i£x ICthrts 
 
 SEYMOUR DURST 
 
 "When you leave, please leave this hook 
 
 Because it has heen said 
 " Sver'thing comes t' him who waits 
 
 Except a loaned book." 
 
 OLD YORK LIBRARY — OLD YORK FOUNDATION 
 
 Avery Architfxtural and Fine Arts Library 
 Gift of Seymour B. Durst Old York Library 
 
Digitized by tine Internet Archive 
 in 2013 
 
 http://archive.org/details/newyorkersotherpOOmatli 
 
THE NEW YORKERS 
 AND OTHER PEOPLE 
 
y^/ a 
 
 THE NEW YORKERS 
 AND OTHER PEOPLE 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANCES AYMAR MATHEWS 
 
 AUTHOR OF "a MARRIED MAN," ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 GODFREY A. S. WIENERS 
 
 662 Sixth Avenue 
 1900 
 
Ps 
 
 Copyright, 1899, by 
 GODFREY A. S. WIENERS 
 
 A/! rights reserved 
 
 TROW OlHECTOHY 
 MINTINQ ANO BOOKtlNOINO COMPANY 
 NfW YORK 
 
THIS LITTLE BOOK 
 IS GRATEFULLY AND LOVINGLY 
 INSCRIBED TO AN OLD "NEW YORKER** 
 MARIA T. MOORE 
 ONE OF THE NOBLEST AND SWEETEST OF 
 WOMEN, ONE OF THE LOYALEST AND 
 BEST OF FRIENDS 
 
 F. A. M. 
 
 A'^tf Vori 
 Aug^ist the t-wtntyjl/th, iSgg 
 
t 
 
AUTHOR'S PREFATORY NOTE 
 
 Appreciative acknowledgments are gratefully 
 tendered to James Gordon Bennett, Esq., and 
 The New York Herald, for permission to 
 reprint ''The Empress of an Hour"; to The 
 New York Criterion for a like courtesy as to 
 *'The Lost Year"; and to S. S. McClure, 
 Esq., for the same favor regarding The Cat's 
 Eye." 
 
 New York, 
 August the 22d, 1899. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The New Yorkers, i 
 
 In Clinton Place, 77 
 
 The Foreigner, 179 
 
 Two OF A Kind and the Joker, . .231 
 The Empress of an Hour, . . . .251 
 When the Tzar is Crowned, . . .319 
 
 The Spirit Traveller, 353 
 
 The Lost Year, 373 
 
 The Prisoner of the Steen, . . . 389 
 The Cat's Eye, 417 
 
THE NEW YORKERS 
 
THE NEW YORKERS 
 
 PART I 
 
 I WAS brought out at seventeen, for the 
 reason that my mother, an abnormally am- 
 bitious and adaptive woman, regarding a 
 daughter as merely a means to an end, could 
 wait no longer for the essay which should 
 test my worldly value. I had had a grand- 
 father, a man of neither repute nor wealth, 
 and who therefore was never resurrected 
 save behind the backs of his descendants, 
 and by their social enemies. I had had also 
 a father, a man of no repute and great 
 wealth, which latter sanctified him some- 
 what, and permitted my mother the leisures 
 and pleasures of an almost unbounded 
 aplomb and daring. 
 
 Having been brought out, after the proc- 
 esses of two fashionable schools had done 
 their level worst for me (and in the way of 
 3 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 obtaining knowledge, principally undesir- 
 able and unsuspected, these establishments, 
 judging at least by their young inmates, can 
 be guaranteed to take the palm), I was 
 launched at a very stunning tea, and chron- 
 icled as a " most interesting and accom- 
 plished girl." 
 
 Thereupon I fell flat. 
 
 Notwithstanding all the counsels of my 
 mother, all her lavish expenditure, all her 
 forcing and admonitions, I remained, at the 
 end of my third season, a social failure of 
 the deepest dye, and to her a grievous morti- 
 fication. 
 
 I neither rode recklessly, flirted desper- 
 ately, carried clothes imperially, turned 
 men's heads, broke their hearts, sang di- 
 vinely, athletized, literatized, antagonized, 
 nor hypnotized. I neither became a fiancee 
 nor a wife. Earls, a prince or two, counts, 
 baronets, and marquises passed before me, 
 or, rather, I passed before them, and with all 
 my millions, they evinced no disposition to 
 appropriate me and mine. 
 
 To say that my mother was chagrined is 
 to draw the picture of her mind most mildly. 
 4 
 
and Other People 
 
 With the inverse rebound of revolutionary 
 antecedents, she yearned, in her generation, 
 for a return to first principles, and the yoke 
 of the title was one to which she longed to 
 harness her daughter. In point of fact, this 
 craze for me to marry a nobleman was the 
 ruling passion of my mother's life, and to it 
 she was ready to sacrifice not only me — 
 which is a common enough form of immola- 
 tion — but herself as well. 
 
 It can be imagined, then, that when at ris- 
 ing twenty, no man of any noble, or ignoble 
 birth either, had even breathed of love, set- 
 ting aside marriage, to me ; when I was pale, 
 inert, big-eyed, dull-haired, nondescript, and 
 handicapped with that awfulest of dowers, 
 the pass in a crowd " atmosphere ; with no 
 redemption visible anywhere about me to 
 mortal eye (except the millions) — my moth- 
 er — clever, ingenious, charming, world-wise 
 — regarded her only offspring with horror. 
 
 The post-Easter season was drawing to a 
 close. I stood in Mrs. Paulding's drawing- 
 room ; perhaps I was listening to the music, 
 but more to the voice of the man who stood 
 near me. I felt my mother's eyes scanning 
 5 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 me with hopeless discontent at the way I 
 disgraced a toilette fit for an empress. Pos- 
 sibly I felt more keenly the glances of the 
 man ; his name was Jack Bingham, and he 
 was saying : 
 
 " Yes, Miss Grey, I am going away on 
 Saturday. It is useless for me to stop here 
 and make a fool of myself any longer, you 
 know, and if I put the pond between me 
 and — temptation " — he hesitates a bit as he 
 squares around and looks full into my stupid 
 face — " I may man it in time. Hard work, 
 they say, kills sometimes ; but I take it, it's 
 slow murder ! " 
 
 Crash comes the music, cutting Jack Bing- 
 ham's sigh in two. I don't look up. Why 
 should I ? I am not so idiotic but that I feel 
 the pulse in his voice and know that it is 
 beating for some other woman who has not 
 favored him. Why should I, a failure my- 
 self, give greeting or sympathy to another's 
 misfortunes, poured into my ears because I 
 happened to be nearest at hand in time of 
 stress ? 
 
 " Well ? " he says, interrogatively, as the 
 instruments quiet down a bit into a scherzo. 
 6 
 
and Other People 
 
 " Well," I echo, shrugging my shoulders. 
 
 " Can't you say a single word to me? " he 
 asks, impatiently. 
 
 What shall I say ? " I answer, vaguely 
 surmising that if I were he, I should win the 
 woman, or at least die trying. 
 
 ** Oh, nothing but good-by. I sail on 
 Saturday. After this our paths are not like- 
 ly ever to cross. I am going to plunge into 
 Bohemian London for capital for a new 
 novel. You " He puts out his hand. 
 
 I put out mine ; he holds it in his ; he is 
 gone. What went with him? Surely you 
 know. 
 
 I slipped back into a little room shrouded 
 in portieres and palms, with dim lights, and 
 sank into a seat, my arms full of emptiness, 
 worse than the dullard sloughs of all my yes- 
 terdays. 
 
 Presently I heard my mother's well-modu- 
 lated voice. She said, off yonder in the 
 lighter part of the room : 
 
 " Candidly, Mr. McAllister, what do you 
 think of her? That she is hopeless, I sup- 
 pose ? Her third season over, and no coun- 
 try girl more irretrievably — oh ! I don't 
 7 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 know ! " A flutter of a fan, a tiny snap, a 
 sigh. Why should a daughter of mine be 
 such a girl ? " 
 
 Christie's a nice girl," began Mr. Mc- 
 Allister, soothingly, " a very nice girl, I'm 
 sure." 
 
 Nice ! " exclaimed my mother with a 
 groan, and I had hoped so much for her. 
 I feel disgraced, humiliated, mortified ! " 
 
 Oh, come now, my dear Mrs. Grey, if 
 Miss Christie were my daughter, I assure 
 you, I should not feel like this ; 'pon my soul 
 I should not! I was observing her only a 
 moment since with Bingham at her side, 
 that clever, odd, writing fellow, don't you 
 know?" 
 
 " Well, what did you observe about her ? 
 Is there anything that I can do with her 
 that I have not done? Pray, pray advise 
 me." 
 
 " Well, you see, Miss Christie's the sort of 
 girl that needs the lash ! " 
 
 The what? " cried my mother, aghast. 
 " Yes, the lash, I said. If by any chance 
 she could love someone and not be loved by 
 him in return, don't you know, it would re- 
 8 
 
and Other People 
 
 veal her. As it is, she is a sealed book to 
 herself even." 
 
 Oh," gasps my mother, irritably. " Love 
 and Christie are as far apart as the poles. I 
 don't believe she could love. Tell me some- 
 thing practical, tell me something that I can 
 do to further her, can't you ? " 
 
 I suppose Mr. McAllister shrugs his 
 shoulders ; his voice sounds as if he did as 
 he says : Send her to Lady Heathcote." 
 Who is Lady Heathcote ? " 
 
 " She is the principal and founder of a 
 school of applied art, in Warwickshire, Eng- 
 land." 
 
 " ' Applied art ' ! " exclaims my mother, 
 almost hysterically. You would have me 
 make a painter of her, and she has not sense 
 enough to rouge her cheeks when they are 
 too pale ! " 
 
 Mr. McAllister laughs. 
 
 " My dear Mrs. Grey, you mistake me en- 
 tirely. I will send you Lady Heathcote's 
 prospectus to-morrow and you can judge for 
 yourself then ; only, one thing must be 
 pledged, the pamphlet must go no farther, 
 and its contents must be regarded as sacred." 
 9 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 " Surely," assents my mother. 
 It was merely loaned me as a social 
 curio, and as an indication of the trend of the 
 moment. It may be regarded as a danger- 
 ous experiment, but you may care to try it." 
 
 " Anything, anything to make Christie 
 like other girls, or a little like me. You see, 
 I have an instinct that she has the capacity 
 somewhere dormant in her, but she lacks in- 
 clination; lacks the expressive power. I 
 know," my mother's voice is firm, that no 
 child of mine could be, and not have such 
 and such abilities, such and such ambitions, 
 aspirations. All they need is to be brought 
 out." 
 
 " That being the case," says Mr. McAllis- 
 ter, you have everything to hope, I suspect, 
 from Lady Heathcote. Her mission is to 
 discover young women and exploit them to 
 their own and their parents' ultimate satis- 
 faction." 
 
 I have apathetically acquiesced in being 
 placed with Lady Heathcote at Harrowden- 
 Burleigh, a pretty seat not far from such 
 well-known places as Warwick and Leam- 
 ington. A big brick and stone house of the 
 
 lO 
 
and Other People 
 
 seventeenth century, ivy-grown and turret- 
 ed, with ideal rooms and emerald lawns, a 
 delicious garden where the Avon winds, and 
 altogether quite the atmosphere to inspire a 
 liking for the British side of life and a cer- 
 tain fair ease which I have not yet found so 
 well equalized anywhere else. Such were 
 the outward forms of this solecism, which 
 Mr. McAllister in a happy moment had 
 christened, A School of Applied Art ; " as 
 for the inner workings and the people, they 
 made a little world of a dozen souls (I sup- 
 pose) in as many bodies. 
 
 Coming down from London to Leaming- 
 ton (which was the station for Harrowden- 
 Burleigh) with my mother and my maid, I 
 had vaguely recalled the mention of the 
 " lash " which, selon lui, my mother's friend 
 had thought I needed. I smiled as I, of 
 course, remembered in this connection the 
 face of Jack Bingham. I did not quite see 
 the value of the remark in my especial case, 
 for it is one of my creeds that to be sought is 
 the seed of a woman's love, and speaking 
 personally, not generally, I cannot fancy a 
 girl caring for anyone minus the necessary 
 II 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 fact of his first caring for her. So, you see, 
 I smile, pondering a little over the possibili- 
 ties of my new entourage. 
 
 Lady Heathcote is large, suave, command- 
 ing, supple, for all her avoirdupois, with lid- 
 less lynx eyes and a tongue of honey ; an in- 
 finitude of tact, an ocean of perceptiveness, 
 any amount of brutality, and the aplomb of 
 the skirt-dancer. Du reste, she is well born, 
 well bred, excellently cultivated, up in all 
 things, keen, with positive love for her 
 strange metier — this last not surprising, 
 since she had found it to the greatest degree 
 profitable. 
 
 There were ten other guests (at twenty 
 pounds a week) at Harrowden-Burleigh 
 when I came, some of them hopeless, some 
 of them brimming with expectation, a few 
 vulgar, the remainder tolerably conven- 
 tional. 
 
 Lady Heathcote began by dismissing my 
 maid, and supplying me with a person per- 
 fectly qualified to touch up my brown hair 
 and my complexion. I let her do both. 
 
 The humor of the whole situation, includ- 
 ing my mother's almost feverish adjurations 
 
 12 
 
and Other People 
 
 when she parted from me to return to Nice 
 for the winter, as to " obeying Lady Heath- 
 cote to the letter," struck me so forcibly and 
 with such efficient novelty that I threw my- 
 self into it much as if it had been a bath of 
 milk and roses. Whatever my own belief 
 might be as to the outcome of these six 
 months under Lady Heathcote's fostering 
 care, I plunged into it without reservation, 
 enjoying my own sensations with a certain 
 peculiar relish. 
 
 The code was a rigid one ; it left no corner 
 unturned, no page unread, no depth un- 
 sounded, either physically, mentally, or — I 
 had almost said morally, but with the third 
 in the terrestrial equilibrium of the art of 
 living Lady Heathcote did not occupy her- 
 self or her pupils too much. 
 
 I came out of my room tinted and im- 
 proved with brushes and dyes, although 
 there was no one specially to look at me, but 
 it was urged that I must submit to this now, 
 in order that my nature might become ac- 
 customed to it by the time, when, equipped 
 au bout des angles, I should emerge from 
 Harrowden-Burleigh and secure my parti 
 13 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 To secure a parti was the acme of Lady 
 Heathcote's scheme: to this end all means 
 subserved. It was her belief that the raw 
 material mattered but little, and she frankly 
 avowed that she argued from her own ex- 
 perience. 
 
 I," said Lady Heathcote, " had neither 
 beauty, distinction, an overplus of brains, 
 nor fortuitous circumstances to insure my 
 success, but I had that infallible instinct 
 wdiich urged me to make the most of myself ; 
 an instinct dormant in many women, which 
 merely requires to be awakened in order to 
 accomplish its ends." 
 
 Our weeks were weeks of routine, but to 
 me the delicious, excruciating sarcasm of the 
 whole affair rendered them periods of epi- 
 curean enjoyment. I abandoned myself to 
 the regime much as, I dare say, the opium- 
 smoker gives himself up to his pipe, with 
 the added zest of holding the reins on my 
 own intellect all the while, and revelling in 
 the brilliant Satanic, sardonic end-of-the- 
 century-ism of it all. 
 
 The day began, instructively speaking, 
 with showing us how to walk, to enter a 
 14 
 
and Other People 
 
 room on different occasions, as for a ball, a 
 reception, a tea, a funeral, a morning call ; 
 how to leave it under these same circum- 
 stances ; how to get in a carriage, and to get 
 out. This feat was performed in the solemn 
 seclusion of the stable-yard with the attend- 
 ant properties of coach and footman. Lady 
 Heathcote standing surveying us, as each in 
 turn merited her approbation or her frowns. 
 How to behave under a series of circum- 
 stances of all kinds too numerous to men- 
 tion ; how to be dressed, and how not to be ; 
 how to treat inferiors, superiors, equals, 
 friends, foes ; how to dance, and how not to ; 
 how to approach the brink of risk, without 
 tumbling over ; how to attract the attention 
 of men — never how not to ! — how to pour 
 tea, how to eat and to drink. 
 
 These were but a few of our daily phases 
 of instruction, but the points upon which 
 Lady Heathcote most insisted were Conver- 
 sation, Pose, Balance, Reserve, and Love. 
 
 On these subjects she gave us little five- 
 minute lectures of a most edifying nature, 
 which were followed by as much discussion 
 as our intellectual staff would permit. 
 15 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 " In Conversation," Lady Heathcote told 
 us, nothing is impossible, or unmention- 
 able. A woman of to-day, to succeed, must 
 be able to converse on politics, religion, athe- 
 ism, occultism, temperance, suffrage, di- 
 vorce, education, slums, social reform, the 
 relations and equalities of the sexes, litera- 
 ture, especially fiction ; plays, music-halls, 
 characterless women, and topics of all 
 kinds where reputation is an unknown quan- 
 tity." 
 
 As for Pose, she would have had us be- 
 lieve that its results are enormous, telling us 
 that while it was only necessary to appear in- 
 terested at times, it was imperative that we 
 should always be picturesque, with a sus- 
 picion of suggestiveness ; that the pose 
 should convey a tacit a:ssentive admiration 
 for the predilections of the nearest man, if 
 he were eligible, and that with all its cs- 
 pieglerie, there should always exist a certain 
 deference to him, as man. 
 
 I remarked here one day that I called that 
 sort of thing deceit, if not worse. 
 
 Lady Heathcote smiled. My dear," she 
 replied, your language lacks varnish ; it is 
 i6 
 
and Other People 
 
 sexual conciliation," and blandly proceeded 
 on her way. 
 
 " Balance," she explained, " is the equi- 
 poise born of experience," and this equipoise 
 she revealed as " the result of a perfect 
 acquaintance with all things, no matter 
 what." 
 
 " But some things are unfit, indecent," I 
 said, flushing and shame-faced. 
 
 Lady Heathcote again smiled. " My dear 
 Miss Grey, the ethics of modern civilization 
 have left nothing indecent. Everything 
 must be known, handled, and criticised. In 
 order to arrive at a correct valuation of one's 
 self, one must dig up the earth as well as 
 telescope the heavens. In order to battle 
 with one's tendencies, one must discover 
 them." 
 
 " Reserve " Lady Heathcote defined as 
 " an assumption conceded to tradition, and 
 useful in bringing down the game. Man is 
 by nature a hunter, a pursuer; so much we 
 must concede to what we cannot overcome, 
 and in deference to this fact, woman, in deal- 
 ing with him, employs the weapon of re- 
 serve, and a most useful one it is, too." 
 17 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 I turned off in disgust to a window. 
 
 " Has all your training but one goal, Lady 
 Heathcote?" I cry; "a man to be capt- 
 ured?" 
 
 " Since Eve, who left Adam no choice, 
 there being no other woman then in exist- 
 ence, my dear child, the aim of every well- 
 ordered feminine mind, is that which you 
 are pleased to designate so coarsely." 
 
 I laugh. The ironical sweetness of Lady 
 Heathcote's application of coarseness " 
 strikes me as delightfully funny. 
 
 " I suppose, then," I say, that reserve is 
 the only recognition necessary of man's in- 
 herent nature ; otherwise sex is an uncon- 
 sidered distinction, minus even a differ- 
 ence ? " 
 
 " Sex is not in it. Miss Grey. Literature, 
 art, science, recognize no such thing; it is 
 one of the happy eliminations of the nine- 
 teenth century, that squeamishness of gen- 
 der has ceased to affect our modern life. 
 True, we have not been able to eradicate it 
 from the principles which tend to the popu- 
 lation of the world, but that is neither here 
 nor there." 
 
 i8 
 
and Other People 
 
 " No — only everywhere," I murmur un- 
 der my breath. 
 
 " Love — " Lady Heathcote turned her 
 lorgnette upon us all as we lounged about 
 the big hall in easy-chairs and sofas that 
 morning — 
 
 Love, mes amies, is usually either an 
 unknown quantity, or it is taken too seri- 
 ously. One-half the world will never learn 
 its alphabet; one-quarter is submerged by 
 its whelm ; while the remaining quarter en- 
 joys it from one end of its moody gamut to 
 the other. It is my aim that you should, one 
 and all, belong to this last class. In order 
 to do so, two things must be eradicated; 
 what is called naturalness and what is called 
 unconsciousness. Both are foolish, well 
 enough for peasants, and for poets to rhyme 
 about, but for women of the world, useless. 
 Self-consciousness is the open sesame to 
 power over men and over occasions ; the un- 
 conscious woman never arrives. Art, as 
 differentiated from naturalness, is the key 
 to getting there, especially in love. You 
 must remember, too, that to love once is 
 archaic and a positive negligence of one's 
 19 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 opportunities ; it is the man or woman who 
 loves often and with a self-conscious enjoy- 
 ment of each successive phase, who derives 
 the most from this possibiHty. Now, I want 
 you all to leave me, knowing your own pow- 
 ers, your own capacities, equipped to obtain 
 the greatest possible amount of success in 
 your different paths. I have, therefore, de- 
 cided to make an innovation ; I had engaged 
 the services of Air. Claude Linton, of the 
 Haymarket Theatre. Unfortunately, a de- 
 spatch, received a few moments ago only, 
 tells me he is too ill to fulfil his promise to 
 me for to-day, but he is sending an adequate 
 representative, he assures me, in the person 
 of Mr. Beresford Clyde, of the Lyceum, I 
 think, who will soon be with us." 
 
 " How delightful ! " I exclaimed, ironi- 
 cally. What does he come for? " 
 
 " To propose to you. Miss Grey, and 
 to the others," adds her ladyship, with a 
 smile. 
 
 In short, I have prepared a little role 
 or code, which I sent up to town to Mr. Lin- 
 ton to study ; the role of a man in love and 
 proposing. This part Mr. Clyde will enact 
 20 
 
and Other People 
 
 successively with each of you, beginning 
 with Miss Grey." 
 
 " But my role ? " I interrupted with heat 
 and amusement. 
 
 I leave that to your ingenuity. I will 
 sit yonder. I wish to see what you will each 
 do under the circumstances ; afterward I 
 will point out your errors." 
 
 The quintessence of fin-de-siecle-ism! " 
 cry I. This is surely the last day, the last 
 hour of the poor nineteenth century ; " and 
 thereupon carriage-wheels crunch the grav- 
 el, and we are warned of the arrival of Mr. 
 Beresford Clyde. 
 
 It may be supposed that life at Harrow- 
 den-Burleigh was monotonous; it was far 
 from it. We saw numbers of people of all 
 sorts, in Lady Heathcote's circle of coun- 
 try acquaintance. She was known to have 
 classes," but in what, remained a mystery, 
 masquerading under the convenient cogno- 
 men of " Literature ; " and as her pupils, we 
 moved about, hither and yon, with as much 
 ease as each was mistress of. We went up 
 to London for all the worst plays, for all the 
 picture shows ; we read all the worst books, 
 
 21 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 and we had no end of exercise on horses, 
 'mobes, and wheels. About the whole house 
 there was an atmosphere of benignant insin- 
 cerity, so to speak, and purposeless intention, 
 which, while it awed some of us, yet soothed ; 
 and to me was a never-failing source of en- 
 tertainment. 
 
 The announcement, then, of the pro- 
 posal " lesson could not fail to strike my 
 sense of the ludicrous. I was filled with 
 merriment as Lady Heathcote, after a pre- 
 liminary chat with the anxious lover, ush- 
 ered me into his presence, and introduced to 
 me Mr. Beresford Clyde." 
 
 Jack Bingham stood before me. 
 
 I stood before him. 
 
 The door-bell rang (the goddess of mercy 
 must have guided the ringer's hand), and 
 Lady Heathcote was called out of the room 
 for a few moments. 
 
 " And you are here ! " he says, a little 
 wildly. 
 
 ''And you also?" I answer, with calm- 
 ness. 
 
 " As a matter of pure deviltry, I assure 
 you. Linton is ill ; had told me something 
 
 22 
 
and Other People 
 
 of this place as an actual and a remarkable 
 spot, offered to have me come in his place, 
 for the sport and the curiosity of the thing, 
 and I accepted, under an assumed name and 
 a pledge of secrecy. You know all." 
 
 I shrug my shoulders. 
 
 " And you," he says, aghast, " you are not 
 here of your own free will ? " 
 
 " Surely," I say, " why not? " I look at 
 him, I laugh ; it is a bewitching little laugh, 
 and I know it. 
 
 What else do I know ? I know that I am 
 what Lady Heathcote would call arriv- 
 ing ; " that self-consciousness, thenceforth 
 and forevermore, must dominate my being 
 and bring to me what my preceptress says it 
 will — or something else. 
 
 As I laugh. Jack Bingham gazes at me in 
 blank amazement. I daresay he never sup- 
 posed I should learn such syren notes — and 
 Lady Heathcote returns. She pauses, lis- 
 tens, looks, says : 
 
 ** My dear Miss Grey, you are arriving; 
 pray proceed. See, I will sit here. How 
 far had you gotten, Mr. Clyde ? " picking up 
 a MS. from the table. 
 
 23 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Jack Bingham seemed dazed and there is 
 a tiny pause — oh so tiny, because I answer 
 airily for him. 
 
 " Lady Heathcote, dear, only so far as the 
 third speech for Mr. Clyde ; pray give him 
 the cue for the fourth. You see he has had 
 little or no time to prepare for the — er — les- 
 son." 
 
 Lady Heathcote does as she is requested, 
 the proposal proceeds, takes place, is re- 
 fused. I so work out my role, and Lady 
 Heathcote is simply wild over my success. 
 
 After Mr. Clyde has gone to meet his 
 train, she confesses that he was a " very poor 
 hand at the business in the beginning with 
 Miss Grey, but worked into it better at the 
 end with little Miss Callowby." I hope he 
 did. 
 
 As I have said, we went up to London 
 very often; and only a week after the visit 
 of Mr. Beresford Clyde we found ourselves 
 at Burlington House contemplating some 
 examples of the nude, and discussing the 
 same with all the sangfroid of genuine 
 Boulevardiercs. I was close to the rail and 
 unabashed, the crowd pressing me and our 
 24 
 
and Other People 
 
 chaperon. Someway, since I had discov- 
 ered myself that day last week in the pro- 
 posal lesson, I had become reckless, with 
 what Lady Heathcote calls the " joyous 
 recklessness of one who does a thing with 
 all his wits primed and with knowledge of 
 compunction and yet disdaining it." 
 
 She was pointing out the beauty of the 
 woman's arms in the painting, when I 
 turned. Jack Bingham's eyes and mine 
 met, his just returning from their excursion 
 to the nude picture, mine ditto; the man 
 flushed ; I don't know whether the girl did 
 or not — under the pink powder it was hard 
 to tell. Without a word he turned off as if 
 he had been shot, linking his arm in that of 
 the man who was his companion. 
 
 Lady Heathcote had not seen him. Pres- 
 ently, when we were all sitting on the divans 
 discussing The Second Mrs. Tanqueray " 
 con amore, she espied him and his friend. 
 
 " There is Hardy ! " she cries, and that 
 young actor who came down to Harrowden 
 last week in Linton's stead, is with him." 
 
 Some of us craned our necks to see the 
 artist-author, some of us did not. 
 
 25 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Apropos," continues Lady Heathcote. 
 " What could be more charming than to 
 speak of * Tess ' while watching her author. 
 You have all read ' Tess,' I will not insult 
 your intelligence by an interrogation point." 
 
 " I never have," I remarked, bluntly. 
 
 " My love ! " Lady Heathcote and my fel- 
 low-pupils all turn startled eyes upon me. 
 
 Then you will listen while we chat about 
 the delightful creature, and I will buy you a 
 copy before we go home." 
 
 I don't care to read it," I say, languidly. 
 " I know enough of it to suffice me." 
 
 " If you knovv enough of * Tess,' then, 
 Miss Grey, give us your opinion of it," says 
 her ladyship, sharply. 
 
 I answer, " I call the book (granting, too, 
 the genius, power, worth, and beauty of it) 
 — the canonization of the scarlet letter. It 
 is that to me, and nothing else whatever." 
 
 The pupils look a little alarmed. Strange 
 that persons who will rhapsodize over pict- 
 ures of the nude and Mrs. Tanqueray plays 
 feel it incumbent always to resent a plain 
 Saxon statement of the same order of thing. 
 
 Lady Heathcote pauses. My dear," she 
 26 
 
and Other People 
 
 finally says, " you forget that sin is merely 
 undirected attempt at development, and that 
 development is progress." 
 
 " Let us then stand still," I say, " and 
 cease progressing. Painters and sculptors 
 do not select three-legged colts, two-headed 
 girls, bearded ladies, or hunchbacks, to im- 
 mortalize and place before us for our criti- 
 cism and admiration ; composers do not hurl 
 discord at our ears ; why then should liter- 
 ature, under the alias of fidelity to life, hold 
 up to us the sordid, the unclean, the scarred, 
 the libertines, the prostitutes, and, decking 
 them with all the roses and lilies of its splen- 
 did imagery, bid us come sup, and thank, 
 and applaud, and call crime, innocence, and 
 sin, art? Why, too, does the stage, which 
 should be the best mouthpiece of literature, 
 play out for us the lives of women and men 
 from whose actual contact we would shrink 
 as from a leper ? " 
 
 " Because, my dear, we like it ; because 
 we are desirous of perfecting ourselves in 
 the knowledge of all things, of sounding the 
 depths of the most devious wanderings of 
 the human being ; because we all have hor- 
 27 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 rible possibilities, everyone of us, and it is 
 the trend of the age that we should be past- 
 masters in cognizance of every degree, of 
 both innocence, and what you call sin." 
 
 And then we go somewhere and eat ices 
 and presently take the train for Leaming- 
 ton. 
 
 " The season " at Harrowden-Burleigh 
 came to an end: the eleven young women, 
 who had been under the guidance of its fac- 
 ile mistress from October until April, fell 
 apart all at once, and I doubt if any ever be- 
 held each other again. 
 
 Lady Heathcote had written my mother, 
 that of all her pupils, I was the one from 
 whom she should expect the most ; that my 
 innate vein of originality might surely be re- 
 lied upon to land me on a pinnacle — a posi- 
 tion, looking at it dispassionately, which 
 must be uncommonly easeless. However, I 
 was quit of Harrowden ; not sorry, nor yet 
 glad; passive as yet, save that I sent the 
 maid of her ladyship's choosing flying, and 
 took one who suited me, and that I threw 
 the pink powder in the fire, if I did retain the 
 golden hair touch-up. 
 
 28 
 
and Other People 
 
 Mamma took a house near Queen's Gate 
 for three months, and blandly informed me 
 that she was going to bring me out ! " 
 
 She did, too. I had the inestimable priv- 
 ilege, accorded but few young women, of 
 making my bud's bow twice. It was suc- 
 cessful, too. My mother had the aplomb 
 of a diplomat and at the same time the gra- 
 ciousness which a diplomat's wife should 
 have — but has not always — and then, too 
 (why do we shamefacedly name the great- 
 est factor last?), she had unlimited money. 
 The Americans, of course, elevated their 
 brows and told one another that I had been 
 launched years ago in New York ; neverthe- 
 less, they came and bade me Godspeed in 
 my new career. When the English people 
 heard the tale, they laughed and held it a 
 refreshing jest ; both sets in reality, I think, 
 looking upon my mother as a woman of pos- 
 itive genius. She was. 
 
 She had introduced me at home at seven- 
 teen; I amounted to worse than nothing. 
 Four years later, after only eight months' 
 seclusion, I am again a debutante abroad, 
 and I am one of the most emphatic successes 
 
 FREi PljbglC/UfBRARY 
 
 ERSEY 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 a London season ever knew, greater than 
 even my lady mother had dreamed. 
 
 I admired her triumph intensely. It 
 made her almost girlish in her beauty, it 
 irradiated and enriched her whole nature. 
 She was a woman than whom none knew 
 better how to bask in popularity, and in her 
 supreme content I found a singular pleasure. 
 Du rest, for myself? At first I could hardly 
 take it all seriously. I would stand for half- 
 hours in front of my mirror wondering at 
 the face men raved over, artists painted, pa- 
 pers reproduced, women envied. And well 
 I might ; my beauty lay not there, but rather 
 where adventure spoke in my eyes; and 
 where, about the turn of my throat, or the 
 bend of my arm, or the hint of my speech, or 
 the arrow of my jest, lurked all the uiagnifi- 
 cent perhapses that I felt coursing at last 
 through my blood and brain. 
 
 Decidedly, I had " discovered myself," 
 and unhesitatingly I plunged into this new 
 life for all it was worth, with now and then 
 a strange backward stare at the listless dull 
 girl who had once been I. 
 
 Nothing can well be more delightful, more 
 30 
 
and Other People 
 
 exhilarating, other matters being equal, than 
 the London season. The very streets of May- 
 fair and Belgravia are, to my mind, redolent 
 of the atmosphere of gayety; the glowing 
 window gardens, the tint of lamp and can- 
 dlelight through the filmy lace of the cur- 
 tains, the dim mist lifting over far-off St. 
 Stephens' towers, the bustle and din, the 
 fresh pure air, the crush at Hyde Park Cor- 
 ner, the soft earth of the Row under my 
 horses' hoofs, the kiss of the wind on my 
 cheek, the dew on the turf, the man at my 
 side — he chanced to be the Duke of Devon- 
 exe, and one of the haughtiest peers in Eu- 
 rope. 
 
 A week later, I think my mother's cup 
 filled to the brim. We received our invita- 
 tion for a four days' visit at Marlborough 
 House. The second evening of our stay I 
 am sure her cup ran over. I stood with His 
 Royal Highness at my right, and Devonexe 
 at my left, but I almost forgot myself in 
 looking at mamma. She was in reality 
 forty-one, but she appeared, with her slim 
 figure, spirituelle features, regal little head, 
 and perfect savoir faire, to be only half of it. 
 31 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 She seemed in her element, proud, a Httle 
 imperious, beautiful, conquering — well, it 
 was worth all of Harrowden-Burleigh to see 
 any other human being so happy. 
 
 Devonexe offered himself to me that even- 
 ing, which would hardly be worth chroni- 
 cling, save for two facts : one was that I ac- 
 cepted him, the other that his proposal was 
 utterly different from any of the dozens I 
 had listened to. 
 
 I had had my dance with my Royal host 
 and been seated, when the Duke came up and 
 said, very quietly : 
 
 Are you willing to sit a dance out with 
 me in that little room yonder. Miss Grey? " 
 
 I assented, and when we reached the lit- 
 tle room yonder," His Grace merely placed 
 me in a chair and stood before me with his 
 arms folded, and said, very calmly : 
 
 " I want to offer you myself and all I have 
 and am ; I want to know if I am worthy 
 your acceptance, if you will be my wife ? " 
 
 He was very pale, and there was an odd 
 pressure about his lips as he leaned a little 
 for my answer. Not a word of love, not one 
 seeking of my hand by his. I realized it 
 32 
 
and Other People 
 
 perfectly. It struck me as charming, 
 unique, novel, combined with his paleness 
 and that twitch of his mouth. 
 
 I got up and crossed the room to the win- 
 dow ; he did not follow me, but his eyes did. 
 I felt them keenly. I turned back to him 
 and looked up in his face; he looked down 
 at me, his arms still folded, and said, very 
 low : 
 
 " It is so great, so marvellous, so unutter- 
 able that I dare not even say, * I love you.' 
 I shall show it you from this time forth for- 
 ever, and, I know you do not, cannot, love 
 me now. I am content, I will wait ; it will, 
 it must come ! " and His Grace's arms are 
 around me, and his lips are warm on mine. 
 
 It is only a month ago that my marriage 
 took place, at the chapel Royal Savoy, in the 
 presence of Royalty and with the Prince 
 of Darmstadt-Deszberg for best man, ten 
 bridesimaids and a list of notable guests 
 much longer than the moral law. 
 
 We went down to Devonexe Court for a 
 fortnight, and then we came on to America, 
 and we are stopping at my mother's house 
 on Fifth Avenue, before we go to Newport. 
 33 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Eh Bien, decidedly the Duchess of Dev- 
 onexe is a success. Christie, dull, spiritless, 
 uncomfortable, hopeless Christie is the beau- 
 ty of her day, however long or short it may 
 be. 
 
 I sometimes smile as I remember what 
 Mr. McAllister said about the lash." I 
 have never felt it yet, but I have certainly 
 arrived." 
 
 A knock. 
 
 " Yes, come in." 
 
 My maid with a man's card. 
 
 " Mr. John Berkeley Bingham, The Cum- 
 berland," I read. 
 
 " Say to Mr. Bingham that — I will see 
 him in a few moments." 
 
 Yes, I have " arrived," but, tell me, 
 where ? 
 
 34 
 
and Other People 
 
 PART II 
 
 On the stage, the heroine of the moment 
 cannot make a more effective entrance than 
 through the parting of portieres which shall 
 disclose her (standing erect with one arm 
 guilelessly uplifted against the hangings) to 
 the gaze of the man who waits in the draw- 
 ing-room. 
 
 It was after this fashion, and with a smile 
 on my lips, that I revealed myself to Jack 
 Bingham that June day. 
 
 I could not imagine what had brought 
 him (aside from the usual means of loco- 
 motion), for, although my mother had in- 
 cluded him in the list of people asked to my 
 wedding, I making no objection, since I 
 knew him then to be in Egypt, I still did not 
 see his way clear to an afternoon call. 
 
 He soon explained it, however, by hand- 
 ing me a packet that mamma had intrusted 
 to him for me, and which I perceived at 
 once was regarded by him as a godsend. 
 
 It is extremely doubtful if an average 
 woman often finds herself in a position to 
 35 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 want to ignore this state of things with the 
 man in question ; I did, however, and in 
 order to bring Mr. Bingham into very 
 proper form, I asked him if he remembered 
 our charming Httle rencontre at Lady Heath- 
 cote's, deeming the mere mention of that 
 episode would be enough to put to flight the 
 eager ambitions of his tell-tale eyes. 
 
 I was therefore somewhat surprised when 
 he distinctly told me that he had not the 
 smallest recollection of the occasion to which 
 I was pleased to refer ; and, moreover, with 
 a face of imperturbable interest, he inquired 
 when it was, and begged me to particularize ! 
 
 I did so with a frankness that ought to 
 have been considered admirable, but which 
 failed in either impressing my guest or en- 
 dowing him with a better memory than he 
 chose to have. 
 
 " I see," I said at last ; " you will not rec- 
 ollect the day you proposed to me ! " laugh- 
 ing. " Older men have wished to ignore 
 their follies before this ; but, tell me, don't 
 you think Lady Heathcote a genius after her 
 kind, now really ? " 
 
 " I never knew Lady Heathcote," Bing- 
 36 
 
and Other People 
 
 ham replied, icily, " and I could not remem- 
 ber anything or anybody which had con- 
 spired to give you a false environment." 
 
 I forgave the grammar for the sake of the 
 neatness of the sentiment. 
 
 There was nothing else now left for me 
 to do. When a woman finds that a man has 
 her at a disadvantage of this sort, she is 
 bound to think better of him than if she 
 holds the whip-hand to the end. 
 
 We meandered on about people and things 
 glibly enough until Devonexe came in. 
 
 Of course I compared the two at once, to 
 the infinite superiority of the one over the 
 other. Jack was charmingly at ease, and 
 although Devonexe opened his eyes, I did 
 not mention my guest's coming again, or 
 regret we were off for Newport in a week, or 
 ask him to dine, or in any shape revert to the 
 future possibilities of his existence. 
 
 We bade each other good-morning with 
 elaborate courtesy ; the men shook hands. 
 
 And Bingham left me, carrying off under 
 his eyelids, I knew, the image of a woman 
 in a blue gown, and with a wedding-ring on 
 her finger. 
 
