — ^but I do want to propose 
 a toast. I won't name her, but you all know who I 
 mean." 
 
 "Sure we do," interjected Cooley warmly. 
 "Queen! That 's what she is." 
 
 "Here 's to her," continued Mr. Pedlow. "Here 's 
 to her — brightest and best — and no heel-taps! And 
 now let 's set down over in the comer and take it 
 easy. It aui't hardly five o'clock yet, and we can set 
 here comfortable, gittin' ready for dinner, until half- 
 past six, anyway." 
 
 "Whereupon the four seated themselves about a 
 tabouret in the comer, and a waiter immediately 
 bringing them four fresh glasses from the bar, Mellin 
 
196 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 began to understand what Mr. Pedlow meant by 
 "gittin' ready for dinner." The burden of the con- 
 versation was carried almost entirely by the Hon- 
 orable Chandler, though Cooley, whose boyish face 
 was deeply flushed, now and then managed to in- 
 terrupt by talking louder than the fat man. Mr. 
 Sneyd sat silent. 
 
 "Good ole Sneyd," said Pedlow. "Ee never talks, 
 jest saws wood. Only Britisher I ever liked. Plays 
 cards like a goat." 
 
 "He played a mighty good game on the steamer," 
 said Cooley warmly. 
 
 "I don't care what he did on the steamer, he 
 played like a goat the only time / ever played with 
 him. You know he did. I reckon you was there/' 
 
 "Should say I was there! He played mighty 
 well—" 
 
 "Like a goat," reiterated the fat man firmly. 
 
 "Nothing of the sort. You had a run of hands, 
 that was all. Nobody can go against the kind of 
 luck you had that night; anid you took it away from 
 Sneyd and me in rolls. But we 'U land you pretty 
 soon, won't we, ole Sneydie?" 
 
 "We sh'U have a shawt at him, at least," said 
 the Englishman. 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 197 
 
 "Perhaps he won't want us to try," young Cooley 
 pursued derisively. "Perhaps he thinks / play like 
 a goat, too!" 
 
 ly.Ir. Pedlow threw back his head and roared. 
 "Give me somep'n easy! You don't know no more 
 \iow to play a hand of cards than a giraffe does. 
 i '11 throw in all of my Blue Gulch gold-stock — and 
 it 's worth eight hundred thousand dollars if it 's worth 
 a cent — ^I'll put it up against that tin automobile of 
 yours, divide chips even and play you freeze-out 
 for it. You play cards? Go learn hop-scotch!" 
 
 "You wait!" exclaimed the other indignantly. 
 "Next time we play we '11 make you look so small 
 you '11 think you 're back in Congress!" 
 
 At this Mr. Pedlow again threw back his head and 
 roared, his vast body so shaken with mirth that the 
 glass he held in his hand dropped to the floor. 
 
 "There," said Cooley, "that 's the second Martini 
 you 've spilled. You 're two behind the rest of us." 
 
 "What of it?" bellowed the fat man. "There 's 
 plenty conain', ain't there? Four more. Tommy, 
 and bring cigars. Don't take a cent from none of 
 these Indians. Gentlemen, your money ain't good 
 here. I own this bar, and this is my night." 
 
 Mellin had begun to feel at ease, and after a time — • 
 
198 fflS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 as they continued to sit — ^he realized that his rCv 
 pugnance to Mr. Pedlow was wearing off; he felt 
 that there must be good in any one whom Madame 
 de Vaurigard liked. She had spoken of Pedlow 
 often on their drives; he was an "eccentric," she said, 
 an "original." Why not accept her verdict? Be- 
 sides, Pedlow was a man of distinction and force; 
 he had been iu Congress; he was a millionaire; and, 
 as became evident in the course of a long recital 
 of the principal events of his career, most of the 
 great men of the time were his friends and proteges. 
 
 " 'Well, Mack,' says I one day when we were in 
 the House together" — (thus Mr. Pedlow, alluding 
 to the late President McKinley) — " 'Mack,' says I, 
 'if you 'd drop that double standard business' — he 
 was waverin' toward silver along then — 'I don't 
 know but I might git the boys to nominate you fer 
 President.' 1 '11 think it over,' he says — 'I '11 think 
 it over.' You remember me tellin' you about that 
 at the time, don't you, Sneyd, when you was in the 
 British Legation at Washin'ton?" 
 
 "Pahfictly," said Mr. Sneyd, lighting a cigar with 
 great calnmess. 
 
 " 'Yes,' I says, 'Mack,' I says, 'if you '11 drop it, 
 I 'II turn in and git you the nomination.' " 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 199 
 
 "Did he drop it?" asked Mellin innocently. 
 
 Mr. Pedlow leaned forward and struck the young 
 man's knee a resounding blow with the palm of his 
 hand. 
 
 "He was nominated, was n't he?" 
 
 "Time to dress," announced Mr. Sneyd, looking 
 at his watch. 
 
 "One more round first," insisted Cooley, with 
 prompt vehemence. "Let 's finish with om first 
 toast again. Can't drink that too often." 
 
 This proposition was received with warmest 
 approval, and they drank standing. 
 
 "Brightest and best!" shouted Mr. Pedlow. 
 
 "Queen! What she is!" exclaimed Cooley. 
 
 "Ma belle Marquise!" whispered Mellin tenderly, 
 as the rim touched his lips. 
 
 A small, keen-faced man, whose steady gray eyes 
 were shielded by tortoise-rimmed spectacles, had 
 come into the room and now stood quietly at the 
 bar, sipping a glass of Vichy. He was sharply 
 observant of the party as it broke up, Pedlow and 
 Sneyd preceding the younger men to the corridor, 
 and, as the latter turned to follow, the stranger 
 stepped quickly forward, speaking Cooley's name. 
 
 "What 's the matterJ*" 
 
200 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 "Perkaps you don't remember me. My name "s 
 Cornish. I 'm a newspaper man, a correspondent." 
 (He named a New York paper.) "I 'm down here 
 to get a Vatican story. I knew your father for a 
 number of years before his death, and I think I may 
 claisi that he was a friend of mine." 
 
 "That 's good," said the youth cordially. "If I 
 had n't a fine start already, and was n't in a hurry to 
 dress, we 'd have another." 
 
 "You were pointed out to me in Paris," continued 
 Cornish. "I found where you were staying and 
 called on you the next day, but you had just started 
 for tiie Riviera." He hesitated, glancing at Mellin. 
 "Can you give me haK a dozen words with you in 
 private?" 
 
 "You '11 have to excuse me, I 'm afraid. I 've only 
 got about ten minutes to dress. See you to-morrow." 
 
 "I should like it to be as soon as possible," the 
 journalist said seriously. "It isn 't on my own 
 account, and I " 
 
 "All right. You come to my room at ten t'mor- 
 row morning?" 
 
 "Well, if you can't possibly make it to-night," 
 said Cornish reluctantly. "I wish " 
 
 "Can't possibly." 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 201 
 
 And Cooley, taking Mellin by the arm, walked 
 rapidly down the corridor. "Funny ole corre- 
 spondent," he murmured. "What do I know about 
 the Vatican?" 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 LADT MOUNT-KHYSWICKE 
 
 THE foxir friends of Madame de Vaurigard 
 were borne to her apartment from the 
 Magnifique in Cooley's big car. They 
 sailed triumphantly down and up the hills in a cool 
 and bracing air, under a moon that shone as brightly 
 for them as it had for Caesar, and Mellin's soul was 
 buoyant within him. He thought of Cranston and 
 laughed aloud. What would Cranston say if it 
 could see him in a sixty-horse touring-car, with two 
 millionaires and an English diplomat, brother of an 
 earl, and all on the way to dine with a countess? 
 If Mary Kramer could see him! . . . Poor Mary 
 Kramer! Poor little Mary Kramer! 
 
 A man-servant took their coats in Madame de 
 Vaurigard's hall, where they could hear through the 
 curtains the sound of one or two voices in cheerful 
 conversation. 
 
 Sneyd held up his hand. 
 
 "Listen," he said. "Shawly, that is n't Lady 
 
 Mount-Rhyswicke's voice! She couldn't be in 
 
 202 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 203 
 
 Reom — ^always a Rhyswicke Caws'I for Decembah. 
 By Jev, itis!" 
 
 "Nothin' of the kind," said Pedlow. "I know 
 Lady Mount-Rhyswicke as well as I know you. I 
 started her father in business. When he was clerkin' 
 behind a counter in Liverpool I give him the 
 money to begin on. 'Make good/ says I, 'that 's all. 
 Make good!' And he done it, too. Educated his 
 daughter fit fer a priacess, married her to Mount- 
 Rhyswicke, and when he died left her ten million 
 dollars if he left her a cent! I know Madge Mount- 
 Rhyswicke and that ain't her voice." 
 
 A peal of silvery laughter rang from the other side 
 of the curtain. 
 
 "They 've heard you," said Cooley. 
 
 "An' who could help it.''" Madame de Vaurigard 
 herself threw back the curtains. "Who could help 
 hear our great, dear, ole lion.? How he roar'!" 
 
 She wore a white velvet "princesse" gown of a 
 fashion which was a shade less than what is called 
 "daring," with a rope of pearls falling from her 
 neck and a diamond star in her dark hair. Standing 
 with one arm uplifted to the curtains, and with the 
 mellow glow of candles and firehght behind her, she 
 was so lovely that both Mellia and Cooley stood 
 
204 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 breathlessly still until she changed her attitude. 
 This she did only to move toward them, extending a 
 hand to each, letting Cooley seize the right and 
 Mellin the left. 
 
 Each of them was pleased with what he got, par- 
 ticularly MeUin. "The left is nearer the heart," 
 he thought. 
 
 She led them through the curtains, not with- 
 drawing her hands until they entered the salon. 
 She might have led them out of her fifth-story 
 window in that fashion, had she chosen. 
 
 "My two wicked boys!" she laughed tenderly. 
 
 This also pleased both of them, though each 
 would have preferred to be her only wicked boy — 
 a preference which, perhaps, had something to do 
 with the latter events of the evening. 
 
 "Aha! I know you both; before twenty minute' 
 you win be makin' love to Lady Mount-Rhyswicke. 
 Behol' those two already! An' they are only ole 
 frien's." 
 
 She pointed to Pedlow and Sneyd. The fat man 
 was shouting at a woman in pink satin, who lounged, 
 half-reclining, among a pile of cushions upon a 
 divan near the fire; Sneyd gallantly bending over her 
 to kiss her hand. 
 
fflS OWN PEOPLE 205 
 
 "It is a very little dinner, you see," continued the 
 hostess, "only seven, but we shall be seven time' 
 happier." 
 
 The seventh person proved to be the Italian, 
 Comi, who had surrendered his seat in Madame 
 de Vaurigard's victoria to Mellin on the Pincio. 
 He presently made his appearance followed by a 
 waiter bearing a tray of glasses filled with a pink 
 liquid, while the Countess led her two wicked boys 
 across the room to present them to Lady Mount- 
 Rhyswicke. Already Mellin was forming sentences 
 for his next letter to the Cranston Telegraph: 
 "Lady Mount-Rhyswicke said to me the other 
 evening, while discussing the foreign policy of 
 Great Britain, in Comtesse de Vaurigard's salon . . ." 
 "An English peeress of pronotmced literary acumen 
 has been giving me rather confidentially her opinion 
 of our American poets . . ." 
 
 The inspiration of these promising fragments was 
 a large, weary-looking person, with no lack of 
 powdered shoulder above her pink bodice and a 
 profusion of "undulated" hair of so decided a blond 
 that it might have been suspected that the decision 
 had lain with the lady herself. 
 
 "Howjdo," she said languidly, when Mellin's 
 
206 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 name was pronounced to her. "There 's a man 
 behind you tryin' to give you something to drink." 
 
 "Who was it said these were Martinis?" snorted 
 Pedlow. "They 've got perfumery in 'em." 
 
 "Ah, what a bad lion it is!" Madame de Vauri- 
 gard lifted both hands in mock horror. "Roar, lion, 
 roar!" she cried. "An' think of the emotion of our 
 good Cavahere Comi, who have come an hour early 
 jus' to make them for us! I ask Monsieur Mellin 
 if it is not good." 
 
 "And I 'U leave it to Cooley," said Pedlow. "K 
 he can drink aU of his I '11 eat crow!" 
 
 Thus challenged, the two young men smilingly ac- 
 cepted glasses from the waiter, and lifted them onhigh. 
 
 "Same toast," said Cooley. "Queen!" 
 
 "A la belle Marquise!" 
 
 Gallantly they drained the glasses at a gulp, and 
 Madame de Vaurigard clapped her hands. 
 
 "Bravo!" she cried. "You see.'' Comi and Ij 
 we win." 
 
 "Look at their faces!" said Mr. Pedlow, tactlessly 
 drawing attention to what was, for the moment, an 
 undeniably painful sight. "Don't tell me an Italian 
 knows how to make a good Martini!" 
 
 Melhn profoundly agreed, but, as he joined the 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 207 
 
 >imall procession to the Countess' dinner-table, he 
 was certain that an Italian at least knew how to 
 make a strong one. 
 
 The light in the diaing-room was provided by six 
 heavily-shaded candles on the table; the latter 
 decorated with dehcate Unes of orchids. The chairs 
 were large and comfortable, covered with tapestry; 
 the glass was old Venetian, and the servants, moving 
 like useful ghosts in the shadow outside the circle 
 of mellow light, were particularly efficient ia the 
 matter of keeping the wine-glasses fidl. Madame 
 de Vaurigard had put Pedlow on her right, Cooley 
 on her left, with Mellin directly opposite her, next 
 to Lady Mount-Rhyswicke. Melhn was pleased, 
 because he thought he would have the Countess's 
 face toward him. Anything would have pleased 
 him just then. 
 
 "This is the kind of table everybody ought to have," 
 he observed to the party in general, as he finished his 
 first glass of champagne. "I 'm going to have it Kke 
 this at my place in the States — if I ever decide to 
 go back. I '11 have six separate candlesticks Uke this, 
 not a candelabrum, and that will be the only light in 
 the room. And I '11 never have anything but orchids 
 on my table " 
 
208 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 "For my part," Lady Mount-Rhyswicke inter- 
 rupted in the loud, tired monotone which seemed to 
 be her only manner of speajdng, "I like more light. 
 I like all the light that 's goin'." 
 
 "If Lady Mount-Rhyswicke sat at my table," 
 returned Mellin dashingly, "I should wish all the 
 light in the world to shine upon so happy an event." 
 
 "Hear the man!" she drawled. "He 's proposin' 
 to me. Thinks I 'm a widow." 
 
 There was a chorus of laughter, over which rose 
 the bellow of Mr. Pedlow. 
 
 " 'He 's game !' she says — and ain't he?" 
 
 Across the table Madame de Vaurigard's eyes 
 met Melhn's with a mocking intelligence so com- 
 plete that he caught her message without need of the 
 words she noiselessly formed with her lips: "I tol' 
 you you would be makin' love to her!" 
 
 He laughed joyously in answer. Why should n't 
 he flirt with Lady Mount-Rhyswicke.'' He was 
 thoroughly happy; his Helene, his helle Marquise, 
 sat across the table from him sending messages to 
 him with her eyes. He adored her, but he liked 
 Lady Mount-Rhyswicke — ^he hked everybody and 
 everything in the world. He liked Pedlow parti- 
 cidarly, and it no longer troubled him that the fat 
 
mS OWN PEOPLE 209 
 
 man should be a friend of Madame de Vaurigard. 
 Pedlow was a "character" and a wit as well. Mellin 
 laughed heartily at everything the Honorable Chan- 
 dler Pedlow said. 
 
 "This is life," remarked the young man to his 
 /air neighbor. 
 
 "What is.'' Sittin' round a table, eatia' and 
 drinkin'?" 
 