 37 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 I do not know of any combination more 
 delicious than the piazza of the Billows at 
 Newport at starlight time in early July, with 
 a warm wind softly blowing in between the 
 vines and bringing with it the tang of the 
 sea-salt ; a big bunch of heliotropes on the 
 tiny table at my side, a taste of pineapple-ice 
 between my lips, and, to be sure, Devonexe 
 lounging on a low seat at my feet, with the 
 odor of cashmere bouquet faintly on his 
 dark handsome head, fresh from his after- 
 plunge toilet. 
 
 My husband laid his head down on my 
 lap, which caused me to put aside my ice- 
 plate at once. He spoke and I answered a 
 little, until we fell into that silence which is 
 more eloquent than speech, and only possi- 
 ble^ they say, to people who thoroughly un- 
 derstand each other. 
 
 I am not clear as to this last clause, be- 
 cause I am quite sure, by the light of later 
 days, that Devonexe and I had not the re- 
 motest idea of one another then. 
 
 Being under the impression that I had 
 been married, open-eyed, principally for the 
 sake of my millions, I had matter-of-factly 
 38 
 
and Other People 
 
 so treated the least or greatest of his Grace's 
 attempts at demonstration. 
 
 Lately it had struck me that it would not 
 be unamusing, and, assuredly, it could not 
 be wrong, were I to indulge Devonexe and 
 coquette a little with him ; indeed, the mood 
 of being absolutely interested in so doing 
 with one's own husband appealed to me as 
 something uniquely worth while. 
 
 " This is paradise," Devonexe says pres- 
 ently, slipping his arms up over his head and 
 around my waist in a curiously uncertain 
 way. 
 
 " Newport has often been called so," I 
 ■say, shrinking a little in my seat. 
 
 " Newport ! " My liege lord sits erectly 
 enough now, loosing his languid hold of me. 
 
 " You know very well I did not mean 
 Newport. I meant being out here in the 
 darkness with nothing but the beat of the 
 sea yonder to disturb us, no human beings ! " 
 
 The thrill in his voice was delicious, and it 
 sounded surprisingly genuine. Decidedly, 
 since Devonexe could play so pretty and 
 lover-like a role so well, why should not his 
 wife respond in kind? 
 
 39 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Indeed, I almost felt what I should call a 
 throb at my own heart as I answered him, 
 he reaching out warm, clasping hands for 
 mine. 
 
 *' It is exquisite ; is it not ? " 
 
 I feel his fingers creep up my bared arms 
 to my throat, my face, and draw it down that 
 my lips may meet his. 
 
 Well, the bitter-sweetness of some things 
 is indescribable. 
 
 It was as well that my husband remained 
 in ignorance of my thoughts or sensations ; 
 that he merely felt me shiver a bit. He 
 sprang up and walked away, coming back in 
 a moment. 
 
 *' Christie," he said, standing before me, a 
 very goodly, gracious figure against the 
 framing of the vines. 
 
 " Well ? " I responded in, I dare say, a 
 vague, far-oflF voice, for I was inopportune- 
 ly thinking of Mr. McAllister's remark 
 about me, made so long ago to my lady 
 mother. 
 
 Christie ! " Devonexe repeated, calling 
 me back to the present. 
 
 Yes, yes ! " I cry ; what is it ? " 
 40 
 
and Other People 
 
 " Stand up here by me, won't you ? " 
 I stand up, but not by him. 
 
 Closer, nearer ! " 
 I do not move. 
 
 " I wonder if it is possible that you will 
 ever come to me of your own accord, or for 
 the asking, or in any other way than by my 
 taking physical hold of you ? " he says, under 
 his breath, and with really quite the ring of 
 passion in his liquid, English voice. 
 
 It is a temptation to me ; of that there is 
 no doubt. It would be pleasure unalloyed 
 to take a step and throw myself into his 
 arms and rest my head on his heart, and 
 listen to all the sweet words a man can say 
 to a pretty woman under favoring circum- 
 stances ; but I have heard that playing with 
 even false fire is somewhat dangerous, so I 
 reply as I move away and into the house, 
 "Probably not." 
 
 The next day we met Cuthbert Champlin 
 just as we were going into the Casino to 
 register. 
 
 " So glad," he effervesces in his well-bred 
 way, taking my hand in both his, after due 
 presentation to Devonexe, " so awfully glad 
 41 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 you're here ! We're getting up some Hving 
 pictures — don't look frightened ! — for the 
 twenty-second of next month — benefit of 
 the hospital, you know — and if you would?" 
 — the young artist looks at me appealingly — 
 " it would just double our receipts. I am 
 to pose the people, and you shall have your 
 pick of the subjects. Will you take it into 
 consideration? " 
 
 While Cuthbert has been gazing intently 
 at me, emphasizing his plea with all sorts of 
 eyebrow excursions and pathetic signs, a 
 woman has half-crossed the lobby to Dev- 
 onexe, and Devonexe, courteously respon- 
 sive, has half-crossed to her. 
 
 She is a small, rather plump woman, fault- 
 lessly gowned, not pretty nor even vainly at- 
 tempting to be; she is, in truth, ugly, with 
 an insignificant nose, full, big lips, little eyes 
 like a pig's, dark hair that grows badly, and 
 large hands and feet. Her face is familiar 
 to me, I am sure, and her voice, too, as she 
 says : 
 
 " I thought perhaps you might remember 
 poor Jim Chater's widow. I assure you she 
 can never forget your goodness to her 
 42 
 
and Other People 
 
 out there in India, when her great loss 
 came." A whisk of linen and lace, and a 
 sigh. 
 
 To be sure, she was my old school- 
 mate, my senior by five years, but still my 
 schoolmate. I remember she married a 
 Captain Chater, R.A., and went out to 
 India. 
 
 Devonexe turns, and she turns to me also, 
 with both hands held out and fond kisses 
 on my cheeks, and all sorts of pretty things 
 to say anent my marriage, and my fame, and 
 that. 
 
 There are any number of otherwise well 
 and reasonably conducted persons who, 
 when they find themselves at a great height, 
 feel an ungovernable impulse to jump down. 
 There are as many otherwise rational women 
 who, when they encounter another woman 
 who makes them shiver as a snake might 
 do, experience the unconquerable desire to 
 handle it and find out for themselves if it be 
 indeed poisonous or not. 
 
 Your husband must have told you ; I 
 suppose he tells you everything" — raising 
 her eyes to Devonexe, who seems exploring 
 43 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 her countenance, lost in a brown study, and 
 does not glance responsive. 
 Doesn't he ? " to me. 
 " I hope not ! " 
 
 ** Well, I must then ; at least," looking 
 down coyly, " I must tell you of his good- 
 ness to me. My husband was in your hus- 
 band's regiment, and after his death " — an- 
 other little whisk of violet perfume — no 
 one could have done more for another than 
 Graydon — you know he was only Lord 
 Graydon then — did for me. I can never 
 forget it. And to think that the man to 
 whom I owe so much, and the girl whom I 
 loved at school, should meet me here, now, 
 man and wife ! How small this world is, 
 after all. Will you let me come and see 
 you?" 
 
 Would I resist that soft Httle coo? 
 Never. 
 
 Cuthbert resumed his pleadings about his 
 pictures as I sat down in the court. 
 
 Lina Chater was showing Devonexe a 
 miniature of her husband, an exquisite thing 
 she had just had done by the famous 
 Baronne de St. Mart. It was mounted as a 
 44 
 
and Other People 
 
 brooch with pearls and moonstones, and 
 worn perpetually on her bosom. Devon- 
 exe's tall head was bent to examine it. I 
 was watching them both. 
 
 Lina Chater was a woman of the world ; 
 but even women of the world cannot resist 
 flying the triumph-flag when there is enough 
 breeze to stir it ; her manner was possessive, 
 intimate, as of one to another, each all-com- 
 prehending. 
 
 Another tall man came up to me presently 
 and bowed very low, tapping Cuthbert easily 
 on the shoulder. It was Jack Bingham. I 
 put out my hand. Both Mrs. Chater and 
 Devonexe happened to look my way at the 
 moment, and, certes, I let fly my pennon 
 too. 
 
 " This is a happiness," he says in a 
 low tone, looking wistfully at the seat near 
 me. 
 
 Jack may take it ; he, too, has seen Lina 
 Chater's pretty little upturned absorptive 
 way with Devonexe. 
 
 Cuthbert saw nothing; he was one of 
 those extremely wide-awake, progressive 
 young men who are surprised out of their 
 45 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 lives about once in each twenty-four hours 
 by being told something that the town has 
 known for a week. 
 
 Before w^e leave the Casino that morning 
 I have asked Mrs. Chater for a week at the 
 Billows; I have promised Cuthbert Cham- 
 plin to pose for his living pictures, and I 
 have invited Jack Bingham to dine with us 
 at the Country Club next Wednesday after 
 the yacht-race. Needless, perhaps, to say 
 that both accepted. 
 
 Mrs. Chater came over from the Aquid- 
 neck, where she had been stopping, w'ith a 
 lot of luggage and no maid, in time for five 
 o'clock tea, which I always had served on 
 the terrace under a large pink and white 
 marquee, and as I vowed myself to rose color 
 that season, much as young French girls, 
 enamoured of Mariolatry and fresh from 
 convents, are voiice an bleu, I dare say I 
 made a fairly picturesque effect with the 
 vases of roses, the painted pink chairs and 
 tables, pink tea-cloth, china, and glass, with 
 dishes of frozen rose-leaves, and any and all 
 sorts of rosy confectionery. 
 
 My guest seemed to know everyone who 
 46 
 
and Other People 
 
 came in, and in five minutes I saw that she 
 was what is technically called " a popular 
 woman," a distinction which commonly in- 
 cludes either nonentity, or, which was vast- 
 ly true in this case, an almost alarming 
 adaptability. 
 
 For myself, I should esteem it an insult 
 to be called a popular woman. Who would 
 be liked by everybody? Surely she who 
 can whittle herself into a differently shaped 
 peg every half hour, thus fitting into the 
 moods and idiosyncrasies of everybody else, 
 can have little good of herself, or else she 
 exists only as clay does, to be impressed. 
 
 I had poured Jack Bingham a cup of tea, 
 which he was holding over my head as he 
 leaned on the back of my chair. 
 
 Is Mrs. — er — Chater your house- 
 guest ? " he asks, finally, after scanning 
 the lady's animation in connection with 
 Devonexe's bicycle costume, he having just 
 spun up. 
 
 I nod. I am perfectly aware of the sur- 
 prise included in Mr. Bingham's inquiry, 
 but I have no mind for much of a tete-a-tete 
 with him just now. 
 
 47 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 ** Odd little person," I say in answer, as I 
 turn my head away. 
 
 " Quite so," he responds ; but you will 
 find that she generally gets even with every- 
 thing and everyone in the end." 
 
 I knew it thoroughly. I was just as posi- 
 tive as I was of my own aliveness at that mo- 
 ment, that Lina Chater would in some way 
 mar my life, or mar whatever there was left 
 in my life to mar. 
 
 But I only laughed as I saw my husband, 
 a magnificent specimen in his knickerbockers 
 and blouse, explaining to her the mysteries 
 of the latest attachment to his wheel. 
 
 We dined a qtiatre delightfully. The 
 host and the lady occupied themselves, she 
 leading, with most pungent reminiscences of 
 life in India ; the hostess and the gentleman 
 were spasmodically sympathetic and prin- 
 cipally acoustic, as we knew only so much 
 of India as the other two chose to impart. 
 
 Mrs. Chater leaves us at the end of a 
 week and two days, eflfusively, and, she 
 vows, indebted to me and the Duke for ines- 
 timable blessings. 
 
 The Subscription Ball comes oflf the even- 
 48 
 
and Other People 
 
 ing after she goes. I am dressed and stand- 
 ing in the Hbrary, waiting for my maid to 
 bring me my wrap, when Devonexe comes 
 in with it instead. 
 
 I thank him courteously as I stand in the 
 full blaze of the chain of globe-lights over 
 the arch. I suppose I look surpassingly well 
 in my pink chiffon spangled with moon- 
 stones over the shimmering white satin, with 
 the first moonburst ever worn by any woman 
 crowning my smooth turned-back hair, and 
 with strings of pearls and opals on my neck, 
 my waist, my back, shoulders, and arms. 
 
 Devonexe stood still a moment and sur- 
 veyed me; I surveyed him. He was a su- 
 perb-looking man at any time, and even 
 more emphatically so in evening clothes. 
 
 " You look magnificently," he says, com- 
 ing a little nearer me. 
 
 " Thanks," I answer with a smile ; " any 
 decent-looking woman could with such ap- 
 parel," and I lightly touch the moonburst 
 with my fan. 
 
 " The apparel is not what I am talking 
 of ! " exclaims my husband, impatiently. 
 *' I mean you, your eyes, your hair, your 
 49 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 mouth and throat, and neck, and arms, and 
 shoulders ! " He bends and lays his lips on 
 one of them. 
 
 I start away. 
 
 " Please don't ! " I cry. 
 
 " Why not ? " following me. 
 The carriage is waiting ! " I exclaim, 
 turning to the door. 
 
 Let it wait/' Devonexe remarks, thrust- 
 ing his hands in his pockets, and taking a 
 seat on the edge of the big table. 
 
 " As you please." I sit down in a chair 
 very far from him. 
 
 " I say, Christie," he says in a common- 
 place tone, swinging his foot back and forth 
 nonchalantly, but with an odd, wistful ring 
 to his speech, what do you suppose I mar- 
 ried you for, anyway ? " 
 
 It was brutal and unwomanly even, but 
 you must not forget my father and my 
 grandfather altogether, and also the minor 
 fact that I was as cruel to myself as to him, 
 as I answered succinctly, " Money, I pre- 
 sume." 
 
 " What ! " Devonexe jumps from his seat 
 as if he had been shot. 
 
 50 
 
and Other People 
 
 " Money ! " he ejaculates, hoarsely, stand- 
 ing before me with his eyes on my face. 
 
 " You might have known if you had cared 
 to, that I have a great deal more money 
 even than you." 
 
 I elevate my eyebrows, and my face 
 flushes with such a joy as he can never guess 
 — joy and self-reproach and self-hatred 
 that I had done him so contemptible an in- 
 justice. 
 
 " Can't you think of any other reason ? " 
 he asks, laying his hand on my hair. 
 I shake my head. 
 
 " Shall I tell you^ now — may I ? " 
 
 " No, no, no ! " cry I, springing up as I 
 suddenly recall that there are reasons suffi- 
 cient why men, with titles like this man's 
 to be perpetuated, may marry almost any 
 woman. 
 
 " Why not? " he says. Why can I not 
 say it in words, even if you know it, as you 
 surely must." 
 
 " Yes, yes," I whisper ; " I know, of 
 course ; now let us go." 
 
 " Let us stop at home for once ; can't 
 we ? " he asks, as a boy might, hovering over 
 51 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 me, and rolling down one of my long gloves 
 from my arm. 
 
 I am terrified at I know not what — some- 
 thing strange and new in his manner. I 
 start away from him and say, " I would not 
 miss the Subscription Ball for anything!" 
 and hook my wrap. 
 
 Christie, one minute," catching at my 
 ribbons. 
 
 I look back over my shoulder at him. 
 
 Christie, before we go, would you mind 
 telling me what you married me for? " 
 
 I pause ; I laugh, that long brilliant laugh ; 
 once so much commended by the presiding 
 genius of Harrowden-Burleigh. 
 
 For the title? " he says, half-shamedly, 
 under his breath, and looking down. 
 
 No," I answer, " not for that, your 
 Grace ; because Prince Louis of Battenberg 
 would have put me a few steps nearer a 
 throne than you, and I spared him the 
 honor." 
 
 I laugh on ; I run like a girl, laughing, out 
 on the piazza, across the terrace to the porte 
 cochcrc, and jump in the carriage pell-mell. 
 Devonexe follows statelily and gathers up 
 52 
 
and Other People 
 
 my skirts himself, and gets in and sits down 
 opposite me. By the flare of the Hghts as 
 we drive out I see that his face is very pale. 
 
 It does not regain color until late in the 
 evening, when Lina Chater is talking to him 
 as she fastens his hoiitonniere in his coat ; I 
 suppose it had been falling out. 
 
 The next afternoon she comes in for tea 
 very late ; indeed, five minutes after her ar- 
 rival everyone else has left, and we are sit- 
 ting there in the twilight by ourselves. She 
 has on a white gown and a big hat ; her hor- 
 rible eyes slant around queerly under the 
 waving white feathers and tulle, and her 
 voice coos on ceaselessly as she sits down on 
 a big cushion at my feet and makes pretence 
 of sipping tea. 
 
 Devonexe crosses the terrace, smoking; 
 he lifts his cap as he goes on down the path 
 to the sea. 
 
 " How gone off the Duke is since the days 
 when I knew him first ! " she sighs, pen- 
 sively. 
 
 Indeed ! " I respond, for the purpose of 
 being audible, not being in the least inter- 
 ested in playing an active part in the " some- 
 53 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 thing " which I am positive is about to be 
 said or done by this woman. 
 
 There are such states of being wherein we 
 feel the rise of the tide, the swell of the turf 
 beneath our very feet ; we can retreat, we 
 can run away, we can avert, but, instead, 
 we sit still and let the thing come on. 
 
 Mrs. Chater cleared her throat just a wee 
 bit (presumably of the sugary tea she hadn't 
 been drinking) and then she spoke. 
 
 " I used to feel so sorry for him in those 
 days — those dear, dead days under the 
 shadow of the Himalayas, with the flowers 
 as high as tree-tops, and the birds singing 
 like lutes in the branches ! " 
 
 I had quite sufficient sense to remember 
 just then that Mrs. Chater was accounted, I 
 had not been long in hearing, the best news- 
 paper-writer in New York ; also that she 
 had given lectures on literary and kindred 
 subjects. I ought, I realized too, to have 
 asked why she pitied Devonexe at about 
 that time, but I didn't ; I knew she would 
 tell me all in good season. 
 
 You know all the sad story, I suppose? " 
 she glides on, fixing her porcine eyes on my 
 54 
 
and Other People 
 
 face. " His Grace is not the man to keep 
 anything from the woman he loves/' 
 
 I look fixedly at the blue waves curdling 
 on the beach, and incidentally at the top of 
 my husband's head, from which he has lifted 
 his hat to enjoy the cool off yonder. 
 
 I don't answer her. Why should I ? She 
 doesn't want answers ; few women do ; she 
 wants, like the rest of her sex, to talk. 
 
 " I hardly dared to hope, then " — catching 
 a glimpse of his figure also, as she speaks, 
 and sighing prettily — " that any other love 
 or hope would ever come into his life." An- 
 other sigh and a covert glance at my im- 
 passive face — a covert glance that at once 
 blossoms into the frankest and most child- 
 like stare as she sets down the tea-cup and 
 seizes both my hands and buries her awful 
 little fat face in them, and laughs. 
 
 " You dear, sweet child, you ! What can 
 it matter to you, the Duchess of Devonexe, if 
 long, long ago. Lord Graydon loved a 
 woman who was another man's wife to dis- 
 traction, and thought he could not live with- 
 out her ! " 
 
 I scream if a caterpillar comes within a 
 55 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 foot of me, but had all Mrs. Chater's little 
 wavy forehead-locks been merely masses of 
 caterpillars (which they strongly resem- 
 bled), I still should have caressed them at 
 this moment, and should have smiled down 
 at her upturned face in just the same innocu- 
 ous way. 
 
 Not that either of us deceived the other or 
 ourselves. Women seldom do at crises like 
 these. 
 
 ** Of course, he has never told you her 
 name," she continues ; " he is too thoroughly 
 loyal as a man and gentleman to do that ; I 
 won't either. But only to think what whirl- 
 igigs time makes of us all — pour me some 
 more of your delicious tea, darling, won't 
 you ? — that woman^ Christie, is free to-day, 
 and he is your husband." 
 
 The last-named individual now comes 
 slowly up the terrace and asks for tea, too, 
 while Lina Chater rises and says she must 
 go- 
 
 I say No," as I ring the bell and order a 
 trap. 
 
 I could not think of allowing you to 
 walk down alone at this hour; Devonexe 
 S6 
 
and Other People 
 
 will drive you with pleasure, I am sure." I 
 glance at him as he inclines his head, and 
 presently I see them off together, Devonexe 
 dismissing the man as needless for a ten 
 minutes' drive. 
 
 A ten minutes' drive ! " 
 
 Well, I dare say my mind is a curious one, 
 but I breathe more freely than I did. I 
 know the worst — at least I think I do ; and 
 I am able, with a quiet smile on my mouth, 
 to send them off together. 
 
 Bingham came in for dinner; he often 
 did, and stopped the evening through, play- 
 ing for me or helping to amuse my guests in 
 his usual charming fashion. Each day after 
 that Devonexe is sure to oppose any and all 
 of my little plans for visitors, either for drive 
 or sail. 
 
 He avoids Mrs. Chater distinctly and un- 
 mistakably, which, I take it, is manly and 
 honorable in him, and which I offset to the 
 best of my ability by being as distant as 
 is possible to Bingham, who, in turn, con- 
 trives to be at my side nine-tenths of the 
 time. 
 
 Nobody who was at Monty Everts' dinner 
 57 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 that third week in August can possibly have 
 forgotten it. It was the crowning effort at 
 entertaining of the most genial bachelor I 
 know, and Nature, in one of her most be- 
 nign moods, favored Monty with the per- 
 fectest night in her calendar for that feast 
 under the pink pavilion on the terrace at 
 Evertswood. It was the famous three-to- 
 one dinner, every other little heart-shaped 
 table serving three women and one man, or 
 three men and one woman. 
 
 Lina Chater had three men, which, consid- 
 ering her well-known occupation, seemed 
 strange at first glance ; but when one really 
 knew Mrs. Chater, the greater cause for 
 astonishment w^as that she had not an extra 
 fellow or two thrown in for her share. 
 
 It is quite true that a certain phase of so- 
 ciety demands inherently the possession of 
 money, more for its need's sake than for any 
 special reverence in which gold is held ; but 
 it is quite as true that, given a woman like 
 this one, armed at all points and fairly brist- 
 ling with shot and shell — soft, unctuous, 
 yet possessing her inalienable attractions 
 and dowered with the flexibility of the 
 58 
 
and Other People 
 
 adder and the brain of a MachiavelH, and 
 you aHght upon an ethical anomaly against 
 which you are powerless to combat, even if 
 you were so impolitic as to wish to. 
 
 I sat at my host's right ; Cuthbert Cham- 
 plin and Count Castella were the other two 
 men. Mrs. Chater was just behind us, and 
 Devonexe, with three of the prettiest women 
 in Newport, was very near. 
 
 Cuthbert spent his time in urging upon 
 me most of the subjects so far chosen for the 
 living pictures, but none of them struck my 
 fancy. 
 
 " You will do none of all these ? " he said 
 at last. 
 
 I shook my head. Neither Marguerite de 
 Valois, nor Madame Recamier, nor yet 
 Marie Antoinette appealed to my imagina- 
 tion in connection with myself at all. 
 
 Essentially dramatic women such as I, 
 need something other than beauty or sorrow 
 to fire their picturesque possibilities. 
 
 " Fm so awfully glad ! " outburst the 
 young artist gleefully, proceeding in answer 
 to the surprised inquiries of three pairs of 
 eyes. " You see, I want you to do my Cleo- 
 59 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 patra. It was my Salon picture — you may 
 remember, possibly?" he says very hum- 
 bly considering that it put him hors concours 
 — " and as the Duke has promised to pose 
 for Antony, I shall die happy if you will be 
 Cleopatra." 
 
 " What's that ? " laughed Devonexe, good- 
 humoredly. Champlin, did I promise?" 
 looking at me. " A man feels such a fool 
 in such a get up." 
 
 " Consider the Cleopatra," observes the 
 Count, recalling no doubt the appalling 
 beauty and daring of the Egyptian in Cuth- 
 bert's great canvas. 
 
 " And who is to be the Cleopatra? " asks 
 Devonexe, evidently not having heard the 
 artist's proposition. 
 
 " The Duchess, I hope," cries Champlin, 
 lifting his glass of Chablis to his lips. 
 
 " Impossible ! " my husband exclaims, 
 with the deepest frown I ever saw on his 
 face. I could not consent to it ; at least, I 
 would say_, I trust that the Duchess will de- 
 cline the honor." 
 
 Cuthbert flushes. I dare say at that par- 
 ticular moment he wishes he had painted his 
 60 
 
and Other People 
 
 Sorceress of the Nile " with more spend- 
 thrift draperies. 
 
 " There are only two women in Newport 
 who could pose for it," he says, quite low — 
 
 the Duchess, because, begging her par- 
 don, she is the most beautiful woman I have 
 ever seen, and Mrs. Chater, because she 
 could be made up to look so ! " 
 
 "Let it be Mrs. Chater, then, by all 
 means ! " Devonexe says, so emphatically 
 that Lina, who has heard every word of it 
 all, must now needs play the startled fawn 
 and insist on knowing why her name is taken 
 in' vain. 
 
 I had had a mind to do the Cleopatra ; the 
 splendid, sumptuous creature with her 
 grand, gorgeous, pitiful, broken-hearted 
 pageant of a life, spoke straight to me. But 
 since my husband elected so decidedly for 
 the other woman, I withdrew as gracefully 
 as I could and said Fd do whatever they 
 liked. 
 
 Driving home that night he said, in a 
 curious, strained voice, just breaking the si- 
 lence before we reached the house : 
 
 " I didn't mean to be abrupt, Christie, 
 6i 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 about those infernal tableaux of Champlin's, 
 but I could not quite smile on a proposition 
 for my wife to appear in that sort of a guise 
 for people to stare at." 
 
 I make no reply ; in fact, I scarcely hear 
 what he says just now, for listening to the 
 echo in my heart of some other words of his : 
 they are, Let it be Mrs. Chater, then, by all 
 means ! " 
 
 Of course it was Mrs. Chater. 
 
 All through the heart-burnings and mask- 
 ing smiles, the innumerable jealousies, and 
 the sufferings inquisitional of the hapless 
 projector of the living pictures, one of his 
 fair subjects wavered not in her unflinching 
 good-nature — Mrs. Chater, tireless at re- 
 hearsals, indefatigable as right-hand wom- 
 an ; faithful in teaching Devonexe every 
 flex of his eyelid even, as she studied the 
 photograph of Champlin's famous paint- 
 ing ; radiant, overweening in her supremacy 
 and her joy^ yet humble as the slave, to the 
 call of Antony's eyes, the ugliest little woman 
 of her day, reigned mirthfully enough for a 
 week or so preceding the eventful night. 
 
 She contrived, I'm sure I don't know how, 
 
 a? 
 
and Other People 
 
 to dine at the Billows the evening of the 226. ; 
 certainly^ Jack Bingham was there too, and 
 Cuthbert and three of the girls who were to 
 take part. 
 
 What's the matter with you, dearest ? " 
 she cooed to me as we sipped our coffee, and 
 she lighted her cigarette in the palm court, 
 the men Hngering a little in the dining-room 
 still, but their voices coming to us through 
 the long, open windows. 
 
 " Nothing, I think," I answer. " Why ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know ; but lately you seem 
 dispirited. Is not the Duchess pale these 
 days ? " pursues this arch-percher on the 
 pinnacle of her pleasure, turning the knife in 
 me, and her eyes to Bingham at the same 
 moment, as he emerges from the dining- 
 room. 
 
 Bingham is up to the second, and says he 
 never saw her Grace in better form. 
 
 Oh, you don't look at her with the eyes 
 of love " — she gives us an infinitesimal 
 pause, there occurring a silence inside at the 
 same instant — " Mr. Bingham ; and I do. 
 I insist that Christie," flashing a glance at 
 Jack's extremely red face and knocking the 
 
 63 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 ash from her cigarette, is not well. You 
 need to use a bicycle, dear," she says, assum- 
 ing even patronizing airs in the craze of her 
 success. 
 
 I let her. I smile and sit still as the other 
 men follow Bingham to our midst. 
 
 " Or, you should golf, or go in for tennis, 
 sail a yacht — anything to bring back the old 
 splendid color to your cheeks, n'est-ce pas, 
 milor? " tendering Devonexe a light, which 
 he takes with unresponsive fingers. 
 
 " I don't go in for anything," I reply very 
 slowly as Bingham fans my face, thereby 
 cooling his own, I suppose, for anything 
 that will make me look untidy, frowsy, hot, 
 tired, fagged — and as to a wheel — un- 
 womanly ! " 
 
 A chorus of sighs and groans from the 
 women greets this simple utterance. 
 
 I nod my head. Yes, unwomanly, I re- 
 peat. The mere assumption of the pose 
 necessary to get on a bicycle does not belong 
 to us. It is bifurcated, and we are supposed 
 to be wearers of skirts, at least while visible 
 to the eyes of men." 
 
 " There it is, the men — the men ! always 
 64 
 
and Other People 
 
 the men ! " cries Mrs. Chater, warm with 
 wine. 
 
 " Always," I respond, calmly. " The 
 worst man's standard for woman is usually 
 identical with the best woman's standard for 
 herself ; therefore, it seems to me, we should 
 be wise in our generation and keep men al- 
 ways in mind." 
 
 Devonexe is looking fixedly at me as Lina 
 Chater laughs, much as she thinks Cleopatra 
 laughed, I dare say. 
 
 Not to be didactic," I continue, as coolly 
 as if my blood were not surging to my strick- 
 en soul, " it is quite a strange fact that the 
 reverse is not the case ; the worst woman's 
 standard for man is generally only commen- 
 surate with her own practice. Do," I say to 
 Jack, go in and play us the ' Tzigane ' or 
 anything, until the traps come around." 
 
 Mrs. Chater and Devonexe are sixth on 
 the programme; Jack Bingham and I, in 
 " Les Amusements d'Hiver," are seventh. 
 
 Lina had asked me to stand at the wings 
 and see how she " did," so nothing loath (be- 
 ing that way made) to spill poison in my 
 own veins, I said I would. I did. 
 
 65 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Cuthbert Champlin's Salon picture was a 
 marvellous success of daring, but it did not 
 approach the Cleopatra " for the Newport 
 Hospital Fund. She was regally beautiful, 
 thanks to paints and dyes and powders. It 
 is wonderful what a genius like Cuthbert 
 can do with a face that is hideous, if he is 
 allowed. 
 
 The draperies, star-spangled, gemmed at 
 bosom, waist, and shoulders ; the headdress 
 glowing with jewels; the flesh gleaming 
 through the gauze, more revealing in its film 
 than any mere blank nudity ; the pose inde- 
 scribable in its appealing imperialism; the 
 eyes telling their all to the eyes of Antony, 
 as he stood drinking in the witchery of the 
 Egyptian. 
 
 I saw it all, and then I drew back into the 
 close shadow of the piled-up scenery and 
 properties. 
 
 I leaned for a moment, catching my 
 breath, against some boards. In the dark- 
 ness I heard them coming, it seemed afar 
 ofif, and their voices like the voices in one's 
 dreams — hers last, articulate, saying as they 
 came: 
 
 66 
 
and Other People 
 
 " Reginald, I have always loved you, al- 
 ways; you must have known it. Heaven 
 help me to-night, I can keep it back no 
 longer ! " 
 
 And then they passed me by, Cleopatra's 
 garments swishing on my feet, Antony's 
 whisper lost to my ears. 
 
 Presently I heard someone calling me to 
 come, as the stage was waiting. 
 
 You remember perhaps the picture we 
 made, Jack Bingham and I, the entrancing, 
 bewildering eyes I gave him as I glanced 
 up from my furs, and how everybody praised 
 the realism of his answering looks. 
 
 Devonexe, out of all his armor, was 
 watching us from the wings, and then we 
 went home together quietly and decently 
 enough as usual. 
 
 I sat in a chair the rest of the night and 
 made up my mind ; sometimes not as easy a 
 thing to do as to make up one's face. 
 
 Jack came over in the morning to see how 
 I was. 
 
 He looked at me. I suppose he had never 
 seen me appearing quite this way before, for 
 he broke down utterly. 
 
 67 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 " Christie, Christie," he says, " I have al- 
 ways loved you, love you better now than 
 ever. I know Fm a fool ; there's no hope 
 in my love ; you're not the sort of woman to 
 even let me see you again. I left America 
 once before for your sake ; Fm going again, 
 but before I go I had to say it." 
 
 " Yes," I answer, slowly. I knew it, 
 but," laughing, as I rise and put out my 
 hand, " the wrong people almost always love 
 and marry here, and as there is to be no mar- 
 rying at all, there, why, perhaps annihilation 
 isn't so bad an idea after all." 
 
 He stares at me, but he is clever, and I 
 suppose he sees that I am not thinking very 
 much about him, or his love, or his going 
 away. 
 
 I am thinking solely of myself and of my 
 husband ; how best to efface myself and set 
 him at liberty to marry the woman he has 
 loved, I suppose, for years. 
 
 I decided upon it all very quickly. I take 
 my maid and go to New York, and engage 
 my stateroom and sail the next day for 
 Havre. I leave behind me a line or two, 
 saying that I have decided to go, and hope he 
 68 
 
and Other People 
 
 will not delay in seeking happiness by the 
 door I have opened to him. 
 
 I am in my berth for the first three days 
 out, and when I do get up on deck the first 
 person my eyes fall upon is Mr. Bingham. 
 
 Well, what does it matter? Very little, 
 after all. It is not the things said that hurt 
 the soul, but the things done. 
 
 Fate put us together there, and the world, 
 looking on, wove its own story. The cable 
 had already done its work well, for when we 
 landed at Havre the Paris edition of the 
 Herald told me how I had eloped with Jack 
 Bingham, and how remarkably effective not 
 only " Les Amusements d'Hiver " had been, 
 but also the marvellous fidelity of the " An- 
 tony and Cleopatra.'' 
 
 I read it all line by line, and perhaps I am 
 an anomaly, perhaps I am commonplace — 
 I'm sure I don't know — but sitting there in 
 the dingy hotel room, in the seaport town in 
 France, there comes to my soul a curious, 
 fierce joy as I read the words that make my 
 husband's path so much the easier for him. 
 What matter if I know them to be false. 
 
 It is good — yea, altogether untellably 
 
 69 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 sweet and precious — to know that he can be 
 happy, will be happy, even if I cannot ; it is 
 even excellent and dear to me to know that 
 there is such a state as happiness in this 
 world, if I can but look at it through an- 
 other's eyes. 
 
 Where are you going? " Bingham ven- 
 tures to ask me. 
 
 To Monte Carlo," I reply. 
 
 I am going, too," he says. 
 
 Very well," I answer, noting, but not 
 in the least weighing, the eagerness of his 
 face. On some altars, such women as I, 
 would unhesitatingly sacrifice whole heca- 
 tombs of hearts. 
 
 I reach Monte Carlo ; he follows me in 
 twenty-four hours. I have written my 
 mother and begged her to possess her soul 
 in patience, that all is perfectly well with me, 
 and that she must stay in Norway and not 
 think of coming. 
 
 Meantime, with nothing to divert me but 
 the newspapers, and their daily accounts of 
 me and of Devonexe — these last, meagre 
 suspicions merely — and a long interview of 
 a most ophidian, discreet, and clever charac- 
 70 
 
and Other People 
 
 ter with Mrs. Chater recorded in its columns, 
 I naturally take to the gambling-table. 
 
 Why not? With Bingham in close at- 
 tendance, what more could be desired in 
 the interests of divorce? Nothing that I 
 knew of. 
 
 By the second Wednesday night of my 
 stay I had exhausted nearly all the money I 
 had with me, but the demon had me in his 
 toils ; the blood was in my cheeks, doubtless 
 " that old splendid color " Lina Chater was 
 so anxious for me to recover. Jack leaned 
 over my chair. I had been winning up to 
 to-night, but now everything w^ent against 
 me; I had staked my last gold — and lost. 
 I laughed as I unclasped the bracelets from 
 my arms and laid them down. 
 
 I felt Bingham lean closer over me and 
 slip his purse into my lap as he whispered : 
 
 Take it, Christie ; what's mine is yours 
 always now — and as soon as you'll have me 
 I'm yours too. Take it." 
 
 I shake my head and smile as I look up at 
 him and push back the purse. 
 
 " You're losing your senses," I whisper, 
 flinging down my brooch, for I have lost 
 71 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 the other trinkets with one whirl of the 
 wheel. 
 
 And then a tall man comes into the room, 
 a tall man with a haggard face ; but men 
 with haggard faces are common there, and 
 no one heeds his entrance. I dare say, if 
 they think anything, they surmise him to be 
 some acquaintance of mine, for he crosses to 
 me and takes my hand and shakes it, and 
 says, " Christie ! " in a matter-of-fact way, 
 then turns to Jack and shakes hands with 
 him. 
 
 " How are you, Bingham ? " 
 
 The lights swim around before my eyes, 
 the croupier's voice sounds like the drone of 
 a tree-toad in my ears, the music of the band 
 playing somewhere near lulls to a whisper, 
 as Devonexe picks up my brooch and throws 
 down money in its stead, some way taking 
 Jack's place at my chair as he speaks to 
 me. 
 
 " I took the next boat that sailed after 
 yours, and got here as soon as I could. You 
 are very weary. Come, let us go home," 
 putting my wrap over my shoulders as I lose 
 the gold he has just staked for me. 
 
 72 
 
and Other People 
 
 I rise, and Devonexe, and I, and Jack 
 Bingham leave the gambHng-room together. 
 
 There is the least little pause on the es- 
 planade when the Duke says to Jack : 
 
 You must dine with us at the Anglais 
 to-morrow night, Mr. Bingham." 
 
 And Jack, as much a man as the other, an- 
 swers : 
 
 " Thank you, I will," as he lifts his hat 
 and stands bareheaded a moment in the gas- 
 glare, while Devonexe leads me to a waiting 
 carriage. 
 
 Hotel des Anglais," he tells the coach- 
 man. 
 
 " I am not stopping there," I cry with 
 the first breath I've taken since I beheld him. 
 
 " I know," he returns, quietly ; " but I 
 am." 
 
 We are there in five minutes. I tacitly 
 follow him in and up to the room door ; my 
 maid awaits me there ; all my belongings are 
 set out in their places. 
 
 " Too bad I couldn't have come on with 
 you," he says casually, while Therese takes 
 my cloak. I hope you were able to settle 
 the matter of those bonds satisfactorily." 
 73 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 I incline my head, while I recall some of 
 the lessons I learned at Lady Heathcote's. 
 
 Therese goes presently, as Devonexe tells 
 her that I shall not need her any more to- 
 night. 
 
 He tosses the cigar he has been feigning 
 to light, away, and comes over to me and 
 kneels down, taking the little note from his 
 pocket which I had written the day I left 
 him. 
 
 " My child," my husband says, with eyes 
 blood-dimmed by passion, don't you know 
 I love you, only you, never anyone but you, 
 ever ? Don't you know, a fellow can't speak 
 such a thing save at such a moment as this? 
 But the Chater woman was fool enough to 
 care for me years ago. Happiness ! " he 
 cries, crushing the scrap of paper in his 
 hand. You are my happiness ; you are 
 life, God, earth, heaven, all to me, Christie ! " 
 taking me in his arms. 
 
 I push him away. 
 
 " You are mad," I whisper ; " see what I 
 have done — at least what they say I've done. 
 Bingham came over on the same ship with 
 
and Other People 
 
 Devonexe smiles as he holds my face be- 
 tween his palms. 
 
 Christie," he says, " I wouldn't believe 
 the Angel of the Lord if he told me you had 
 done wrong. I know you have not, and had 
 you, it would be all the same ; I should still 
 be a beggar at your lips asking for your love. 
 Darling, cannot I ever hope to win my 
 own?" 
 
 I shake my head. Some of us, of my sex, 
 you see, must play even with their holy of 
 holies. 
 
 Never hope," I say, gathering myself to 
 him close, " because there is no need. Reg- 
 gie, I married you only because I loved you 
 as much as I am capable of loving." 
 
 Jack Bingham did dine with us the next 
 evening, and you'll think it odd, but there 
 was friendship in those two men's eyes and 
 hands, when they bade each other good- 
 night and good-by. 
 
 75 
 
IN CLINTON PLACE 
 
\ 
 
IN CLINTON PLACE 
 
 A STORY OF LIFE IN MIDDLE 
 NEW YORK. 
 
 A quaint corner, sir? 
 
 Aye, marry, and a bit of curious comedy. 
 
 On the north side of Clinton Place, not 
 too far from Broadway, there is a row of 
 balconied brick houses, the balconies hooded 
 by slantwise roofs, and these cumbered with 
 much ornamental iron-work. 
 
 Some of the houses in the row are dingy, 
 dirty, forlorn, and thick-windowed ; occa- 
 sionally there is one distinguished from its 
 neighbors by the absence of the iron-fangled 
 veranda, with its darksome hood, which has 
 been displaced for a modern vestibule, with 
 all the paraphernalia of brass knobs, hinges, 
 and escutcheons on its outer doors of swing- 
 ing plate-glass — this the outcome of some 
 79 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 person of wealth taking up his abode here 
 in deference to either family tradition or as- 
 sociation. 
 
 Yet that which strikes the student of local 
 color hereabouts is neither the smartness of 
 the rich man's abode nor the supreme dingi- 
 ness of the poor one's, but the cheerful, and, 
 so to speak, breezy, gayety of the house next 
 to the last, toward the west. 
 
 The old portico is intact, but brightened 
 by blue and white striped awnings, with red 
 scalloped orders, these also flapping in the 
 June air at all the thirteen windows of its 
 front. The stoop and sidewalk are clean; 
 neat muslin curtains flutter in and out under 
 the awnings ; the front door stands open in- 
 vitingly; but, as one enters, one may read 
 the silver side-sign thus — . 
 
 Italian Hotel, 
 By Giovanni Mazzoleni. 
 Restaurant. 
 
 In the marbled hallway there is a small 
 desk, accommodating a glass case full of 
 cigars, from the five-cent domestics up to the 
 quarter-of-a-dollar Reinas ; and behind the 
 80 
 
and Other People 
 
 desk sits, or usually stands, the excellent 
 host himself, a plump, portentous personage, 
 with a commendably ready smile and a posi- 
 tive genius for the superintendence of such 
 dishes as macaroni a la Napolitaine, poidet 
 a la Marengo, and omelette sonfflee a la 
 fromage. 
 
 Across the hall from the signor's desk, 
 spread open the double doors of the dining- 
 room, with its array of small tables, shining 
 glass and silver, and its own small desk at 
 the rear end, where the Signora Mazzoleni 
 receives the equivalent for breakfasts 
 and dinners, makes change, and with two 
 sharp eyes, keeps the four waiters up to the 
 proper pitch of civility and attention to, both 
 the regular guests of the house and to such 
 casual persons as, lured by the fame of her 
 excellent husband's menus, ^eek the comfort 
 of the same. 
 
 The season being now at June, and the 
 Exposition having depleted the usual natural 
 sources of Signor Mazzoleni's income at this 
 time of the year, it had been with the most 
 accentuated hospitality that, only a week 
 ago, he and his ample spouse had welcomed 
 8i 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 to their entire second floor a party of 
 three. 
 
 The hotel register displayed these to be 
 " the Professor von Bommelcamp, Madame 
 von Bommelcamp, and Miss Brown, from 
 Belgium." 
 
 They brought with them, presumably di- 
 rect from Belgium, four very large trunks, 
 a huge packing-box of immense weight, a 
 canary, a sewing-machine, a piano, a hamper 
 of books, a tall lamp, and a quantity of very 
 striking oil paintings. 
 
 The cheer and warmth that this array of 
 luggage carried to the unified hearts of the 
 Signor and the Signora Mazzoleni, accus- 
 tomed as they were to the hand-satchel, or, 
 at most, the valise and the steamer-trunk, 
 can be better fancied than figured ; and not 
 only did it convey a thrill of delight to the 
 master and mistress, but this ecstasy de- 
 scended thence to the four waiters, Bartolo, 
 Niccolo, Errico, and Franco; to the cham- 
 bermaid, Mary Flynn ; to the chef, Master 
 Cherubini; and to the dish-washer, little 
 Anuccia, with the nut-brown eyes, that 
 shone even in the grimy, smoky recesses of 
 82 
 
and Other People 
 
 the back kitchen, and shone, too, through the 
 tears that welled up when gravied platters 
 slipped smashing to the floor through her 
 little, brown fingers, thus robbing her wages 
 of a fine. 
 
 It may, too, be asserted with truth that 
 if the arrival at the Hotel Mazzoleni of the 
 Professor von Bommelcamp and his party 
 did not produce a corresponding elation of 
 spirits among their fellow-guests with that 
 of the proprietor of this excellent little hos- 
 telry, it certainly caused the French dancer 
 and his wife, on the third floor back, some 
 moments of curiosity and a tremor of fear 
 lest this unwonted amount of belongings 
 portended a fresh rival in the terpsichorean 
 field ; and it cannot be denied that it evoked 
 sighs of envy from the Italian banker's wife 
 and daughter in the third floor front, albeit 
 the husband and father of these, pooh- 
 poohed the incursion with unflinching zeal, 
 and early in the engagement pronounced the 
 Professor von Bommelcamp nothing if not 
 a puff of wind. 
 
 " To-day he is here, yes ; but to-mor- 
 row — Eh, well ; we shall see ! " 
 
 83 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 The contortionist, who shared his apart- 
 ment on the fourth floor with a gentleman of 
 the orchestra, had no opinion to offer, until 
 the professor nearly took his breath away 
 one morning, by inviting him to a cigar, and 
 thereafter he pronounced him " a gentleman 
 right through." 
 
 The shop-girls, also an qtiatrieme, voted 
 the professor, " real elegant " from the start, 
 a species of encomium superinduced, it is 
 believed, by that gentleman's conciliatory 
 habit of looking at them in a respectfully ad- 
 miring do-it-if-I-dared " way, as they 
 passed him going in or out. 
 
 What the young man, the mysterious 
 young man, also harbored on the top story, 
 thought of Professor von Bommelcamp 
 none of his fellow-boarders knew. He had 
 scanned the trio in that unerring, and yet 
 careless fashion which marked him a man of 
 the world, as soon as they had appeared in 
 the dining-room, and Bartolo, who had once 
 been employed in the chorus of the opera at 
 Turin, and whose ideals were quite morbidly 
 romantic, had not failed to observe that the 
 glances of Mr. North — enjoying the sobri- 
 84 
 
and Other People 
 
 quet of The Mysterious One," because, re- 
 sisting both the ingenious salHes of Signer 
 Mazzoleni and the blandishments of the Sig- 
 nora, he had thus far preserved intact the 
 sources of that income which permitted him 
 to pay promptly for the hospitalities he en- 
 joyed beneath (literally) their roof — that 
 Mr. North's glances then, travelled often 
 and interestedly to the face of Miss Brown. 
 
 Miss Brown was probably nineteen ; she 
 was tall, and white, except for her full, pretty 
 lips, which were scarlet with young and 
 abounding blood; she had deep gray eyes 
 and dark-brown, pretty hair; she appeared 
 nervous and constrained, and although never 
 failing to laugh at the Professor's jests, she 
 yet did not conceal (at least from the keen- 
 eyed Mr. North) a certain faint curl of the 
 upper lip, a certain curious quiver of the 
 white eyelids, when the amiable Professor 
 chanced to be looking into his well-filled 
 plate. 
 
 It was evident, through one of those sub- 
 tleties of nature, that Miss Brown was the 
 younger sister of Madame von Bommel- 
 camp ; although perhaps no two women were 
 8s 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 ever made more dissimilar, yet the same 
 parentage stood revealed in each. It was 
 something like this : in IMadame von Bom- 
 melcamp one saw all the possibilities of the 
 lower plane of both sisters in full play; 
 while in Miss Brown it seemed as if the 
 higher part stood triumphant, if perhaps 
 temporarily hampered by circumstances, in 
 the form — saving his plausible presence — of 
 the excellent Professor, her brother-in-law. 
 
 This gentleman, after enduring for a week 
 the scrutiny of the public dining-room, de- 
 cided that a move in another direction must 
 be taken, and for reasons of his own, held a 
 conclave with the Signor, which resulted in 
 a more aristocratic seclusion for the Pro- 
 fessor's meals, an accession of income for 
 the Signor, and an added sense of impor- 
 tance in the eyes of the onlookers, which 
 tended not a little to the Professor's well- 
 being and the success of his more intimate 
 affairs. 
 
 The extension, hitherto relegated to the 
 use of Bartolo, Niccolo, Franco, and Errico 
 in seeking such repose as they could obtain 
 amid a conglomeration of old furniture, old 
 86 
 
and Other People 
 
 clothes, pots, pans, kettles, papers, and gen- 
 eral debris, was rescued from these purposes, 
 cleansed, furbished, and its many windows 
 made to shine, while the wistaria in the yard 
 spread curtains of shadow, and sent dancing 
 shiver of leaves and tendrils all over the 
 snowy cloth upon the Professor's private 
 table as it awaited, in great array of fancy 
 folded napkins, piled-up oranges and ba- 
 nanas, cracked ice, and lettuce greenery, the 
 appearance of the distinguished boarders. 
 
 The Banker's wife and daughter mean- 
 time caught the sound of arrested carriage 
 wheels before the very door, and flew, the 
 one with her mouth full of hairpins, the 
 other clutching a shawl over the airy desha- 
 bille of a late June afternoon, to the win- 
 dow, to behold an open landau with two 
 sleek horses and a liveried coachman, stand- 
 ing in front of the Hotel Mazzoleni. 
 
 Now carriages had been known to block 
 this path ere to-day, but they had always 
 been merely sad-looking one-horse cabs, 
 stuffed with miscellaneous luggage and a 
 traveller, shabby and dusty, struggling with- 
 in the same, as he m.astered, or was mastered 
 87 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 by, the combined and rather irresistible 
 forces of the Enghsh language and the 
 American cabman. But here stood a veri- 
 table pleasure carriage, and in it — nay, now 
 descending — was the Professor, assisting 
 Madame von Bommelcamp to alight, and 
 also Miss Brown. 
 And what toilets ! 
 
 The Banker's wife and daughter heaved 
 sighs to heaven of commingled admiration 
 and despair, as they watched the Professor's 
 wife flitting airily up the steps. Madame 
 von Bommelcamp was indeed admirable — 
 lithe, svelt, of the age of twenty-eight, per- 
 haps, and with all the advantages which for- 
 eign residence can confer. 
 
 The Banker's wife and daughter returned 
 languidly to their hair-pins and curling- 
 tongs. Not for them, alas ! were such ex- 
 travagances. The Banker, in his little office 
 in Centre Street, it is true, was a miniature 
 lordling of finance in the regards of his fel- 
 low-countrymen ; but with eighteen thou- 
 sand dollars of capital, even, one cannot 
 drive out in style, dress as a princess, and 
 indulge in the private dining-room. 
 
 88 
 
and Other People 
 
 When this estimable lady and her off- 
 spring had essayed to return the flattering 
 notice of the Professor and his family, the 
 Banker had sworn roundly that such pro- 
 ceedings must at once be discontinued, and 
 too 
 
 Hark! The footstep of Niccolo on the 
 staircase along the corridor, a rap upon the 
 door. The Banker's daughter, still im- 
 mersed in the protective shawl, peeps out to 
 receive from her compatriot a note, scented, 
 crested, addressed to them all. 
 
 The Banker's wife tears it open just as the 
 Banker himself comes in from his business. 
 It is an invitation to dinner for this evening, 
 for the Banker and " his honorable family," 
 from the Professor and Madame von Bom- 
 melcamp. 
 
 " To dinner," and in the private dining- 
 room ! Now the Banker may hang his head 
 in shame, and no longer say wicked things of 
 these delightful people. 
 
 Which is true ; the Banker confesses that 
 a private dinner for three, at the Hotel 
 Mazzoleni, even, is not a matter to trifle 
 with the pocket of the host; and, after 
 89 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 ^11, it is the pocket that tells always the 
 story. Yes. 
 
 Go?" certainly. 
 
 But no. It cannot be. The Banker's 
 family have no garments fit in the least for 
 such a festival. 
 
 Notwithstanding some tears, and some of 
 those domestic infelicitations not uncommon 
 under similar circumstances in the families 
 of all nations, the Banker is squeezed into 
 his evening clothes, not worn since last Sep- 
 tember, at the national holiday picnic at 
 Jones's Wood, his gold chain is stretched 
 across his chest, his necktie adjusted, his 
 gloves and hat pressed into his hand, and at 
 the hour of six-twenty-five, watched by these 
 proud and devoted ladies, he descends the 
 flights of stairs in the darkness, to emerge at 
 last into the radiant splendor of the private 
 dining-room of Professor von Bommelcamp. 
 
 To make some reasonable excuse for his 
 appearance without his wife and daughter is 
 the occupation of but a moment, and al- 
 though accepted by Madame von Bommel- 
 camp with courtesy, is at once surmounted 
 by her insistance that, so long as the ladies 
 90 
 
and Other People 
 
 are to be at home this evening, they must 
 join the party later in her little sitting-room. 
 
 The Banker finds himself presently at the 
 right hand of his hostess, while the only 
 other guest is Mr. North. 
 
 It must be remembered that the Italian 
 man of affairs discovers no difficulties of 
 etiquette in thus dining with comparative 
 strangers, or in accepting hospitaHty at such 
 short notice. Eleven years ago the Banker 
 had served with alacrity and good sense as a 
 waiter, in the restaurant kept by his brother- 
 in-law in Rome, whence, having accumulat- 
 ed two hundred dollars, and accompanied by 
 his family, he emigrated to New York and 
 presently was able, through a lucky adven- 
 ture with fruits, to set up as a financial agent, 
 and anon as a fully fledged banker, among 
 his fellow-countrymen. 
 
 The Banker, it may be perceived, was not 
 proud ; on the contrary he was fond of re- 
 calling the days of his youth. Indeed, Fran- 
 co, the waiter who resembled a bandit, had 
 once been a confrere of his, and his place 
 in the Hotel Mazzoleni had been secured for 
 him on his arrival in America, by the good 
 offices of the Banker. 
 
 91 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Franco, in addition to his duties in the 
 dining-room, performed the menial task of 
 poHshing boots ; and in this capacity he had 
 that very morning come in contact with the 
 Professor. The Professor, always friendly 
 with everyone, had entered into conversation 
 with Franco, the result of which was de- 
 scribed by Franco, a half hour later, to Nuc- 
 cia, sweeping up the area, while he sifted the 
 cinders, as follows: 
 
 That, as the Professor had indeed been 
 accustomed to dine always last winter in 
 Rome at the restaurant of the Banker's 
 brother-in-law, who was a very dear friend 
 of his ; on account of this timely discovery, 
 the Professor that very day would invite the 
 Banker and his family to dine with him for 
 the inauguration of the new salle-a-rnanger. 
 
 The Professor's version of these facts dif- 
 fered slightly from that of Franco ; for, the 
 door once tightly closed on the latter's burly 
 figure. Professor von Bommelcamp had en- 
 tered the sitting-room, and standing in a fa- 
 vorite and oratorical attitude between the 
 folding-doors, had said, " Peggy, Fve got it 
 at last I" 
 
 92 
 
and Other People 
 
 At which remark Madame von Bommel- 
 camp and her sister, Miss Brown, had both 
 looked up, the one from picking out a prize- 
 puzzle, the other from a book. 
 
 Have you, John ? Well," queried his 
 wife, " what is it ? " 
 
 " The bandit-waiter has just told me, al- 
 though I'll wager a quarter he'd swear I'd 
 told it to him, that our interesting acquaint- 
 ance, the Banker, has a brother-in-law 
 named Allegretti, who keeps a restaurant in 
 Rome." 
 
 The Professor at this point executes what 
 may be termed a fandango de triomphe in 
 the middle of the floor, bringing up on one 
 leg with a thump, and with a joyous wink of 
 his left eye. 
 
 " Peggy ! " cries he ; " Mary, you too, my 
 dear " — this to Miss Brown, who now lays 
 down her book with an obedient, if resigned, 
 air. 
 
 " Peggy, do not forget that we were in 
 Rome last winter ; we took our meals at the 
 restaurant of Signor Allegretti ; we were his 
 firm friends; we owe him the return of 
 many courtesies, which it will be our pleas- 
 93 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 lire to heap upon the Banker and his family ; 
 we will have them down to dine to-night 
 and tell them of our dear excellent friend, 
 Signor Allegretti, in Rome ; they will ex- 
 claim at the name ; explanations will follow ; 
 good-fellowship will succeed ; confidence is 
 begotten — and leave the rest to me. I shall 
 work the old racket with possibly a few vari- 
 ations according to circumstances, and I 
 think will be in for at least ten thousand ! " 
 
 The Professor thrust his hands in his 
 pockets and crossed to the mantel, where he 
 struck a match and lighted a cigar. 
 
 Madame von Bommelcamp laid the prize- 
 puzzle carefully one side, and surveyed her 
 lord. 
 
 John," she exclaimed, " how clever you 
 are!" 
 
 The Professor laughed; he was used to 
 the encomiums of his wife ; in the line which 
 he pursued he really deserved them, for the 
 Professor was a genius, on the wrong track, 
 but still a genius. 
 
 But," added Madame von Bommelcamp, 
 seriously, " I must confess that I am a little 
 in doubt as to that Mr. North." 
 
 94 
 
and Other People 
 
 " Mary must clear up that doubt," replies 
 her brother-in-law, decisively. " What have 
 you done with him, Moll, anyhow ? Who is 
 he? What is he? " And the Professor turns 
 an abrupt, hard face toward the crimsoning 
 girl. 
 
 I don't know," she falters. 
 
 " Time you did, then," the man says, 
 sharply. " I hope I haven't brought you up 
 in luxury, shown you the whole of Europe 
 and South America, taken you when you 
 were a child of nine, right out of the jaws of 
 the poor-house up there in South Village, 
 when your mother and father died, to have 
 you turn out good for nothing to me now in 
 my profession ! " 
 
 Miss Brown picked up her volume again, 
 and turned the cover open in a nervous way. 
 
 I wish," she said, almost under her 
 breath, that you and sister Peggy had 
 given me an education, John; and then I 
 could have taken care of myself, and not 
 been a burden to you like I am." 
 
 The Professor whistled a long, stiff meas- 
 ure. Madame von Bommelcamp stuck out 
 her foot, and gazed admiringly at the point- 
 95 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 ed patent-leather toe of her shoe. The Pro- 
 fessor crossed over to Miss Brown, stooped 
 down, and looked at her. 
 
 " Mary," he said, don't let me see your 
 Puritan ancestors cropping out in you again. 
 Science has abolished all those ridiculous 
 prejudices which you unfortunately inherit. 
 Society has taken a double backward somer- 
 sault past the era of the Pilgrim fathers, my 
 child ; and ' might is right ' is as true to-day 
 as it was in the Middle Ages. Bah ! " cries 
 the man, pitching his half-smoked weed into 
 the empty grate. " My forefathers were 
 Puritans, too ; my father tilled his own soil, 
 and gave me a college education. I tried 
 teaching, and starved ; I tried clerking, and 
 froze; I tried killing myself, and the mill- 
 pond wasn't deep enough " — at which point 
 the Professor was uttering a truism, the ap- 
 positeness of which he scarcely dreamed. 
 
 Then I tried doing what I could, and with 
 my knowledge of metals and chemicals — 
 well 
 
 Professor von Bommelcamp now took an 
 airy turn, with sl whisk of his coat-skirts, up 
 the room and down again. 
 
 96 
 
and Other People 
 
 " I manage to keep Peggy and you, and 
 myself, in sealskin coats, velvet gowns, and 
 dinners of six courses, eh, don't I ? " 
 
 Mary Brown nodded her head slowly. 
 
 Very soon after they went to drive in the 
 open landau, and the dinner presently fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 During the progress of this meal it fell 
 out as the Professor had planned, and by 
 the time that the egg-plant stuffed with to- 
 matoes, onions, macaroni, and cheese, fresh 
 from the very hand of Signor Mazzoleni 
 himself, was quivering on the forks of the 
 company, the Banker was revelling in the 
 delightful knowledge that he was partaking 
 of the still more delightful hospitaHty of an 
 old and valued friend of his estimable 
 brother-in-law, the Signor Allegretti of 
 Rome. 
 
 What reminiscences were indulged in, as 
 the Banker, warm and rosy through his 
 swarth, with copious draughts of the red 
 wine of his native land, and the Professor, 
 ruddy with that tense of excitement induced 
 by the successful working out of a problem, 
 talked over and over the excellencies of the 
 97 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 aforesaid Signer Allegretti of Rome, and 
 the thoroughly appetizing quality of his res- 
 taurant ! How deftly the Professor extract- 
 ed information one minute to serve it up as 
 personal recollection the next, was not even 
 suspected by the Banker, but it is possible 
 that Mr. North, being observant and reti- 
 cent, had noticed this play of ingratiating ac- 
 quaintanceship. In any event, he kept his 
 ideas to himself, and devoted his eyes, and 
 whatever conversation he had, to Miss 
 Brown. 
 
 When at last, the board cleared, save for 
 the strewings of nut-shells, the demi-tasses, 
 the cheese, and the cordials ; when the Sig- 
 nor, and even also the Signora Mazzoleni, 
 stood obsequiously in the hall ; when Bar- 
 tolo, Niccolo, Errico, and Franco lingered a 
 bit to see the exit, as Professor von Bommel- 
 camp, with a tip to Franco, ushered out the 
 honored guest, on whose arm now hung 
 Madame von Bommelcamp, and Mr. North 
 with Miss Brown ; when all the gas-jets save 
 one were put out in the new salle d manger; 
 yet above, an deuxieme, what gayety there 
 was! 
 
 98 
 
and Other People 
 
 The ladies from the third floor — persuad- 
 ed by their husband and father, overflowing 
 with succulent viands and sweeter reminis- 
 cences as he was, into making it a matter of 
 fortunate duty to don their best, whatever it 
 was, and come down — had succumbed, noth- 
 ing loath, to the prospect of this taste of the 
 social Elysium. 
 
 What life ! What mirth ! The heart of 
 the Banker's daughter throbbed with excite- 
 ment as she heard the tinkle and clatter of 
 the piano, the shrill shrieking of the canary- 
 bird, the voices, the laughter; and in an- 
 other second she and her mamma, all smiles, 
 stood in the midst of this beautiful whirl, 
 with the Professor bending low over their 
 hands, with the pale young lady saying 
 pleasant things to them, with the tall young 
 gentleman looking at them with, alas ! those 
 lovely cold eyes of his that shone, thought 
 the Banker's daughter, like the stars, and at 
 much the same distance. 
 
 The Banker, having done praising the ex- 
 quisite playing of madame, now proposed a 
 game of cards — what so innocent, so de- 
 lightful? What said the dear friends of his 
 99 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 brother-in-law, Signer Allegretti of Rome, 
 to vingt-et-un f 
 
 Mr. North, sitting quietly near the two 
 young ladies, without moving a muscle of 
 his head, still contrived to place his eyes in 
 proper focus for taking in the countenance 
 of the host. 
 
 It was calm and a little deprecatory. 
 
 There was an infinitesimal pause, and then 
 Madame von Bommelcamp spoke. 
 
 Dear signor," she said to the Banker, 
 " you must not be offended, but my husband 
 — indeed, both of us are New Englanders. 
 We were brought up very strictly, and you 
 will forgive us I am sure, but we never play 
 cards." 
 
 Mr. North's eyes fell, and the Banker was 
 profuse in his apologies, and the gap was 
 immediately filled by Madame von Bommel- 
 camp with a lively waltz on the piano, at- 
 tended by the canary-bird as a matter of 
 course. 
 
 Why should the young people not enjoy a 
 little dance? 
 
 The Banker's daughter flushed at the 
 proposition, but Miss Brown, with a curi- 
 
 lOO 
 
and Other People 
 
 ously haughty manner, at once found the 
 room both too warm and too small. 
 
 " I only wish I could dance, Signorina," 
 said the Professor, gazing down into the 
 rich-hued face ; but, unfortunately, my 
 education was neglected in that particular. 
 I was brought up in a plain way, sir," turn- 
 ing to the Banker. 
 
 Yes," echoed Madame, " we are plain 
 people, Signora," laying a jewelled hand on 
 top of the Banker's wife's plump fingers. " I 
 used to iron my husband's shirts while he 
 studied and read in the long winter even- 
 ings, when he was preparing for his great 
 discoveries. Ah ! you do not know," contin- 
 ued the lady, " how very poor we were in 
 those early days. I did all the work of our 
 little household in Vermont, and I was 
 proud to do it ! " 
 
 And thus how easily the staircase leading 
 from the second to the third floor was swept 
 away; how even the pleasure-carriage and 
 the private dining-room vanished beneath 
 this magical stroke; and how at once 
 there arose such accentuated friendliness 
 in the hearts of the Banker and his fam- 
 
 lOI 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 ily toward the friends of the relation in 
 Rome ! 
 
 " I think, Madame, that all our New Eng- 
 land women are proud of their housewifely 
 talents ; don't you ? " This was said by Mr. 
 North, who, to tell the truth, was not a little 
 puzzled at this juncture, by the turn of the 
 talk. 
 
 Madame von Bommelcamp opened her 
 mouth to answer, but she was not allowed ; 
 the Professor strode across to Mr. North 
 and, standing before him, put out his hand. 
 
 " Sir," said he, I've always liked you 
 from the start ; now more than ever since 
 you say ' our New England.' You are a 
 New England man, sir, are you not ? " 
 I am," Mr. North says. 
 So am I," cries the Professor, shaking 
 the younger man's hand warmly, and thence 
 turning to fairly beam upon the assembled 
 company. 
 
 " It is so pleasant," continues he, while 
 positive tears well in his small dark eyes, 
 only to be brushed away with a remorseless 
 handkerchief of the finest linen, " so pleasant 
 to find one's self among friends." 
 
 102 
 
and Other People 
 
 The Banker and his family both applaud- 
 ed this remark in an audible, but unsyllabled, 
 murmur, while Mr. North pulls down his 
 cuffs and glances at Miss Brown. 
 
 I dare say," continues the Professor, 
 leaning against the mantel and surveying 
 the group, " that you can hardly comprehend 
 what it is to — us — to enjoy this taste of hon- 
 est social life, away from the frivolities of the 
 outer and greater world." The Professor 
 says these last words modestly, yet in a 
 manner calculated to impress, but not to 
 wound the sensibilities of those of his hear- 
 ers unfamiliar with more riotous scenes. 
 
 " You can hardly imagine what this even- 
 ing is to me, when I recall the years of my 
 early married life, the hardships, the trials, 
 the privations — " At this point the Banker 
 mops his brow, retrospecting sympathetical- 
 ly on his own Roman days, and the attic and 
 macaroni he then divided with the eleven 
 other waiters in the restaurant of his 
 brother-in-law, Signor Allegretti — " shared 
 by my devoted wife without one murmur. 
 Ah! — " The Professor heaves a sigh, 
 which he proceeds to smother with a shrug 
 103 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 and a wave of the hand. I will not dwell 
 on that painful time, but will rather recall 
 its end, when at last, after months and years 
 of toil, and study, and experiment, I finally 
 realized the dream of my life, and thereafter 
 was able to — pay my way as I went," and 
 the Professor broke into the genial laugh of 
 the successful man, standing on the hearth- 
 stone which he himself has hewn out of the 
 bosom of a perchance reluctant eafth. 
 
 " Won't you tell us about your invention. 
 Professor? " asked Mr. North, in which be- 
 seechment he was joined in chorus by all, 
 save, of course, Madame and Miss Brown. 
 
 The Professor dallied, hung back, looked 
 down. 
 
 The Banker urged, pleaded. 
 
 Madame von Bommelcamp at last said, 
 John, my dear, tell our friends ; it may 
 interest them. He is so modest," she adds, 
 
 and so fearful of boring people." 
 
 A second chorus of remonstrance and ad- 
 miration, and then the Professor, with that 
 conciseness and fluency which had many 
 times stood him in precisely similar stead, 
 spoke. 
 
 104 
 
and Other People 
 
 I cannot claim to have made an inven- 
 tion," with a gentle inclination in the direc- 
 tion of Mr. North. Mine is merely a dis- 
 covery. I am only a very ordinary metal- 
 lurgist ; the tools of my trade are all in that 
 big box yonder." Professor von Bommel- 
 camp waves a white hand to the recess, 
 where the packing-case stands deftly draped 
 with a camel's-hair shawl. 
 
 " Woi^th three thousand dollars," mur- 
 murs Madame sotto voce, and yet sufficient- 
 ly loud to be heard by the Banker's wife, 
 who thereat pricks up her ears. 
 
 " My good fortune has been to discover 
 by accident one of Nature's secrets, and that 
 is, that ordinary slag-iron contains a very 
 considerable proportion of silver, or a metal 
 so closely resembling silver, as to have de- 
 ceived the greatest experts in Europe, and to 
 have stood the whole list of genuine silver 
 tests. How? Ah, that is known to but 
 three persons — myself, my wife, and my 
 sister-in-law." 
 
 Open mouths and exclamations of won- 
 der greet the revelation of the man of sci- 
 ence. 
 
 105 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 " Permit me/' continues the Professor, 
 taking from the shelf behind him an exquis- 
 ite goblet of chased silver and presenting it 
 to the Banker's wife; " Madame, I beg of 
 you to accept this little souvenir manufac- 
 tured from my new metal, in memory of a 
 most agreeable evening." 
 
 The Banker's wife, the Banker himself, 
 and his pretty daughter all disclaim their 
 worthiness of such a princely gift, but this 
 reluctance is speedily put to flight by Pro- 
 fessor and Madame von Bommelcamp. 
 
 The goblet was made of genuine silver; 
 the Professor always travelled with one of 
 the kind amid his belongings. 
 
 You are so good as to seem interested," 
 continued the host, which emboldens me to 
 pursue a theme of which I never tire. My 
 dear, will you show our friends those photos 
 which the King and Queen of Belgium gave 
 me?" 
 
 Madame von Bommelcamp, nothing loath, 
 displays the pictures of sovereignty to the 
 admiring gaze of the three guests, and then 
 turning them over she points to the inscrip- 
 tion on the back of each. 
 
 io6 
 
and Other People 
 It runs this way, 
 
 "AM. le Baron von Bommelcamp 
 de son ami Leopold, Roi des Beiges. 
 Laeken, ly janvier i8gi " 
 
 with the substitution, on the Queen^s por- 
 trait, of her name for that of her august hus- 
 band. 
 
 They had been bought by the Professor 
 for a franc a piece in Brussels, and duly in- 
 scribed, the one by himself, the other by 
 Madame. 
 
 " ' Baron ' von Bommelcamp ! " exclaims 
 Mr. North, as he inspects these royal treas- 
 ures, while the Banker and his family are so 
 overcome as to be at the point of rising, and 
 bowing and courtesying before their noble 
 entertainers. 
 
 " Oh, yes, to be sure ; I had almost for- 
 gotten that you were a Baron, John," cries 
 Madame lightly to her spouse. " His Maj- 
 esty, the King of Belgium, conferred the 
 title on account of the merit of the discovery, 
 but my husband never uses it." 
 
 " No, no, no ! " The Professor shakes his 
 head. " I am an American through and 
 107 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 through. Plain ' Mr.' will do well enough 
 for us; won't it, signor? " laughs he, clap- 
 ping the Banker heartily on the back. 
 
 At which exhibition of good feeling, the 
 amiable man and his family experience a 
 subsidence of aw^e and an increase of 
 ease. 
 
 " Too modest, too modest by half ! " says 
 Mr. North. " But, pray tell me, Baron," 
 with a playful little smile at Miss Brown, 
 which, as she feigns not to see it, is caught 
 in the eclipse by the Banker's daughter and 
 treasured in her dreams that night, tell 
 me where are you developing this wonderful 
 discovery? You have works, doubtless; a 
 foundry, manufactory, something? Be- 
 cause, if they are hereabouts, I want permis- 
 sion to visit the place." 
 
 " At present," the Professor replies, the 
 only two — factories, I suppose I may call 
 them — are one at the village of Laeken, just 
 out of Brussels, you remember, and one at 
 Hull, England." 
 
 " None here ! " exclaims the Banker, ex- 
 citedly. 
 
 Er — not yet," returns the Professor. 
 io8 
 
and Other People 
 
 ' ** Ah, there will be, then ? " queries Mr. 
 North. 
 
 The Professor thrusts his hands in his 
 pockets and crosses the room in silence, look- 
 ing down as might some hero newly crowned 
 with laurel, listening to the plaudits of the 
 crowd. 
 
 " I'll tell you," says madame, softly, for 
 John never would. I think he stands in his 
 own light, because he never will talk about 
 his business in social circles. The truth is 
 — yes, my dear, Fm going to have my way 
 for once," this to the Professor, who waves a 
 deprecatory, not to say forbidding, five fin- 
 gers at his lady. 
 
 " The truth is that we are over here at the 
 express invitation, request rather, of some 
 of the most influential financiers in this city, 
 for the purpose of establishing a stock com- 
 pany for the development of the new metal, 
 and the manufacture of all sorts of articles 
 from it." 
 
 " My dear," the Professor says, taking a 
 seat, give us some more music and stop 
 talking shop." 
 
 " I won't ! There ! " At which sally the 
 109 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 company laugh, and eagerly beg the hostess 
 to go on. 
 
 I am proud of his success ; I wouldn't 
 be an American woman if I were not, or any 
 woman at all for that matter ! And only to- 
 day almost the last of the stock was taken 
 up by George G " 
 
 " My love ! " The Professor's cambric 
 handkerchief descends upon the lips of 
 Madame, just in time not to prevent the 
 Banker and Mr. North from understanding 
 precisely to whom she referred. 
 
 " Business is business, Peggy, and it is a 
 breach of business to mention names yet 
 awhile." 
 
 " Well," answers Madame a trifle abashed, 
 " I didn't mean to do anything wrong, John." 
 
 " Is there any of that stock left ? " in- 
 quires the Banker jocularly, and yet with 
 the sincerity born of a keen eye to the main 
 chance. 
 
 " Yes," chimes in Mr. North ; " because 
 if there is. Professor, I speak for a slice ! " 
 
 " I take what you got ! " cries the Banker, 
 still mirthfully, but with decision. " I 
 spoke first." 
 
 no 
 
and Other People 
 
 Miss Brown at this moment was observed 
 by Mr. North to move uneasily on the sofa, 
 which she shared with the Banker's daugh- 
 ter, to rise and go to the window, and, stoop- 
 ing, to lean far out under the awning. 
 
 With an irresistible impulse Mr. North 
 followed her, so that when she drew in again 
 to the full flare of the gas-lights, she found 
 him beside her. 
 
 He said nothing — nor did she — but their 
 young eyes embraced in that curious timid, 
 meek, sweet, wonderful way in which the 
 eyes of Adam and Eve^ when they first met, 
 must have done. 
 
 Meantime the Professor, not unmindful 
 of the juvenile episode at the casement, but 
 putting it down on the credit side of his own 
 account, now spoke slowly and with weighty 
 precision. 
 
 " No, sir ; no, gentlemen," for Mr. North 
 now turns toward the group again, as does 
 Miss Brown with a faint rose flush on her 
 cheeks. 
 
 No friend of mine shall ever purchase 
 through me one dollar's worth of this stock. 
 I value my friends too much to permit them 
 III 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 to risk a cent in any enterprise of mine, the 
 outcome of which might, by a ninety-ninth 
 ill chance turn out adversely. No, no " 
 
 The noble earnestness of these remarks is 
 productive of just that state of mind in his 
 hearers, to which the discoverer has aspired. 
 
 The Banker, being unhampered by any 
 more absorbing passion, is indeed loud and 
 vehement in his persuasions ; while the 
 younger man, first flushed with the liquid of 
 Mary Brown's beautiful eyes, is less demon- 
 strative and more willing to bide his time. 
 
 " But I insist," cries the excellent brother- 
 in-law of Signor Allegretti, of Rome. " It 
 is, I am sure, not too kind to deprive those 
 whom you honor by calling friends, of the 
 chances of making their fortune, eh ? I ap- 
 peal to Madame." The Banker rises and 
 stands before his hostess. 
 
 He could not have appealed to a better 
 person. 
 
 " I really don't see, John, why," — Ma- 
 dame's sentences arc liberally punctuated by 
 impressive waves of the hand and shakes of 
 the head from her lord, but disregarding his 
 marital signals for silence, she goes on: 
 
 112 
 
and Other People 
 
 " why you will not let the Signor have a few 
 of those remaining shares. The shares are 
 a hundred dollars each only, of the preferred 
 stock, and how many are there left, John? " 
 
 I take 'em all," says the Banker, throw- 
 ing a glance of triumph over his shoulder to 
 where Mr. North is surreptitiously gazing 
 at Miss Brown. 
 
 The Professor shakes his head resolutely. 
 
 " Oh, pshaw ! " exclaims Madame, rising 
 and opening the desk opposite her. I 
 can easily find out for myself if you want to 
 be disagreeable; and," she adds, mischiev- 
 ously, if I make the sale I shall claim the 
 commission." 
 
 " Certainly — of course !" cries the Banker, 
 gleefully. 
 
 " Let me see." Madame von Bommel- 
 camp runs her eye down the foolscap sheet, 
 the while murmuring to herself in this 
 wise : 
 
 * Russell Sage, fifty shares ; Washing- 
 ton Connor, one hundred; C. P. Hunting- 
 ton, two hundred ' — um." As her index fin- 
 ger glides the length of the page, the six 
 Italian eyes watching her, the six Italian 
 113 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 ears listening to her, the three Italian mouths 
 gaping at her, all afford a most amusing 
 panorama for the Professor, who, with his 
 ten finger-tips balanced against each other, 
 gazes benevolently at the little woman who 
 bears his name. 
 
 " Ah ! " she ejaculates. " Here it is. I've 
 found out! there are just fifty shares left, 
 Signor," and Madame lays down the paper 
 and closes the desk. 
 
 It is as well, for had quick, inquisitive eyes 
 perused the page that hers had lately trav- 
 elled, they might have found the list of the 
 wreck's washing, a somewhat startling key 
 to the array of prominent names so glibly 
 reeled off by this most adequate lady. 
 
 " I take 'em," says the Banker. " What 
 you say, Professor, eh ? " 
 
 The Professor preserves the propinquity 
 of his digits and slowly shakes his head. 
 
 The Banker draws up a chair and seats 
 himself insinuatingly close to his host, while 
 his family watch him with breathless inter- 
 est. 
 
 To their excited vision pleasure carriages, 
 rich gowns, and apartments an deuxicme 
 114 
 
and Other People 
 
 now tremble in the balance of the great 
 man's dictum. 
 
 Come, I tell you," coaxes the Banker, 
 " if you go on to be so obstinate I think you 
 are a Dutchman." 
 
 " You think that on account of my name," 
 the Professor blandly replies. But really, 
 von Bommelcamp isn't my name at all. 
 No," responding to the now arrested gaze of 
 Mr. North. 
 
 No, my name is Camp, plain John Camp ; 
 but when King Leopold desired to confer a 
 patent of nobility on me, he selected the name 
 of von Bommelcamp, after having caused 
 the clerks of the royal records to look up the 
 ancestry of the Camps ; as they found out 
 that my Belgian forefathers were so called, 
 and out of deference to his majesty (who is 
 really a capital fellow) I have decided to re- 
 tain the amended edition. My dear, a little 
 music." 
 
 " Business first, pleasure afterward," 
 urges the Banker, who absolutely sees a mil- 
 lion slipping through his fingers. I say, 
 you let me have those shares. I give you a 
 premium on 'em. Come." 
 