 "Ah, lovely skeptic !" She looked at him strangely, 
 but he continued with growing enthusiasm: "I mean 
 to sit at such a table as this, with such a chef, with 
 such wines — ^to know one crowded hour like this is 
 to hve! Not a thing is missing; all this swagger 
 furniture, the rich atmosphere of smartness about 
 the whole place; best of all, the company. It 's a 
 great thing to have the real people around you, the 
 right sort, you know, socially; people you 'd ask to 
 your own table at home. There are only seven^ 
 but every one distingue, every one " 
 
 She leaned both elbows on the table with her 
 hands palm to palm, and, resting her cheek against 
 the back of her left hand, looked at him steadily. 
 
 "And you — ^are you distinguished, too?" 
 
 "Oh, I would n't be much known over here," he 
 said modestly. 
 
210 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 "Do you write poetry?" 
 
 "Oh, not professionally, though it is published. 
 I suppose" — ^he sipped his champagne with his head 
 a little to one side as though judging its quality — 
 "I suppose I 've been more or less a dilettante. I 've 
 knocked about the world a good bit." 
 
 "Helene says you 're one of these leisure Ameri- 
 can billionaires like Mr. Cooley there," she said ia 
 her tired voice. 
 
 "Oh, none of us are really quite billionaires." 
 He laughed deprecatingly. 
 
 "No, I suppose not — not really. Go on and tell 
 me some more about life and this distinguished 
 company." 
 
 "Hey, folks!" Mr. Pedlow's roar broke in upon 
 this dialogue. "You two are gittin' mighty thick 
 over there. We 're drinking a toast, and you '11 have 
 to break away long enough to join in." 
 
 "Queen! That 's what she is!" shouted Cooley. 
 
 Mellin lifted his glass with the others and drank 
 to Madame de Vaurigard, but the woman at his side 
 did not change her attitude and continued to sit 
 with her elbows on the table, her cheek on the back 
 of her hand, watching him thoughtfully. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 RAKE S PROGRESS 
 
 MANY toasts were uproariously lifflQored, 
 the health of each member of the party 
 in turn, then the coimtry of each: 
 France and England first, out of courtesy to the 
 ladies, Italy next, since this beautiful and extraor- 
 dinary meeting of distinguished people (as Mellin 
 remarked in a short speech he felt called upon to 
 make) took place in that wonderful land, then the 
 United States. This last toast the gentlemen felt 
 it necessary to honor by standing in their chairs. 
 [Song: The Star-spangled Banner — vnthord words — 
 by Mr. Cooley and chorus.] 
 
 When the cigars were brought, the ladies graciously 
 remained, adding tiny spirals of smoke from their 
 cigarettes to the layers of blue haze which soon 
 overhung the table. Through this haze, in the 
 gentle light (which seemed to grow softer and softer) 
 Mellin saw the face of Helene de Vaurigard, luminous 
 
 as an angel's. She was an angel — and the others 
 
 211 
 
212 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 were gods. What could be more appropriate in 
 Rome? Lady Mount-Rhyswicke was Jimo, but 
 more beautiful. For himself, he felt like a god too, 
 Olympic in serenity. 
 
 He longed for mysterious dangers. How debonair 
 he would stroll among them! He wished to explore 
 the unknown; felt the need of a splendid adventm-e, 
 and had a happy premonition that one was coming 
 nearer and nearer. He favored himself with a hope- 
 ful vision of the apartment on fire, Robert Russ 
 Mellin smiling negligently among the flames and 
 Madame de Vaurigard kneeling before him in adora- 
 tion. Immersed in delight, he puffed his cigar and 
 let his eyes rest dreamily upon the face of Helene. 
 He was quite undisturbed by an argument, more a 
 commotion than a debate, between Mr. Pedlow and 
 young Cooley. It ended by their rising, the latter 
 overtiuraing a chair in his haste. 
 
 "I don't kno.w the rudiments, don't I?" cried the 
 boy. "You wait! Ole Sneydie and I '11 trim you 
 down! Corni says he '11 play, too. Come on, 
 Mellin." 
 
 "I won't go unless Helene goes," said Mellin. 
 "What are you going to do when you get there?" 
 
 "Alas, my frien'!" exclaimed Madame de Vauri- 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 213 
 
 gard, rising, "is it not what I tol' you? Alwag^s you 
 are never content wizout your play. Yon eome to 
 dinner an' when it is finish' you play, play, play!" 
 
 "Play}" He sprang to his feet. "Bravo! That's 
 the very thing I 've been wanting to do. I knew 
 there was something I wanted to do, but I could n't 
 think what it was." 
 
 Lady Mount-Rhyswicke followed the others into 
 the salon, but Madame de Vaurigard waited just 
 inside the doorway for Mellin. 
 
 "High play!" he cried. "We must play high! 
 I won't play any other way. — I want to play Mgh!" 
 
 "Ah, wicked one! What did I tell you?" 
 
 He caught her hand. "And you must play too, 
 Heltoe." 
 
 "No, no," she laughed breathlessly. 
 
 "Then you 'U watch. Promise you '11 watch me. 
 I won't let you go till you promise to watch me." 
 
 "I shall adore it, my frien' !" 
 
 "Mellin," called Cooley from the other room. 
 "You comin' or not?" 
 
 "Can't you see me?" answered Mellin hilariously, 
 entering with Madame de Vaurigard, who was rosy 
 with laughter. "Peculiar thing to look at a man 
 and not see him." 
 
214 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 Candies were lit in many sconces on the walls, and 
 the card-table had been pushed to the centre of the 
 room, little towers of blue, white and scarlet counters 
 arranged upon it in orderly rows like miniature 
 caslJeg. 
 
 "Now, then," demanded Cooley, "are the ladies 
 goin' to play?" 
 
 "Never!" cried Madame de Vaurigard. 
 
 "All right," said the youth cheerfully; "you can 
 look on. Come and sit by me for a mascot." 
 
 "You '11 need a mascot, my boy!" shouted Ped- 
 low. "That 's right, though; take her." 
 
 He pushed a chair close to that in which Cooley 
 had already seated himself, and Madame de Vauri- 
 gard dropped into it, laughing. "Mellin, you set 
 there," he continued, pushing the young man into 
 a seat opposite Cooley. "We '11 give both you young 
 fellers a mascot." He turned to Lady Mount- 
 Rhys wicke, who had gone to the settee by the fire. 
 "Madge, you come and set by MeUin," he com- 
 manded jovially. "Maybe he '11 forget you ain't 
 a widow again." 
 
 "I don't believe I care much about bein' any- 
 body's mascot to-night," she answered. There 
 was a hint of anger in her tired monotone. 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 215 
 
 "What?" He turned from the table and walked 
 over to the &eplace. "I reckon I didn't under- 
 stand you," he said quietly, almost gently. "You 
 better come, had n't you?" 
 
 She met his inscrutable little eyes steadily. A 
 faint redness slowly revealed itself on her pow- 
 dered cheeks; then she followed him back to the 
 table and took the place he had assigned to her 
 at Mellin's elbow. 
 
 "I 'U bank," said Pedlow, taking a chair between 
 Cooley and the Italian, "unless somebody wants 
 to take it off my hands. Now, what are we 
 playing?" 
 
 "Pokah," responded Sneyd with mild sarcasm. 
 
 "Bravo!" cried Mellia. "That 's my game. 
 Ber-ra«o.'" 
 
 This was so far true; it was the only game upon 
 which he had ever ventured money; he had pJayed 
 several times when the wagers were allowed to 
 reach a limit of twenty-five cents. 
 
 "You know what I mean, I reckon," said Pad- 
 low. "I mean what we are playin' fer?" 
 
 "Twenty-five franc limit," responded Cooley 
 authoritatively. "Double for jacks. Play two 
 hours and settle when we quit." 
 
216 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 Mellin leaned back in his chair. "You call 
 that hii^?" he asked, with a sniff of contempt. 
 "Why not double it?" 
 