 115 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Professor von Bommelcamp rises, and so 
 does the Banker. He lays his two hands af- 
 fectionately upon the Banker's shoulders 
 and gazes into the Banker's pudgy counte- 
 nance. 
 
 My dear Signor," he says, if you are 
 determined — well " 
 
 " Aha ! " laughs the Banker. 
 
 " Aha ! aha ! " echo the Banker's family as 
 they now behold the pleasure carriage driv- 
 ing up to the door. 
 
 " Wait a moment — wait a moment," con- 
 tinues the host. " I will not sell you a dol- 
 lar's worth of the stock until you have seen 
 the experiment, held in your hands the proof 
 of my discovery. I will do for you w^hat I 
 did for King Leopold, no more, no less, and 
 then if you feel satisfied, well and good." 
 
 At this juncture, while the Banker and 
 his family are standing before the Professor, 
 there runs, inaptly it would seem, through 
 the brain of Mr. North something that he 
 has heard about the Doge of Venice wed- 
 ding w^ith the Adriatic," but repulsing this 
 base mental intrusion with ardor, he springs 
 up and says : 
 
 ii6 
 
and Other People 
 
 " Am not I too, Professor, to have a peep 
 at these mysteries? I confess, before I put 
 my money — the Httle I have — into the thing, 
 I would Hke to see the charm work." 
 
 I thought you would," replied the Pro- 
 fessor, quietly. " I am glad to see that, al- 
 though a young man " — He glances pater- 
 nally at Miss Brown as he speaks — You 
 don't lose your head under any circum- 
 stances. Certainly, sir, it is my wish that 
 you, and the Signora and the Signorina, 
 should all be present. I will arrange the 
 matter with Mazzoleni in some way, for a 
 fire." 
 
 " In the furnace, John ; you remember we 
 had a fire in the furnace in the palace at 
 Paeken, when you made the demonstration 
 for his Majesty." 
 
 " In the furnace, if possible," assents the 
 Professor. 
 
 And now " — he speaks impressively — 
 " there is one thing I want to say to both of 
 you gentlemen : I am a stranger to you, a 
 total stranger ; I may be the greatest villain 
 that walks. I beg that each of you will pro- 
 cure and bring his own specimen of slag-iron 
 117 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 with him and put it in the crucible himself. 
 Upon this / insist/' 
 
 The Banker and his family are taking 
 their enthusiastic leave. Mr. North turns 
 to say good-night to Miss Brown ; she has 
 left the room ; she left it when her esteemed 
 brother-in-law was occupied in praising the 
 mental equilibrium of Mr. North. 
 
 II 
 
 The third floor once reached, the Banker 
 and his wife rushed into each other's arms 
 as they had not before, since the day when 
 the letter from Rome had arrived containing 
 Signor Allegretti's draft on Brown Brothers 
 for ten thousand dollars, which he put in as 
 special partner in the banking-house of his 
 brother-in-law in New York. 
 
 Such humility ! Such simplicity ! One 
 of the people like themselves, yet ennobled 
 and disdaining the honor. Such learning 
 and capacity ! Such honorableness and up- 
 rightness ! Ah ! how happy were they to 
 have been so favored by fortune as to meet 
 ii8 
 
and Other People 
 
 such people. And already in their slumbers 
 arose visions of all the splendors to come. 
 
 The Banker, the next morning, albeit a 
 most practical and shrewd person, was no 
 whit emancipated from his last night's con- 
 viction. 
 
 Like many another clever man in this 
 world, he had met one still cleverer. 
 
 And then, the experiment. Was he not to 
 see with his own eyes the reality and probity 
 of the Professor's discovery? 
 
 In the rooms underneath the worthy 
 Banker's, meantime, the satisfaction of the 
 inmates — at least two of them — was to the 
 full as great. 
 
 Professor von Bommelcamp had, in the 
 course of his somewhat eventful and most 
 checkered career, contrived to bring himself 
 into very successful contact, from his own 
 peculiar point of view, with a baronet, a 
 knight or two, a Spanish duke, and a Belgian 
 count, whose hobby had been experiments in 
 metallurgy; he had some years back, also 
 had dealings of a similar character with half 
 a dozen of the moneyed men of San Fran- 
 cisco, and as many more in Portland, Me. ; 
 119 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 but the circle in which he now revolved was 
 new ground to him, and his agreeable pros- 
 pects therein caused him, as well as his un- 
 tiring wife, that exultation of spirit natural 
 to the approaching accomplishment of a 
 cherished scheme. 
 
 It was now about half after five in the 
 afternoon. Madame von Bommelcamp was 
 very busy crocheting some little woollen 
 shoes which she was going to send to a wee 
 god-daughter she had in her native village, 
 where, it is necessary to state, the erratic 
 career of John Camp, the old miller's son, 
 was not even — as the people there would 
 have called it — suspicioned." 
 
 Miss Brown sat listless and idle when the 
 Professor sauntered out from the other 
 room. 
 
 " I say, Moll," quoth he, seating himself 
 by his young sister-in-law, " what about 
 North, anyway ? It seems to me you're not 
 earning your salt these days." 
 
 The girl flushed painfully, but was silent. 
 
 " I tell you," continues the metallurgist 
 succinctly, " before I make the experiment, 
 I've got to know whether it's worth while to 
 
 I20 
 
and Other People 
 
 risk having that chap present or not. I've 
 got to know if he has any money to invest or 
 if he hasn't, and it's your duty to find that 
 out. North's hanging about the hall now ; 
 I saw him there smoking as I came in a mo- 
 ment ago. Suppose," he adds, rising, and 
 yet looking attentively at the girl, you 
 put on your things and go out for a walk ; 
 the fresh air will do you good. North will 
 join you, and when you come back I shall 
 expect a good account of your tactics." 
 
 Professor von Bommelcamp lights his 
 cigar, while Madame lays down her work 
 and, going to the window, remarks : 
 
 " Yes, Moll, run along ; there's a good 
 girl. North is interested in you ; anyone 
 can see that with half an eye, and he'll tell 
 you all we want to know in ten minutes. 
 Oh ! " exclaims this excellent woman, " I 
 had almost forgotten my dear sparrows ; 
 there they are twittering away for crumbs," 
 and Madame proceeded at once to spread 
 out a liberal repast from her store of bis- 
 cuits, for the flock of little gamins that flew 
 sillward at her call. 
 
 Which goes to prove that obliquity of 
 
 121 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 moral vision does not totally destroy ele- 
 mental kindliness of heart, yet renders the 
 spectacle of the inconsistency all the more 
 appalling. 
 
 Mary Brown had said nothing to these 
 sallies. She went into her own room, put on 
 her hat and gloves, and came back. She 
 uttered a " good-by, Peggy," as she passed 
 out, and Peggy called out blithely, 
 
 " Good luck ! " 
 
 Thus cheered, she went slowly down the 
 staircase. She caught, not only the odor of 
 cigar-smoke as she went, for that was the 
 natural atmosphere of the Hotel Mazzoleni, 
 but the low, soft tones as well, of Mr. 
 North's voice. 
 
 She could not, would not, go a step 
 farther. She turned back, her whole vir- 
 ginal soul revolting, not only at the present 
 instance, but at the entire measure and sub- 
 stance of her life. 
 
 But eleven years of such a servitude as 
 hers had been, are apt to leave their stamp 
 upon the disposition at least, and Mary 
 Brown was afraid to turn and leave her er- 
 rand unattempted. 
 
 122 
 
and Other People 
 
 So she went straight on, and out the open 
 door, without looking to either right or left. 
 
 " If," she thought, " I can only get off and 
 away without his seeing me, then I am safe, 
 and still I shall have done as I was told, in 
 so far as I could." 
 
 Which sentiment the Pharisee will pass 
 by on the other side, while the Samaritan will 
 pour upon it the balm of his oil and wine. 
 
 Nevertheless as Peggy and her lord, 
 watchful from the casement, looked down 
 upon the street, their chagrin at Miss 
 Brown's solitude was swiftly changed to joy 
 as they beheld Mr. North come out on the 
 stoop, and after a leisurely survey east and 
 west, hastily run down, throw away his 
 weed, and anon overtake Miss Brown on her 
 way toward Fifth Avenue. 
 
 " Miss Brown," he cried, lifting his hat, 
 
 will you let me join you, please? " 
 
 She smiled as she looked up at him, and 
 with that smile for the nonce, flew off and 
 away entirely all memory of John or Peggy, 
 experiments, or anything else. 
 
 The August sun was flooding the dirty 
 street with a yellow glare. The handsomer 
 123 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 houses were shuttered close, their tenants 
 absent ; while the poorer ones had emptied 
 their human contents apparently, on the side- 
 walk. It was a noisy, screaming, running, 
 creeping crowd of beings ; a parrot shrieked 
 out a collection of curses from his cage on a 
 veranda ; two rival venders of peaches rent 
 the humid heavy air with their deafening 
 shouts. The whiz and whir of the Elevat- 
 ed Road went on its ceaseless way ; a be- 
 lated ash-cart plodded along, picking up the 
 miscellaneous boxes, tin cans, barrels, and 
 coal-scuttles full of refuse on the block. 
 
 Yet, to both of these people the path 
 seemed strewn with flowers, and the very at- 
 mosphere of Paradise itself enveloped them. 
 
 They sauntered on to Washington Square 
 and through it, and a bit farther westward, 
 neither heeding much where their footsteps 
 tended ; for was it not enough that they 
 walked there side by side ? 
 
 " I'm nobody in particular yet," he said, 
 " but I hope to be someone some day. I am 
 living at the Hotel Mazzoleni merely for the 
 purpose of studying local color in the inter- 
 est of a play I am writing. Whether the 
 124 
 
and Other People 
 
 play makes a success or not/' adds Mr. 
 North, " it has been a means to an end bet- 
 ter than any I could have foretold, I can as- 
 sure you." 
 
 And so on and on, relating to her all his 
 history, his plans, possessions, projects ; con- 
 scious, too, of exactly what he is doing, and 
 realizing to the full that he has reached that 
 loveliest of all a man's life's crises — the mo- 
 ment when he meets the woman whose 
 " yes " or " no " is to make or mar the best 
 of him. 
 
 They had reached St. Joseph's Church, 
 and they both glanced up to the battered 
 statue over the open door. 
 
 " Suppose we go in for a few minutes ; 
 shall we ? " asks he. " I have brought you 
 such a hot, nasty way," glancing about him 
 in a kind of sudden surprise at not recogniz- 
 ing the precise elements of Elysium at hand. 
 
 If you like," she answers, putting her 
 foot on the lowest step, and adding with a 
 rush of color and a shamed sense of honor 
 and dishonor both, as the facts of her past 
 and the courage that will not conceal it all, 
 lays hold of her," I haven't been inside of a 
 125 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 church since I was a child of eight, and I'll 
 be twenty next month." 
 
 I haven't been inside of one, well/* he 
 laughs, since the last wedding I attended, 
 and that is months ago." 
 
 They pass out of the tawdry, hot street, 
 with its rush and noisome bustle, into the 
 coolness, the space, the peace of the old 
 church. 
 
 It has been a saint's day, and the four 
 o'clock vesper-service has left its fragrance 
 of incense hovering still about the place. 
 
 The sexton is dozing by the door, which 
 he rouses himself to close as they enter. 
 
 Six candles are burning on the altar, and 
 the crimson light in the swinging lamp 
 glows steadily. 
 
 They walk up the aisle. 
 
 " Let us go and sit down in one of those 
 pews near the altar of the Virgin Mary," he 
 whispers with the gentlest little pause and 
 emphasis as he utters the name. 
 
 If you like," she answers again. 
 
 And in a moment they are sitting side by 
 side in the pew. 
 
 An old woman, past eighty, it is presuma- 
 126 
 
and Other People 
 
 ble, kneels before the statue ; a few tiny can- 
 dles twinkle in the little candlesticks ; a 
 wreath of sickly artificial roses lies at the 
 Blessed Mother's feet, and a garland of 
 false, unlovely lilies decks her gilded crown. 
 
 Mary Brown stares at all this, noting the 
 old woman's moving lips and withered fin- 
 gers tapping off her beads, and instinctively 
 she slips down on her knees, while some- 
 where out of the lost part of her little child- 
 hood there comes back the memory of words 
 like these : " The peace of God which pass- 
 eth all understanding ; " and great tears 
 swell in her eyes, and her bowed head rests 
 upon her close-clasped hands. 
 
 Eustace North is looking at her always. 
 
 When the girl fell to her knees he knelt 
 also, and when he saw that beautiful light 
 leap into her eyes, when he saw her head 
 sink, his arm went around her, not drawing 
 her to him, but merely telling her that he was 
 hers. 
 
 They knelt there, alone now, for the old 
 woman had finished her prayers and hobbled 
 away, leaving the church-door ajar as she 
 went ; and so it fell out that there came to 
 127 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 these two, borne from afar, the popular jin- 
 gle of the hour played on some hurdy-gurdy 
 way down Sixth Avenue. 
 
 It reached them and smote them both as 
 music wandered out of Heaven for awhile, 
 and fit to match with this mood of theirs. 
 
 She moved a little to rise, and then his 
 hand sought and drew over her two; and 
 both risen, thus, the music sounding to them 
 most perfectly sweet, they walked down the 
 aisle together, speechless, and back again, 
 like ordinary mortals, to the Hotel Mazzo- 
 leni. 
 
 " Well! " cried Madame jubilantly, throw- 
 ing open the door for her returning sister, 
 whom she had seen approaching with her 
 companion. 
 
 Well," echoed Miss Brown, coming in 
 and sitting down, in that state of mind which 
 acknowledges the supreme necessity of an 
 immediate victory of the purely practical, 
 over the perfectly incompatible. 
 
 " Has he got any money, Mary, or hasn't 
 he? I know you know," remarks the Pro- 
 fessor calmly. " For it is now half after 
 seven ; you have been gone two hours, and 
 128 
 
and Other People 
 
 Fm sure you have not wasted so much valu- 
 able time." 
 
 " He is an author," replies the girl, in a 
 very low voice. 
 
 " Not a pecunious race ! " exclaims Pro- 
 fessor von Bommelcamp, with a disgusted 
 expression. " Go on, though ; perhaps he's 
 that rare specimen, an author with a private 
 fortune." 
 
 He has fifteen hundred a year besides, 
 and he owns two houses in Brookline, just 
 out of Boston." 
 
 " Oh," sniffs Peggy, " John, my dear, 
 we'd best let him off ; he might spoil every- 
 thing, and it can come to nothing useful, to 
 have him present." 
 
 I don't know about that," responds her 
 lord ruminatingly. 
 
 " It seems to me perfect folly to have Mr. 
 North at the experiment," says Miss Brown, 
 still in a low tone and with downcast eyes. 
 " He has no money to invest in anything, I 
 am sure, from what he said." 
 
 " That may be, my pretty Moll ; but you 
 see he may come in handy to give me a few 
 good letters of introduction to Boston men, 
 129 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 and if he sees the thing with his own eyes, 
 why ! he can say so to his friends. See ? " 
 Peggy cries out : 
 
 " That's so, John ; you are always the 
 cleverest of us three." 
 
 Miss Brown flushes and rises, going into 
 her own room. 
 
 So it comes about that on the eventful 
 evening Mr. North is one of the favored 
 group gathered in the cellar of the Hotel 
 Mazzoleni. 
 
 The mise en scene was wonderfully and 
 broadly picturesque; the more so from the 
 fact that picturesqueness was about the 
 last element that anyone there had in his 
 mind. 
 
 The cellar of the Hotel Mazzoleni was 
 much like other cellars; approached by a 
 straight flight of railless wooden steps ; dark, 
 save now for the flood of white, pure light 
 thrown for the space of ten feet around 
 the furnace, by the electric lamp, which the 
 Professor had obligingly provided with his 
 small portable battery. 
 
 Bartolo, it is true, held a candle aloft in a 
 bottle as he assisted the ladies to descend, 
 130 
 
and Other People 
 
 and the Signer himself stuck another in an 
 old tin can and set it on the swinging shelf, 
 where it threw into spasmodic relief an ar- 
 ray of squashes, sweet potatoes, cauliflowers, 
 beets, and tomatoes. 
 
 A row of barrels stood yonder near where 
 the black hills of coal had come tumbling 
 down the slide from the sidewalk ; some old 
 trunks and boxes were on the other side, and 
 here, in the radiance^ meeting the white 
 wonder of the electric brilliancy, with its 
 ruddy glow and blaze, stood the open fur- 
 nace fire. 
 
 A small deal table, loaned by the cook, was 
 littered with the Professor's implements ; 
 crucibles, pans, tongs, mortars, pestles, a 
 tiny white packet ; and the Professor himself 
 stood there in his brown velveteen smoking- 
 jacket, and with his smoking-cap set jauntily 
 on his brow. 
 
 Madame bustled about, active and merry- 
 tongued as usual, while the family of the 
 Banker sat on two kitchen chairs, twisting 
 their fingers in much awkwardness, both of 
 flesh and spirit. 
 
 Mr. North stood near Miss Brown, and 
 131 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Miss Brown stood in the shadow of the 
 wooden stairs. 
 
 The Banker was close to the Professor, 
 rubicund satisfaction blossoming in every 
 line of his Latin countenance. 
 
 " There, you got it ! " cried he, taking 
 from his pocket a gay silken kerchief, tied 
 up in a manner reminiscent of his arrival at 
 Castle Garden. 
 
 I got a friend over at Stirling, in New 
 Jersey, who runs a furnace there, to send me 
 a pound of his slag ; you said a pound was 
 enough ? " 
 
 " Plenty," replies the Professor, whose 
 manner is that of the sincere and absorbed 
 scientist, intent only on the performance of 
 a duty. 
 
 Plenty ; besides, I have here Mr. North's 
 pound, which he sent up to Hudson for. 
 Now, have you two gentlemen any objec- 
 tion to the two specimens of slag being 
 mixed, and the experiment made in one cru- 
 cible?" 
 
 Both gentlemen signified the utmost will- 
 ingness that this should be done. 
 
 " Very well, then," continues the metal- 
 132 
 
and Other People 
 
 lurgist. ''Signor, will you kindly take this 
 iron mortar and pestle and pulverize your 
 pound of slag? Mr. North, will you be so 
 good as to do the same by yours ? " 
 
 The two men go at their task with a wall, 
 and in a few moments it is accomplished. 
 
 The Professor now dismisses the Signor 
 Mazzoleni with a graceful show of apprecia- 
 tion of his having provided the wherew^ithal 
 of fire for the experiment, thereby causing 
 those of the boarders (but a moiety it is 
 true) who are in the house of an evening, to 
 enjoy a foretaste of their possible purga- 
 tories, and to anathematize at the same per- 
 spiring moment both the Professor and his 
 trade ; but the Signor ^lazzoleni, beckoning 
 to Bartolo, retires in that good order which 
 is the good-natured forerunner of being in a 
 position to put it all in the bill. 
 
 Now, my friends," said the man of sci- 
 ence, turning an eye apiece upon the Banker 
 and Mr. North, will you do me the favor 
 to select your crucible from these three upon 
 the table ; pray examine them thoroughly, 
 inside as well as out." 
 
 The two gentlemen having inspected the 
 133 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 vessels and chosen one, it is indicated to the 
 Professor. 
 
 " Very well ; I will now explicitly beg that 
 all of you, the ladies as well as the gentle- 
 men," with a sweeping salutation of the ut- 
 most deference toward the Signora and the 
 Signorina, " will give me your undivided at- 
 tention; that you will, in short, watch my 
 every movement," laughs the Professor ge- 
 nially, much as if I were Herrmann, say, 
 and you were an audience not to be taken 
 in ! " 
 
 This lively sally is met with an outburst of 
 jovial and resounding merriment. 
 
 Examine this powder," continues the 
 metallurgist, now resuming a perfectly pro- 
 fessional air, as he unfolds the packet and 
 discloses a few grains of a rose-pink powder, 
 handing the same in turn to the Banker and 
 his family, and to Mr. North. You per- 
 ceive there can be no possible jugglery or 
 hocus-pocus about this ; no metallic sub- 
 stance in it ; as harmless and guiltless of 
 aught save vegetable matter as a lady's toi- 
 let-powder." 
 
 Which in point of fact is precisely what it 
 134 
 
and Other People 
 
 was, being a pinch from the box whence 
 Madame, when pahid, evoked the rose of 
 her cheeks. 
 
 Signor, will you have the goodness to 
 put your portion of slag into the crucible you 
 have selected ? Mr. North, I will ask a simi- 
 lar favor of you. Ah, so ; now, Signor, will 
 you drop the powder in also ? Thank you ; 
 this remarkable powder contains my secret, 
 my discovery; by its peculiar action it not 
 only produces combustion, thoroughly ex- 
 tracts the silver, or whatever the new metal 
 is, but so separates the particles that the 
 residuum will lie by itself, a shinning mass at 
 the bottom of the crucible when heat has 
 done its work, 
 
 " Look for yourselves, gentlemen ; assure 
 yourselves that there is no nonsense here, 
 only the result of years " — the Professor 
 mops his moistened brow with his large silk 
 handkerchief, the rich perfume from w^iich 
 assails the senses of the company agreeably 
 — of toil, research, and study. Signor, if 
 you will place the crucible upon the fire, I 
 think that in a very short time the demon- 
 stration will be accomplished." 
 
 135 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 The Banker, bearing the precious burden 
 much as if it had been a newly born babe, set 
 it on the Hving coals, and then with a sigh of 
 satisfaction drew back in the neighborhood 
 of his lady. 
 
 " How much silver you make it to the 
 pound ? " he asks. 
 
 " About twenty cents." 
 
 " What ! " cries North. Our fortunes 
 are made then ; why, that is enormous ! " 
 
 " I tell you," — the Banker quivers with 
 excitement, — " we got it this time, my dear." 
 
 And the Signora responsively pats the 
 plump be-ringed hand of her spouse. 
 
 Miss Brown, seeming to find the place 
 chilly, for all the furnace fire, had by this 
 time withdrawn to a seat on the grimy lower 
 step of the stairs, and Eustace North had fol- 
 lowed her naturally and as a matter of 
 course. Her head was bent so that the play 
 of the electric light, the furnace glow, and 
 the dipping glimmer of the candles, all three 
 shone about her, making a sort of curious 
 aureole around the beautiful face. 
 
 He did not dare look at her always ; so 
 now and then watched the Professor, who 
 136 
 
and Other People 
 
 busily strode back and forth watching the 
 crucible, time-piece in hand, and ever and 
 anon, as he bent above the precious cauldron, 
 wiping his brow with his fine handkerchief. 
 
 The Signora and the Signorina kept up a 
 queer Httle dialogue in their native tongue ; 
 the Banker looked on; Madame, full of 
 laughter, quips, jests, slipped in and out of 
 shadow and radiance, doing the hostess pret- 
 tily, even in this remarkable entourage, as 
 was possible ; for amid the Professor's ham- 
 mers and tongs, and pots and whatever else 
 besides, on the table, Bartolo, under her di- 
 rections, had placed a couple of decanters, a 
 bottle labelled Maraschino, glasses, and a 
 dish of little cakes and biscuits. 
 
 Madame had said that if the experiment 
 proved satisfactory they should not leave the 
 cellar until they had drunk a toast to its 
 making all their fortunes, and so she occu- 
 pied herself m clinking glasses, taking out 
 stoppers, and partly drawing the cork of the 
 flask of cordial, which she remarked was all 
 she herself dared to touch in the evening. 
 
 The Professor had just announced, after 
 a survey of the crucible, that all was going 
 137 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 well, that even now the particles of slag were 
 beginning to separate ; in reality he still bent 
 over the fire with his handkerchief shading 
 his face from the fierce heat, when Madame 
 shrieked and jumped, screaming out, 
 " A rat ! a rat ! " 
 
 The Signor and the Signorina shrieked 
 also, leaping upon their chairs with much 
 agility; the Banker, catching up a tongs, 
 called. 
 
 Where ? where ? I get him ! " 
 
 Miss Brown sat still. 
 
 Mr. North, — never after could he explain 
 why or wherefore, — did not, or could not re- 
 move his gaze from the Professor, where it 
 had been riveted, and now froze as he beheld 
 a dexterous twitch of the silk handkerchief, 
 a slip of sheen in the glow, a twinkle in the 
 bottom of the crucible, and he knew that a 
 half dollar had gone in to join the slag and 
 the pink powder. 
 
 Madame, for all her shrieks and jumps 
 this way and that, while the Professor beat 
 the air with his tongs, by this time, saw that 
 Eustace North had seen. 
 
 She screamed the louder, running hither 
 138 
 
and Other People 
 
 and yon in pursuit of the rat, which, it is 
 needless to chronicle, existed only in this 
 lady's executive imagination. 
 
 Well, we don't get him," cried the 
 Banker, dropping into that portion of a chair 
 not encumbered by the feet of his wife. 
 
 " My dear, you come down ; he is more 
 afraid than we ! " 
 
 There ! " exclaims Peggy. " There he 
 goes under the stairs; Mary, get up, for 
 goodness sake ! " 
 
 Mary gets up, although she trembles in 
 every muscle. 
 
 " Well, my love," says the Professor, 
 " now that you have roused us all up for 
 nothing," a little reproachfully, " suppose," 
 adjusting his tongs to the crucible, " you al- 
 low me to say that the experiment is com- 
 pleted and is — a success — I think." 
 
 Mr. North is a bold, brave fellow, honest 
 as the sunshine ; his impulses are all frank, 
 outspoken,with keen hatred of the least de- 
 ception or trifling with truth, or toying with 
 honor ; his lips part to speak, to denounce, to 
 expose then and there, but he remembers 
 Mary Brown, and is silent for to-night. 
 139 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 The Banker and his family crowd for- 
 ward. 
 
 The crucible is lifted from the fire, the 
 molten contents is slowly poured out into 
 one of the Professor's pans, and there, clear, 
 shining, and white, lies the spot of melted 
 silver. 
 
 A cry of exultation, delight, amazement 
 rises from the Banker's big throat. 
 
 " I say ! you give me those fifty shares 
 now, eh ? " pulling out his long leather pock- 
 et-book. I take 'em all," with a sharp 
 glance over his shoulder at North. See, I 
 got my check here all made out ; you give 
 *em to me to-night, and you take this to the 
 bank of the Metropolis to-morrow at ten 
 o'clock and get it cashed, eh ? " 
 
 " Sure you're perfectly satisfied ? " asks 
 the Professor slowly as he prods the white 
 bit with a pestle. 
 
 " Sure I live ! " blusters the Italian. 
 " Say, you not going to refuse 'em to me, 
 are you ? " 
 
 No, nO; no,*' laughs the other ; "my dear 
 friend," laying his disengaged hand on the 
 Banker's arm, before you sleep to-night 
 140 
 
and Other People 
 
 you shall have the stock in your posses- 
 sion." 
 
 " That's a bargain," and they shake hands 
 with fervor. 
 
 " But how about our friend, Mr. North ? " 
 queries the Professor. 
 
 By some system of marital telegraphy 
 known to themselves, as the Professor's eye 
 meets Peggy's, on its way to Mr. North, he 
 comprehends the situation. 
 
 Oh," answers North, I suppose Pm 
 quite out of it, since Madame von Bommel- 
 camp said there were but fifty shares left, 
 and the Signor has taken them all ! " 
 
 Very sorry, young man, but business is 
 business," returns the Latin. 
 
 " It's all right," responds Mr. North, and 
 whatever else he is about to add is lost in the 
 clatter of a glass, which the astute Madame 
 now lets fall crashing to the floor. 
 
 The Professor runs to help her pick up 
 the fragments, and as their bent heads ap- 
 proach under the table amid the talk of the 
 others she whispers, 
 
 " North knows." 
 
 " He'll hold his tongue for Mary's sake," 
 141 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 says the husband, laughing loudly at the 
 Banker's last joke. 
 
 " Until morning maybe, no longer ; he 
 must have the drugged wine," convulsed 
 with merriment over the Banker's wife's 
 latest remark. 
 
 " Make Moll give it to him, then," and 
 Professor von Bommelcamp emerges, riot- 
 ous with smiles, from beneath the kitchen- 
 table, his hands full of broken glass. 
 
 " Now ! " exclaims Peggy, pouring out 
 brimful glasses, which the Banker and his 
 family all accept, nibbling, too, very pleas- 
 antly at the little cakes. 
 
 " Mary, dear, a glass of this sherry will do 
 you good." 
 
 Mary Brown puts out her hand and takes 
 the glass. 
 
 " Mr. North," archly, and removing the 
 cork from the bottle of Maraschino and fill- 
 ing two glasses, while Miss Brown's large 
 eyes dilate with terror watching her, " Mr. 
 North, since you were so unlucky as not to 
 secure any of the spoils, will it be any com- 
 pensation at all to you to share my cordial 
 with me ? I never can take wine in the even- 
 142 
 
and Other People 
 
 ing without its going to my head," as she 
 tenders a glass to him. 
 
 Mary's hand goes out a little, she shud- 
 ders, quivers, draws back ; the cellar and all 
 it contains swim before her eyes as Eustace 
 North answers gayly enough, 
 
 " More than a compensation, Madame ; it 
 is a pleasure," and drains the cordial to the 
 dregs. 
 
 Peggy also raises her glass, but by that 
 unique arbitration of Nature which dictates 
 no catastrophe without two to follow, the 
 third in the dame's list comes to hand as 
 Madame von Bommelcamp strikes her elbow 
 against the Professor's arm, her glass falls, 
 spills, knocks over the cordial-flask, which in 
 its turn empties its trickling contents on the 
 floor of the cellar. 
 
 Exclamations follow, and in the midst of 
 these Mary Brown does what she never did 
 before in her life — she faints away; the 
 strain has snapped her nerves asunder, and 
 the Professor picks her up and carries her to 
 her room, while Madame and the rest ascend 
 in his wake, an exclaiming and pitying 
 chorus of six. 
 
 143 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Eustace North haUs with the others an 
 dciixicmc and then, with something hke a 
 sigh, he goes on, having tendered his formal 
 hopes for Miss Brown's speedy recovery, 
 and his good-nights to her relatives. 
 
 He is beset on his upward course by a 
 thousand conflicting emotions, but by the 
 time that his eyrie is reached, these slip off 
 him like some soft and enervating garment ; 
 all dressed, he throws himself down on his 
 bed, and even while he plans his to-morrow, 
 his lids close and a stupor of sleep overpow- 
 ers his mind and body most effectually. 
 
 Not so on the floor below ; the excellent 
 Banker hastens to his box of papers, fills out 
 his check for five thousand dollars, and trips 
 briskly downstairs with it to the Professor, 
 receiving in return for the same not only the 
 company's receipt by its secretary. Professor 
 von Bommelcamp, but also the certificates of 
 his fifty shares of stock in the American 
 Slag-Iron Silverite Company, of Brussels 
 and New York. 
 
 Is the young lady better? " he inquires, 
 politely. 
 
 Yes, oh, yes ; the young lady was merely 
 144 
 
and Other People 
 
 temporarily affected by the dampness of the 
 cellar, and is now perfectly restored." 
 
 Which was not at all the case. Mary 
 Brown lay on her bed in a stupor, far more 
 serious in its present aspect than Mr. 
 North's. While her body remained motion- 
 less, her mind was working and contorting 
 with all the possibilities, and, as if they were 
 not bad enough, all the impossibilities, too, 
 of her situation. 
 
 Peggy, in common with all light-hearted 
 mercurial persons, regarding this phase as 
 but a passing cloud on the horizon she as- 
 sumed to see always in a cerulean light, 
 speeded the Professor as he took his cigar 
 and went out for an ostensible smoke. 
 
 The Professor did smoke, but his er- 
 rand was to the nearest district-messenger 
 office, where he left a note in a telegram en- 
 velope addressed to himself, and to be de- 
 livered within half an hour. 
 
 Peggy meantime gave Mary a shake 
 which roused the girl a little. 
 
 " See here, Moll," she says shortly, " you 
 didn't, or you did, see, I don't know which, 
 but North took it all in when John dropped 
 145 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 the half dollar in the crucible ; but I settled 
 him with the cordial ; that'll close his mouth 
 for twenty-four hours anyway. Meantime, 
 we've got to get away ; so the sooner you 
 can rouse yourself and pack up your things 
 the better. I can't stop here to talk with 
 you. You know that well enough ; it's the 
 same game as it was in Hull. Be good now, 
 and dry your eyes if you're crying; there 
 are lots of handsomer men than North, and 
 in Australia, where we're going, you'll pick 
 up another twice as nice ! " 
 
 With which sisterly comforting, Madame 
 steps into the next room and goes to work. 
 
 Mary Brown lies still. 
 
 She does not think. 
 
 Her whole being simply resolves itself into 
 the desperate godly exaltation of a soul that 
 has reached the point where its tether will no 
 longer tighten, and it must either break or 
 burst the bonds. 
 
 She can formulate no plan. 
 
 She has no instinct toward her preserva- 
 tion and his, but to do that, which most 
 women find the larger share of their inheri- 
 tance, be still and wait." 
 
 146 
 
and Other People 
 
 The Professor now returns. 
 All right," he nods to Madame ; how's 
 Moll?" 
 
 " All right, too," responds Madame von 
 Bommelcamp, blithely ; " or she will be in 
 the morning. I'll put up her things myself, 
 and after a night's sleep she'll be as bright as 
 a dollar, never fear." 
 
 Presently, it now being eleven o'clock, and 
 the doors of the Hotel Mazzoleni closed, the 
 bell rings. Bartolo stumbles sleepily to an- 
 swer the call, and a telegram is thrust in, 
 " paid, for Professor von Bommelcamp." 
 
 Bartolo fetches it up, the Professor hastily 
 and anxiously tears it open, Madame peep- 
 ing eagerly, even fearfully^ over his shoul- 
 der, as women will at telegrams. 
 
 The Professor utters an exclamation, Ma- 
 dame clutches a chair-back, the waiter stares. 
 
 " Send Signor Mazzoleni to me at once." 
 
 The Signor comes, to learn that the aged 
 father of the Professor, living in North Vil- 
 lage, Vermont, is at the point of death ; that 
 his guests must leave for their paternal 
 homestead to-morrow morning at half-past 
 nine; that they would not have disturbed 
 147 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Signer Mazzoleni at this late hour, had they 
 not been a Httle in arrears for board, owing 
 to the stringency of the money-market, and 
 the generally bad condition of the whole 
 financial situation on account of the silver 
 question. 
 
 Peggy winked playfully to her lord behind 
 the Signor's broad back at this crisis of 
 words. 
 
 They wished to assure him that they left 
 everything they owned in his charge, save a 
 couple of trunks for necessary change of 
 clothes ; that they retained their apartments, 
 and would return within a week, unless mat- 
 ters were worse than they hoped (here a 
 very proper pair of sighs went up from the 
 admirable pair) ; that they had arranged to 
 spend the coming winter at the Hotel Maz- 
 zoleni, where they had ever received all that 
 guest could ask of home comfort, luxury, 
 and quiet. 
 
 The Signor, deeply deploring the depart- 
 ure of his honored guests, more profoundly 
 sympathizing with the cause of their going, 
 spared no lingual endeavors to assure them 
 of his unbounded confidence in their excel- 
 148 
 
and Other People 
 
 lencies, and his supreme deHght at their au- 
 gust patronage, and so bowed himself down 
 to compute with the Signora Mazzoleni the 
 amount extra to be made, by the full pay- 
 ment for rooms and board during the ab- 
 sence of three persons from the Hotel Maz- 
 zoleni for the space of a possible fortnight. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The next morning was one of those that 
 sometimes come in late August — happy, 
 splendid harbingers of that glorious, full- 
 fruitaged, ripe, glowing season, the Ameri- 
 can autumn. There was hint of hoar even 
 in the early air, and when Mary awoke from 
 a heavy, unresting sleep, the breeze blew 
 fresh and cold in upon her under the awning 
 from the north. 
 
 She got up and dressed when Peggy 
 called her; she found her trunk mostly 
 packed, and she finished it, locked it, and 
 put the key in her pocket. She put on her 
 hat as her sister did, took her coat over her 
 arm, her umbrella and gloves in her hand. 
 149 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 They went down to breakfast together 
 and sat in the private dining-room, where 
 not only Bartolo, but the other three, skipped 
 nimbly in and out waiting upon them. At 
 this hour there chanced no one else in the 
 outer room. 
 
 But Miss Brown could not eat ; she rose 
 and said to them, 
 
 '* I will go out and stand on the stoop ; it 
 is so close in here." 
 
 They both nodded and she went. 
 
 When she reached the stoop she stood still 
 a moment, and then, a force impelling her 
 against which she did not wish to battle, she 
 went down the steps, and with a little guilty- 
 seeming glance around her, sped westward 
 as fast as she could. 
 
 Reaching the square, Mary Brown fairly 
 flew, and then presently stopped, panting, in 
 front of St. Joseph's Church. The door was 
 open and a stream of people came out ; 
 among them she slipped in, and in a moment 
 more she was in the pew near the statue of 
 the Blessed Virgin, where a fortnight ago 
 Eustace North and she had knelt together. 
 
 She sank down. 
 
 150 
 
and Other People 
 
 Sanctuary had been sought and found. 
 To her it seemed now that harm could not 
 reach her. 
 
 Two hundred years and more ago Miss 
 Brown's ancestors had fallen on their knees 
 on the bare, blear coldness of Plymouth 
 Rock, with just the same thankful simplicity 
 in their souls that now moved hers, in what 
 they would have called this Popish place. 
 
 The spirit of those wonderful old God- 
 fearers possessed her to-day ; it was as if a 
 naked sword cleft her in twain, and albeit 
 the soul bled, and the bruise was bitter, yet 
 the sharpness of it all and the terror of it all, 
 and the wrench, brought balm and right- 
 eousness and amends in part, for the cruel 
 sinning of her past. 
 
 Up from the gone gladness of her child- 
 hood at her mother's knees, rose the words 
 of broken prayers ; the memories of Httle 
 days full of household life, and long nights 
 full of rest, and mother hands to heal and 
 bless ; and, Puritan-bred though she was, 
 she lifted her eyes and they met in speech- 
 less peace the figured eyes of Christ's moth- 
 er holding Him there in her arms. 
 151 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 And the horror of all the past ten years 
 seemed to roll away from her, leaving only 
 terror for Eustace North in her heart of 
 hearts, to be met as God willed. 
 
 Her lips parted and she murmured inartic- 
 ulately, crouching in the pew. 
 
 Back in the Hotel Mazzoleni meanwhile 
 there arose something of a commotion when 
 the coach — a pleasure carriage to the last, as 
 the Banker's wife and daughter, hieing them 
 to the window, half-dressed, failed not to 
 note — clattering up to the door, the two 
 trunks haled down and strapped securely on 
 beside the driver, the Signor and the Signora 
 salaaming under the awning, Bartolo at the 
 curb, handbags in arms, Niccolo, Errico, and 
 Franco, expectantly modest, in line in the 
 hallway, Miss Brown could not be found. 
 
 Search as all might, from garret to cellar, 
 the girl was nowhere, nor had anyone seen 
 her leave the house. 
 
 The Professor pulled out his watch and 
 held a short whispered conversation with 
 Madame. 
 
 Tm afraid," he says, " that North's got 
 the better of her." 
 
 152 
 
and Other People 
 
 " Pshaw ! North's safe until to-night at 
 least, if not to-morrow morning. What'U 
 we do?" Madame's accustomed briskness 
 is a bit bhghted ; between the two extremes 
 of the situation, even her acute httle visage 
 droops. 
 
 " Hang the girl, Peggy ! we've got to go ; 
 there isn't any use in talking about it. She's 
 keeping out of the way because she wants to, 
 for one reason or another, and I can't stay 
 fooling here for her whims. I'll tell you," 
 adds the Professor, noting Madame's really 
 rueful expression, for she was fond of her 
 sister in her way ; " you can write her from 
 Philadelphia to-night and tell her just what 
 to do ; she's got some money, and so now, 
 don't worry any more about it." 
 