 The fat man hammered the table with his fist 
 del^htedly. " 'He 's game,' she says. 'He 's the 
 gamest little Indian ever come down the big road!' 
 she says. Was she right? What? Maybe she 
 was n't! We '11 double it before very long, my 
 boy; this '11 do to start on. There." He distributed 
 some of the small towers of ivory counters and 
 made a memorandum in a notebook. "There 's 
 four hundred apiece." 
 
 "That all?" inquired Mellin, whereupon Mr. 
 Pedlow uproariously repeated Madame de Vauri- 
 gard's alleged tribute. 
 
 As the game began, the intelligent-looking maid 
 appealed from the dining-room, bearing bottles of 
 whiskey and soda, and these she deposited upon 
 small tables at the convenience of the players, 
 so that at the conclusion of the first encounter 
 in the gentle tournament there was material for 
 a toast to the gallant who had won it. 
 
 "Here 's to the gamest Indian of us all," proposed 
 the fat man. "Did you notice him call me with 
 a pair of tens? And me queen-high!" 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 217 
 
 Mellin drained a deep glass in honor of himself. 
 "On my soul, Chan' Pedlow, I think you 're the 
 bes' fellow in the whole world," he said grate- 
 fully. "Only trouble with you — you don't want 
 to play high enough." 
 
 He won again and again, adding other towers 
 of counters to his original allotment, so that he 
 had the semblance of a tiny castle. When the 
 cards had been dealt for the fifth time he felt the 
 light contact of a slipper touching his foot under 
 the table. 
 
 That slipper, he decided (from the nature of 
 things) could belong to none other than his Hel6ne, 
 and even as he came to this conclusion the slight 
 pressure against his foot was gently but distinctly 
 increased thrice. He pressed the slipper in return 
 with his shoe, at the same time giving Madame 
 dr Vaurigard a look of grateful surprise and ten- 
 derness, which threw her into a confusion so evi- 
 dently genuine that for an unworthy moment 
 he had a jealous suspicion she had meant the little 
 caress for some other. 
 
 It was a disagreeable thought, and, in the hope 
 of banishing it, he refilled his glass; but his mood 
 had begun to change. It seemed to him that Helene 
 
218 mS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 was watching Cooley a great deal too devotedly. 
 Why had she consented to sit by Cooley, when 
 she had promised to watch Robert Russ Mellin? 
 He observed the pair stealthily. 
 
 Cooley consulted her in laughing whispers upon 
 every discard, upon every bet. Now and then, 
 in their whisperings, Cooley 's hair touched hers; 
 sometimes she laid her hand on his the more con- 
 veniently to look at his cards. Mdlia began to 
 be enraged. Did she think that puling milksop 
 had as much as a shadow of the daring, the devilry, 
 the carelessness of consequences which lay within 
 Robert Russ Mellin? "Consequences?" What 
 were they? There were no such things! She would 
 not look at him — well, he would make her! Thence- 
 forward he raised every bet by another to the 
 extent of the limit agreed upon. 
 
 Mr. Cooley was thoroughly happy. He did not 
 resemble Ulysses; he would never have had himself 
 botmd to the mast; and there were already sounds 
 ol unearthly sweetness in his ears. His conferences 
 with his lovely hostess easily consoled him for his 
 losses. In addition, he was triumphing over the 
 boaster, for Mr. Pedlow, with a very ill grace and 
 swearing (not under his breath), was losing too 
 
mS OWN PEOPLE 219 
 
 The CoTintess, reiterating for the hundredth time that 
 Cooley was a "wicked one," sweetly constituted 
 herself his cup-bearer; kept his glass full and brought 
 him freah cigars. 
 
 Mellin dealt her furious glances, and filled his 
 own glass, for Lady Mount-Rhyswicke plainly had 
 no conception of herself in the r61e of a Hebe. The 
 hospitable Pedlow, observing this neglect, was 
 moved to chide her. 
 
 "Look at them two cooing doves over there," he 
 said reproachfully, a jerk of his bulbous thumb 
 indicating Madame de Vaurigard and her young 
 protege. "Madge, can't you do nothin' fer our 
 friend the Indian? Can't you even help him to 
 sody?" 
 
 "Oh, perhaps," she answered with the slightest 
 flash from her tired eyes. Then she nonchalantly 
 lifted Mellin's replenished glass from the table and 
 drained it. This amused Cooley. 
 
 "I like that!" he chuckled. "That 's one way of 
 helpin' a feller! Helene, can you do any better 
 than that?" 
 
 "Ah, this dear, droll Cooley!" 
 
 The tantaUzing witch Ufted the youth's glass 
 to his lips and let him drink, as a mother 
 
220 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 helps a thirsty child. "Bebe!" she laughed en- 
 dearingly. 
 
 As the lovely Helene pronounced that word, Lady 
 Mount-RJiyswicke was leaning forward to replace 
 MeDia's empty glass upon the table. 
 
 "I don't care whether you 're a widow or not!" 
 he shouted furiously. And he resoundingly kissed 
 her massive shoulder. 
 
 There was a wild shout of laughter; even the 
 imperturbable Sneyd (who had continued to win 
 steadily) wiped tears from his eyes, and Madame de 
 Vaurigard gave way to intermittent hysteria through- 
 out the ensuing half-hour. 
 
 For a time Mellin sat grimly observing this in- 
 explicable merriment with a cold smile. 
 
 "Laugh on!" he commanded with bitter satire, 
 some ten minutes after play had been resumed — 
 and was instantly obeyed. 
 
 Whereupon his mood underwent another change, 
 and he became convinced that the world was a 
 warm and kindly place, where it was good to live. 
 He forgot that he was jealous of Cooley and 
 angry with the Countess; he Uked every- 
 body again, especially Lady Mount-Rhyswicke. 
 "Won't you sit farther forward?" he begged her 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE «21 
 
 earnestly; "so that I can see your beautiful golden 
 hair?" 
 
 He heard but dimly the spasmodic uproar that 
 followed. "Laugh on!" he repeated with a swoop 
 of his arm. "I don't care! Don't you care either, 
 Mrs. Mount-Rhyswicke. Please sit where I can see 
 your beautiful golden hair. Don't be afraid I 'II kiss 
 you again. I would n't do it for the whole world. 
 You 're one of the noblest women I ever knew. I feel 
 that 's true. I don't know how I know it, but I 
 know it. Let 'em laugh !" 
 
 After this everything grew more and more hazy 
 to him. For a time there was, in the centre of the 
 haze, a nimbus of light which revealed his cards to 
 him and the towers of chips which he constantly 
 called for and which as constantly disappeared — ■ 
 like the towers of a castle in Spain. Then the haze 
 thickeaed, and the one thing clear to him was a 
 phrase from an old-time novel he had read l(mg ago: 
 
 "Debt of honor." 
 
 The three words appeared to be written in flames 
 against a background of dense fog. A debt of honor 
 was a promissory note which had to be paid on 
 Monday, and the appeal to the obdurate grand- 
 father — a peer of England, the Earl of Mount- 
 
^22 mS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 Rhyswicke, in fact — was made at midnight, Sunday. 
 The fog grew still denser, lifted for a moment while 
 he wrote his name many times on slips of blue paper; 
 closed down once more, and again lifted — out-of- 
 doors this time — ^to show him a lunatic ballet of 
 moons dancing streakUy upon the horizon. 
 
 He heard himseK say quite clearly, "AU right, old 
 man, thank you; but don't bother about me," to a 
 paUid but humorous Cooley in evening clothes; 
 the fog thickened; obhvion closed upon him for a 
 seeming second. . . . 
 
CHAPTER Vn 
 
 THE NEXT MORNING 
 
 SUDDENLY he sat up in bed in his room 
 at the Magnifique, gazing upon a disconsolate 
 Cooley in gray tweeds who sat heaped in a 
 chair at the foot of the bed with his head in his 
 hands. 
 
 MeUin's first sensation was of utter mystification; 
 his second was more corporeal: the consciousness 
 of physical misery, of consuming fever, of aches that 
 ran over his whole body, converging to a dreadful 
 climax in his head, of a throat so immoderately 
 parched it seemed to crackle, and of a thirst so avid 
 it was a passion. His eye fell upon a carafe of water 
 on a chair at his bedside; he seized upon it with a 
 shaking hand and drank half its contents before he 
 set it down. The action attracted his companion's 
 attention and he looked up, showing a pale and 
 haggard countenance. 
 