 Madame, it is as well to state here as any- 
 where, wrote the letter from Philadelphia 
 that night, and gave it to her spouse to mail 
 in the office of the hotel where they stopped ; 
 but the Professor saw fit to drop the missive 
 in a waste-basket, after partially reducing it 
 to an ash with his cigar. 
 
 Professor von Bommelcamp had long 
 looked coyly about him for a means of ship- 
 153 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 ping Miss Brown, and the wherewithal be- 
 ing now in his power, he of course made use 
 of it, tributing his remnant of a conscience 
 with the soothing knowledge that he could 
 cable for her if Peggy became violent, as she 
 would probably cling to the Hotel Mazzoleni 
 for a time at least. 
 
 With this perfectly coherent plan in his 
 mind the Professor turns swiftly on his heel 
 to bestow a plausible solution of the mystery 
 on the bewildered Signor, commends the 
 young lady to his fatherly care, hustles Ma- 
 dame into the coach, presses a bill into the 
 hand of Bartolo, change into the palms of his 
 confreres, jumps in himself, gives the order 
 for the Grand Central Depot — and amid the 
 waving of handkerchiefs, napkins, and in 
 the delicious fresh breeze, off drive Profes- 
 sor von Bommelcamp and his most accom- 
 plished wife. 
 
 *' Ah ! " moans the Signora Mazzoleni, 
 whisking her apron-corner across her eyes, 
 and crossing herself fervently, the excel- 
 lent good gentleman ; it is the bed of death 
 that he hurries to, and it is indeed very 
 thoughtless of the Signorina Brown to make 
 154 
 
and Other People 
 
 herself away on this occasion. Well, youth 
 was always so, and she could follow her 
 relatives, or remain safely with us, as she 
 pleased," with which comfortable reflection 
 the worthy woman set about her daily duties. 
 
 The " thoughtless Signorina " remained 
 on her knees before the poor little statue of 
 Mary for at least two hours. 
 
 No one noted her ; great mother churches 
 there are, scattered all about the city, in this 
 street and that, some with crosses over door 
 and some without, that stand open always 
 with ready cradling arms and dim, unques- 
 tioning aisles for all the w^eak and weary 
 who walk in. 
 
 When the girl arose the sun had southed 
 and had drunk up all the freshness of the 
 air ; as she came out into the street she stag- 
 gered a little, and her stiffened knees trem- 
 bled as she descended the steps. 
 
 She did not know the time, so went into a 
 shop and asked. It was half after twelve, 
 and she knew very well that her sister and 
 brother-in-law had not tarried of their flight 
 for her. 
 
 By no means. As soon as they had turned 
 155 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 the corner of CHnton Place, Professor von 
 Bommelcamp, putting his head out of the 
 window, told the driver sharply to stop on 
 the way up at the Judge building, which ac- 
 cordingly was done. The Professor alight- 
 ed, ran in, and out again, nodded and smiled 
 at Peggy, told the coachman to wait a min- 
 ute, crossed Fifth Avenue, hurried through 
 Sixteenth Street to Broadway, up a block, 
 and into the Bank of the Metropolis. 
 
 He required no identification, for a few 
 weeks previous, on learning that the Banker 
 was a depositor in this institution, the Pro- 
 fessor, such was his confidence in this excel- 
 lent man's judgment, had transferred his 
 own account thither from the Chase Na- 
 tional, which was, after all, rather too far 
 downtown for a man not in active business. 
 
 Professor von Bommelcamp had a few 
 pleasant words with the paying teller (he 
 always had pleasant words with everyone), 
 did not draw out his own hundred dollars 
 of balance, but obtained the cash in large 
 and small bills for the Banker's check, and 
 smilingly went out. He walked briskly, ex- 
 panding his chest, down Broadway to Fif- 
 
and Other People 
 
 teenth Street, across to the Avenue again, 
 and surprised the driver by appearing from 
 below instead of where he had last had sight 
 of him. 
 
 The Professor jumped in with a cheerful 
 "All right!" to the man, and off they 
 whirled to the Grand Central. 
 
 Arrived there, the two trunks taken in, 
 the bill paid, and the porter tipped, the 
 Professor halted an instant to watch the cab 
 out of sight, when, mixing with the passen- 
 gers of an incoming train, he soon made glad 
 the heart of another cabman by engaging 
 him. 
 
 Madame, on spy from the waiting-room, 
 emerged, and was assisted in by her hus- 
 band, the two trunks were put up, and the 
 order given : 
 
 " Pennsylvania Railroad, foot of Desbros- 
 ses Street/' whither they were promptly 
 taken. 
 
 *'A steamer sails to-morrow, Peg, from 
 Philadelphia," observes her lord. It's a 
 circuitous route to Australia, but, my dear, 
 it will be a safe one/' and the Professor 
 winks as he taps his breast-pocket. 
 
 157 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 " I know, John ; but Mary ? " 
 
 " Able to walk alone ; and if she isn't 
 she'll toddle over to us, never you fear.'* 
 
 Miss Brown did walk quite alone, back to 
 the little gala-day-looking hostelry in Clin- 
 ton Place. 
 
 Her eyes flew up to the top-floor hall-bed- 
 room window, but the awning there told no 
 different story than did its companions, and 
 she went in the house, where all the exclama- 
 tions, sighs, smiles, explanations, and coun- 
 sellings imaginable were showered upon her. 
 
 The girl only answered, 
 I will go upstairs and rest awhile. I 
 don't know but it is better for me to stop 
 quietly here, if I may? " and she turned two 
 large wistful eyes upon the Signora and the 
 Signor. 
 
 If she might ! What idea ! Was not the 
 whole place at the disposition of Signorina 
 Brown ! 
 
 So Mary, knowing that she had money in 
 her purse — the Professor had always been 
 very liberal with her — dragged up the stairs, 
 entered the sitting-room, and sat down. 
 
 The crisis was a singular one. 
 
 158 
 
and Other People 
 
 She knew that up above, in that small 
 room, lay the man whom she loved and who 
 loved her, sunken in a sleep from which he 
 could not be awakened earlier than ten 
 o'clock of the coming night ; she knew that 
 yearn, want, hunger as she might, she dared 
 not go to him, for not only the conventional 
 reasons, but many others ; she knew that she 
 had not only cut loose from the moorings of 
 trickery and fraud, but that, single-handed, 
 she stood alone on the shore of the world, 
 with only God knowing what the awakening 
 of Eustace North, and the awakening of the 
 whole house would yet mean for her. 
 
 Would he outcast her from his heart? 
 
 If he did, could she blame him ? 
 
 If he did, where should she turn ? 
 
 And — blasting thought that sent the 
 warm young blood shivering like rills of icy 
 water through her veins — should he not 
 awaken, or only awaken to sleep again that 
 longest sleep ? For Peggy might have given 
 him too much of the drug. As this new hor- 
 ror scourged her, she swayed and her head 
 swam and she grasped at the air with her 
 empty arms, and fell a-praying the snatches 
 159 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 that came to her to say for him — incoherent, 
 disjointed, but the language of one who 
 wrestled with the Lord, and out of the night 
 of a noisome yesterday, strove to pluck the 
 promise of a blessed to-morrow. 
 
 It is meted out to women that they shall 
 do nothing so much, or so well, as wait. 
 
 Mary Brown waited. 
 
 Until nightfall, when Bartolo came with 
 her dinner on a smart little tray, the Signora 
 thinking in the depths of her kindly soul that 
 the lonely girl would like it best so. 
 
 Bartolo paused a moment at the door and 
 tapped his forehead as if trying to remember 
 something. 
 
 Ah ! oh, yes ; he was sure that the Signora 
 had bidden him with a message of respect to 
 the Signorina, to ask if perhaps she knew 
 anything of Mr. North ; he had not been seen 
 in the salle a manger to-day; he had not 
 even been seen to leave his room or the hotel ; 
 did the Signorina know if maybe he had 
 gone out of town ? 
 
 The Signorina shook her head; she did 
 not speak, but, as Bartolo repeated it to Nuc- 
 cia and the Signora, he added that she had 
 i6o 
 
and Other People 
 
 become as white as the large platter at that 
 moment being wiped dry by Nuccia's little 
 brown fingers. 
 
 The Signora grew grave ; she sought the 
 Signor, who, with Latin laughter of good 
 humor, cried out to her, 
 
 You exercise yourself too much ! Figure 
 to yourself : it is a young man ; perhaps at a 
 ball last night after the experiment, who 
 knows ? and resting himself all day after so 
 much dancing." 
 
 With which the Signora Mazzoleni was 
 obliged to quiet her excited nerves until ten 
 o'clock, when she could quiet them no 
 longer. 
 
 Mary Brown had walked the floor for two 
 hours ; she heard them all now as they came ; 
 the Signor trod heavily up, reaching the top 
 of the house first; he peeped through the 
 key-hole and gave a grunt of animated dis- 
 covery. 
 
 " The gas burning still ; guess I must 
 wake up the young gentleman by this time ; 
 I cannot afford the gas burn all day and all 
 night too ! " with which the Signor began a 
 vigorous pounding on the door. 
 
 i6i 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 No answer came save the resounding, 
 across the square hall, of his own thumps. 
 
 Miss Brown stood shuddering against 
 the wall, while the Signora, Bartolo, Nic- 
 colo, Errico, and Franco, followed by Nuc- 
 cia, Mary Flynn, and the cook, cumbered 
 the staircase with their bodies, and the still 
 house with their groans of fear and appre- 
 hension. 
 
 The Signor kicked manfully, while the 
 Italian's veritable dread of the great de- 
 stroyer blanched his fat cheeks. 
 
 With one final output of all his strength 
 the door gave way, bursting from its lock, 
 and the Signor pushed it open wide. 
 
 The two jets flared full ; the inmate lay 
 dressed on his bed just as he had fallen, 
 overcome with Madame von Bommelcamp's 
 Maraschino. 
 
 Cold? 
 
 No; warm. 
 
 " Bartolo, run for the doctor across the 
 way!" 
 
 The crowd of eager, vital faces press 
 around the narrow bed. 
 The doctor comes. 
 
 162 
 
and Other People 
 
 Mary Brown creeps part way up, and 
 stops, shivering, outside the door. 
 
 The medical man is puzzled, although, of 
 course, he does not say so; he administers 
 some restoratives, orders more, and leaves. 
 
 Mary Brown glides down after him ; she 
 pulls him into the sitting-room ; on her knees 
 she tells him that she knows what the sleep- 
 ing man has taken, and whispers the name 
 of the drug in his ear. 
 
 He looks grave, pledges her the silence 
 she begs for, retraces his steps to the hall- 
 room, gives new directions, and comes down 
 to find her waiting with the awful query on 
 her young lips that must pass every mouth's 
 gate once or more, ere we quit this world: 
 
 " Will he get better?" 
 
 " I think so ; yes." 
 
 And then the tears flood her eyes, and, 
 risen up straight, with a firm, beautiful pur- 
 pose in her face, she climbs the stairs and 
 walks into the little room where he lies, and 
 stands by the bed, and asks the Signora to 
 give her the directions, and let her stop there 
 with Nuccia, and not worry themselves, for 
 she is strong and able, and they have their 
 163 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 duties to-morrow, and she will herself help 
 Nuccia with the dishes the next day, and 
 so on. 
 
 So gentle is she, yet so calm and matter- 
 of-fact, that there is nothing to do but her 
 bidding, and they leave, the three together, 
 tip-toeing, human-wise, when him they are 
 so careful for, is in reality the one they 
 would wish to waken — only Bartolo ; he 
 crouches outside in the entry, content to 
 watch Nuccia's shadow through the door- 
 chinks. 
 
 The night wanes away into the open arms 
 of the morning; the hush of the dawn falls 
 over the night rumble and roar of the great 
 city, and still the sleeper sleeps on, albeit the 
 drops have been laid upon his lips and forced 
 between his shut teeth by the two women. 
 
 Mary Brown begins to fear the worst ; she 
 has seen the drug administered before, but 
 only dimly heard, and at a distance from the 
 scene, of its workings ; and the medical man 
 had said these were different in different 
 constitutions, and that, therefore, if no 
 change came by six o'clock, he must be sent 
 for without fail. 
 
 164 
 
and Other People 
 
 It was five now. 
 
 A little rift of sunlight sidled dancing in 
 at the window, fell across the bed-quilt, and 
 in a few moments had travelled quite up to 
 the face of the sleeping man ; as it reached 
 his lips Mary Brown crossed over to shut 
 it out, but with its warm kiss Eustace North 
 awoke. She turned and saw his open eyes, 
 and then with a gasp of great joy and sweet 
 maid's shame, she fled away, leaving Nuccia 
 to tell him all she could, and to answer the 
 persistent questions about Miss Brown, 
 whom he was sure he had seen standing at 
 the foot of the bed when he awoke. 
 
 Nuccia, instructed by her own wise 
 womanhood, defied and routed all these que- 
 ries as preposterous dreams, and presently 
 left Mr. North to Bartolo, as she ran down- 
 stairs to the kitchen. 
 
 When the doctor came over at seven he 
 found a laughing fellow on the top floor, not 
 as vigorous as two days ago, perhaps, but 
 quite himself except for the dizziness that 
 came so easily if he moved too quickly. 
 
 The two men had a long chat; it made 
 them fast friends, and at nine they break- 
 165 • 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 fasted together down in the sailc a manger, 
 to the great and redundant enthusiasm of 
 both the Signor and the Signora Mazzoleni. 
 This was Sunday. 
 
 By Tuesday even, Eustace North had not 
 yet seen Miss Brown, ahhough he had re- 
 sorted to all the devices and artifices to 
 which love is heir-at-law. 
 
 Mary Brown was suffering from a reac- 
 tion ; and as she sat there alone, comfortless, 
 brooding, all realizations were resolved into 
 the bald fact that she was a woman belong- 
 ing in one sphere in life, Eustace a man be- 
 longing in quite another ; that the dream had 
 been sweet as paradise's ov;n garden, but 
 that it was at an end ; that the reversal of the 
 common lot, where man is the one to be for- 
 given and woman the saint who shrives, was 
 not as it should be ; that even were he ready 
 to pardon all, she herself could never sub- 
 mit to the ordeal ; that indeed no good or 
 happy future could arrive from such a be- 
 ginning, and so on and on, until her Wednes- 
 day's reveries and struggles were interrupt- 
 ed by a commotion. 
 
 The fact is, that at this juncture a man 
 166 
 
and Other People 
 
 appeared at the Hotel Mazzoleni with a bill 
 for the rental of the Professor von Bommel- 
 camp's piano, which, he declared, being now 
 three months due, must be paid or the in- 
 strument removed. 
 
 The instrument was removed. 
 
 Anon the same thing happened in regard 
 to the sewing-machine. 
 
 Thirdly, a picture-dealer bore off in sul- 
 len triumph his artistic treasures, not one of 
 which, he averred, had been paid for. Pres- 
 ently the gentleman who dealt in pleasure- 
 carriages put in his note of demand, but 
 here redress was unhappily not forthcom- 
 ing, for the Signor and the Signorina kept 
 this from Miss Brown as they could not 
 keep other matters. 
 
 Two weeks had passed and no word had 
 come from the Professor, who at this pres- 
 ent moment was in fact partaking of the 
 genial hospitality of the Hotel Victoria in 
 Geneva, whither his steps had wandered in 
 obedience to the fascinations of a Swiss gen- 
 tleman of wealth, a watch manufacturer, 
 whose acquaintance, together with that of 
 his family, Peggy had made aboard ship. 
 167 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Nor had Mr. North yet contrived to see 
 Miss Brown, although he had written her 
 many such letters as brought tears to her 
 poor eyes, and the desolation of a delayed 
 and sadly realized individuality to her spirit. 
 She did not answer them ; she only sat still, 
 until one day when the Signor and Signora 
 signified to her, with all the warmth of kind- 
 ly hearts, that if she would so far discom- 
 mode herself, there was a room up-stairs, 
 on the floor with the honorable Banker and 
 his wife, where it might please her to be, 
 thus permitting them the chance to rent the 
 apartments, which perhaps the Professor 
 might no longer require. 
 
 Thus, with the most perfect grace and 
 goodness, did this worthy couple set their 
 candle on the candle-stick, and not hide it 
 under the bushel of that seductive jade, re- 
 taliation. 
 
 Miss Brown moved up, and sat down 
 there while Nuccia set out her things and 
 hung up her gowns in the closet, and dusted 
 and chattered and sang, so that the Sig- 
 norina might not hear what was going on 
 below. 
 
 i68 
 
and Other People 
 
 The Signer felt it now to be quite lawful 
 and proper for him to break open the large 
 packing-case, and if it were possible, since 
 Miss Brown had not the address of the 
 Professor, reimburse himself for the two 
 months' board which was his due, by the 
 sale of the Professor's no doubt valuable 
 implements. 
 
 Alas ! these proved to be but a small col- 
 lection of paving-stones, packed with care 
 between many newspapers. 
 
 The Signor now became wroth and forced 
 the locks of the two large trunks ; they were 
 filled with paper-covered novels and aged 
 magazines ! 
 
 That night the Signor, hitherto discreet to 
 the point of Quixotism, held consultation 
 with the Banker^ which resulted in the 
 Banker's seeking Wall Street the next morn- 
 ing, bearing in his hand the fifty shares of 
 the American Slag-Iron Silverite Company, 
 of Brussels and New York, which up to this 
 hour had securely reposed in his safe in Cen- 
 tre Street. 
 
 But the Banker never found the New 
 York office of this company, and with fire 
 169 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 and sword in his soul rushed up to the 
 Bank of the MetropoHs to discover him- 
 self five thousand dollars out, and the man 
 who was in, two weeks ahead of his ven- 
 geance. 
 
 Terrible was the rage of the Banker ; deep 
 were the groans and lamentations, and salt 
 the tears, and wild the execrations of his 
 family; morbid was the wrath and gloom 
 of the Signor ; profound the murmurings of 
 the Signora ; horrible the concerted threats 
 of the Signor and the Banker, but no one of 
 them all ever thought of such a thing for 
 a moment, as an implication of the girl up- 
 stairs there by herself ; they even forgot to 
 speak of her at all in the first flush of their 
 discoveries, which goes to show that purity 
 is not dross, nor is even the lily growing sol- 
 itary on its stalk, though its roots be stuck 
 in mud, the less white ; nor the less doth it 
 lift its head upward toward the heavens, 
 thereby lessoning all men that they should 
 do likewise. 
 
 At evening of that woful day Eustace 
 North was acquainted with all this, and then 
 and there made up his mind that he could 
 170 
 
and Other People 
 
 wait no longer^ but must see Miss Brown at 
 once. 
 
 He told the Signora so, and she, good soul, 
 arranged her own room in the basement with 
 much folding of shut-up bed, tricking out 
 of antimacassars, pinching of dimity cur- 
 tains grown slazy, and cherking of paper 
 flowers, so that it might be fit for Mary 
 Brown when she lured her down into it, 
 while Mary Flynn should go up to do the 
 weekly sweeping. 
 
 He found her there, sitting staring blank- 
 ly at the portrait of Pius the Ninth over the 
 mantel. 
 
 She did not flush at sight of him, nor rise, 
 nor put out a hand to meet his, but of all 
 these absent civilities Eustace North made 
 nothing, but simply knelt down beside her 
 chair, and wildly hurried out confession of 
 his love, asking for his wife, knowledge of 
 her having been with him on the night of 
 the drugged sleep, and a thousand other 
 things, between kisses on her little cold 
 hands. 
 
 She drew away much in the spirit that 
 one buried for dead, released, might have 
 171 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 drawn back the coffin's Hd upon the breast ; 
 drew aw^ay and walked to the window and 
 shook her head. 
 
 But Mr. North was not of the caHbre to 
 be put off by anything on earth, or out of it 
 either that he had heard of yet, so he crossed 
 over after her, and taking her in his arms 
 held her to his throbbing heart, and pressed 
 such kisses on her Httle red mouth as she had 
 not known belonged to man to give, or 
 woman to receive. 
 
 She began presently to rehearse and re- 
 count her past, all of it. 
 
 He closed her lips with kisses, sweet as 
 those first ones, and then quickly as men can 
 in crises, summed up all the Professor's 
 career in the Hotel Mazzoleni, and the dis- 
 coveries made since his departure, in a few 
 terse, final sentences. 
 
 And you want me, the sister-in-law of 
 this man, to be your wife?" falters she. 
 Then, breaking from his protestations and 
 entreaties, she stands up and says : " No ; I 
 — I cannot ; I could not live under the shame 
 of it, under the dread that others might point 
 at the one who bore your name; under the 
 172 
 
and Other People 
 
 cloud of knowing that you knew, that would 
 be worst of all, unbearable." 
 
 " Mary," he says, " listen to me. I would 
 rather have you than any woman who 
 breathes." 
 
 " Oh, but when a man marries," cries she, 
 " it is not the woman only that he fetches 
 home, it is her past ; a man's past lies buried 
 deep, and one expects men to have pasts 
 blurred, maybe ; but a woman, she should go 
 to her husband's house with every page a 
 blank, save those written over by his hand," 
 and she turns away wearily. 
 
 Mary," whispers he, shaken body and 
 soul with the sob that a man's wrung heart 
 emits in moments like these. " Mary, my 
 Mary, if there is any fault in me, dear, I will 
 cure it; if there is any wrong in me your 
 hand will make it right, and both fault and 
 wrong there must be if you send me from 
 you for such reasons as you give. Were I 
 the true man I believe myself, you would 
 never think of those old days and ways when 
 I was near you ; you would only let me fold 
 you in my arms " (they clasp her gently) 
 " and shut out with them the whole bitter- 
 173 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 ness of it forever ; you would find dear rest, 
 so, my darling, and between us there never 
 could arise a question again of past, or 
 shame or sin. My child," as the tired girl 
 sinks to him, " these things have only passed 
 you by, and left you as pure as when you 
 used to sit beside your mother." 
 
 Her eyes fill ; better than any words can 
 tell her, she knows that truth and honor, 
 safety and sweetness, have found her out at 
 last; that regretting is blotted out of her 
 possible language ; and with all that aban- 
 donment of which only a restrained nature 
 like hers is capable^ she clings to him and re- 
 ceives his caresses. 
 
 Two days after, accompanied by the Sig- 
 nor and the Signora, Eustace North and 
 Mary Brown drove over to St. Joseph's 
 Church and were married ; they were, neither 
 of them, Roman Catholics, but it seemed to 
 each that nowhere else could they so per- 
 fectly plight their faith. 
 
 Nuccia and Bartolo were made man and 
 wife directly after them. Mary Brown 
 would have it so, remembering the night- 
 watch they had held together. 
 
 174 
 
and Other People 
 
 There was a wedding-cake in the private 
 dining-room, and the bride, whiter even 
 than her wont, cut it with her own hand, 
 albeit the sole wedding guests were the Sig- 
 nor and Signora, Nuccia, Bartolo, Errico, 
 Nicolo, and Franco, with Mary Flynn and 
 the cook peeping in at the glass door; but 
 there were enough good wishes and good 
 toasts drunk in clear red and white wines 
 both, to have sailed ships in, did lifeboats 
 sail on hopes alone. 
 
 There was there, about the small gayly- 
 decked table, with its fruit and flasks, the 
 perfect courtesy which marks the humblest 
 Latin at his best ; and Nuccia, in her native 
 Bettola's gala-dress, and Bartolo, sombre as 
 he used to behold the tenor of the opera on 
 the festive occasions of the stage, modest, se- 
 rene, laughing, urbane, unobtrusive with the 
 rest, did as much honor to the other bride 
 and groom as if they had been their vassals. 
 
 Amid some tears, for the Signora wept 
 heartily, much rice, the waving of the Amer- 
 ican flag, and addios by the dozens, Eustace 
 North and his wife drove away from the 
 gay little Hotel Mazzoleni. 
 
 175 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Before the marriage the Banker had 
 accepted Mr. North's note for five thousand 
 dollars, payable in three months, and the 
 Signor Mazzoleni one for all that was due 
 him, as did the gentleman who rented out 
 the pleasure-carriage. Mr, North mort- 
 gaged his two little houses in Brookline to 
 meet these liabilities. 
 
 The Banker's wife and daughter watched 
 the happy pair get into the coach ; the Sig- 
 norina sighed as she caught the shining light 
 in the bridegroom's eyes, and both ladies put 
 up a prayer for the welfare of the Ameri- 
 cans. 
 
 The striped awnings still flutter from the 
 windows; the sparrows twitter about the 
 sills ; the canary now shrieks in the Signo- 
 ra's room, since it remains sole spoil of the 
 raid of the von Bommelcamps. 
 
 Around the corner^ in University Place, 
 Nuccia and Bartolo preside over a fruit- 
 stand, and on Sundays they take turns in 
 going to mass. 
 
 Yesterday, when Nuccia knelt before the 
 statue of the Blessed Virgin, she saw pres- 
 ently near her, kneeling also, Eustace North 
 
 176 
 
and Other People 
 
 and his bride, just back from their six- 
 months' wedding-tour, and on their faces 
 written a most perfect, sweet, and unuttera- 
 ble happiness and peace. 
 
 177 
 
THE FOREIGNER 
 
THE FOREIGNER 
 
 A MARRIED woman friend, with whom I 
 am most intimate, did me the honor to read 
 these reminiscences in manuscript. 
 
 What shall you call it ? " she inquired, 
 after some pithy and critical remarks. 
 
 " Madam," I replied, " will you not do 
 me the further favor to christen my un- 
 worthy sketch ? " 
 
 Call it ' The Foreigner,' she said, shak- 
 ing her white forefinger at me, with, at 
 the same time, a most charming smile. 
 Through these means my manuscript was 
 christened by a most thoroughly apprecia- 
 tive and fascinating woman. 
 
 In the early spring of the year i88- I was 
 included, by governmental appointment, in 
 a party sent out by the Emperor's instruc- 
 tions to inspect the prison system of the 
 United States of America. I imagine that 
 my nomination was partly due to my excel- 
 i8i 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 lent knowledge of the English language, 
 partly to my father having been quite a fav- 
 orite of his Majesty's (in a small way) in 
 his youth. I had received my father's name, 
 Tancred, in baptism, and thus, rather than 
 by perseverance or pushing, had come under 
 the Emperor's notice. 
 
 I am extremely confident that I had 
 neither a natural nor yet an acquired apti- 
 tude for the inspection of prisons. But in 
 an age like ours there is, not infrequently, 
 I observe, a peculiar discrepancy between 
 offices and officeholders. However, I recall 
 quite distinctly viewing a great number of 
 jails, with all their paraphernalia of cells, 
 workshops, dining-halls, libraries, places of 
 solitary confinement, etc., etc. ; also draw- 
 ing my not inconsiderable salary; also — 
 this last with singular accuracy, it having 
 been the only obvious reason for my pres- 
 ence as a member of the party — having been 
 requested to sign my name to a certain long 
 document, by a gentleman who was so oblig- 
 ing as to hand me a pen fresh from the ink, 
 and who assured me there was not the re- 
 motest necessity for my wearying myself 
 182 
 
and Other People 
 
 with a perusal of the report. I thanked him 
 cordially, and a day or so afterward I 
 learned through the columns of a newspaper 
 that " the official report of the committee of 
 gentlemen sent out by special command of 
 the Czar to report on the prison system of 
 America, with a view to its possible adop- 
 tion by the Russian Government, had gone 
 out that morning by the steamship Bothnia." 
 With this piece of news I was naturally 
 well pleased, as I now was entirely free from 
 the somewhat unpleasant task of visiting 
 prisons, wherein I took no interest, and as- 
 suredly was not expected to, by the remain- 
 ing members of the commission, so far as I 
 could ascertain. 
 
 Finding myself thus wholly at leisure, 
 and owing to my foreign name and birth, 
 and the unmistakable evidences of the pos- 
 session of large wealth, which hovered 
 about me in the form of an efficient valet, 
 some rather remarkable diamonds, and 
 three or four horses of excellent birth ; find- 
 ing myself also considerably sought after 
 by society," I determined, notwithstand- 
 ing the attractions of my native land, which 
 183 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 to me were not inconsiderable, to remain in 
 America for at least six months longer. I 
 say America, whereas I mean that focus of 
 Americanisms, the city of New York. I 
 took up my abode at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, 
 although the Brevoort and the Windsor 
 were both strongly recommended to me by 
 Europeans. I instinctively felt that I should 
 stand a much better chance of studying the 
 people at the hotel I had chosen, and like- 
 wise I had already been in the country long 
 enough to share with many of its natives, 
 the mysterious influence which the words 
 " Fifth Avenue " seem to carry with them. 
 They give a prestige which appears to in- 
 oculate the vulgarian and the aristocrat 
 alike, although the one class is possibly as 
 unconscious of it as the other. I wrote the 
 word aristocrat " advisedly. In this land 
 of assertive democratic intentions, I have 
 heard more of the claims of the patrician 
 than in any other which it has been my fort- 
 une to visit. I find, too, that the circle with- 
 in the circle is quite as much an institution 
 of American society as it is in that of a king- 
 dom or an empire, and that the core, and pith 
 184 
 
and Other People 
 
 and heart of this social pinwheel, is sup- 
 posed by each coterie to be its own particu- 
 lar property. In short, every woman is 
 her own criterion in matters of etiquette, 
 dress, manner and manners, and there is no 
 such thing as deferring to a superior power, 
 save en route to the pinnacle which each 
 aspires to reach ; which difference is, after 
 all, perchance, but a form of that singular 
 phase which the Americans call in their ver- 
 nacular, toadying." 
 
 So far as my limited observation went, it 
 seemed to me that a greater or less degree 
 of circumspection, or discretion was the out- 
 ward and visible sign of the New York so- 
 ciety in which I had the good chance to min- 
 gle, and that the inward and spiritual grace 
 was identical. 
 
 Be all this as it may, I have to thank the 
 Americans for much liberal hospitality, and 
 certainly to persons of foreign extraction, 
 who at the same time may be accidentally 
 the possessors of large wealth, they are the 
 most singularly obliging people that I have 
 ever encountered. 
 
 While still engaged in my capacity of 
 185 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 member of the visiting commission, I had 
 passed a few days at that summer Mecca of 
 the unmarried, the Saratoga Springs, and 
 had there, through the courtesy of one of 
 the members of Congress sojourning at the 
 place for his health, made the acquaintance 
 of several charming ladies. These in turn 
 presented me to a number of their friends, 
 these to theirs, so that at the end of my week 
 at the Grand Union Hotel I found myself in 
 a position to salute some fifty or sixty gra- 
 cious and cordial women, and with my 
 pocket-book quite full of cards inscribed 
 with the names and residences of these fair 
 dames, the donation of which had been ac- 
 companied by pressing invitations to call 
 upon them the ensuing winter in New 
 York. 
 
 All this I thought most delightful. It 
 might naturally have been so to any man. 
 But I will confess that the women of a coun- 
 try which I visit for the first time are to me 
 its most interesting features. 
 
 I was then at that age — thirty-three — 
 which, from analysis, I conclude to be the 
 most enjoyable to himself and the most 
 1 86 
 
and Other People 
 
 productive of agreeable impressions on the 
 women a man meets. He has not as yet 
 touched the positive of thirty-five — the half 
 of his allotted number of years — and he 
 has left behind him completely the thought- 
 less, and therefore pointless pleasures of 
 his young youth. At thirty-three I con- 
 tend that he is in a thoroughly perfect po- 
 sition — other things being equal — for the 
 keenest mental and physical enjoyments, the 
 one set of faculties playing into the hands of 
 the other, and thus rendering him an agree- 
 able companion to himself and one quite as 
 much so to the women with whom he comes 
 in contact. 
 
 So, discovering these bits of pasteboard 
 in my portmanteau in October, I remem- 
 bered the engaging and hospitable ladies I 
 had met in July, and made up my mind to 
 stay in New York during the season. 
 
 In an incredibly short space of time I 
 found myself in as complete a vortex of 
 gayety as any healthy man could well desire, 
 and I must say that I enjoyed it most posi- 
 tively. The contrasts between the society I 
 now frequented and those to which I had 
 187 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 hitherto been accustomed, were noted by nic 
 with reHsh, and especially the delicious 
 abandon of the ladies: the young and un- 
 married as well as those of maturer years, 
 and possessed of husbands. This peculiar- 
 ity of American social life must ever form 
 a theme in the minds of Europeans for 
 amazement and personal admiration. I can 
 assure my gentle reader, that the novelty 
 and delight of such untrammelled inter- 
 course with the young ladies of this nation, 
 was to me a source of refreshing and un- 
 measured gratification. 
 
 At a theatre -party, given by my friend 
 Mrs. Edwin Grantham, I had the pleasure 
 of meeting for the first time a young woman 
 in whose society I have passed, since that 
 never-to-be-forgotten night, many delight- 
 ful hours. 
 
 She was a Miss Bertha Remington, 
 ''granddaughter of old Peter Van Brodt," 
 as my hostess kindly informed me, in a loud 
 whisper, by way of prelude to my presenta- 
 tion to her young friend. 
 
 " I believe you have not been in this coun- 
 try very long, Mr. Troitza? " 
 
 1 88 
 
and Other People 
 
 " No, indeed — that is to say, since April 
 last only." 
 
 " And someone says that you are a Rus- 
 sian?" 
 
 **I have that honor, for such I consider it, 
 Miss Remington, only second to that of be- 
 ing what you are — an American." 
 
 You were bred in diplomatic circles, I 
 perceive," my new friend says, with a smile, 
 and then surveying me from head to foot 
 with a coolness that instantly suggested to 
 my mind some horrible defect in my toilet, 
 she added, " Well, you are possibly inter- 
 esting on your own account, but I find you 
 so only through force of association with 
 my school-days at a convent near Paris." 
 
 " Indeed," I cry, with more relief than in- 
 telligence, perhaps. 
 
 " Oh, not you actually, but I had a school- 
 mate, a Russian, whom I liked and patron- 
 ized quite a little, and since or before, you 
 are the only Russian whom I have ever met. 
 By the bye, I believe I will write to the little 
 woman. I left her last letter unanswered a 
 year and more ago." 
 
 " Is that the way you treat your friends, 
 189 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Miss Remington? " I exclaim, with a certain 
 sentimental glance down into her blue eyes, 
 which has done me a great deal of service as 
 avant courrier in several little^ flirtations 
 shall I say? 
 
 There is a time, we say in Russia, when 
 every servant, however faithful, proves de- 
 fective. That unpleasant moment had ar- 
 rived for me and my sentimental glance. 
 
 Miss Remington regards me with an as- 
 tonished and supercilious disapproval, and 
 then vouchsafes to speak. 
 
 " I am not aware that I said that your 
 compatriote was a friend of mine." 
 
 " You said that you liked her, if I am 
 not mistaken," I answer, being obliged 
 to retreat through sheer amazement at 
 the failure of my ally, the sentimental 
 glance. 
 
 " I like a variety of people, but I am quite 
 sure that they are not my friends." 
 
 " That, then, must be solely your own 
 fault," I return, with a weak attempt at im- 
 plied flattery. 
 
 " I agree with you, and shall not attempt 
 to twist your words to my own disadvantage, 
 190 
 
and Other People 
 
 which might very easily be done, by the 
 bye." 
 
 " You would not be so cruel, I am sure." 
 
 As I say this, for the first time since my 
 arrival in this singular country, I think my- 
 self a consummate fool. And I judge from 
 the expression of my new friend's face that 
 she is occupied in thinking the same thing. 
 
 Miss Remington preserves silence dur- 
 ing the next act, while I devote myself to 
 the pretty young lady who was provided for 
 me at the beginning of the evening. When 
 the curtain once more descends, I find my- 
 self gravitating toward the corner where 
 Miss Remington sits, having left my pretty 
 young lady with two young gentleman visi- 
 tors, one of whom twisted a curl around his 
 finger surreptitiously, I presume, while the 
 other fed her very nicely with sugar-plums. 
 
 I look at Miss Remington and Miss Rem- 
 ington looks at me. I think that she is very 
 different from the American young ladies 
 whom I have had the honor of associating 
 with for the past two months. She appears 
 to possess all their sang-froid, and yet there 
 is a species of repression about her that is 
 191 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 unusual in cultivated circles in this country. 
 In fact one might almost say that Miss Rem- 
 ington was a trifle " shy," without intend- 
 ing to be abusive, I assure you, my gentle 
 reader. Suddenly I felt that it would be 
 best for me to plunge in incdias res, and that 
 probably this young woman would not make 
 that objection to an absence of sentiment 
 that her sisters appeared to. 
 
 Miss Remington, will you condescend 
 to tell me what would constitute a passport 
 to friendship in your estimation? " 
 
 " I hardly think I could reduce it to a 
 neat sentence," she replies, with a grave 
 smile. 
 
 ** You are extremely clever," I say, with 
 an honest impulse ; will you, then, deign 
 to tell me if you think I could be a friend in 
 your acceptation of the word?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly you could " — my face be- 
 comes radiant, I am certain — to some one 
 or other ; " and I am conscious that my iri- 
 descence suffers a change that perchance is 
 less jubilant in appearance. 
 
 " Can you tell me," I for the third time 
 say, with a vague idea that I am degenera^- 
 192 
 
and Other People 
 
 ing into a catechist, " what my idea of a 
 friend is?" 
 
 She smiles. " One, Mr. Troitza, who will 
 partake so far of the nature of your enemy 
 that he will stoop to flatter you. Your idea 
 of a friend is very much like that of the rest 
 of my acquaintances." She speaks a little 
 wearily. 
 
 I protest ! " 
 
 Do not. I assure you I am utterly in- 
 different to your ideas upon almost any sub- 
 ject." I am so imbued with the spirit of the 
 country as to mildly wonder if Miss Rem- 
 ington is acquainted with the figures of my 
 income, but I compose my feelings and 
 once more call to my aid an old ally. 
 
 " You classed me just now " — and I bend 
 upon her a pair of eyes that I know are ex- 
 ceedingly handsome and caressing when 
 they will so to be — among your acquaint- 
 ances. Ah, Miss Remington, will you not 
 let me hope one day, not distant, to enroll 
 myself among your friends ? " 
 
 I expect that Miss Remington will draw 
 from her pocket a dainty perfumed card and 
 invite me to call, but she does nothing of that 
 193 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 kind. A laughing fairy leaps into each of 
 her blue eyes, and she says instead, with a 
 glance the feminine counterpart of my own : 
 
 " Would not you prefer to be one of my 
 admirers, Mr. Troitza ? " 
 
 " That I am already," I reply ; but at the 
 same time I feel an unaccustomed and dis- 
 heartening chill, which frequently assails a 
 person who thinks himself laughed at. 
 
 " Will you permit me the honor to call 
 upon you?" I enjoy and plunge into this 
 new sensation without forethought; Miss 
 Remington is the first lady who has been 
 kind enough to accord me such an oppor- 
 tunity since my arrival in America. 
 
 " I will." 
 
 " Will you give me, then, your residence, 
 Miss Remington? " 
 
 She does so verbally, having evidently 
 forgotten to bring with her her card-case. 
 
 And then the curtain goes up once more 
 and I return dutifully to my pretty young 
 lady. 
 
 Mrs. Grantham's theatre-party had oc- 
 curred on Tuesday evening. The follow- 
 ing Monday I had called upon Miss Rem- 
 194 
 
and Other People 
 
 ington^ but was informed that she was not 
 at home. 
 