 "How do you feel?" inquired Cooley with a wan 
 
 smile. 
 
 223 
 
^24 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 Mellin's head dropped back upon the pillow and 
 he made one or two painful efforts to speak before 
 he succeeded in finding a ghastly semblance of his 
 voice. 
 
 "I thought I was at Madame de Vaurigard's." 
 
 "You were," said the other, adding grimly: 
 "We both were." 
 
 "But that was only a minute ago." 
 
 "It was six hours ago. It 's goin' on ten o'clock 
 in the morning." 
 
 "I don't understand how that can be. How did 
 I get here?" 
 
 "I brought you. I was pretty bad, but you ' 
 
 I never saw anything like you! From the time you 
 kissed Lady Mount-Rhyswicke " 
 
 Mellin sat bolt upright in bed, staring wildly. 
 He began to tremble violently. 
 
 "Don't you remember that.?" asked Gjoley. 
 
 Suddenly he did. The memory of it came with 
 inexorable clarity; he crossed forearms over his 
 horror-stricken face and fell back upon the pillow. 
 
 "Oh," he gasped. "Un-speakable ! Un-speak- 
 able!" 
 
 "Lord! Don't worry about that! I don't think 
 she minded." 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 225 
 
 "It 's the thought of Madame de Vaurigard — it 
 kills me! The horror of it — ^that I should do such a 
 thing in her house! She '11 never speak to me again, 
 she ought n't to; she ought to send her groom to beat 
 me! You can't think what I 've lost " 
 
 "Can't I?" Mr. Cooley rose from his chair and 
 began to pace up and down the chamber. "I can 
 guess to within a thousand francs of what J 'eelost! 
 I had to get the hotel to cash a check on New York 
 for me this morning. I 've a habit of carrying all my 
 money in bills, and a fool trick, too. Well, I 'm cured 
 of it!" 
 
 "Oh, if it were only a little money and nothing 
 else that I 'd lost! The money means nothing." 
 Mellin choked. 
 
 "I suppose you 're pretty well fixed. Well, so am 
 I," Cooley shook his head, "but money certainly 
 means something to me!" 
 
 "It would n't if you 'd thrown away the most 
 precious friendship of your life." 
 
 "See here," said Cooley, halting at the foot 
 of the bed and looking at his stricken companion 
 from beneath frowning brows, "I guess I can see 
 how it is with you, and I '11 tell you frankly it 's 
 been the same with me. I never met such a fas- 
 
226 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 cinatin' woman in my life: she throws a reg'ler 
 ole-fashioned spell over you! Now I hate to say 
 it, but I can't help it, because it plain hits me 
 in the face every time I tljink of it; the truth is 
 — well, sir, I 'm afraid you and me have had little 
 red soldier-coats and caps put on us and strings 
 tied to our belts while we turned somersets for 
 the children." 
 
 "I don't imderstand. I don't know what you 're 
 talking about." 
 
 "No? It seems to get more and more simple 
 to me. I 've been thinking it all over and over 
 again. I can't helf it! See here: I met Sneyd 
 on the steamer, without any introduction. He 
 sort of warmed into the game in the smoking-room, 
 and he won straight along the trip. He called on 
 me in London and took me to meet the Countess 
 at her hotel. We three went to the theatre and 
 lunch and so forth a few times; and when I left 
 for Paris she turned up on the way: that 's when 
 you met her. Couple of days later, Sneyd came 
 over, and he and the Countess introduced me 
 to dear ole friend Pedlow. So you see, I don't 
 rightly even know who any of 'em really are: just 
 took 'em for granted, as it were. We had lots 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 227 
 
 of fun, I admit that, honldn' about in my car. 
 We only played cards once, and that was in her 
 apartment the last night before I left Paris, but 
 that one time Pedlow won fifteen thousand francs 
 from me. When I told them my plans, how I was 
 goin' to motor down to Rome, she said she would 
 be in Rome — and, I tell you, I was happy as a 
 poodle-pup about it. Sneyd said he might be m. 
 Rome along about then, and open-hearted ole 
 Pedlow said not to be surprised if he turned up, 
 too. Well, he did, almost to the minute, and ia 
 the meantime she 'd got you hooked on, fine and 
 tight." 
 
 "I don't understand you," Mellin lifted him- 
 self painfully on an elbow. "I don't know what 
 you 're getting at, but it seems to me that you 're 
 speaking disrespectfully of an angel that I 've in- 
 sulted, and I " 
 
 "Now see here, Mellin, I '11 tell you something." 
 The boy's white face showed sudden color and 
 there was a catch in his voice. "I was — ^I 've been 
 mighty near in love with that woman! But I've 
 had a kind of a shock; I 've got my common-sense 
 back, and I 'm not, any more. I don't know exactly 
 how much money I had, but it was between thirty- 
 
288 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 five and thirty-eight thousand francs, aad Sneyd 
 won it all after we took off the limit — over seven 
 thousand dollars — at her table last night. Putting 
 two and two together, honestly it looks bad. It 
 looks mighty bad! Now, I 'm pretty well fixed, 
 and yesterday I didn't care whether school kept 
 or not, but seven thousand dollars is real money 
 to anybody! My old man worked pietty hard 
 for his first seven thousand, I guess, and" — ^he 
 gulped — "he 'd think a lot of me for lettin' go of 
 it the way I did last night, wouldn't he? You 
 never see things like this till the next morning! 
 And you remember that other woman sat where 
 she could see every hand you drew, and the 
 Countess " 
 
 "Stop!" Mellin flung one arm up violently, 
 striking the bedboard with his knuckles. "I 
 won't hear a syllable against Madame de Vaurigard !" 
 
 Young Cooley regarded him steadily for a mo- 
 ment. "Have you remembered yet," he said 
 slowly, "how much you lost last night?" 
 
 "I only remember that I behaved like an un- 
 speakable boor in the presence of the divinest 
 creature that ever " 
 
 Cooley disregarded the outburst, and said: 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 229 
 
 "When we settled, you had a pad of express 
 company checks worth six hundred dollars. You 
 signed all of 'em and turned 'em over to &ieyd 
 with three one-hundred-lire bills, which was all 
 the cash you had with you. Then you gave 
 him your note for twelve thousand francs to 
 be paid within three days. You made a great 
 deal of fuss about its being a 'debt of honor.' " 
 He paused. "You had n't remembered that, had 
 
 you.?" 
 
 Mellin had closed his eyes. He lay quite still 
 and made no answer. 
 
 "No, I '11 bet you had n't," said Cooley, correctly 
 deducing the fact. "You 're well off, or you would n't 
 be at this hotel, and, for all I know, you may 
 be fixed so you won't mind your loss as much as 
 I do mine; but it ought to make you kind of char- 
 itable toward my suspicions of Madame de Vauri- 
 gard's frieads." 
 
 The six hundred dollars in express company 
 checks and the three hundred-lire bills were all 
 the money the unhappy Mellin had in the world, 
 and until he could return to Cranston and go back 
 to work in the real-estate office again, he had no 
 prospect of any more. He had not even his steamer 
 
230 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 ticket. In the shock of horror and despair he 
 whispered brokenly: 
 
 "I don't care if they 're the worst people in the 
 world, they 're better than I am!" 
 
 The other's gloom cleared a little at this. "Well, 
 you heme got it!" he exclaimed briskly. "You 
 don't know how diflferent you '11 feel after a long 
 walk in the open air." He looked at his watch. 
 "I 've got to go and see what that newspaper- 
 man, Cornish, wants; it 's ten o'clock. I '11 be back 
 after a while; I want to reason this out with you. 
 I don't deny but it 's possible I 'm wrong; any- 
 way, you think it over while I 'm gone. You take 
 a good hard think, will you?" 
 
 As he closed the door, Mellin slowly drew the 
 coverlet over his head. It was as if he covered 
 the face of some one who had just died. 
 
CHAPTER Vin 
 
 WHAT CORNISH KNEW 
 
 TWO hours passed before young Cooley re- 
 turned. He knocked twice without a 
 reply; then he came in. 
 
 The coverlet was still over Mellin's head. 
 
 "Asleep.''" asked Cooley. 
 
 "No." 
 
 The coverlet was removed by a shaking hand. 
 
 "Murder!" exclaimed Cooley sympathetically, at 
 sight of the other's face. "A night off certainly 
 does things to you! Better let me get you some " 
 
 "No. I '11 be all right— after while." 
 
 "Then I '11 go ahead with our little troubles. 
 
 I 've decided to leave for Paris by the one-thirty 
 
 and have n't got a whole lot of time. Cornish 
 
 is here with me in the hall : he 's got something to 
 
 say that 's important for you to hear, and I 'm 
 
 goin' to bring him right in." He waved his hand 
 
 toward the door, which he had left open. "Come 
 
 along, Cornish. Poor ole Mellin '11 play Du Barry 
 
 231 
 
232 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 with us and give us a morning leevy while he listens 
 in a bed with a palanquin to it. Now let 's draw 
 up chairs and be sociable." 
 
 Ite journalist came in, smoking a long cigar, 
 and took the chair the youth pushed toward him; 
 but, after a twinkling glance through his big spec- 
 tacles at the face on the pillow, he rose and threw 
 the cigar out of the window. 
 
 "Go ahead," said Cooley. "I want you to tell 
 hina just what you told me, and when you 're 
 tlKTOUgh I want to see if he does n't think I 'm 
 Sbesiock Holmes' little brother." 
 
 "If Mr. Mellin does not feel too iU," said Cor- 
 nish dryly; "I know how painful such cases some- 
 times " 
 
 "No." Mellin moistened his parched lips and 
 made a pitiful effort to smile. "I '11 be all right 
 vesy soon." 
 
 "I am very sorry," began the joTimalist, 
 "thftt I was n't able to get a few words 
 with Mr. Cooley yesterday evening. Perhaps 
 y<Hi noticed that I tried as hard as I could, 
 without using actual force" — ^he laughed — "to de- 
 tain him." 
 
 "You did your best," agreed Codey ruefully. 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 233 
 
 "and I did my worst. Nobody ever listens till 
 the next day!" 
 
 "Well, I 'm glad no vital damage was done, 
 anyway," said Cornish. "It would have been 
 pretty hard lines if you two young fellows had been 
 'poor men, but as it is you 're probably none the 
 worse for a lesson like this." 
 
 "You seem to think seven thousand dollars is 
 a joke," remarked Cooley. 
 
 Cornish laughed again. "You see, it flatters 
 me to think my time was so valuable that a ten 
 minutes' talk with me would have saved so much 
 money." 
 
 "I doubt it," said Cooley. "Ten to one we 'd 
 neither of us have believed you — ^last night!" 
 
 "I doubt it, too." Cornish turned to Mellin. 
 "I hear that you, Mr. Mellin, are still of the opinioa- 
 that you were dealing with straight people."*" 
 
 Mellin managed to whisper "Yes." 
 
 "Then," said Cornish, "I 'd better tell you just 
 what I know about it, and you can form your 
 own opinion as to whether I do know or not. I 
 have been in the newspaper business on this side 
 for fifteen years, and my headquarters are in Paris, 
 where these people are very well known. The 
 
234 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 man who calls himself 'Chandler Pedlow' was a 
 faro-dealer for Tom Stout in Chicago when Stout's 
 place was broken up, a good many years ago. There 
 was a real Chandler Pedlow in Congress from a 
 California district in the early nineties, but he 
 is dead. This man's name is Ben Welch: he 's a 
 professional swindler; and the Englishman, Sneyd, 
 is another; a quiet man, not so well known as Welch, 
 and not nearly so clever, but a good 'feeder' for 
 him. The very attractive Frenchwoman who calls 
 herself 'Countess de Vaurigard' is generally be- 
 lieved to be Sneyd's wife, though I could not take 
 the stand on that myself. Welch is the brains 
 of the organization: you might n't think it, but 
 he 's a very brilliant man — ^he might have made 
 a great reputation in business if he 'd been straight 
 — and, with this woman's help, he 's carried out 
 some really astonishing schemes. His manner is 
 clumsy; he knows that, bless you, but it 's the only 
 manner he can manage, and she is so adroit she 
 can sugar-coat even such a pill as that and coax 
 people to swallow it. I don't know anything about 
 the Italian who is working with them down here. 
 But a gang of the Welch- Vaurigard-Sneyd type 
 has tentacles all over the Continent; such people 
 
mS OWN PEOPLE 235 
 
 are in touch with sharpers everywhere, you 
 see." 
 
 "Yes," Cooley interpolated, "and with woolly 
 little lambkins, too." 
 
 "Well," chuckled Comish, "that 's the way they 
 make their living, you know." 
 
 "Go on and tell him the rest of it," urged Cooley. 
 
 "About Lady Mount-Rhyswicke," said Comish, 
 "it seems strange enough, but she had a perfect 
 right to her name. She is a good deal older than 
 she looks, and I've heard she used to be remark- 
 ably beautiful. Her third husband was Lord 
 George Mount-Rhyswicke, a man who 'd been 
 dropped from his clubs, and he deserted her in 
 1903, but she had not divorced him. It is said 
 that he is somewhere in South America; however, 
 as to that I do not know." 
 
 Mr. Comish put the very slightest possible em- 
 phasis on the word "know," and proceeded: 
 
 "I 've heard that she is sincerely attached to 
 him and sends him money from time to time, when 
 she has it — ^though that, too, is third-hand in- 
 formation. She has been declasse ever since her 
 first divorce. That was a 'celebrated case,' and 
 she 's dropped down pretty far in the world, though 
 
236 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 I judge she 's a good deal the best of this crowd. 
 Exactly what her relations to the others are I 
 don't know, but I imagine that she 's pretty thick 
 with 'em." 
 
 "Just a little!" exclaimed Cooley. "She sits 
 behind one of the lambkins and Helene behind 
 the other while they get their woolly wool clipped. 
 I suppose the two of 'em signaled what was in 
 every hand we held, though I 'm sure they need n't 
 have gone to the trouble! Fact is, I don't see why 
 they bothered about goin' through the form of 
 playin' cards with us at all. They could have 
 taken it away without that! Whee!" Mr. Cooley 
 whistled loud and long. "And there 's loads of 
 wise young men on the ocean now, hurryin' over 
 to take our places in the pens. Well, they can 
 have mine! Funny, Mellin: nobody would come 
 up to you or me in the Grand Central in New 
 York and try to sell us greenbacks just as good 
 as real. But we come over to Europe with our 
 pockets full o' money and start in to see the Big 
 City with Jesse James in a false mustache on one 
 arm, and Lucresha Borgy, under an assumed name, 
 on the other!" 
 
 "I am afraid I agree with you," said Cornish; 
 
fflS OWN PEOPLE 237 
 
 "though I must say that, from all I hear, Madame 
 de Vaurigard might put an atmosphere about a 
 thing which would deceive almost any one who 
 was n't on his guard. When a Parisienne of her 
 sort is clever at all she 's irresistible." 
 
 "I believe you," Cooley sighed deeply. 
 
 "Yesterday evening, Mr. Mellin," continued the 
 journalist, "when I saw the son of my old friend 
 in company with Welch and Sneyd, of course I 
 tried to warn him. I 've often seen them in Paris, 
 though I believe they have no knowledge of me. 
 As I 've said, they are notorious, especially Welch, 
 yet' they have managed, so far, to avoid any diffi- 
 culty with the Paris police, and, I 'm sorry to say, 
 it might be hard to actually prove anything against 
 them. You could n't prove that anything was 
 crooked last night, for instance. For that matter, 
 I don't suppose you want to. Mr. Cooley wishes 
 to accept his loss and bear it, and I take it that 
 that will be your attitude, too. In regard to the 
 note you gave Sneyd, I hope you will refuse to 
 pay; I don't think that they would dare press the 
 matter." 
 