 Friday I had promised to Mrs. Van Blar- 
 com, a very agreeable lady, whose husband, 
 Mrs. Grantham told me, had begun life as a 
 carpenter, thence a builder, and was now a 
 large and successful real estate owner. 
 Mrs. Grantham, I fancied, implied a sus- 
 picion of scorn in her tone. But then, this 
 must have been imagined by me, because 
 Mrs. Van Blarcom informed me that Mrs. 
 Grantham, in early life, had, with the most 
 praiseworthy tact, assisted her young hus- 
 band in his bakeshop, although now that 
 Mr. Van Blarcom was the head of a large 
 sugar importing house, his wife, with a 
 spirit of unusual and admirable modesty, 
 would not permit her virtues in connection 
 with the bakeshop to be mentioned in her 
 presence. 
 
 So it is in this country ; each person seems 
 to be thoroughly conversant with the imme- 
 diate pedigree of his neighbor, and to think 
 it no trouble whatever to impart the same 
 to the foreign traveller. 
 
 I have observed that a grandfather is con- 
 195 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 sidered a very great item in this country, and 
 that, comparatively speaking, there are but 
 few famines possessing those agreeable rela- 
 tives. I mean in this wise. That upon 
 offering to introduce me to any ladies, my 
 various hostesses have so frequently been 
 in the habit of saying, " Miss So-and-so, her 
 grandfather was so-and-so, you know ! " 
 that finally I became so interested with re- 
 gard to this piece of information, that upon 
 one of those occasions, when it was omitted, 
 I ventured to inquire as to the grandfather 
 in this particular case. 
 
 My hostess laughed and said, " Oh, Mr. 
 Troi'tza, it is not everybody in this country 
 who has a grandfather — and when they have 
 you are very sure to hear of it. If you real- 
 ly wish to know about this young lady's, 
 I suppose I must tell you — he kept an eating- 
 house." 
 
 My informant here indulged in laughter, 
 but I was not able to join in her mirth. I 
 was too seriously relieved by learning that 
 my new acquaintance really had had an ac- 
 tual ancestor. It afterward occurred to me 
 that it seemed to be those persons whose 
 196 
 
and Other People 
 
 grandfathers had been engaged in some vul- 
 gar or common business whose grandfathers 
 were omitted in the pre-introductory code. 
 
 On Friday evening I found myself in 
 Mrs. Van Blarcom's handsome drawing- 
 rooms, and very soon after my entrance I 
 was surrounded by seven or eight pretty 
 young women, most richly and elegantly 
 dressed. I wished myself seven or eight 
 Tan Troitzas for their sweet sakes. But it 
 did not, after all, seem to make the slightest 
 difference to them, for they were kind 
 enough to appear to enjoy my society in a 
 party quite as much as though I had been 
 so fortunate as to have been en tefe-d-tete 
 with each. They used a peculiar ner- 
 vous laugh, called " giggling," considerably, 
 and indulged in a great many remarks, sotto 
 voce, too, which I took, as I presume it was 
 intended that I should, as a mark of their 
 intimate feelings toward me. For, of course, 
 except in cases of perfect familiarity, this 
 tone is never used. 
 
 They also were so obliging in their com- 
 pliments as to quite overpower me. 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Troitza, you have such divine 
 197 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 eyes ! " sighed one of these lovely young 
 ladies; the photo that you gave me hangs 
 right over my lounge, and I keep violets 
 under it always." 
 
 " I have the one you gave me in my watch- 
 case," exclaimed another; "see!" 
 
 Covered with a certain kind of confusion, 
 I looked at my counterfeit presentment. 
 
 What pleased me most in reflecting upon 
 these little episodes was the charming frank- 
 ness and ingenuousness of these lovely girls. 
 To other tourists in this country these ebul- 
 litions of sentiment may have seemed to 
 merit harsh language. To me they were so 
 many evidences of the purity of the national 
 school of manners, although my own preju- 
 dices — merely the result of education and 
 habit — forbade my indulging in any dreams 
 that my own young countrywomen might 
 one day regulate themselves by a like stand- 
 ard. 
 
 While suffering from the embarrassment 
 caused by these flattering syrens, I caught 
 sight of Miss Remington at the other end 
 of the room, and with one of those murmurs 
 which says nothing and everything, and a 
 198 
 
and Other People 
 
 bow, I left my pleasant young friends. One 
 can do thus in this dehghtful American so- 
 ciety. The ladies are so conciliating and so 
 far from exacting that it really seems to a 
 man, after a sojourn among them, that he 
 has conferred a favor by his presence, and 
 need not apologize for his departure. But 
 then this is, of course, far from being the 
 fact — it is only a fascinating way they have 
 — these fascinating ladies ! — of making one 
 feel what they call at home." I do not, 
 however, remember ever to have felt in this 
 way at home. But then, my memory is 
 probably not as retentive as it might be. 
 
 Miss Remington receives me affably, civ- 
 illy regrets having been out at the time I 
 called, and at once presents me to a lady who 
 sits beside her, and whom I have noticed 
 pulling convulsively at Miss Remington's 
 sleeve once or twice pending our little col- 
 loquy. 
 
 " Mrs. Fisher," I exclaimed, bending low 
 over the lady's hand, which she graciously 
 extends to me, " I am happy in meeting 
 you." 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Troitza, 'tis I who am happy ; 
 199 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 I came here expressly to-night because dear 
 Mrs. Van Blarcom told me you would be 
 among her guests. I have so longed to 
 know you ; I have heard so much of you ! " 
 " Madame ! " 
 
 I execute a salaam intended to convey the 
 deepest sensibility of this lady's condescen- 
 sion. 
 
 " Of course, you've never heard of me/' 
 
 There is a bewitchingly infantile intona- 
 tion about this which instantly causes me to 
 ransack my memory for a grandfather." 
 But do what I will, I can recall none in 
 connection with my new acquaintance. 
 
 Of course he has heard of you, Mrs. 
 Fisher ; how absurd ! " 
 
 Miss Remington makes this assertion 
 with calmness. 
 
 Again I bow ; this time it is meant to ex- 
 press assured recollection, and I say: 
 
 " Madame's grandfather was — " I glance 
 appealingly at Miss Remington ; can it be 
 that she smiles behind her fan? at Mrs. 
 Fisher! Ah, it is evident that the lady's 
 grandfather belongs to that class whose 
 ashes are permitted to rest in peace. 
 
 200 
 
and Other People 
 
 " Is it possible, Mr. Troitza, that you have 
 never heard of Maud MadeHne Fisher, the 
 poetess ? " inquires Miss Remington, in 
 tones of amazement^ although there is a very 
 singular light in her eyes. 
 
 I have not ; but what does that signify in 
 a case of this kind. 
 
 " Is it possible ! have I the honor of ad- 
 dressing one of the sweetest song-birds of 
 this dear country ? " I perform still one 
 more bow, hoping it may convey sufficient 
 homage to atone for all my shortcomings. 
 
 " Oh— h— h ! you flatterer, flatterer, flat- 
 terer ! " Mrs. Fisher shakes her fingers at 
 me and taps my arm with her fan in the 
 most playful manner. 
 
 " Now tell me," she adds, drawing her 
 chair somewhat nearer to mine, and assum- 
 ing a confidential attitude, " which of my 
 poems, that you have seen^ do you like the 
 best? I always ask every new person that 
 question, and then I can form some idea, 
 judging from their preference, of their 
 character and spirit — now tell me ? " with 
 more taps on my arm, and an arch glance 
 into my eyes. 
 
 aoi 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 This is a climax which I had not foreseen, 
 and I am, moreover, chagrined to observe 
 that Miss Remington has turned from me 
 and is smihng joyously at her own pleasant 
 thoughts, doubtless. 
 
 " Madame," I reply, " where all is so 
 beautiful how can you be so cruel as to ask 
 me to express a choice? " I bend upon the 
 poetess that devotional glance to which Miss 
 Remington took silent exception. In this 
 case I am happy to record it did its usual ex- 
 ecution, and the lady bridled and sidled in 
 a way that was most kittenish and becom- 
 ing, although she was a trifle inclined to 
 embonpoint. 
 
 You naughty, naughty Russian ! to try 
 and make poor little me conceited ! Ah, I 
 knew the moment that I gazed into those 
 eyes of yours that I had met a kindred 
 spirit ! " 
 
 " Who is the flatterer now ? " I cry, re- 
 lieved incredibly to find my companion has 
 deserted the realm of actual poetry, although 
 I momentarily wondered where lay the con- 
 nection between the fact of my being a 
 " naughty Russian " and a " kindred spirit." 
 
 202 
 
and Other People 
 
 " Now, did you like that * Dreamland ' 
 that I had in last week best, or the * Tangled 
 Threads ' in this, Mr. Troitza? " 
 
 Alas ! I was chained to the muse and could 
 not escape. 
 
 " Shall I be candid?" 
 Do — do be so ; there is nothing I admire 
 so much as candor." 
 
 " Well, I must say, then, that to me there 
 was a peculiar charm in the measures of 
 the ' Tangled Threads ! ' " How devotedly 
 I wished that I knew what they were ! 
 
 " How delicious ! I like it best, too ! Ah, 
 Mr. Troitza, I feel in the inmost recesses of 
 my soul that in you I have met a being who 
 can comprehend the far heights and the 
 shady ravines of my spirit ; we poets have 
 not natures like other mortals ; we are made 
 of a finer clay — a clay that responds to the 
 most aerial touch, and is molded even by 
 the whispering wings of fairies as they flut- 
 ter by us. Now to many I should hesitate 
 to express myself in this manner. But to 
 you I feel that I can pour out the treasures 
 of my intellect and my heart ; to you I can 
 speak freely of the prisoned ego that beats 
 203 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 its pinions wildly against the bars of the 
 vulgar and prosaic world, and that sings its 
 softest notes to one like yourselves moulded 
 in the true poetic vein ! " 
 
 Can I resist the pleading of those Sappho- 
 like orbs? No! I throw myself into the 
 situation with utter abandonment. 
 
 " Ah^ how blessed am I, Mrs. Fisher, in 
 having met you ! What words can describe 
 to you the pleasure I experience in listening 
 to you? If this be your prose, what must 
 be your poetry I " 
 
 " Why, you know ; you have seen it." 
 
 There is a — shall I say — sharpness in the 
 poetess' tone which at once reveals to me 
 that she is perhaps not altogether a dweller 
 in the clouds. 
 
 " True, true," I exclaim, hurriedly, " that 
 ' Tangled Threads ' — exquisite — lovely ! " 
 
 " Then you do not think me too enthusi- 
 astic? You will come and see me? " Mrs. 
 Fisher produces the card. 
 
 " Can you doubt it ? " 
 
 " Mr. Troitza, will you tell me the time, 
 please? Half-after ten? oh, I am so 
 thoughtless! Ever since I lost my poor 
 204 
 
and Other People 
 
 dear lamb, I am not fit to take care of 
 myself!" 
 
 " A pet Iamb, I suppose ? " I say, with the 
 most ardent sympathy. " You must miss it 
 sadly." 
 
 " I meant my husband, Mr. Troitza — my 
 dear departed darling, whose baby and pet 
 I was — he was so much older than I." 
 
 ** I beg ten thousand pardons ; so young 
 and already a widow ! " I gaze in a sort 
 of dazed incredulousness at the lady, find- 
 ing this my only means of escape from 
 my mistake. " You have my entire sym- 
 pathy." 
 
 I am sure of it, and yet " — there is a 
 coy reluctance in the poetess' voice — " sup- 
 pose I were to test you, now ? " 
 " Test me, I entreat you ! " 
 Ah^ well, then " — at this moment a lady 
 whom I afterward learned also writes verses, 
 and fashions sweeps by us — you may 
 take me home, Mr. Troitza, if you insist." 
 
 I learn for the first time that a " test " is a 
 convertible term into almost anything. 
 
 I express alacrity and delight, and drive 
 the poetess to her door, where she fully com- 
 205 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 pensates me by a tender pressure of my 
 hand. I then drive to the Manhattan Club 
 House, where I have appointed to meet some 
 friends. 
 
 Since my advent in America I have met a 
 great many ladies, ga va sans dire, most 
 beautiful, most winning, most fascinating 
 and most wealthy, but there were only two 
 who specially interested me — these were 
 Miss Remington and Mrs. Fisher. I took 
 them to be, whether erroneously or no can 
 only be proven to me by a longer residence 
 in this country, types of two distinct classes 
 of women to be met with only in America. 
 The classes are many, but from among them 
 I elected these two for particular study ; the 
 younger a specimen of the clever and intel- 
 lectual, the elder a representative of the emo- 
 tional and literary ; for I do not subscribe to 
 that interpretation of the two w^ords, intel- 
 lectual and literary, which makes them in- 
 terchangeable. 
 
 The literary lady permeates the society 
 of New York thoroughly. And as it was 
 a phase of development that I had never 
 seen, I desired to cultivate a more intimate 
 206 
 
and Other People 
 
 acquaintance with it than casual meetings 
 in drawing-rooms would permit. 
 
 Mrs. Fisher appeared to me to embody 
 all the most salient features of the genus to 
 which she belonged, and she, moreover, did 
 me the honor to smile upon me and my re- 
 searches into the American female heart. 
 
 It is a little remarkable, that between so 
 large a body as the literary ladies of America 
 — I mean literary-society ladies — constitute, 
 there should be such a lack of good feeling. 
 It is absolutely not uncommon to hear them 
 designate each other's verses as trash," 
 while, however, they perhaps in part atone 
 for this lack of praise for their neighbor's 
 productions, by the lavish meed of admira- 
 tion they bestow upon their own. So long 
 as a balance of favorable criticism is main- 
 tained, I presume, after all, it matters i;iot 
 exactly in what way it is obtained. 
 
 They also are extraordinarily generous in 
 describing their works to persons like my- 
 self, strangers to the country, and I have 
 been, occasionally in the course of one even- 
 ing, so fortunate as to receive the sources of 
 inspiration for their latest poems from five 
 207 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 different ladies. Likewise, they frequently 
 read their compositions at evening recep- 
 tions. And I have noticed that at these 
 times, although loud in their expressions of 
 delight to the obliging inspired one, they 
 invariably give vent to the contrary opin- 
 ions not five minutes afterward. 
 
 I called upon Mrs. Fisher and found her 
 in the midst of her labors. She was indit- 
 ing a lullaby, of which she favored me with 
 a few stanzas. That was my first visit. I 
 called upon her subsequently very frequent- 
 ly, and each time became more and more 
 interested in this engaging woman. 
 
 Miss Remington, the direct opposite of 
 my poetic friend, I also contrived to see a 
 good deal of, and became quite as much oc- 
 cupied with her as with my poetess. I re- 
 marked that Miss Remington was clever; 
 she was ; her mind was quite an original 
 one, and there was a freshness about her 
 which I appreciated all the more as it pre- 
 sented a marked contrast to the staleness 
 of some other ladies whom I knew. I have 
 also said that she was intellectual ; she was ; 
 she had been endowed with a brain, and she 
 208 
 
and Other People 
 
 also had been gifted with those unusual 
 qualifications which permitted her to use it. 
 She was not in the least executive, but she 
 was eminently suggestive. She neither 
 played, sang, recited, wrote poems, painted, 
 nor did embroideries, yet she presented to 
 my mind the picture of a woman capable of 
 suffering much, loving more, and worth a 
 large amount of investigation. 
 
 I encountered in New York any number 
 of Maud Madeline Fishers, but very few 
 Miss Remingtons. 
 
 Another pair of causes which largely en- 
 listed my attention in behalf of these two 
 ladies, was this: while Mrs. Fisher con- 
 ferred upon me the sensation of constantly 
 desiring to elude her. Miss Remington be- 
 stowed upon me an equal assurance that she 
 was continually escaping me. Thus, thanks 
 to these two charming women, I experi- 
 enced, in passing from the society of one to 
 that of the other, all the pleasures of the 
 chase, both those of the huntsman and those 
 of the game. 
 
 I sent flowers, fruits, bonbons, books, to 
 Miss Remington, and always found them 
 209 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 lying about the drawing-room when I next 
 called. It would have pleased me far more 
 had she adorned her own room with these 
 slight tokens of my regard. Mrs. Fisher 
 almost always suggested to me various little 
 nothings that she would " so like to have," 
 and with the most ingenuous grace would 
 stop in our walks to exclaim over the beauty 
 of this, that, or the other in the shop win- 
 dows. I had persuaded Miss Remington to 
 go with me to the Park a few times, and to 
 the opera, and the poetess had experienced 
 no difficulty whatever in presenting to my 
 mind the delights of theatres, Delmonico's, 
 etc., etc. 
 
 " You are a singularly undemonstrative 
 woman ! " I said to Miss Remington, one 
 day, when she had said, " How do you do? " 
 to me, in her customary fashion, with no 
 cordial additions. 
 
 "Do you think so?" 
 I most certainly do." 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 " I judge from my observations." 
 
 " Ah ! " She uplifts her very handsome 
 eyebrows. " It seems to me those may be 
 called limited." 
 
 210 
 
and Other People 
 
 " Not at all. I have seen you very fre- 
 quently, and " — such women as Miss Rem- 
 ington, do they or do they not know the pe- 
 culiar temptations they present to a man of 
 my temperament? — this little hand" — I 
 take it in mine — never has deigned to greet 
 me with, a single welcoming pressure dur- 
 ing all these six months that I have known 
 you." 
 
 She raises her eyes to mine with that dan- 
 gerous look in them that I have seen only 
 once before, but her tone is very quiet as she 
 inquires : 
 
 "Why should it?" 
 Why should it ? " I echo, in an irritated 
 manner ; " because I think I deserve a little 
 more than all the other men whom you 
 know." 
 
 " Why?" 
 
 " Because my powers of appreciation are 
 very much keener," I respond, after some- 
 thing of a pause, as I raise her hand toward 
 my lips. 
 
 She withdraws it, short of its goal, how- 
 ever, rapidly but gracefully. 
 
 " Why may I not kiss your hand? " I ask, 
 petulantly. 
 
 211 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Because just now I am not in need of a 
 new sensation." 
 
 Would it be a new sensation ? Has no 
 man ever pressed his lips upon that little 
 morsel of unmelted snow ? " I point to her 
 hand and ask the question for the reason 
 that I hope that it will arouse her. I con- 
 fess that I would like to see Miss Reming- 
 ton's feelings emerge from their retirement. 
 " No man." 
 
 " Is it possible ! Why not ? " 
 
 " Because I fancy that I should not like 
 the contact." 
 
 Fancy ! then you do not know. You 
 would like it ! A woman with your eyes and 
 mouth craves admiration and devotion, and 
 must therefore necessarily like the outward 
 expressions of these." 
 
 She flushes slightly. 
 Granting your proposition, merely for 
 the sake of argument, did you never find that 
 the ecstacy of a mental emotion far exceeded 
 its physical expression ? " 
 
 Never. I have tried it ; but you," I say 
 softly, acknowledge that you have never 
 tested my philosophy." 
 
 212 
 
and Other People 
 
 She remains silent and motionless, having 
 that rare trait among American young 
 ladies, the power of letting her hands lie 
 quietly, without engaging them with chains 
 or bracelets, or convenient ribbons and 
 curls. 
 
 " Extraordinary woman ! *' I say at last, 
 as I lean back in my chair opposite to her 
 and survey her. " You are unlike any other 
 of your countrywomen that I have met." 
 
 " I believe I will try your * philosophy,' as 
 you call it. Mr. Troitza, you may kiss my 
 hand, and I promise to describe at once to 
 you any raptures that the operation may pro- 
 duce in me." She extends it toward me, 
 and I press my lips down upon the bit of 
 cool flesh, certainly with extremely different 
 sensations from any similar case in my ca- 
 reer. 
 
 " Well ? " I bend my eyes fully upon her 
 lovely face. 
 
 Well," she returns, quickly, " I am wait- 
 ing for the advent of bliss — Ah, Mr. Troit- 
 za ! " she laughs mirthfully, " you find my 
 society interesting and agreeable principally 
 because I am unlike most of the other 
 213 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 women you have met lately, and yet you 
 have done your best to make me as much 
 their counterpart as possible. Man, man, 
 you sigh for a saint, and when you find one 
 you make terrible haste to convert it into a 
 sinner ! " 
 
 " How is it possible," I cry, " that you 
 are so totally diverse in character from 
 Mrs. Fisher, we will say? The same sur- 
 roundings, the same education, society ; gov- 
 erning impulses and aims must be identical 
 in a given age in the same land ; the spirit of 
 the time is upon you both, and yet you alone 
 of all the women I have encountered here, 
 are — what you should be ! Why is it? " 
 
 " You forget that there is still left in the 
 world individuality, and besides," Miss 
 Remington says, with a slight retrospective 
 smile, " my educational surroundings and 
 advantages were wholly different from 
 many others. Mr. Troi'tza," she says, turn- 
 ing her full sweet eyes upon me, do not 
 imagine because you have been so unfortu- 
 nate as to meet a few silly women in New 
 York society, that the nation is lacking in a 
 substratum of sound and earnest and culti- 
 
and Other People 
 
 vated ones ; it is an idea that too many for- 
 eigners run home with ; it has its founda- 
 tion " — I agree with Miss Remington as 
 Mrs. Fisher suddenly occurs to my mind — 
 " beyond a doubt ; but as you have done me 
 the honor to say that I am unUke others you 
 have known in my country, rest assured that 
 I am not by any means the rarity you sup- 
 pose." 
 
 She thus always withdraws me, by a sub- 
 tle and beneficent spell, from the region of 
 the sentiments and gives me something to 
 think of, instead of something to feel, as 
 most of her sex are too prone to do. 
 
 " Can you tell me," I cry, taking in the 
 haughty and high-bred grace of her tout en- 
 semble, " if there is such a thing as an aris- 
 tocracy here? All the classes of your so- 
 ciety ascribe its prerogatives and presence 
 to themselves, but does the ignis fatiius ab- 
 solutely exist in America ? " 
 
 Miss Remington looks a little grave and 
 pauses slightly before replying. 
 
 " In the broad and flagrant sense of a class 
 who can trace back an honorable, moneyed, 
 educated, and cultured lineage for some hun- 
 215 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 dreds of years, emphatically no. We have 
 no such class in America, nor do I think we 
 will ever have. The travelled and cultivat- 
 ed men of yesterday have not the means to 
 confer like benefits upon their sons ; the rich 
 man of last year leaves the poor successor 
 of this ; ours is essentially a country of ups 
 and downs, Mr. Troitza. There is very lit- 
 tle stability in our social or political system. 
 This, no doubt, affords my coachman's child 
 the possibility of a seat in the presidential 
 chair. It, no doubt, makes all men equal, or 
 indulges them in the fancy of supposing they 
 are, which amounts to the same thing in the 
 end; but it also deprives us of the barest 
 prospect of ever attaining to the possession 
 of a pure and perfect and intelligently cult- 
 ured class, which should be worthy the name 
 aristocracy." 
 
 " Thank you," I say, earnestly. " But, 
 Miss Remington, you remarked ' in the 
 broad and flagrant sense.' Now, you had 
 some reservation there, may I not know 
 it?" 
 
 " Well, yes, if you wish," with a smile. 
 " But, Mr. Troitza, you must remember that 
 216 
 
and Other People 
 
 I am no authority; I only look out on the 
 world from my corner, and with not a very 
 strong intellectual lens. Do not run back 
 to Russia and quote me." 
 
 " Precisely what I shall do — but I wait." 
 
 " I think that we have an aristocracy, al- 
 though it is a very narrow and almost an in- 
 definable one. Its members are scattered 
 over the entire country, perhaps seldom 
 meet, but they know each other when they 
 do ; an aristocracy whose claim is based upon 
 the foundation of cleanness of spirit, up- 
 rightness of action, innate refinement, nat- 
 ural intelligence and intelligent culture, gen- 
 tle breeding, and gracious behavior." 
 
 " You are princess royal of that small 
 kingdom," I say, rising and extending my 
 hand. " Thank you very much. Miss Rem- 
 ington; I always leave you, I think, with 
 the feeling that I experience after walking 
 in green fields on a fresh spring day — that I 
 have had good done me." 
 
 Last Tuesday Mrs. Fisher insinuated to 
 me, in the most delicate manner possible, 
 that she thought a moonlight sleigh-ride in 
 the Park would be the most delightful thing 
 217 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 possible. As the fair poetess had several, 
 not to say many times before, conveyed her 
 ideas upon this subject to me, I felt that it 
 would be unkind to delay the fulfilment of 
 her wishes any longer than this Friday. Ac- 
 cordingly I drove up to her house at nine 
 o'clock, and although she appeared to con- 
 sider the hour somewhat late, I assured her 
 that the moon was but just arisen, and that 
 the heavenly beauty of the night was per- 
 fect. 
 
 We sped up the avenue and into the broad 
 and beautiful drives of the Park, where the 
 tall, bare branches of the trees, outlined 
 against the dark March sky, glistened with 
 their burden of newly fallen snows. 
 
 " This is delicious ! " We were scudding 
 along at a rapid pace over the broad Boule- 
 vard, and my spirits — I would humbly con- 
 fess my '* bad " spirits — rose with the in- 
 spiration of the keen and magnetic air. 
 
 " With a woman like you at his side, Mrs. 
 Fisher, a man might be contented to go on 
 thus forever." 
 
 Oh, Mr. Troitza, you make me think 
 sometimes such strange, strange things." 
 218 
 
and Other People 
 
 The poetess glances shyly up into my 
 face. 
 
 "Not unpleasant things, I trust?" I re- 
 ply, without removing my steadfast gaze 
 from her. 
 
 " No, no, happy things ; your speech at 
 times leads me into a region where the joy- 
 bells ring out their sweetest, where my soul 
 breathes its native atmosphere once more ! " 
 
 " And what was its native atmosphere ? " 
 I inquire, tenderly. 
 
 Ah, inquisitor ! " — Mrs. Fisher beats my 
 hand playfully with her sealskin muff. " An 
 atmosphere of poesy, romance, ideality. Do 
 you know I live in a realm of rhyme, Mr. 
 Troitza, where all is heavenly harmony and 
 where but seldom the harsh voices of the 
 outer world can penetrate ! 'Tis true I go 
 into society, but it is only to please my 
 friends — while in the glare and glitter and 
 false show, I am not of it ; and when a tone 
 like yours mixes its music with that of my 
 reveries, it seems as if the Hebe-cup of bliss 
 were full ! " 
 
 " Ah, you are so kind to me," I murmur 
 in a pathetic and unworthy tone. See, the 
 219 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 moon is yonder, high in the heavens ; but of 
 all the mortals upon whom she shines to- 
 night, none so happy as I ! " 
 
 Maud looks at me as though perchance 
 a dim wonder forced itself upon her, as to 
 why I did not still further pursue the rosy 
 path of pleasure. But she said : 
 
 "What time is it, Mr. Troitza? I fear 
 me, I am forgetting all earthly things in this 
 sweet and beneficent communion ; to think," 
 she adds, with a little innocent laugh, that 
 a Russian ! a denizen of that far, fascinating 
 land, should — " 
 
 " It is a quarter to one o'clock only," I in- 
 terrupt softly, tightening my reins. 
 
 " What ! a quarter to one, and I out in the 
 wide country with — with anyone ! " gasps 
 the poetess convulsively. 
 
 " With me," I murmur, in gentlest ac- 
 cents ; " would not the beautiful winter's 
 night pass quickly enough away for us, fly- 
 ing thus with the wind in our wake ? " 
 
 " Take me home ! take me home ! Dear 
 Mr. Troitza, what will all my friends say? 
 I entreat you to turn the horses ! " 
 
 Strange that my demoralized lips frame 
 220 
 
and Other People 
 
 themselves into a smile of singular mirth as 
 the poetess wrings her hands. 
 
 " Oh, why go home when this exquisite 
 lady-moon invites us out? In what better 
 or more dehghtful way could the entire 
 night be spent than thus — and then to watch 
 the sun rise over those pale, cold hills — and 
 a turn down through the Park again, and 
 breakfast at Delmonico's ? " 
 
 " No, no, never ! Ah, Tancred ! " The 
 plump arms of Mrs. Fisher are cast wildly 
 about my throat. " Do not ask this of me — 
 this wild, erratic performance ! ask aught 
 else — my love, my heart — they are already 
 yours — but take me home ! " 
 
 " I thought you would enjoy it so very 
 much,'* I exclaim, sorrowfully, as I turn 
 around. " It seems that I was mistaken ; ah, 
 well ! " 
 
 ''Not mistaken ; oh, no, Tancred ! no, no, 
 I only dread the anger of my sister; you 
 were only mistaken with regard to this stay- 
 ing out all night driving on the Boulevard, 
 that is all." 
 
 " I imagined that your dreamy, poetic nat- 
 ure would have revelled in such an open de- 
 
 221 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 fiance of the fiats of the prosaic world. But 
 I see too plainly my error, and can only crave 
 forgiveness," I reply, dejectedly. 
 
 " Forgive you with all my heart ! Have 
 I not, in a moment of unguarded weakness," 
 the poetess says, regarding me anxiously, 
 " told you the secret of my heart? " 
 
 'Twas but your sweet magnanimity, 
 Mrs. Fisher; let me learn in exile the hard 
 fate I have brought upon myself." 
 
 Never ! " cries Maud Madeline, with 
 more firmness than I had ever given her 
 credit for. 
 
 " Yes, I am unworthy ; I will prove it to 
 you." 
 
 " Impossible ! " clasping my arm with 
 both fat hands. 
 
 " Nay, but too true. Listen. In the 
 Etruria, which is to arrive next week, I ex- 
 pect a friend. I ask you, as an especial 
 favor, to accompany me to welcome that 
 friend. And then, if, after that meeting — 
 if after you have once seen that other Rus- 
 sian you still preserve these tender senti- 
 ments for this one, why^ then — " 
 
 Ah, tyrant, you desire to test me," she 
 
 222 
 
and Other People 
 
 exclaims, gayly and coyly. But what an 
 absurd test ! the mere sight of a man ! You 
 reaUze the ridiculousness of it so well your- 
 self that that is the very — " 
 
 Reason why I am so willing to stand it/' 
 I finish, with a genuine laugh. But here 
 we are; you have a night-key? No! But 
 your maid awaits you — ah, so fortunate ! 
 Good-night, fair poetess, and sweetest 
 dreams ! " 
 
 Of thee ! " Mrs. Fisher's maid is evi- 
 dently sleepy and takes an uncommonly long 
 time to unlock the door, thereby causing an 
 awkward pause between her mistress and 
 myself. I fancy, no doubt without the 
 slightest foundation, however, that Maud 
 Madeline is filled with a variety of conflict- 
 ing emotions — such as triumph, dread of her 
 friend's anger, gentle wonder at the non- 
 demonstrativeness of her attendant. I dare 
 not call myself her lover ; it would be such 
 a vast stretch of the truth — and tremulous 
 hope that at least one kiss may be left upon 
 her chaste poetic brow; and then the door 
 opens, and I consign Mrs. Fisher to the care 
 of the drowsy servant. 
 
 223 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 The heart of man is very perverse. I re- 
 member laughing so immoderately while 
 driving my horses down to their stable as to 
 cause a policeman to stare and question me. 
 And through all my other thoughts crept the 
 hope that Mrs. Fisher would encounter at 
 no time in her career a more playful native 
 of Russia than myself. I also fancied that 
 perchance^ even should she, she would stu- 
 diously avoid what are commonly called 
 " hints." However, there was a warm cor- 
 ner in my memory for her — of course there 
 was ! Must not it ever be so with any man 
 for the woman who guilelessly tells him that 
 she loves him, even although a demon — it 
 must be a demon! — whispers to him that 
 she loved him to that degree that all his pos- 
 sessions, money, lands, jewels, and horses 
 were almost as dear, if not a little dearer, to 
 her than he. 
 
 The heart of man is most perverse. I 
 spent the greater part of the following Sun- 
 day morning in reflecting upon Miss Rem- 
 ington, who had been so gracious as to go to 
 Wallack's with me the night previous, and 
 in endeavoring to find out why I was so dis- 
 224 
 
and Other People 
 
 satisfied with her. I admired her immense- 
 ly, but at the same time could it be possible 
 that I would have been better pleased had 
 Miss Remington felt and acted toward me as 
 had done her friend, Mrs. Fisher? 
 
 Now, not only is the heart of man per- 
 verse, but it is froward and above all things 
 loving unto itself. It wounded my pride to 
 think that Miss Remington had never be- 
 trayed a spark of feeling in my presence — 
 and although I worshipped her integrity and 
 her ladyhood, I was very much dissatisfied 
 with my ill-success. Which facts go to 
 prove, my gentle reader, that I was a 
 mediocre man ; one of that enormous class 
 who help to make silly women more silly, 
 who are not worthy to associate with women 
 of Miss Remington's calibre. They, no mat- 
 ter how long the intercourse, are still, at its 
 close as much on the alert for the w^oman's 
 defection as they were at its beginning; fit 
 only to flutter about drawing-rooms and 
 pass away unheeded. And yet, Miss Rem- 
 ington could always find her way to my in- 
 tellect, and therefore I must have had one. 
 She carried me out of my self-consciousness 
 225 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 and lifted me into a realm of light ; but I 
 could not live there as a continuance any 
 more than I could have comfortably subsist- 
 ed on Mrs. Fisher's adoration of my bank- 
 notes. 
 
 There was another atmosphere still in 
 which I breathed with completer pleasure. 
 
 I sent Mrs. Fisher a handsome watch and 
 chain on Monday, thinking that under the 
 circumstances it was no more than that 
 lady's due. It was but a meagre return for 
 all the entertainment she had been generous 
 enough to bestow upon me during my ac- 
 quaintance with her ; all the insight she had 
 afforded me of the workings of the feminine 
 heart in this dear country. I found it and 
 its workings — a very singular thing to relate 
 — almost identical in America with its condi- 
 tion in other civilized lands. 
 
 Miss Remington also was so kind as to go 
 to the Fifth Avenue Theatre with me on 
 Tuesday evening, and I had, perhaps, never 
 seen her more animated or more charming. 
 
 On Wednesday I received a dispatch from 
 my friend on board the Etruria, and accord- 
 ingly, post haste, drove for Mrs. Fisher. 
 226 
 
and Other People 
 
 Very soon we were approaching the crowd- 
 ed wharf where the steamship lay. In a 
 few moments we were on deck, Mrs. Fisher 
 cHnging tenderly to my arm, and looking up 
 into my face with an expression which I felt 
 to be indicative of possessive interest, while 
 I scanned the crowds for the countenance 
 of my friend. 
 
 I could not seem to become fortunate in 
 my search, but, lo ! instead, I beheld the 
 graceful and elegant figure of Miss Reming- 
 ton. She bowed charmingly, advanced to- 
 ward us, and with that odd, dangerous glint 
 in her blue eyes, she spoke : 
 
 " Good-morning, Mrs. Fisher ! good- 
 morning, Mr. Tro'itza. Ah, you see I have 
 been before you ; I have been here, or rather 
 there,'* pointing to the saloon, " for half an 
 hour. You remember my mentioning my 
 Russian schoolmate to you, Mr. Troitza ? " 
 — I bow and smile, or try to — at that partic- 
 ular moment I begin to grow impatient of 
 seeing my compatriote, from whom I have 
 now been separated for almost one year — 
 " Well, she has arrived. Mr. Troitza, shall 
 I not take you to your wife ? " Miss Rem- 
 227 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 ington is spared the trouble. My darling 
 little " friend " comes toward me with both 
 her arms extended. 
 
 " His wife ! " shrieks Mrs. Fisher, and 
 fortunately, at the same moment, a steam- 
 whistle performs the same feat. The poetess 
 shrinks from^ my side, and then recovers her- 
 self sufficiently to be presented to Madame 
 Tro'itza, and also, to partake of a most sub- 
 stantial luncheon, a little later. 
 
 " You would not rob that charming little 
 woman of her husband? " I say tenderly to 
 Maud, when a fitting opportunity occurs. 
 
 She laughs as she tastes her partridge, 
 and taps my arm once more so playfully with 
 her muff. 
 
 Beyond any doubt, when I told Miss Rem- 
 ington that she was an " extraordinary 
 woman," I spoke the profoundest truth. 
 
 The Russians are an almost proverbially 
 diplomatic, secretive, and deceptive race, 
 but this young American had exceeded by 
 far my wildest conceptions of the savoir 
 faire of her country. When I reflect upon 
 her chances of losing her secret, I am wrapt 
 in amazement that any well-regulated 
 228 
 
and Other People 
 
 woman should have failed to make use of 
 them. When I recall her exquisite tact and 
 delicate honorableness in dealing with me, 
 I am ready to prostrate myself before her, 
 and to divide the society of my wife with 
 her, which I am obliged to do, for Zchica is 
 extremely fond of Miss Remington — Zchica, 
 who has so condescendingly baptized these 
 records of my only disloyalties to her white 
 standard. 
 
 229 
 
TWO OF A KIND AND THE 
 JOKER 
 
k 
 
 o' 
 a 
 F 
 w 
 
 k 
 k 
 
 k 
 
 see 
 
TWO OF A KIND AND THE 
 JOKER 
 
 Smith and Ferradaile met at the corner 
 of Thirty-fourth Street and the Avenue; 
 Smith was coming down, Ferradaile was go- 
 ing up; both looked radiant, each after his 
 kind. Smith being a half-score years the 
 older, bore an air of added repression, while 
 a new light shone in the depths of his eyes. 
 Ferradaile, who was barely twenty-seven, 
 walked an inch taller than commonly, and 
 squared his shoulders more than usually; 
 he had an enormous bunch of violets in his 
 buttonhole, he swung his cane with a gentle 
 swagger, and his smile was so very obvious 
 that each woman he met felt positive he was 
 seeking her acquaintance. 
 
 " How are you, old chappie ! " he cried, 
 seizing Smith's hand and wringing it with 
 233 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 that warmth which would seem to include 
 the whole world-full of men in its hearti- 
 ness. 
 
 " Famously, my boy ; and you ? " returned 
 the older man, whose grasp, strange to say, 
 whether from force of infection or no, 
 savored very much, too, of the wholesale 
 cordiality which is usually born of that 
 ephemeral spiritual essence called " happi- 
 ness." 
 
 I say," exclaimed Ferradaile, " turn 
 around and walk up to the Windsor and dine 
 with me. I haven't seen you for a good bit ; 
 where have you been ? Come ! " linking his 
 arm in Smith's. 
 
 " No," replied the older, " you come down 
 with me and take potluck ; it will be a deuced 
 deal cozier. I haven't seen you for an age. 
 Come ! " turning Ferradaile southward. 
 
 In a few minutes they reached the Cum- 
 berland. 
 
 Smith's man, a treasure, nominally valet, 
 but one of those occasional jewels who 
 could do almost anything and who in reality 
 was the very efficient major-domo of Phil 
 Smithes studio bachelor menage — Smith's 
 234 
 
and Other People 
 
 man then opened the door of the apartment 
 for them and drew aside the tiger skins 
 which did duty as portieres to the most lux- 
 urious painting-room in town. 
 
 " Mr. Ferradaile dines with me, Bing- 
 ham/' Smith said, carelessly. " Give us 
 something uncommonly nice; and by the 
 way serve it in here, and with candle-hght." 
 
 As Bingham bowed, his master added : 
 
 " It's too infernally warm for the electric 
 flare — or I say, Bobby, do you want it ? " 
 
 " Anything suits me, my dear fellow ; I 
 — 'pon my soul! if it were a rush-light or 
 the sun, it's all the same to me ! " 
 
 Ferradaile, as he relinquished his hat and 
 cane to the amiable Bingham, glanced 
 around the incomparable room with its ex- 
 quisite moresque ceiling, its marvellous 
 hangings, and its incalculable treasures from 
 all the four, and the other unnumbered, 
 quarters of the globe. 
 
 Conglomerate as it was, there was a per- 
 fection about the details which insured a 
 harmony in the whole, lulling to the senses 
 and sympathetic to a surprising degree with 
 the young man's present mood. 
 