 "Neither do I," Mr. Cooley agreed. "I left 
 a silver cigarette-case at the apartment last night, 
 
238 fflS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 and after talkin' to Comisli a while ago, I sent 
 my man for it with a note to her that '11 make 'em 
 all sit up and take some notice. The gang 's all there 
 together, you can be sure. I asked for Sneyd and 
 Pedlow in the office and found they 'd gone out 
 early this morning leavin' word they would n't be 
 back tiU midnight. And, see here; I know I 'm 
 easy, but somehow I beheve you 're even a softer 
 piece o' meat than I am. I want you to promise me 
 that whatever happens you won't pay that I O U." 
 
 Mellin moistened his lips in vain. He could 
 not answer. 
 
 "I want you to promise me not to pay it," re- 
 peated Cooley earnestly. 
 
 "I promise," gasped Mellin. 
 
 "You won't pay it no matter what they do?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 This seemed to reassure Mr. Cooley. 
 
 "Well," he said, "I 've got to hustle to get my 
 car shipped and make the train. Cornish has 
 finished his job down here and he 's goin' with me. 
 I want to get out. The whole thing 's left a mighty 
 bad taste in my mouth, and I 'd go crazy if I did n't 
 get away from it. WTiy don't you jump into your 
 clothes and come along, too?" 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 239 
 
 "I can't." 
 
 "Well," said the young man with a sympathetic 
 shake of the head, "you certainly look sick. It 
 may be better if you stay in bed till evening: a 
 train 's a mighty mean place for the day after. But 
 I would n't hang around here too long. If you 
 want money, all you have to do is to ask the hotel 
 to cash a check on your home bank; they 're al- 
 ways glad to do that for Americans." He turned 
 to the door. "Mr. Cornish, if you 're goin' to help 
 me about shippin' the car, I 'm ready." 
 
 "So am I. Good-by, Mr. Mellin." 
 
 "Good-by," MeUin said feebly— "and thank you." 
 
 Young Cooley came back to the bedside and 
 shook the other's feverish hand. "Good-by, ole 
 man. I 'm awful sorry it 's aU happened, but 
 I 'm glad it did n't cost you quite as much money 
 as it did me. Otherwise I expect it 's hit us about 
 equally hard. I wish — 1 wish I could find a nice 
 one" — the youth gulped over something not un- 
 like a sob — "as fascinatia' as her!" 
 
 Most people have had dreams of approaching 
 dangers in the path of which their bodies remained 
 inert; when, in spite of the frantic wish to fly, it 
 was impossible to move, while all the time the 
 
240 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 horror crept closer and closer. This was Mellm's 
 state as he saw the young man going. It was 
 absolutely necessary to ask Cooley for help, to 
 beg him for a loan. But he could not. 
 
 He saw Cooley's hand on the doorknob; saw 
 the door swing open. 
 
 "Good-by, ^ain," Cooley said; "and good luck 
 to you!" 
 
 Mellin's will strove desperately with the shame 
 that held him silent. 
 
 The door was closing. 
 
 "Oh, Cooley," called Mellin hoarsely. 
 
 "Yes. What.?" 
 
 "J-j-just good-by," said Mellin. 
 
 And with that young Cooley was gone. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 EXPIATION 
 
 A MULTITUDINOUS clangor of bells and a 
 dozen neighboring chimes rang noon; then 
 the rectangular oblongs of hot sunlight 
 that fell from the windows upon the carpet of 
 MelUn's room began imperceptibly to shift their 
 angles and move eastward. From the stone pave- 
 ment of the street below came the sound of horses 
 pawing and the voices of waiting cabmen; then 
 bells again, and more bells; clamoring the slow and 
 cruel afternoon into the past. But all was silent 
 in Mellin's room, save when, from time to time, a 
 long, shuddering sigh came from the bed. 
 
 The unhappy young man had again drawn the 
 coverlet over his head, but not to sleep: it was 
 more like a forlorn and desperate effort to hide, 
 as if he crept into a hole, seeking darkness to cover 
 liie shame and fear that racked his soul. For 
 though his shame had been too great to let him 
 confess to young Cooley and ask for help, his fear 
 was as great as his shame; and it increased as the 
 
 241 
 
242 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 hours passed. In truth his case was desperate. 
 Except the people who had stripped him, Cooley 
 was the only person in all of Europe with whom 
 he had more than a very casual acquaintance. 
 At home, in Cranston, he had no friends suscep- 
 tible to such an appeal as it was vitally necessary 
 for him to make. His relatives were not numerous: 
 there were two aunts, the widows of his father's 
 brothers, and a number of old-maid cousins; and 
 he had an uncle in Iowa, a country minister whom 
 he had not seen for years. But he could not cable 
 to any of these for money; nor could he quite con- 
 jm-e his imagination into picturing any of them 
 sending it if he did. And even to cable he would 
 have to pawn his watch, which was an old-fashioned 
 one of silver and might not bring enough to pay 
 the charges. 
 
 He began to be haunted by fragmentary, prophetic 
 visions — confused but realistic in detail, and hor- 
 ribly probable — of his ejectment from the hotel, 
 perhaps arrest and trial. He wondered what they 
 did in Italy to people who "beat" hotels; and, 
 remembering what some one had told him of the 
 dreadfulness of Itahan jails, convulsive shudder- 
 ings seized upon him- 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 243 
 
 The ruddy oblongs of sunlight crawled nearer 
 to the east wall of the room, stretching themselves 
 thinner and thinner, until finally they were not 
 there at all, and the room was left in deepening 
 grayness. Carriages, one after the other, in unin- 
 termittent succession, rumbled up to the hotel- 
 entrance beneath the window, bringing goldfish for 
 the aquarium from the music pond on the Pincio 
 and the fountains of Villa Borghese. Wild strains 
 from the Hungarian orchestra, rhapsodical twank- 
 ings of violins, and the runaway arpeggios of a 
 zither cra2sed with speed-mania, skipped along the 
 corridors and hghtly through Mellin's door. In 
 his mind's eye he saw the gay crowd in the watery 
 light, the little tables where only five days ago 
 he had sat with the loveliest of all the anemone- 
 like ladies. . . . 
 
 The beautifully-dressed tea-drinkers were there 
 now, under the green glass dome, prattling and 
 smiling, those people he had called his own. And 
 as the music sounded louder, faster, wilder and 
 wUder with the gipsy madness — then in that dark- 
 ening bedchamber his soul became articulate in a 
 cry of humiliation: 
 
 "God in His mercy forgive me, how raw I was!" 
 
244 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 A VISION came before his closed eyes; the maple- 
 bordered street in Cranston, the long, straight, 
 wide street where Mary Kramer lived; a summer 
 twilight; Mary in her white muslin dress on the 
 veranda steps, and a wistaria vine climbing the 
 post beside her, half-embowering her. How cool 
 and sweet and good she looked! How dear — and 
 how hind! — ^she had always been to him. 
 
 Dusk stole through the windows: the music ceased 
 and the tea-hour was over. The carriages were 
 departing, bearing the gay people who went away 
 laughing, calling last words to one another, and, 
 naturally, quite imaware that a young man, who, 
 five days before, had adopted them and called 
 them "his own," was lying in a darkened room 
 above them, and crying like a chUd upon his piUow. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 THE CAB AT THE CORNER 
 
 AT ten o'clock, a page bearing a card upoH 
 a silver tray knocked upon the door, 
 and stared with wide-eyed astonishment 
 at the disordered gentleman who opened it. 
 
 The card was Lady Momit-Rhyswicke's. Under- 
 neath the name was written: 
 
 If you are there will you give me a few minutes? I am waiting 
 in a cab at the next corner by the fountain. 
 
 Mellin's hand shook as he read. He did not 
 doubt that she came as an emissary; probably 
 they meant to hound him for payment of the Bote 
 he had given Sneyd, and at that thought he could 
 have shrieked with hysterical laughter. 
 
 "Do you speak English?" he asked. 
 
 "Spik little. Yes." 
 
 "Who gave you this card?" 
 
 "Coachman," said the boy. "He wait risposta." 
 
 "Tell him to say that I shall be there in five 
 
 minutes." 
 
 245 
 
246 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 "Fi' minute. Yes. Good-by." 
 
 Mellin was partly dressed — ^he had risen haJf 
 an hour earlier and had been distractedly pacing 
 the floor when the page knocked— and he com- 
 pleted his toilet quickly. He passed down the 
 corridors, descended by the stairway (feeling that 
 to use the elevator would be another abuse of the 
 confidence of the hotel company) and slunk across 
 the lobby with the look and the sensations of a 
 tramp who knows that he will be kicked into the 
 street if anybody catches sight of him. 
 
 A closed cab stood near the fountain at the next 
 comer. There was a trunk on the box by the 
 driver, and the roof was piled with bags and rugs. 
 He approached imcertainly. 
 
 "Is — ^is this — ^is it Lady Mount-Rhyswicke?" he 
 stammered pitifuUy. 
 
 She opened the door. 
 
 "Yes. Will you get in? We 'U just drive round 
 the block if you don't mind. I 'U bring you back 
 here ia ten minutes." And when he had tremu- 
 lously complied, "Avanti, cocchiere," she called to 
 the driver, and the tired little cab-horse began to 
 draw them slowly along the deserted street. 
 
 Lady Mount-Rhyswicke maintained silence for a 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 247 
 
 time, while her companion waited, his heart pound- 
 ing with dreadful apprehension. Finally she gave 
 a short, hard laugh and said: 
 
 "I saw your face by the comer Ught. Been 
 havin' a hard day of it?" 
 
 The fear of breaking down kept him from an- 
 swering. He gulped painfully once or twice, and 
 turned his face away from her. Light enough 
 from a street-lamp shone in for her to see. 
 
 "I was rather afraid you 'd refuse," she said 
 seriously. "Really, I wonder you were wiUin' to 
 come!" 
 
 "I was — ^I was afraid not to." He choked out 
 the confession with the recklessness of final despair. 
 
 "So?" she said, with another short laugh. Then 
 she resumed her even, tired monotone: "Your 
 little friend Cooley's note this morning gave us all 
 a rather fair notion as to what you must be thinkia' 
 of us. He seems to have found a sort of waUdn' 
 'Who's- Who-on-the-Continent' since last night. Pity 
 for some people he didn't find it before! I don't 
 think I'm sympathetic with your httle Codey. 
 I 'guess,' as you Yankees say, 'he can stand it.' 
 But" — ^her voice suddenly became louder — "I 'm 
 not in the business of robbin' babies and orphams. 
 
248 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 mo, my dear friends, nor of helpin' anybody else 
 to rob them either! — ^Here you are!" 
 
 She thrust into his hand a small packet, securely 
 wrapped in paper and fastened with rubber bands. 
 "There 's your block of express checks for six hun- 
 dred dollars and your I O U to Sneyd with it. 
 Take better care of.it next time." 
 
 He had been tremulous enough, but at that his 
 whole body began to shake violently. 
 
 "What!" he quavered. 
 
 "I say, take better care of it next time," she 
 said, dropping again into her monotone. "I did. n't 
 have such an easy time gettin' it back from them 
 as you might think. I 've got rather a sore wrist, 
 in fact." 
 
 She paused at an inarticulate sound from him. 
 
 "Oh, that 's soon mended," she laughed drearily. 
 "The truth is, it 's been a good thing for me — • 
 y®ur turning up. They 're gettin' in too deep 
 water for me, Helene and her friends, and I 've 
 brek«a with the lot, or they 've broken with me, 
 whidiever it is. We could n't hang together after 
 the fightin' we 've done to-day. I had to do a 
 lot of threatenin' and things. Welch was ugly, so 
 I had to be ugly too. Never mind" — she checked 
 
fflS OWN PEOPLE 249 
 
 an uncertain effort of his to speak — "I saw what 
 you were hke, soon as we sat down at the table 
 last night — ^how new you were and all that. It 
 needed only a glance to see that Helene had made 
 a mistake about you. She 'd got a notion you 
 were a millionaire like the little Cooley, but I 
 knew better from your talk. . She 's clever, but 
 she 's French, and she can't get it out of her head 
 that you could be an American and not a miUion- 
 aire. Of course^ they all knew better when you 
 brought out your express checks and talked like 
 somebody in one of the old-time story-books about 
 'debts of honor.' Even Helene understood then 
 that the express checks were all you had." She 
 laughed. "I did n't have any trouble gettin' the 
 note back!" 
 
 She paused again for a moment, then resumed: 
 "There is n't much use our goin' over it aU, but I 
 want you to know one thing. Your httle friend 
 Cooley made it rather clear that he accused Helene 
 and me of signalin'. Well, I did n't. Perhaps that 's 
 the reason you did n't lose as much as he did; I 
 can't say. And one thing more: all this is n't goin' 
 to do you any harm. I 'm not very keen about 
 philosophy and religion and that, but I believe 
 
250 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 if you 're let in for a lot of trouble, and it oatdy kc^ 
 kills you, you can get some good of it." 
 
 "Do you think," he stammered — "do you think 
 I 'm worth saving?" 
 
 She smiled faintly and said: 
 
 "You Ve probably got a sweetheart in the States 
 somewhere — a nice girl, e pretty young thing who 
 goes to church and thinks you 're a great man, 
 perhaps? Is it so?" 
 
 "I am not worthy," he began, choked suddenly, 
 then finished — "to breathe the same air!" 
 
 "That '3 quite right," Lady Mount-Rhyswidse 
 assured him. "Think what you 'd think of her 
 if she 'd got herself into the same sort of scrape 
 by doin' the things you 've been doin'! And re- 
 member that if you ever feel impatient with her, 
 or have any temptations to superiority in times 
 to come. And yet" — ^for the moment she spoke 
 earnestly — "you go back to your little girl, but 
 don't you tell her a word of this. You could n't even 
 teU her that meetin' you has helped me, because 
 she would n't understand." 
 
 "Nor do L I can't." 
 
 "Oh, it 's simple. I saw that if I was gettin' 
 down to where I was robbin' babies and orphans . . ." 
 
HIS OWN PEOPLE 251 
 
 The cab halted. "Here 's your comer. I told him 
 only to go round the block and come back. 
 Good-by. I 'm off for Amalfi. It 's a good place 
 to rest." 
 
 He got out dazedly, and the driver cracked his 
 whip over the little horse; but Mellin lifted a de- 
 taining hand. 
 
 "A spet'," called Lady Mount-Rhyswicke .to the 
 driver. "What is it, Mr. Mellin?" 
 
 "I can't — ^I can't look you in the face," he stam- 
 mered, his attitude perfectly corroborative of his 
 words. "I would — oh, I would kneel in the dust 
 here before you " 
 
 "Some of the poetry you told me you write?" 
 
 "I 've never written any poetry," he said, not 
 looking up. "Perhaps I can — ^now. What I want 
 to say is — ^I 'm so ashamed of it — ^I don't know how 
 to get the words out, but I must. I may never 
 see you again, and I must. I 'm sorry — ^please 
 try to forgive me — I was n't myself when I did 
 it " 
 
 "Blurt it out; that 's the best way." 
 
 "I 'm sorry," he floundered — "I 'm sorry I kissed 
 
 you." 
 
 She laughed her tired laugh and said in her 
 
252 HIS OWN PEOPLE 
 
 tired voice the last words he was ever destined 
 to hear from her: 
 
 "Oh, I don't mind, if you don't. It was so inno- 
 cent, it was what decided me." 
 
 One of the hundreds of good saints that belong 
 to Rome must have overheard her and pitied the 
 young man, for it is ascribable only to some such 
 special act of mercy that Mellin understood (and 
 he did) exactly what she meant. 
 
THE COUNTRY LIFE FEEaS 
 GARDEN CITY, N. Y.