 235 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 As the twilight waned into a rose-blue 
 mist, thrilling in at the southern windows, 
 with the wind from the bay all sweet with 
 the carnations and heliotropes growing 
 blithely in their pots on the sills ; as Bingham 
 lighted the candles in their silver sconces 
 bracketed about the walls, silently, too, lay- 
 ing his cloth and silver and glass and that, 
 Ferradaile's eyes followed Smith as the mas- 
 ter walked lazily up and down the long room, 
 smoking. The younger man had refused a 
 cigar, with a smile that argued a secret su- 
 periority to the weed and its allurements. 
 
 Smith, however, smoked and blew the 
 greater clouds of incense as he passed and 
 repassed in his saunterings, the big easel in 
 a certain corner. It had a picture on it, that 
 was clear, for the square of the canvas 
 showed through the draperies of some East- 
 ern stuff that shimmered over it. 
 
 "What's up?" Smith asked, stopping 
 short before his guest. Bobby, I never 
 knew you to decline a regalia before in my 
 life." 
 
 "It's before dinner, Phil," laughed the 
 boyish fellow, lazily. " I'll spoil your menu 
 236 
 
and Other People 
 
 if I put such a cigar as that between my lips 
 now." 
 
 " I've seen you ruin many a better meal 
 than this will be, before to-day — don't be 
 unsocial and stupid " — holding out to him 
 weed and match. 
 
 " 'Tisn't that, Smith." Bobby rose out of 
 his depth of cushions and tufts and took a 
 quick turn up the room. 
 
 " Hang it ! " he said, with a laugh, I've 
 given up smoking, that's all there is to it." 
 He sat down again, this time before the 
 piano, and rattled off a few bars from the 
 Tzigane. 
 
 " Not really ? " Smith went over and laid 
 his hand lightly on the other's head. 
 
 " Not really ? " he repeated, as Ferradaile 
 took up the low pedal instead of the high 
 one. " Well, Bobby, tell me all about her." 
 
 There was a wonderful depth of sweet- 
 ness and brotherly love, and almost of com- 
 passion, in Smith's voice ; the tone of a man 
 who could well remember the curious im- 
 mature rapture of first love, and over-match 
 it by a heaven's height with something bet- 
 ter. 
 
 237 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Ferradaile swung around on the music- 
 stool ; then he jumped up and dug his hands 
 into his pockets and stood with back to the 
 fire-place. 
 
 Phil ! " cried he softly, in a queer little 
 hushed way, she's just an angel, don't you 
 know ; and what she ever can see in a fool 
 like me, God only knows, I don't." 
 
 Smith stretched out his hands and locked 
 Ferradaile's in them. 
 
 " My boy, you can't guess how glad I 
 am," and the look in his eyes told what his 
 words could not pretend to. 
 
 " I know it, Phil. Hang it all, there isn't 
 a man alive I look to as I do to you, and you 
 know it. You're the first person, the only 
 person, who knows it yet. She's gone 
 abroad ; some trumpery notion of her moth- 
 er's to buy her clothes in Paris, I believe; 
 and the thing isn't to be announced until 
 she returns." 
 
 " Gone abroad, eh ? " Smith said, with a 
 lift of the brows which was singularly sym- 
 pathetic. " That's rather hard lines, isn't 
 it now, when a fellow's just won his 
 prize ? " 
 
 238 
 
and Other People 
 
 " Should say it was ! " Bobby groaned 
 as he glanced at the other man. 
 
 I say, Phil ! " cried he enthusiastically, 
 bestriding a reception-chair. " I wish to the 
 Lord you were as happy as I am this night ! " 
 
 There was a little pause^ which Mr. Philip 
 Smith occupied in a very brief estimate of 
 the definition of his happiness, as compared 
 with that of his guest. Then, with a slow 
 smile, tossing his cigar into the grate, he 
 remarked, not, as he deemed with truth, but 
 with complaisance toward the other's youth : 
 
 " Well, Bob, lam !" 
 
 Ferradaile bounded from his chair. 
 
 "No?" he cried, under his breath, put- 
 ting his two hands on Smith's shoulders. 
 
 " Yes," Smith laughed, nodding his head 
 slowly at the other's incredulity. 
 
 " By Jove ! " Bobby fell back a pace or 
 two. " I didn't believe the woman lived 
 that could make you look as you look this 
 minute." 
 
 " How do I look ? " inquired Philip quietly 
 enough, his hand resting easily amid the 
 folds of the Eastern stuff over the picture 
 on the easel 
 
 239 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Sort of — sort of — Jupiter! I don't 
 know ! transfigured, I suppose a poet would 
 call it." 
 
 Smith laughed ; he was one of those men 
 incapable of eloquence on emotional occa- 
 sions. Besides, just then Bingham entered 
 the room with his tray. 
 
 Presently the two sat down ; Ferradaile 
 with his back to the easel, Smith facing 
 it. 
 
 They ate and drank, if not w^ith gusto, at 
 least with relish, chatting of this and that 
 as Bingham served. 
 
 When they were alone again, Ferradaile 
 was the first to speak. 
 
 " You wonder where I have kept myself, 
 old man, for the past month ? I'll tell you — 
 down at Lenox." 
 
 "Ah?" Smith glanced up interestedly 
 as he set his glass of chablis on the table. 
 
 " Yes, her people have a place there and 
 they went out in April ; when I couldn't 
 stand it any longer, I went down myself, 
 and put up at Curtis'. Three days after I 
 arrived she made me the happiest man that 
 breathes. Phil, I've worshipped her ever 
 240 
 
and Other People 
 
 since I first laid my eyes on her in February 
 at Old Point; only saw her for three days 
 then ; if you remember, I left the night you 
 arrived." 
 
 I remember perfectly," Philip said, smil- 
 ing, with a far-off look in his gray eyes. 
 
 " She's a blonde — blonder than I am ! " 
 he ran on, threading his white fingers 
 through his yellow locks. 
 
 " And her eyes ! " Bob looked up at the 
 Moorish ceiling, helpless of words to de- 
 scribe his lady's orbs. 
 
 " A figure, prettier than forty thousand 
 Venuses ! " remarked Mr. Ferradaile, cast- 
 ing a disrespectful glance, and waving a dis- 
 missing arm toward the Milo that played 
 hide-and-seek with the palms, at the far end 
 of the studio. 
 
 And better than all, Smith," rising and 
 walking up and down, " she's true and pure, 
 and womanly and loyal." 
 
 " And very much in love with you," 
 laughed the older, good-naturedly. 
 
 Ferradaile stood still, and there was a 
 newly born reverence on his bright face as 
 he answered solemnly : 
 241 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 " As there is a heaven above us, Phil, I 
 believe she cares for me 1 " 
 
 Smith, with his cigar, took a turn or 
 two across the room and paused near the 
 easel. 
 
 " But pshaw ! old fellow, I'm too egotis- 
 tical by far. Tell me — " he hesitated a 
 trifle; " tell me about your happiness." He 
 stood facing his host, in gentle and friendly 
 inquiry, 
 
 " I— don't think I could, Bob," said the 
 other in a low tone, while his dark face bore 
 upon it the " transfigured " look which Fer- 
 radaile had noted a while back. " I think, 
 and believe, and know God never made a 
 sweeter, nobler, lovelier woman than the one 
 who has promised to be my wife. This 
 doesn't begin to do her face any justice, but 
 there is a hint of her beauty in it — it is not 
 quite finished — I show it to you first of all — 
 no one else has seen it." 
 
 Smith drew the Eastern stuff softly and 
 slowly off the picture on the easel, looking 
 at it himself with wistful eyes, so full of 
 adoration that he had no instant remem- 
 brance of his young friend, and might not 
 242 
 
and Other People 
 
 have turned for a minute longer had not the 
 jingle of glasses from the table, against 
 which Ferradaile suddenly fell back, caused 
 him to start. 
 
 Bob's blue eyes were distended, his red 
 lips had blanched, and the pink of his cheeks 
 ashened; his hand grasped a chair-back 
 tensely. 
 
 " That ! " he gasped hoarsely, that is 
 Margaret Howard ! " 
 
 Smith inclined his head slowly, looking 
 at Ferradaile in wonderment. 
 
 " Yes," he said, you have met her I 
 dare say, or seen her at least, at Lenox? 
 They were there for a while before they 
 went abroad. I follow on Saturday," he 
 added with unaccustomed communicative- 
 ness, principally because he was lost in 
 amazement at the attitude of his guest. 
 
 Bob straightened himself, still with that 
 grip on the chair-back. 
 
 And you say that you are engaged to 
 this woman," looking at the portrait, " Mar- 
 garet Howard ? " 
 
 " Yes, Bob, I am, and—" 
 
 " Then you lie ! " cried the other wildly, 
 243 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 letting go the chair and staring savagely into 
 Smith's face. 
 
 Ferradaile, you are beside yourself! 
 What the devil ! " catching the other man's 
 arm and holding him still, as he really be- 
 lieved him to have gone suddenly mad. 
 
 What the devil is the matter with you, 
 anyway? Sit down !" He seated him with a 
 thud. " Take a drink," tendering the glass. 
 
 Ferradaile took it, sprang up and threw 
 it in Smith's face. 
 
 You are a liar ! " Bob whispered under 
 his breath. Margaret Howard is my prom- 
 ised wife. Here is her picture in my watch- 
 case ; look at it ; this is her ring on my finger ; 
 these are her letters next my heart. We be- 
 came engaged just one month ago to-day, 
 the night before she sailed for Europe ! " 
 
 His voice was thick and shaken with the 
 passion of his words, as he showed his 
 proofs. 
 
 Smith, the chablis dripping from his thick 
 hair and beard, stared dully at his friend 
 during the fifteen seconds' time occupied by 
 his speech. 
 
 Then," he said, crossing to a carved cup- 
 244 
 
and Other People 
 
 board, opening it, and taking out a case of 
 pistols, which he laid on the table, take 
 your choice, sir — these, or rapiers," glanc- 
 ing at the other weapons against the wall. 
 
 " No man can call me a liar without apol- 
 ogizing." He took off his coat and vest 
 very quietly and threw them down on the 
 sofa. 
 
 " No man can impeach the honor of the 
 woman I love without either his blood or 
 mine being spilled on the spot." 
 
 " Apologize ! " echoed Bob, scornfully, 
 tearing off his raiment and picking up a pis- 
 tol. 'Til be damned first. You lie! I'd 
 stake my soul on the good faith of the girl 
 you insult." 
 
 Smith bit in his lip to the quick as he took 
 up the other pistol. 
 
 " If you will kindly pace off the distance," 
 he said in a perfunctory way, as he scratched 
 off a line on a scrap of paper. " And if you 
 want to leave any word for your people, 
 there's a pen, in case you are luckier than I 
 and lose your life." 
 
 Philip remembered afterward the strange, 
 hollow sound of his own voice, the cool feel- 
 245 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 ing of the chablis on his head, the sputter of 
 a spent candle, and the whistle of the last 
 postman coming up shrilly through the win- 
 dows from the blurred sound of the mirth 
 of Broadway. 
 
 " Thanks ; I've nothing to write about," 
 returned the younger, measuring off the 
 room and taking his position. 
 
 Smith stood by the easel. 
 
 " What is the word ? " he asked. 
 
 " Whatever you like," Ferradaile an- 
 swered. 
 
 Name it," returned the older, still in 
 that quiet, dull, dazed fashion of voice. 
 
 " Let it be one, two, three, and fire, then ! " 
 Bob said hotly. 
 
 Smith nodded. 
 
 Another candle sputtered to its end. 
 
 " One — two — three — and — " Ferradaile 
 was prevented from finishing by the en- 
 trance of Bingham. 
 
 " Beg pardon, Mr. Smith," said the per- 
 fectly trained servant in his well-modulated 
 tones, and without so much as a curl of an 
 eyelash betokening surprise at the scene. 
 
 But your orders were positive, sir, to 
 246 
 
and Other People 
 
 bring you any foreign letters the instant they 
 came, sir, and this one has this moment been 
 left." 
 
 He tendered his salver with its freight of 
 the square big envelope, the slant, large 
 handwriting and the British stamp. 
 
 Bingham retired. 
 
 Before he had quitted the room, his mas- 
 ter had torn off the smooth outer envelope, 
 and the satiny inner one, and held between 
 his fingers an engraved sheet of superfine 
 paper. 
 
 It read something like this : " Mr. and 
 Mrs. Lawrence Bayard Howard request the 
 honor of your presence at the marriage of 
 their daughter, Margaret, to Colonel Sir 
 Lionel Manning Derringford,at St. George's 
 Church, Hanover Square, on Wednesday, 
 June 1st — " 
 
 He read no more. 
 
 To-day was " Wednesday, June ist." 
 
 He staggered a bit, and sat down, laying 
 his pistol back in its case. 
 
 " What do you mean ! " exclaimed Ferra- 
 daile angrily, nearing his host. 
 
 Smith looked up at him and laughed, a 
 247 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 curious laugh like the echo of the mirthless 
 gurgling of a lost soul. He pointed to the 
 smooth sheet of engraved paper lying on 
 the table. 
 
 " Read it," he said, laconically. And, 
 while Bob picked it up in amazed wonder- 
 ment, Philip's head sank down between his 
 hands and a sob rived his heart and brain 
 almost in twain. 
 
 A groan, the horrible sound of a curse on 
 a man's lips for the woman who has tricked 
 him, made Smith raise his head. 
 
 Ferradaile was staggering like a drunkard 
 in the middle of the room, and turning his 
 weapon on himself. 
 
 A swift plunge and Philip had wrenched 
 it from him. 
 
 " Don't be a fool, Bob ; think of your 
 mother and your sisters." 
 
 With death beckoning him and pulling at 
 his own sleeve^ and showing him a short 
 cut out of his own wretchedness, he still 
 could plead in life's cause with this younger 
 man who had been his friend. 
 
 Don't want to think ! " cried the other. 
 " Phil ! Phil ! what in God's name can I ever 
 248 
 
and Other People 
 
 think about again ? " and the boyish head fell 
 willingly on the shoulder of the host. 
 
 " Pull yourself together my boy. Take a 
 drink." He poured out the brandy with a 
 somewhat unsteady hand. 
 
 " Drink ! " repeated Bob. " Old man, can 
 I ever drink under your roof again as long 
 as I live? " pushing the glass aside. " You 
 ought to have knocked me down." 
 
 " WeVe both knocked down now ! " Smith 
 laughed the same sorrowful laugh as before, 
 as he took up the marriage invitation and 
 stared at it. 
 
 " How can you laugh? " Ferradaile loos- 
 ened his cravat and collar, and, keeping his 
 eye on Philip, reached over slyly for the 
 pistol. 
 
 " God ! " he whispered, having got it, 
 " and she was so sweet, so sweet ! There 
 isn't any God — why do I name Him? or 
 any heaven, or any truth." 
 
 Smith leaned over and laid his hand on 
 that of the younger man. 
 
 " Yes there is, Bob. You are young, with 
 years and the world before you, and fair 
 women, too, and true ones," taking the pis- 
 249 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 tol a second time from Ferradaile's hand. 
 " You will live to a happier ending — while I 
 — well Bobby, here goes ! " 
 
 He knocked an ugly hole in the portrait, 
 ripping the canvas whereon the lovely face 
 was painted, into ribbons. 
 
 " May the Almighty never forgive me if 
 I trust a woman again ! " 
 
 He drained the brandy Ferradaile had 
 refused, unloaded the pistols, and struck a 
 light for a fresh cigar. 
 
 Come, Bob, my boy, it's only nine ; get 
 into your togs and let's go up to Koster & 
 Bials." 
 
 250 
 
THE EMPRESS OF AN HOUR 
 
THE EMPRESS OF AN HOUR 
 
 I 
 
 It was but little after dawn. It was early 
 in the month of June. It was Paris. 
 
 The needle of Notre Dame pricked the 
 pallor of the dawn into a flush of rose. 
 
 And the great, gold dome of the Invalides 
 shone splendidly beneath the first sweet, 
 warm kiss of the sun. 
 
 Just then a man emerged from the Rue 
 Bayard into the Cours la Reine ; a man of 
 medium height, in the dress of an ordinary 
 soldier. His cap was pulled observably 
 low over his brow and his coat-collar was 
 turned up — perhaps the chill of the morning 
 was disagreeable to him. 
 
 He walked hurriedly, casting an oblique 
 glance at the house of Francis the First on 
 the corner, and then pursuing his way in 
 haste down to the Place. 
 
 253 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 He crossed it diagonally, obviously having 
 in mind the Rue de Rivoli for his objective 
 point. 
 
 At this moment there came tripping out 
 from a small side street in the direction of 
 the Madeleine, a young girl. 
 
 She was bareheaded. She had on shoes, 
 but no stockings ; she carried upon her arm 
 a little satchel full of vegetables and papers, 
 and what besides. Heaven knows. 
 
 She was munching a carrot contentedly 
 enough, her small, sharp, white teeth biting 
 at the yellow root with evident relish. 
 
 Yet perchance it was hunger and not rel- 
 ish after all. 
 
 If the soldier saw her, which is unlikely, 
 as his eyes were bent upon his path, he may 
 have wished to avoid her, for he now struck 
 of? in an opposite direction, crossed the 
 street and made for the Tuileries. 
 
 Not so fast ! 
 
 The girl had seen him. 
 
 She gazed at him for an instant in hesi- 
 tation; then, with a little decisive move- 
 ment of her head, she, with the half eaten 
 carrot in her hand, flew across also, and 
 254 
 
and Other People 
 
 by a dexterous turn in another moment 
 brought herself face to face with the sol- 
 dier. 
 
 He glanced up. 
 
 If there was the least vexation in his face, 
 it was immediately lost in infinite amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 She was now looking down, blushing also, 
 and with a curious second thought about to 
 turn and flee, when he spoke. 
 
 Bon jour, Reine Carotte ! " said the 
 soldier, now regarding the girl near him 
 for the first time with attention, and as he 
 did so his lips contracted somewhat in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 This young woman bore a striking resem- 
 blance — which had been, however, frequent- 
 ly enough remarked before by other soldiers 
 — to their Empress, the peerless Eugenie de 
 Teba. 
 
 " Non pas reine, mais princesse, tout sim- 
 plement princesse!'' returned she rapidly, 
 waving the green-topped carrot before her 
 with a not altogether ungraceful motion. 
 
 " And of what ? " inquired the soldier, 
 now apparently thoroughly amused. 
 255 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 The girl leaned near to her companion, so 
 near that her coarse sleeve touched the cape 
 of his coat, and whispered two or three 
 words in his ear. 
 
 It was curious to observe that with the in- 
 stincts of his birth and station, this French 
 soldier, starting back a little at her commu- 
 nication, at the same moment brushed with 
 his handkerchief the place where this beg- 
 garly maid's gown had chanced to rub his 
 garment. 
 
 "Tiens!" he exclaimed, and with this 
 monosyllable they continued their walk, 
 reaching the Pont Neuf in a few moments. 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur Louis, c'est la verite" 
 quoth she, nibbling again at her carrot. 
 
 The soldier at this point, notwithstanding 
 the increasing heat of the sun, pulled up the 
 collar of his coat a bit higher even, and his 
 eyes bent upon the ground, inquired, in a 
 low voice : 
 
 And for whom does Mademoiselle la 
 princcsse mistake me that she calls me 
 'Louis?'" 
 
 " For no one," she replies. " I know who 
 you are. Ami Louis ! " 
 
 256 
 
and Other People 
 
 I am a soldier of France," he returns 
 haughtily and impatiently, quickening his 
 pace a trifle. 
 
 " Oh, Caesar," whispers she, stopping short 
 and leaning a Httle over the rail and glanc- 
 ing down at the quiet waters, do you sup- 
 pose that a few metres of blue cloth and a bit 
 of black pomade " — she here touches lightly 
 with her finger-tip her eyebrows and upper 
 lip, and chin — " could transform you into a 
 soldier of France? " 
 
 There is a dangerously derisive emphasis 
 put upon the pronoun. 
 
 He now stops short in his turn, and after 
 a moment's hesitation, joins her at the para- 
 pet, an amused and perhaps an anxious 
 smile playing about the corners of his in- 
 scrutable mouth. 
 
 Mademoiselle has, then, but little respect 
 for the Emperor? " 
 
 " Oh, when one remembers Ham, a little 
 house in London that we know of, and sev- 
 eral other details, one has little respect left 
 amid a chaos of, shall we say astonishment. 
 Monsieur Louis ? " 
 
 Evidently piqued, he coldly says: 
 257 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 " I see that you are acquainted with his- 
 tory, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "'History!'" laughs the girl, half it 
 seems in raillery, half at some secret of her 
 own soul, You surely do not call yourself 
 * History,* Ami Louis ? Why, you are only 
 a contemporaneous episode ! " cries she, 
 throwing her carrot-top down into the river, 
 where it swirls away under the shadow of 
 the arch. 
 
 History will sum you up as the second 
 empire, rien dc plus! " 
 He shrugs his shoulders. 
 
 II 
 
 This soldier of France had started out at 
 eleven o'clock last night in quest of adven- 
 tures — in quest of a glimpse of Parisians 
 among themselves. He had doubtless en- 
 countered some surprises, but none so in- 
 teresting as this one which now stood beside 
 him on the Pont Neuf. 
 
 " And being a soldier of France, what bet- 
 ter could you ask than to be absorbed in her 
 history — lost perhaps, eh ? " 
 
 258 
 
and Other People 
 
 She laughs again. 
 
 He turns toward her. 
 
 " Where are your parents ? '* brusquely. 
 
 " What time may it be ? " she asks. 
 
 " Perhaps four o'clock." 
 
 " Four o'clock. Well, my father I think 
 now wakens, and presently goes to take 
 his coffee with his majesty the Tzar, my 
 mother — " 
 
 There leaps into each of this girl's eyes a 
 Muscovite demon — a flash like the lightning 
 — vivid and terrible. 
 
 " Go travel thither and ask of your im- 
 perial brother's minister where he left her. 
 But when I feel the sunshine so upon my 
 head, I believe that it is she. When I hear 
 kind words, she utters them. When I see 
 a beautiful object, she has guided me to 
 it." 
 
 " And you alone in Paris — who? " — 
 He hesitates. 
 
 " I do," she says, smiting her breast light- 
 ly and proudly. Oh, I was provided for ; 
 put in a convent. But I ran away. Mon- 
 sieur Louis, I begged, and stole, and walked, 
 and earned my journey from Petersburg to 
 259 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Mecca — Paris ? That is two years ago, and 
 see how happy I am." 
 
 " That is saying much, to say that one is 
 happy," he remarks carelessly. 
 
 " Perhaps, but there is more to come. 
 Happiness is one thing; fame, that is the 
 other." 
 
 " Aha, you think so? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. I shall know how to climb, too. 
 Already I step on the second round of the 
 ladder. Why, Monsieur Louis, already I 
 write for one of the great papers ; they be- 
 lieve me a man, and so, I live." 
 
 Her face is flushed with the royal rose of 
 youth's first splendid enthusiasm. 
 
 " Where do you live? " he inquires. 
 
 " So high, ami Louis, that I look down 
 upon your palace chimneys ! " 
 
 " And what is it that you write about ? " 
 
 " Politics," she answers succinctly, with 
 the conclusive audacity of twenty. 
 
 He smiles grimly. 
 
 " The very subject of which you know the 
 least." 
 
 " Precisely — and that is the reason that I 
 can say what occurs to me. If I knew as 
 260 
 
and Other People 
 
 much of poHtics as par example, you do, 
 Monsieur Louis, perhaps I should tremble 
 and say nothing." 
 She laughs. 
 
 " Why tremble? " queries her companion, 
 readily seizing the handle of suspicion that 
 has been thoughtlessly extended to his 
 grasp. 
 
 Parceque — 
 
 These two have by this time crossed the 
 bridge and have already turned, by a com- 
 mon instinct, up one of the narrow streets 
 of the quarter. It is, however, the young 
 woman who leads the way. She has, having 
 her home in view, come as far as Notre 
 Dame itself, and here she stops with a de- 
 cisive air. 
 
 "Parceque, parceque?" her companion 
 repeats questioningly. 
 
 " Because your Parisians, Ami Louis, 
 carry always in their pockets a clay pipe la- 
 belled ' the people.' When they are weary or 
 distrait, which happens often in a century, 
 they take it out and blow from it the bubble 
 which is called a ' republic' After a little its 
 rainbows burst into spray, which strikes 
 261 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 them in the face, and behold they are ready 
 for a coup d'etat, shall we say? Now you 
 know why I said * tremble.' " 
 
 The girl turns her head away, hesitating- 
 ly, and would perhaps like to end this col- 
 loquy. 
 
 Her companion is not of the same mind, 
 and as he speaks she seats herself on the 
 church-step within the portico where, on 
 Sundays and holidays, the old man who 
 vends rosaries and the like is wont to take up 
 his position. 
 
 " Nevertheless," pursues our soldier of 
 France, leaning well in the shadow against 
 the wall opposite to her, nevertheless, the 
 Emperor is the third of his line ! " 
 
 " Pardon, ami! The head of the Due de 
 Reichstadt never felt the weight of an im- 
 perial crown, and two is a most unlucky 
 number ! " 
 
 " You predict the ruin of the Emperor ? " 
 He leans toward her eagerly. 
 
 What shall be said of the superstitions of 
 men in high places? Nothing, save that 
 they remain inconsistent facts in their his- 
 tories. 
 
 262 
 
and Other People 
 
 " I could only venture to predict, Mon- 
 sieur, with pen and ink ! " 
 
 " But, of this morning, at your peril ! " 
 
 " Not a word." She finishes his sentence 
 for him. Noblesse oblige." 
 
 " And you will call His Majesty — in pen 
 and ink — what ? " smiles the questioner, as 
 he regards his vis-a-vis with his cold, critical 
 and beauty-loving eyes. 
 
 I shall say that you are a magnificent 
 usurper, Monsieur Louis." 
 
 You must be thanked in His Majesty's 
 name." 
 
 He takes from his pocket a handful of 
 twenty-franc pieces, and tenders them to her 
 with a matter-of-fact air. 
 
 " Oh, no. Monsieur Louis." 
 
 The girl rises with an air of instinctive 
 dignity, which, however, either is unob- 
 served or unheeded by her companion. 
 
 He does not attempt to move his arm an 
 inch, either in insistance or surprise. 
 
 " No, I say," she exclaims imperatively, 
 and rising. 
 
 " But it is money," he replies, with a puz- 
 zled elevation of his eyebrows. 
 
 263 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 " For that very reason," cries the girl, 
 shaking her head. 
 
 " It means food, clothes, stockings," con- 
 tinues he imperturbably and not stirring his 
 outstretched hand, as he regards her bare 
 ankles. 
 
 " Take it away ! " she now says firmly. 
 " I have not earned it, and I accept no money 
 that I do not earn. Don't you understand ? " 
 
 If your Mecca has not taught you to 
 draw silken stockings on such pretty feet 
 when you can, parbleu! it is no afYair of 
 mine ! " 
 
 He shrugs his shoulders, and with the 
 awkwardness of doing a thing for the first 
 time, returns the money to his pocket. 
 
 " I have stockings," she returns, sullenly, 
 " but they are for a later hour of the day, 
 and I am sure I have shoes. Look ! " 
 
 She shakes her small foot free of one of 
 these as she speaks — a monstrous affair in 
 which such a snowflake might easily lose it- 
 self. 
 
 " Mere Barbotte gave me these ; they be- 
 longed to her daughter who is dead ! " She 
 crossed herself in speaking. 
 
 264 
 
and Other People 
 
 " Dead men's shoes," the soldier of France 
 says, observing her with an air of increased 
 attention. 
 
 A looker-on might possibly translate his 
 expression as admiration — but perhaps a 
 more correct estimate to put on it would be 
 — a mental note for the Chief of Police. 
 
 Who is Mme. Barbotte?" he inquires, 
 his mind seeking her acquaintance via her 
 daughter's old slipper. 
 
 " She is the concierge." 
 
 " Aha ! — and doubtless you live in this 
 neighborhood ? " 
 
 She remains silent. 
 
 " And I may do nothing for you? " 
 
 She looked steadily at him. 
 
 " You may do something for me, Ami 
 Louis." 
 
 " And that is?" 
 
 Reassured by a timidity that was new in 
 her attitude, he leaned toward her. 
 
 I do not wish gold portraits of you. It 
 seems," she says, shyly, " that I know you 
 at sight better than some others." 
 He bows his head assentingly. 
 " But I want — your autograph ! " 
 265 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Aha ! " replies our soldier of France, re- 
 flectively, instantly resuming an attitude of 
 suspicion. 
 
 And what will you do with it? Keep it 
 to light a little fire in the clay pipe which, 
 peradventure, you carry in your pocket also, 
 mon enfant f " 
 
 " I am not one of your Parisians," she ex- 
 claims, hastily. 
 
 " No, no — oh, no ! by no means ; but you 
 are, perhaps, one of the Tzar's nihilists, 
 eh ? " The soldier flecks from his collar 
 some imaginary dust. 
 
 If you like. Ami Louis. It will give 
 Ducrat something to do. Tell him to find 
 out. But the autograph ? " 
 
 He shrugs his shoulders. 
 
 " If you give it to me I shall not keep it 
 five hours." 
 
 " Ah, you will sell it ! " cries he, regarding 
 her lazily with his light eyes. 
 
 Bah, what a huckster you are ! How 
 much, par example, did you pay for your 
 crown, Ami Louis ? I sell your autograph ! 
 I ! I will show you." 
 
 The girl takes from her satchel a small 
 266 
 
and Other People 
 
 reporter's pad of coarse paper; she also 
 draws forth a pencil, and resting the pad on 
 her knee she writes : 
 
 " There ! Read, and then go and look 
 after your Parisians and nihilists and the 
 rest." 
 
 She extends to him the piece of paper 
 which she has torn off, but he makes no mo- 
 tion toward taking it. He merely permits 
 her to hold it while he reads : 
 
 *To M. Regnier : — 
 
 " Investigate the abilities of the bearer of 
 this, a young Russian girl, Mademoiselle 
 Zalka. If she have talent, instruct her." 
 
 That is why I desire your signature. 
 Monsieur Louis ! " 
 
 " Ah, the theatre— that dream of all the 
 pretty women who have no husbands ! So 
 you wish to be an actress ? " 
 " Yes, that is the fact." 
 Why?" 
 
 " When I become one, you will be an- 
 swered." 
 
 " You are very independent ! " 
 267 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Pourquoi non! Do you envy me that 
 freedom ? " 
 
 Hold the paper. I will sign it." 
 " You will ? " Her large, fine eyes dilate 
 with excitement. 
 
 She hands him her pencil with the grace 
 of a court lady. 
 
 There ! " He returns it to her with a 
 soupgon of her own grand air. 
 
 " Now, Mademoiselle, I will say hon jour 
 to you." 
 
 The soldier of France turns on his heel, 
 setting his face toward the street. 
 
 " I cannot thank you," murmurs the girl 
 brokenly, gazing in a dazed fashion at the 
 fluttering bit of yellow paper that she holds 
 tightly between her fingers. 
 
 " Perhaps Paris will thank me, when it is 
 a vos pieds! " 
 
 With a barely perceptible inclination, and 
 the touch of his white finger-tips on the 
 brim of his cap, the soldier is presently lost 
 to view on the place. 
 
 268 
 
and Other People 
 
 III- 
 
 Once out of sight, however, he is soon 
 joined by a comrade, who salutes him cour- 
 teously and receives in response but the rec- 
 ognition of the eyes. 
 
 This meeting appeared the result of 
 chance, but if one had been less absorbed in 
 the movements of Zalka, it might easily have 
 been remarked that this second soldier of 
 France had not once lost track of the man 
 at whose side he now stood. 
 
 " I have a cab in waiting," he remarks. 
 
 " It is as well," returns the other, lacon- 
 ically. 
 
 Another turn and tHe two men find the 
 cab standing in the angle. 
 
 The second soldier starts forward, opens 
 the door, and his companion enters. 
 
 Au Louvre!^' he says distinctly, and 
 therewith seats himself beside his comrade. 
 
 Sorry to have kept you out of bed an 
 hour longer, De Morny," remarks our sol- 
 dier, leaning back and pulling his cap well 
 over his eyes. 
 
 269 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 " Pas de quoi," returns the other. 
 It was a very pretty hour," and the gen- 
 tleman addressed as De Morny smiled pleas- 
 antly. 
 
 Did you think so? And very like? " 
 
 Her Imperial Majesty.'* 
 ''You thought that, too?" 
 " I have eyes." 
 " True." 
 
 "A little younger?" 
 
 '' Oh — only a very little ; twenty years or 
 so. Apropos, I have a contribution for Du- 
 crat's note-book. You must turn to the last 
 leaf, however, and the last letter — Z." 
 
 De Morny takes out a note-book of his 
 own, and a pencil also. 
 
 He glances up. 
 
 " Zalka," says the soldier of France, la- 
 conically. 
 
 "Aha! Russian?" 
 
 *' Precisely. Quartier Latin. A resem- 
 blance to Her Majesty. A journalist. Has 
 in her possession my signature attached to 
 a note to Regnier, of the Frangais." 
 
 M. de Morny, having presumably written 
 what has been dictated to him, closes his 
 270 
 
and Other People 
 
 little book with a snap and replaces it in his 
 pocket. 
 
 IV, 
 
 Four or five years are as many wonder- 
 workers. 
 
 It is extremely probable that when our 
 " Soldier of France," on a certain morning 
 a long time ago now, ironically remarked 
 that Paris might render the thanks to him, 
 which at the moment Zalka found herself 
 incapable of offering — when Paris should be 
 " a ses pieds " — he had httle, if any, idea 
 of the fulfilment of his words. 
 
 But so it was. 
 
 Paris was at the feet of the extraordinary 
 young Russian. 
 
 Her beauty was the reigning toast. 
 
 But of this beauty but little was said in de- 
 tail. 
 
 Zalka's resemblance to the Empress was 
 not remarked — in print. It was no doubt 
 spoken of twenty times a day on the boule- 
 vards, at the clubs, in the foyers, and else- 
 where. 
 
 271 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Perchance these whispers had reached the 
 ears of the lady of the Tuileries, even if 
 they had not travelled around the world 
 on the electric wings of the telegraphic 
 wires. 
 
 Her Majesty had been seen twice only in 
 the royal loge, upon occasions when the 
 reigning favorite appeared. 
 
 Perchance also some other rumors, as dis- 
 tasteful, had made their insidious way with- 
 in the palace walls. This, however, is not to 
 the point. 
 
 Zalka had lifted to her lips the goblet that 
 was brimming over with that " other thing," 
 — fame. 
 
 Had she, perhaps, found that the old crys- 
 tal draught of mere " happiness " mixed not 
 well with this new rich wine that she 
 quaffed? 
 
 Who can say? 
 
 To-night we find her after the theatre 
 at her hotel in the Rue de Villiers, presiding 
 at one of those little midnight suppers for 
 which her dining-room was already fa- 
 mous. 
 
 It was the spring-time of the year, and 
 272 
 
and Other People 
 
 therefore the long windows being wide open 
 gave delicious glimpses of the garden. 
 
 It was a noticeably elegant room. 
 
 " Tiens!'' Zalka had cried on her return 
 from the theatre that night — of all her tro- 
 phies, a small wreath of fresh laurel, hang- 
 ing on her round arm. " Tiens! laurel 
 wreaths for the master; they have almost 
 buried me in flowers, my public, and that 
 was kind of them, but this was a mistake ; it 
 never was intended for the actress or for 
 Marguerite Gautier but for her creator ! " 
 
 And, with a movement of gracious ease 
 she laid the wreath upon the brow of Mon- 
 sieur Alexandre, who, by this time, with 
 several others, was already seated at the 
 board. 
 
 His strong brown face, with its long blond 
 m.ustache, light eyebrows and hair, pre- 
 sented an oddly picturesque appearance. 
 
 Shrugging his broad shoulders with an 
 air of deprecation, he raised Zalka's hand to 
 his lips. 
 
 '* I will let it stay. Mademoiselle. I will 
 not spoil the prologue to your idyl of the 
 supper-table. But will you permit me to 
 273 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 say that until to-night I had never met or 
 known my ' dame aux Camehas? ' " 
 
 Loud and heartfelt applause followed the 
 little speech of Monsieur Alexandre. 
 
 A remarkable performance, most re- 
 markable ! " murmured the little, nervous 
 gentleman, who at this moment raised to his 
 lips a glass of Burgundy, and also nearly 
 twisted his head off in his vain effort to dis- 
 cover whence came the draught which he 
 imagined he felt. 
 
 Helas! Monsieur Victoire had a familiar 
 demon — a draught — of whom he dwelt in 
 perpetual awe. 
 
 " Remarkable, indeed ! " echoed Louis 
 Napoleon, as, with his slow smile, he filled 
 the glass of the young actress beside whom 
 he sat. 
 
 " But wasted, wasted ! " continues M. 
 Victoire, with an involuntary shudder, as 
 he rises and closes the window at his back. 
 
 Wasted, wasted ? " A chorus questions 
 him with one voice. 
 " How, how? " 
 Bah ! bah ! returns he, helping himself 
 to a bit of fowl. 
 
 274 
 
and Other People 
 
 " You do not care to know. Why do you 
 ask? All you care for is that the drama, 
 which the Republic prohibited, has been set 
 before you through the instrumentality of a 
 gentleman who is to-night my vis-a-vis — the 
 Due de Morny." 
 
 The little group grew enthusiastic over 
 this. 
 
 And wasted?" queried His Grace, ac- 
 knowledging the compliment with a simul- 
 taneous side glance at the Emperor. 
 
 Because Marguerite Gautier is an ex- 
 ceptional product of an Imperial era, she and 
 women of her type are prey, prey for such 
 pens as my friend M. Alexandre's to prick 
 into pungency for the palates of Paris. 
 Hold, hold ! " cries the little nervous man, 
 rising with his fork full of chicken in one 
 hand, while with the other he turns down 
 the collar of his chestnut colored coat. 
 
 " That woman there," he nods toward 
 Zalka, who, having both her elbows on the 
 table, regards him steadfastly. " She is not 
 born to represent chimeras and excrescen- 
 ces ; she is a Cleopatra, and my friend M. 
 Alexandre would make of her a grisette. 
 275 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 I tell you," cries the little gentleman, un- 
 daunted by Imperial frowns or the ironical 
 smiles of the laurel-crowned author, Zalka 
 is an era in herself. One must write up to 
 Zalka, and not ask Zalka to descend the stair- 
 case to pick up the spent rags of a worn-out 
 and reckless nature." 
 
 Zalka's eyes have not moved ; neither do 
 they now when M. Alexandre says, suavely : 
 
 " Ah, it is most likely M. Victoire is in the 
 right. I am no critic ; M. Victoire is merci- 
 less." 
 
 With an ingenuous smile he lifts the lau- 
 rel wreath from his blond head. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," he continues, turning to 
 the actress, permit me to return to you 
 your prologue." 
 
 " Ah, Monsieur ! " she says. " See ! We 
 will give it to Moliere ! " She runs lightly 
 across the room and places it upon a bust of 
 the poet. 
 
 " Now that my prologue has proved a fail- 
 ure, who will write for me the lyric of my 
 petit sonper? Ah, I am very unfortunate ! " 
 
 " It should be M. Victoire," the Emperor 
 remarks. 
 
 276 
 
and Other People 
 
 Assuredly. He seems to think that he 
 knows what would best fit you/' murmurs 
 De Morny, carelessly. 
 
 " Monsieur le Due is right," says the little 
 man. " I do know." 
 
 " And it is? " queries His Majesty, lifting 
 a decanter with leisurely examination as he 
 turns it to the glow of the candelabra nearest 
 him. 
 
 " It is life— love— loss." 
 
 " * La Dame aux Camelias ' in three acts 
 and three words ! " interrupts a clever 
 young journalist, then in high vogue. 
 
 Surely ! " exclaims Monsieur Alexan- 
 dre, with a sarcastic smile. 
 
 " We have a new perfume. Publish it on 
 the boulevards, Messieurs, without delay. 
 It is the concentrated essence of camelias." 
 The young journaHst laughs, as do the rest. 
 
 Except Zalka. 
 
 Her eyes wander restlessly from the face 
 of Monsieur Victoire to the clock in the cor- 
 ner. 
 
 277 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 V 
 
 Already the hands point to the half hour 
 after midnight. 
 
 Monsieur has, perhaps, concluded his 
 illustration in chemistry? " queries M. Vic- 
 toire, with a grim, sardonic little smile, 
 which is not altogether nectar to the soul of 
 the popular young journalist. 
 
 This witty person bows profoundly. 
 Life, love, loss," repeats the little man 
 in a voice of intense pathos. " Life which 
 is not an existence of disease, but a blissful 
 period when every pulse throbs to the double 
 measure of youth and health, when hope 
 holds the helm and honor sits at the prow." 
 
 His Majesty glances up as he puts down 
 the decanter of golden cordial. 
 
 Zalka turns again her restless eyes to the 
 clock. 
 
 " Love," continues M. Victoire, growing 
 more eloquent as he notes about him that 
 applause dearest to a speaker's heart — si- 
 lence most profound. 
 
 " Love, which is not an unwholesome 
 278 
 
and Other People 
 
 fever — an epoch of sense versus soul — but a 
 little piece of the purity of heaven wooed 
 down to earth by the aspiration, exalta- 
 tion, and impassionment of two of God's 
 creatures. Love/' murmurs M. Victoire, in 
 a low and tremulous tone — " Love, which is 
 
 not a moral and spiritual wreck " He 
 
 turns pitilessly toward Monsieur Alexandre. 
 ''But a fire !" 
 
 The enthusiastic and popular young jour- 
 nalist swore next day that he involuntarily 
 started, expecting to see a burning bush 
 spring into flame at the terrible emphasis 
 of the nervous little man's voice. 
 
 " Fire which scorches and singes the soul 
 to ashes the agony whose only solace is that 
 long rest upon the bosom of Nature ; earth 
 to earth, that brown bed, full of comfort, 
 which we call the grave, and above which 
 we place a stone and write upon it ' Resur- 
 rection.' " 
 
 There was a moment's hush. 
 
 And then wild applause. 
 
 Be it remembered that Monsieur Alexan- 
 dre, with much grace of manner, made also 
 the most noise. 
 
 279 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 That is the drama I will one day write 
 for Zalka — for Zalka," cries the little man, 
 interrupting himself. " Pshaw ! It will be 
 Zalka." 
 
 And Zalka caught the thin hand on its way 
 to the coat collar, and laid her young lips 
 lightly on it in token of her appreciation. 
 
 It may be imagined that all the tongues 
 about the table were by this time untied. 
 
 " You lay your lips upon that little man's 
 hand," the Emperor says, his voice lost to 
 all ears but Zalka's in the general talk and 
 laughter. 
 
 ** Pourquoi non? " she answers gayly. 
 " Monsieur Victoire is a genius ; one must 
 pay tribute to genius." 
 
 " And to Caesar? " whispers he. 
 
 " His due." 
 
 " Which is, par example? " 
 " Taxes," laughs she, leaning back in her 
 chair. 
 
 ^*Bah! What a fool I am!" 
 " Oh, no. Ami Louis. Indeed, I think 
 you very wise." 
 "Why so?'' 
 
 " Because you have known how to manage 
 280 
 
and Other People 
 
 your French people for — how long is it? 
 twenty years and over." 
 
 " Is that all?" 
 
 ** It is enough." 
 
 The Emperor for a moment leaned back 
 in his chair also ; for a brief time his curious 
 eyes seemed to have turned inward and away 
 from the scene before him. 
 
 With a possibly unconscious movement 
 the hand which hung Hstlessly over the 
 arm of his seat touched the folds of Zalka's 
 robe, and the fingers caught eagerly at the 
 soft white stuffs. 
 
 VI 
 
 Without doubt the admiration of His 
 Majesty for the young Russian was known 
 throughout Paris and beyond. But equally 
 without question it was known that Zalka 
 evinced no preference for the ruler of 
 France above any other. 
 
 She had baffled him. 
 
 He whose pleasurable game it had been 
 to baffle Europe found himself completely 
 mystified by this young woman. 
 
 281 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 She treated him only with the old air of 
 camaraderie and raillery which had arrested 
 the attention of the " Soldier of France " on 
 the morning of their first meeting. 
 
 Was she laughing at him ? 
 
 He did not know. 
 
 Perhaps Ducrat did. He could afford to 
 rely on Ducrat. Meantime it is sufficient 
 that to himself he said that he loved her. 
 
 And suspected her? 
 
 Ah ! But he was the man of '48 ; the 
 man of many vicissitudes. Suspicion's own 
 darling child. Therefore it is possible that 
 he did love the Russian, as he was capable 
 of loving. 
 
 " Well, well ! " he at last ejaculated, " time 
 is, after all, man's best tool and best assist- 
 ant." 
 
 " Monsieur Louis thinks that in time, 
 what?" questions Zalka, rising and folding 
 her hands behind her as she paces nervously 
 up and down the room once or twice. 
 In time I shall attain what I crave." 
 
 ** Which is ? " She stops short, with 
 
 her eyes involuntarily fixed upon Buhl's 
 great timepiece. 
 
 282 
 
and Other People 
 
 " That which time alone can give me ! " 
 the Emperor mutters under his breath as he 
 also rises. 
 
 Believe me, ami Louis," she replies, 
 shaking her head, " man craves only the un- 
 attainable I " 
 
 He smiles dreamily as he looks at her. 
 He shrugs his shoulders. 
 
 Mademoiselle, I take my leave of you." 
 His Majesty steps toward the vestibule. 
 
 De Morny rises, as do the other guests 
 who may chance to have been seated. 
 
 Ceremony of a certain kind was dispensed 
 with at these reunions, and the Emperor was 
 here treated as incognito by his own com- 
 mand. 
 
 " Not yet," Zalka exclaims, following him 
 with eagerness. " Not so soon ? " 
 
 " It is the first time that you ever desired 
 my visit prolonged," he responds, half in 
 pleasure, half in suspicion. 
 
 " It may be," she says, " there must come 
 a first time for anything ; is it not so? " 
 
 " But I am to be at the palace to open the 
 ball at half-past one — it is now almost the 
 quarter." 
 
 283 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 " Give us the other quarter." 
 " Impossible." 
 
 " Let them wait," Zalka says, with plead- 
 ing eyes, laying her finger-tips lightly on the 
 hat which he holds. 
 
 " It is impossible. The affair is one of 
 state. Already it is cabled round the world, 
 Zalka!" His Majesty takes a few fur- 
 ther steps — as they both stand in the blaze 
 of the candles, amid the hum of many 
 voices. 
 
 He has uttered but her name with his lips. 
 
 With his cold, strange, suspicious eyes, 
 what other language has His Imperial Maj- 
 esty spoken ? 
 
 " Ami Louis, you will give us this quarter 
 of an hour — ce maiivais quart d'heure — as a 
 favor." 
 
 Her voice is clear and high, and innocent 
 as a child's. 
 He starts back. 
 
 " Non'' Napoleon says, curtly. "Non, 
 impossible/* 
 
 He turns on his heel. 
 
 At the same instant Zalka makes a false 
 step, perchance, and, with a crash, the great 
 284 
 
and Other People 
 
 gilded candelabra falls to the ground behind 
 her. 
 
 Its hundred candles are scattered far and 
 wide, setting fire to rugs and napkins, and 
 dashing fruits and ices, epergnes and gob- 
 lets in all directions. 
 
 In a moment all is confusion, and while 
 De Morny is assisting the others in stamping 
 out the little blazes here and there, His Maj- 
 esty has caught Zalka in her fall and sup- 
 ported her to a sofa. 
 
 No one thinks of anything for the next 
 fifteen minutes save the accident. 
 
 The ladies scream prettily and rehearse 
 their sensations. 
 
 Servants run hither and thither remov- 
 ing the debris, and the men laugh and chat, 
 and console their companions for the holes 
 in their gowns, or the wine-stains and wax 
 upon their laces. 
 
 The " mauvais quart d'heure '* has slipped 
 away. 
 
 By the tall clock in the corner His Majesty 
 should now have been at the Tuileries, bow- 
 ing low over the hand of Mme. de Metter- 
 nich. 
 
 285 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 A servant enters. 
 
 ''Madame," whispers he, in a frightened 
 tone, " someone is without who insists upon 
 seeing you. I am unable to " 
 
 A gendarme also enters, cutting short the 
 footman's rambling announcement. 
 
 VII 
 
 There is now a profound silence in the 
 apartment. 
 
 " Madame Zalka Orloff," reads he from 
 a slip of paper in his hand. 
 
 Zalka rises and inclines her head. 
 
 " What can I do for you, Monsieur? " 
 
 " Come with me at once," replies the man 
 succinctly. 
 
 Several of the men start forward, and 
 again these ladies begin their pretty screams. 
 
 " Thanks, Messieurs," she says, waving 
 them back with dignity. 
 
 " You have doubtless a warrant for my 
 arrest. Monsieur ? " 
 
 " Yes, Madame, it is here " (the officer 
 presents her with the paper). 
 
 286 
 
and Other People 
 
 Zalka eagerly scans it. 
 
 " Aha — very well ! Monsieur, there is 
 your warrant. I refuse to go ! " She folds 
 her arms and looks upon the ground. 
 
 " Then, Madame, it becomes necessary to 
 force you." 
 Stop!" 
 
 The Emperor steps from the shadow of 
 the curtains, where he has been standing, 
 and utters the word in a voice that is not to 
 be misunderstood. 
 
 From whom do you come? By whose 
 order?" 
 
 " By the order of M. Ducrat himself, 
 Your Majesty." 
 
 " And the charge ? " 
 
 " Conspiracy against the life of the Em- 
 peror of France ! " answers the officer, pom- 
 pously reading from his paper. 
 
 There is an instant of terrible silence. 
 
 The face of Louis Napoleon is at this mo- 
 ment such a chaos of conflicting emotions, 
 as would have astounded those who accused 
 it of immobility. 
 
 His eyes glowed like coals of fire, as they 
 flashed under his contracting brows upon 
 287 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 the young Russian. His lips quivered with 
 rage, and perchance with that species of ter- 
 ror which is the familiar of men who pin 
 their faith upon the ignis fatiius they chris- 
 ten a " destiny." His hand grasped the 
 back of a chair with the tenure of a vise. 
 
 " And Monsieur Ducrat, where is he? " 
 Without, Your Majesty, Monsieur 
 Ducrat waits in his carriage at the en- 
 trance." 
 
 Request him to come in." 
 
 There is by this time sufificient noise. 
 
 Little nervous Monsieur Victoire alone is 
 quiet, scribbling hurriedly in his note-book 
 in a corner. 
 
 " Well; Madame ? " the Emperor says, in 
 a low, sharp voice, as he sits and turns his 
 face to the woman who stands near him. 
 What ! No tears ? No prayers ? " 
 
 " Ami Louis! " cries she, bending her lips 
 to his ear and whispering a few hurried sen- 
 tences, while the noise of hurried steps 
 echoes from the vestibule and across the 
 pavements of the little flowery garden. 
 
 The Emperor springs to his feet as Ducrat 
 enters the room attended by several gens- 
 288 
 
and Other People 
 
 d'armes and two or three men in civihan's 
 dress. 
 
 Your Majesty has sent for me," Mon- 
 sieur Ducrat says respectfully. 
 " Precisely." 
 
 "And Your Majesty's pleasure is?" 
 
 ** To hear the history of this " — he extends 
 his hand for the warrant, which is at once 
 presented to him — " this piece of paper." 
 
 To be brief, Your Majesty, I have dis- 
 covered, by dint of the greatest pertinac- 
 ity " 
 
 The Emperor smiles cynically, it would 
 seem. 
 
 " that a plot against the life of the 
 
 Emperor of France has been for some time 
 germinating in the very heart of Paris itself. 
 Yes, this very night— nay, this very hour, as 
 Your Majesty should have been en route to 
 the Tuileries, the ruler of the French people 
 was to have been shot like a dog in his car- 
 riage ! " 
 
 A murmur of horror ran round the 
 room. 
 
 M. Ducrat paused to enjoy the effect of 
 his oratory. 
 
 289 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 " And Madame Orloff ? " the Emperor in- 
 quires, as he caresses his mustache. 
 
 " Ah, Your Majesty, the arrest of Mme. 
 Orloff becomes the last painful duty I have 
 this night to see carried out. The others 
 are under irons already. By means of 
 papers found on the persons of the chief con- 
 spirators — now — within the hour ! " Mon- 
 sieur Ducrat glances picturesquely at the 
 clock in the corner — " it is discovered that 
 Mme. Orloff was in daily communication 
 with these wretches ; that it was she who 
 furnished them with the exact hour at which 
 Your Majesty might be expected to leave 
 her house on your way to the State ball at the 
 palace." Monsieur Ducrat pauses for breath 
 and to indulge in the pardonable gratifica- 
 tion which the amazement of his auditors 
 affords him. 
 
 That it was she — even she ! — Your 
 Majesty, who suggested to her abominable 
 accomplices the exact spot on the corner of 
 the Rue de Rivoli, at which they should lie 
 in wait to assassinate the Emperor of 
 France ! " 
 
 "This is all, Monsieur Ducrat?" His 
 290 
 
and Other People 
 
 Majesty inquires, still stroking his mus- 
 tache. 
 
 " All, Your Majesty? Surely it is suffi- 
 cient ! " 
 
 You are quite sure, M. Ducrat, that 
 there is no incident which you have omitted 
 in the rehearsal of this plot ? " 
 
 I am positive, Your Majesty ! " 
 " Ah, very well ! " 
 
 Louis Napoleon approaches the table, and 
 holding the warrant lightly, he sets it 
 on fire at the flame of one of the tall can- 
 dles. 
 
 " But, Your Majesty, this woman ? " 
 
 "This woman — well?" His Majesty re- 
 peats, coldly, watching the bit of paper 
 wither into a flimsy ash. 
 
 This woman is dangerous, criminal ! " 
 
 Monsieur Ducrat is becoming very much 
 excited. Surely Your Majesty will not 
 endanger a life that is dear to millions of 
 Frenchmen for the sake of ?" Mon- 
 sieur Ducrat pauses. 
 
 In his position and with the present sur- 
 roundings, Monsieur Ducrat's command 
 over language may go no farther. 
 291 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 " For the sake of ? " repeats the Em- 
 peror icily, turning from the table. 
 
 Pardon! Your Majesty, but I have 
 your Majesty's own recommendation re- 
 garding Madame Orloff . It is here ! The 
 date, almost four years since." Monsieur 
 Ducrat hastily takes a note-book from his 
 inner pocket and reads : " Zalka — Russian 
 — Quartier Latin, a resemblance — ahem! 
 A journalist; has in her possession, etc., 
 etc." 
 
 M. de Morny takes a step forward and 
 ventures to whisper a word or two to the 
 Emperor. 
 
 It is as if he had not spoken. 
 
 " Thank you. Monsieur Ducrat," the Em- 
 peror says. " You have nothing more to tell 
 me of this affair, I presume? " 
 
 " No, Your Majesty," is the reply. 
 
 " There is time if you have, for I shall not 
 go to the ball to-night." 
 
 " No, Your Majesty." Monsieur Du- 
 crat's eyes are greedily fixed upon Zalka. 
 
 What a morsel to escape the hand of jus- 
 tice! 
 
 " Very well, Monsieur. I then have some- 
 292 
 
and Other People 
 
 thing to say to you. Appreciating to the 
 full the extraordinary exertions which you 
 have made on my behalf, I am disposed 
 to lay at the door of fatigue the defect in 
 your memory which has caused you to omit 
 any mention in your recital, of a letter which 
 you received only this afternoon ! " His 
 Majesty emphasizes these last three words 
 in so singular a manner, that M. Ducrat fair- 
 ly starts. 
 
 " For the benefit of these, the friends of 
 Madame Orloff, I must be at the trouble of 
 repairing your deficiencies. It is this then. 
 At three o'clock this afternoon, our good 
 friend Monsieur Ducrat, being in his office 
 immersed in affairs, receives an anonymous 
 note, signed * Ami Louis.' It runs thus : 
 * To-night at the corner of the Rue de Rivoli 
 and the Place de la Concorde, four men; 
 one in a blouse, two shabby, one as a cab- 
 driver. They have for their object the as- 
 sassination of the Emperor as he is en route 
 to the Tuileries, after visiting a certain house 
 in the Avenue de Villers. The plot has 
 been months in preparation. The time and 
 293 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 place are decided upon only within the last 
 twelve hours ! ' " 
 
 A hum of intense excited interest quivers 
 through the apartment. 
 
 Monsieur Ducrat, who wrote that let- 
 ter? " 
 
 I do not know, Your Majesty." 
 The voice of Monsieur Ducrat is subdued. 
 " You have it?" 
 " Yes, Your Majesty." 
 " I would thank you to permit me to see 
 it." 
 
 It was curious to note that at this crisis 
 the Emperor's face for the first time be- 
 trayed a faint emotion. 
 
 It was perhaps possible that he feared that 
 this letter might not be forthcoming. 
 
 Nevertheless, in a second it was in his pos- 
 session. 
 
 And turning with a smile of rare courtesy 
 to Zalka he said: 
 
 Perhaps Monsieur Ducrat would care 
 to know the name of the person who wrote 
 this letter? " 
 
 "Oh, Your Majesty!" 
 " Zalka Orloflf," the Emperor ejaculates 
 294 
 
and Other People 
 
 sharply. " You see, Ducrat, there is a loy- 
 alty which is not to be counted by so many 
 francs a year, and which risks life itself, and 
 calls it by no such title as the ' greatest perti- 
 nacity.' Good-evening, Monsieur ! " 
 
 The Emperor turns away, and amid the 
 joyful exclamations of the assembled group 
 Zalka sinks into a seat. 
 
 " What can I do for you ? one thing, and 
 that is lay my commands upon you. Mad- 
 emoiselle? I will permit no more risks, 
 even," he whispers, " for my sake." And 
 aloud. 
 
 Can I create you on the spot Comtesse 
 de ?" 
 
 " St. Sauveur ! " murmurs the witty 
 young journalist. 
 
 Zalka shakes her head. 
 
 " No, ami Louis. You gave me the mau- 
 vais quart d'heure in advance ; it is all that 
 I ask!" 
 
 "Nothing? Am I so poor, then, that I 
 have nothing that is worthy of your accept- 
 ance ? " 
 
 "Ah, it is not that. Stay! Yes, one 
 thing. I will ask for your portrait." 
 295 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 The guests are now amusing themselves 
 with the fragments of their late supper, and 
 some fresh bottles of wine, which Monsieur 
 Alexandre has seen fit to order. 
 
 " You refused it once." Napoleon smiles. 
 Ah, that was gold. I do not like gold — 
 it is what we pay our debts with. Monsieur 
 Louis owes me nothing." 
 
 But his life ! You shall have the por- 
 trait." 
 
 Thank you." She raises her lovely eyes 
 to his face. 
 
 " Why did you do it?" 
 " What?" 
 
 " Risk so much for me." 
 " I have risked ' so much ' for you, for five 
 years and more." 
 Zalka looks down. 
 
 " But why? " His Majesty's clear, pierc- 
 ing eyes are intent upon her face. 
 
 " Because," she murmurs inarticulately, 
 " because I — I am Your Majesty's most 
 loyal subject ! " 
 
 Never before had she so addressed 
 him. 
 
 With one long pressure of her two hands 
 296 
 
and Other People 
 
 Napoleon, with De Morny, shortly after- 
 ward quitted the house. 
 
 Not many weeks later Zalka received and 
 accepted a small and exquisite cameo like- 
 ness of the Emperor. 
 
 It was set with diamonds in a frame of 
 chased gold. 
 
 And it now lies neglected, half hidden by 
 a little portrait of the Maintenon, in the 
 dusty case of one of the most noted collec- 
 tions of miniatures in Paris. 
 
 One of the diamonds is missing, and it is 
 likewise true that the golden frame is slight- 
 ly battered. 
 
 VIII 
 
 It is toward three o'clock of a beautiful 
 day in the early summer. 
 
 Paris wears her holiday aspect, and it is 
 evident that something unusual is transpir- 
 ing. 
 
 Quite true. 
 
 The Court is about to set out for St. Cloud, 
 and all about the Tuileries there is the har- 
 297 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 monious confusion of soldiers, equerries 
 dashing to and fro, officers reining in their 
 restive horses, sabres flashing in the sun- 
 shine, low murmurs of curiosity and impa- 
 tience, strains of music, the crush of an ex- 
 pectant and eager crowd, and the bewilder- 
 ing, surging sway and play of Paris bent on 
 witnessing one of the sights dear to her 
 heart. 
 
 The open carriage awaits their Majesties 
 at the entrance. 
 
 Within the palace, grooms and gentlemen 
 are rushing about hither and thither. 
 
 But in the private apartments of the Em- 
 press everything is quiet almost to a sense 
 of oppression. 
 
 Eugenie is alone. 
 
 She sits, true daughter of the universal 
 mother, before the long mirror, which re- 
 flects her graceful figure and its graceful 
 pose. 
 
 She listens, for her head is bent and her 
 hand is pressed against her heart, while the 
 lovely, languid eyes are fixed upon one of 
 the portieres that lead into the adjoining 
 room of the suite. 
 
 298 
 
and Other People 
 
 Presently the curtains part, and in an in- 
 stant fold together again behind the favorite 
 actress of Paris. 
 
 Zalka stands in the presence of the Em- 
 press, in the presence of the woman to whom 
 she bears so strange and subtle a resem- 
 blance. 
 
 Contrary to etiquette — but, perchance, eti- 
 quette had after all but small affair in this 
 meeting — the subject spoke first. 
 
 " Your Majesty," she said, in a low tone, 
 " has done me the honor to send for 
 me. Can I serve Your Majesty in any 
 way?" 
 
 Eugenie rises involuntarily; there was a 
 sweet imperiousness in Zalka's voice that 
 compelled a deference from anyone. But 
 also at once Her Majesty reseated herself, 
 with half a smile and half a frown. 
 
 " Yes, Madame, I have sent for you to see 
 you — alas ! not that I have not seen you 
 many times, studied your every motion and 
 expression." 
 
 Zalka bows. 
 
 " But," Her Majesty with an impetuous 
 sigh, rises and crosses the room. 
 
 299 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 " But, jnoji Dicu! Madame, I wished to 
 see you face to face ! " 
 
 Zalka again inchnes her head. 
 Not there," continues Eugenie, passion- 
 ately, " with the flare of the footlights light- 
 ing up the beauty they say is so like my own, 
 but to see you as he sees you, in the sun- 
 shine, in the daylight, as he sees you, do you 
 hear?" 
 
 " Yes, Your Majesty. But of whom does 
 Your Majesty speak? " 
 
 The Empress turned toward the window 
 and as hastily withdrew her gaze. 
 
 Can it be that the blaze of light and glitter 
 on the casement is offensive to her beautiful 
 eyes? 
 
 She takes a few steps nearer to the actress, 
 and then, sinking upon a chair, she exclaims, 
 in a broken voice : 
 
 " Of my husband, Madame." 
 
 Zalka starts. 
 
 " Of my husband," cries the woman mad- 
 ly. " I wanted to see the face that has 
 robbed me of his smiles, his lips, his looks. 
 Oh, Madame, you have Paris at your feet ; 
 the world is ready to do you homage, go 
 where you will. Can you not leave to 
 300 
 
and Other People 
 
 Eugenie the heart of Louis Napoleon? I 
 plead with you ! I beg of you ! " 
 
 Her Majesty's sHght, long hands are 
 locked tightly together, and the tears are 
 dimming the soft lustre of the wonderful 
 eyes. 
 
 " Your Majesty ! " cries the actress pas- 
 sionately ; Your Majesty labors under a 
 mistake. I have robbed Your Majesty of 
 nothing — nothing! What do you think 
 that Zalka could do with the heart of an- 
 other woman's husband? Your Majesty, 
 we have a little proverb in my country ; it is 
 this : * She vv'ho meddles with fire burns 
 her body— she who meddles with the hus- 
 band of a loyal wife burns her soul' Will 
 Your Majesty graciously permit me to re- 
 tire?" 
 
 The young Russian is drawn up in an atti- 
 tude of strange hauteur. One looking might 
 say that she was the Empress, and that the 
 woman who gazed upon her with an expres- 
 sion of mingled admiration and amazement, 
 was the inferior in rank. 
 
 For an instant Eugenie made no move- 
 ment nor any response. 
 
 301 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Then she spoke slowly: 
 
 " You mean to tell me that you do not love 
 the Emperor? " 
 
 Your Majesty, I mean to tell you noth- 
 ing whatever about my love. I am the 
 keeper of my own heart/' Zalka says, with a 
 sad and bitter emphasis. " I believe the 
 Emperor will tell you as much." 
 
 "And what of him?" cries the reckless 
 and unhappy wife of Napoleon III. " What 
 of his love^ his heart? What can you say 
 to me of that? I implore you, I implore 
 you ! " she cries, sinking among the cushions 
 of the lounge, while sobs shake the slender 
 frame. 
 
 Ah ! Your Majesty must surely be the 
 keeper of the Emperor's heart. Why do 
 you come to me for information of such a 
 nature? Your Majesty will pardon me if 
 I remind you that actresses are the toys " — 
 the splendid Northern eyes dilate with pride 
 and passion as she speaks — " the toys of 
 monarchs, the playthings of a public that, 
 through us, can take pleasure in sitting by 
 and watching the dissection of their own 
 choicest emotions. Your Majesty should 
 302 
 
and Other People 
 
 know that with hearts and love, and homes 
 and firesides, people of my trade have little 
 to do. We toil, Madame, and sweat that 
 you may be amused, and that we may be fed. 
 The Emperor's flowers are no sweeter, to 
 my thinking. Your Majesty, than any others, 
 and as to his admiration, surely the ruler 
 of France could not quarrel with the ver- 
 dict of his own Paris." Zalka laughs 
 lightly, showing her white teeth very pretti- 
 ly, courtesies, and takes a step toward the 
 portiere, but a motion of the Empress's 
 hand arrests her. 
 
 IX 
 
 " You are very clever, Mademoiselle Zal- 
 ka,'* Eugenie says, but the Empress is as 
 clever as you are. Metternich and Bismarck 
 are clever too, but they have not been, so far, 
 able to deceive me." 
 
 The tone is brave, haughty, even defiant, 
 and the Empress raises her lovely golden 
 head proudly. 
 
 But then in an instant all is changed. 
 303 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 With a sob of agony she staggers across the 
 room and falls almost fainting at the ac- 
 tress's feet. 
 
 " Oh ! " cries she, through fastly falling 
 tears, why then, since you say he does not 
 love you, do you wear upon your bosom his 
 portrait ? " 
 
 The cameo has fallen from between the 
 sheltering folds of Zalka's robe. 
 
 Your Majesty," returns the Russian, 
 with inimitable sangfroid, that was the 
 Emperor's gift to me^ who saved his 
 life." 
 
 " And if you care nothing for him why 
 does his image hang about your heart ? " 
 
 " Your Majesty, listen. I am a loyal sub- 
 ject. France has none too many such in 
 these days." The Russian speaks hurried- 
 ly and low, perchance she suffers, for she 
 presses her hand to her heart, and the cough 
 that is such a natural feature with her Mar- 
 guerite Gautier, for a moment convulses 
 her. 
 
 " Your Majesty, the Rhine is rising ; it 
 will overflow its banks and rush into 
 France. Mark my words, there is disaster 
 304 
 
and Other People 
 
 in the air. I feel it ! In Berlin they are 
 already prating of a new empire, and in 
 Alsace-Lorraine, children tremble as they 
 hear the distant hum and roar of an army. 
 I am a loyal servant and subject of the 
 Buonaparte dynasty — surely Your Majesty 
 cannot find fault if I wear the Emperor's 
 image as my badge of fidelity." 
 
 The Empress regards the woman before 
 her with incredulous eyes. 
 
 Is she, then, some splendid prophetess, 
 this golden-haired girl, with her clear eyes 
 and quivering Hps? Can it be that these 
 rumors she has heard are only rumors? 
 
 No ; Eugenie is a woman and reasons 
 from the feelings. 
 
 No; Zalka is a woman, therefore her 
 fidelity is to her heart and not to her 
 head. 
 
 She turns like one demented, wringing 
 her hands, sobbing, pacing up and down the 
 room. 
 
 " You are a sorceress ! " cries the Empress 
 madly. 
 
 " Bien, Madame. You are an Empress ; 
 command me to be burned at the stake. I 
 305 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 do not know," she adds gloomily, " that I 
 should not thank you for it." 
 
 " You love him? " whispers Eugenie with 
 concentrated anguish. 
 
 " And what then ? " cries the other, goad- 
 ed to desperation. 
 
 " He must then have first loved you, for 
 you are not the woman to have given un- 
 sought." 
 
 " What then ? " murmurs the Russian, in 
 a voice of imperious impatience. 
 
 Suddenly without is heard the sound of 
 approaching footsteps. 
 
 Zalka shrinks within the shadow of the 
 curtains. 
 
 It is impossible to intrude upon the pri- 
 vacy of the Empress whose commands have 
 been strict, but it is quite possible for an 
 equerry to boldly impart the information to 
 the ladies in waiting, and for them to as 
 loudly echo it, that the Emperor impatiently 
 awaits the appearance of the Empress. 
 
 "What shall I do? What can I do? 
 What is to become of me?" exclaims the 
 Empress, frantically, as with a gesture of 
 despair, she catches sight in one of the great 
 306 
 
and Other People 
 
 mirrors, of her tear-stained face, her dishev- 
 elled hair, her disordered mien. 
 
 It would take at least an hour to restore 
 her appearance to its usual calm. 
 
 And to appear before Paris in this guise is 
 among the positive impossibilities. 
 
 " A sudden illness," cries she, after a mo- 
 ment's pause, falling back amid the cushions 
 of a luxurious couch, and catching up a 
 silver smelling-bottle. 
 
 " The Parisians are in no mood, permit me 
 to remind Your Majesty," Zalka says timid- 
 ly, emerging from her retirement, " for a 
 sudden illness. They will not fall in love 
 with a disappointment to their fete-loving 
 senses. It were more wise for Your Maj- 
 esty to devise some plan for their better 
 amusement, than to cheat them of their ex- 
 pected pageant. The Empire wins a victory 
 by every royal progress that it makes." 
 
 The girl's voice fairly trembles as she 
 speaks, and in her eagerness she has ap- 
 proached Eugenie very closely. 
 
 The latter glances up, and as she does so 
 her eyes fall upon the reflections in the look- 
 ing glass, of her own and the actress's face. 
 307 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 " It is impossible for me, Alademoiselle," 
 cries she, rising, " but you are used to 
 playing parts. We are alike, do you not 
 see ? You can, if you will, save me from the 
 Emperor's displeasure and the odium of the 
 people — do you not see and understand, 
 Madame ? I will make it worth your while. 
 See! We are of the same height! This 
 robe ! " The Empress picks up a dress of 
 pale mauve satin which lies ready for her use 
 in the adjoining dressing-room. 
 
 " Your Majesty is very good, but I re- 
 quire no reward. As Your Majesty is 
 pleased to say, I am ' used to playing parts ' ; 
 and to serve the Empire." (Zalka speaks 
 with a grand enthusiasm.) " I am willing 
 to appear in a new role at even so short a no- 
 tice. Your Majesty will direct me?" 
 
 X 
 
 In a few moments, and with fewer words 
 the Russian is invested with the splen- 
 did costume that had been designed for the 
 Empress's v/ear on the drive to St. Cloud. 
 308 
 
and Other People 
 
 The faultless robe, the lace mantle, the 
 bonnet with its delicate plumes, the amethyst 
 jewels, the fan of long violet feathers, the 
 boots. 
 
 With a dexterous hand she arranges her 
 golden hair in the mode affected by Eugenie. 
 She pencils her brows and dashes her lips 
 and cheeks with the rouge that Her Majesty 
 was of late seldom seen without. 
 
 She pins the thin, small masque veil across 
 her face and then turns toward her counter- 
 part. 
 
 " Is Your Majesty pleased — suited ? " 
 
 " Ah ! " cries the impetuous woman, it 
 is perfect ! " 
 
 " Now, Your Majesty, what is my cue ? " 
 
 By this the noise and confusion without 
 has grown greater. 
 
 The stir and hum of impatience were in 
 the air. 
 
 " I rely upon you," whispers the Empress, 
 " although Heaven knows why ! and you are 
 to be with him — ah, what have I done ! I am 
 crazed ! You must not go." 
 
 Your Majesty may rely upon me. Be 
 at the theatre at eight o'clock. You will 
 309 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 find Zalka there. I save you mortification, 
 disgrace, perhaps something even more se- 
 rious. Your Majesty has more to hope from 
 me than to fear." 
 
 There is a splendid light in the Northern 
 eyes, a light of enthusiasm and purity, of 
 devotion and loyalty that the Southern born 
 woman who listens, cannot understand, but 
 still instinctively relies upon. 
 
 Between mingled prayers, entreaties, and 
 sobs, the Empress shrinks back into the in- 
 ner boudoir ; and the actress, with her beau- 
 tiful head erect, steps out into the auditor- 
 ium, amid the ladies and people in waiting. 
 
 Once visible the great throat of Paris 
 cheers itself hoarse over her. 
 
 Never," they say, " has the Empress 
 been so exquisite, so animated, so conde- 
 scending." 
 
 It is remarked that even the Emperor half 
 turns his haughty head to look at her, as they 
 pass up the Champs Elysees. 
 
 It is even remarked by a casual onlooker 
 that as he speaks to her he seems almost 
 moved, and that a deep flush overspreads his 
 face. 
 
 310 
 
and Other People 
 
 But this may be but the outcome of a vivid 
 imagination on the part of the casual on- 
 looker. 
 
 However, once well past Boulogne, it is 
 quite true that His Majesty spoke with some 
 animation to the lady at his side. 
 
 " Zalka," whispers Louis Napoleon, " I 
 have dreamed of this hour, and it has come. 
 Tell me that my star is not a faithful one ! I 
 have desired nothing that has not been mine, 
 sooner or later." 
 
 " Your Majesty is fortunate," murmurs 
 she. 
 
 Already he has listened to the story of the 
 hour just passed, and thus, side by side, these 
 two make their progress to the palace of St. 
 Cloud. 
 
 " Zalka, why did you consent to this ? " 
 he asks, regarding her attentively. 
 
 For the good of your Empire, ami 
 Louis." 
 
 " You love my Empire, then ? " 
 " As my life," she answers in a low tone. 
 And — Vempire c'est moi — eh, Zalka, 
 Zalka?" 
 
 His hand, for a wayward instant, closes 
 311 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 over that one of hers which lies almost hid- 
 den in the folds of her mantle. 
 
 For an instant, while sweet music plays, 
 while men and women and little children 
 shout them a welcome — while flowers arch 
 above their heads, and while the twilight 
 breeze, fresh off the perfuming fields, blows 
 upon them, Louis Napoleon is a weak and 
 loving man, as other men. Zalka, a woman, 
 moved to a sad uplifting of her blue eyes, as 
 other women. 
 
 The cortege has reached the palace. 
 
 Lights flit hither and thither about the 
 gardens. The fountains are playing and so 
 is the band. 
 
 All is bustle and confusion as the Emperor 
 and Empress alight, and are presently con- 
 ducted to their apartments. 
 
 Ere long they are alone, and with a 
 subtle spring Louis Napoleon is at her 
 side. 
 
 " Zalka, you love me as I love you ? " 
 
 She gazes out of the window by which she 
 stands, upon the darkening woods of Ville 
 d'Avray, she sees the thin curl of smoke as- 
 cending from some cottage far away. She 
 312 
 
and Other People 
 
 hears the twitter of some sleepy Httle birds, 
 and feels the dewy air upon her face. 
 
 There is a curious innate power in the 
 woman that makes the man silent, breath- 
 less, motionless, enthralled, with idle hands 
 and quivering lips. 
 
 What passes through her mind ? 
 
 A morning long ago in June. A soldier 
 turning the corner of the Rue Bayard — a 
 girl bareheaded and with no stockings on 
 her feet. 
 
 Well, well, for one hour she had been the 
 Empress of France. 
 
 For one hour she had sat at the side of the 
 man who had been the hero of her life. 
 
 With a sharp, fleet sigh, an upward glance 
 that took in all the sweet, soft beauty of the 
 time and place, Zalka bent her head above 
 the man who now knelt by her. 
 
 She bent her head and touched his brow 
 with her lips, and then she was gone. 
 
 Gone — with but that icy touch for him to 
 remember all the years through to the end. 
 
 313 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 XI 
 
 A cab hurried toward Paris. 
 
 The curtains were pulled down and the 
 man drove like one possessed; a large pour- 
 hoire must have awaited him at his destina- 
 tion. 
 
 A coupe followed in hot pursuit. 
 
 The silken curtains of this were also 
 drawn down, and the coachman did not once 
 lose sight of the carriage that he followed. 
 
 Down through the Elysees, across the 
 Place, through the Rivoli, these two dashed, 
 and finally they attained their goal almost 
 simultaneously, the stage door of the the- 
 atre where, as chance would have it, a third 
 carriage, with blinds as closely drawn, ap- 
 peared to await their arrival. 
 
 Zalka alighted from the cab, her mauve 
 garments hastily concealed by a great cloak, 
 and with a simple kerchief tied over her 
 head. 
 
 Two gentlemen alighted from the coupe. 
 Two gentlemen in surtouts, and with 
 314 
 
and Other People 
 
 opera hats discreetly held close by their 
 faces. 
 
 From the third a lady emerged clad heav- 
 ily in black lace ; there were roses at her 
 breast, while roses and a Spanish mantilla 
 wound about her head almost entirely con- 
 cealed her countenance. 
 
 On beholding Zalka she gave a sigh of 
 relief. 
 
 She had no eyes for the two gentlemen 
 who stood aside, to permit her and her 
 attendant to enter the theatre from the 
 front. 
 
 But shortly, they also followed her exam- 
 ple. 
 
 And what would Paris have said had it 
 known that both the Emperor and Empress 
 that night, were present at the performance 
 of La Dame aux Camelias at the theatre ? 
 
 Never, they say, had the Russian played 
 her favorite role as well. 
 
 Certainly never had the applause been so 
 emphatic, or an audience so madly enthusi- 
 astic. 
 
 Again and again, after each act was Zalka 
 recalled to receive the homage of her public. 
 315 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 And this display of adoration reached its 
 dimax at the close of the last act. 
 
 Twice was she recalled, and a third time 
 — amid the tumultuous bravos of a house 
 that greeted her on its feet, with waving of 
 • hats and handkerchiefs, with flowers and 
 gems thrown recklessly at her feet — was the 
 curtain raised. 
 
 Was Zalka weary ? 
 
 Or had she overtaxed her strength? 
 
 On the small garret bed of Marguerite 
 Gautier, the actress lay as if asleep. 
 
 Nor did she stir to their plaudits or lift 
 her lids to meet their gaze. Nor give any 
 sign that she knew that the eyes of the man 
 she had loved were upon her. Nor did the 
 light lace upon her bosom quiver with ex- 
 altation and pride in her triumph. 
 
 It was like the curious phase of some ver- 
 itable melodrama, or perchance tragedy? 
 
 The curtain fell suddenly. Its dull thud, 
 as the weights struck the floor sounding om- 
 inously through the remarkable hush of the 
 house. 
 
 In a moment more the manager-in-chief 
 316 
 
and Other People 
 
 — a courteous, phlegmatic person — stepped 
 out before the footlights. He said : 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to be 
 compelled to inform you that Mademoiselle 
 Zalka is dead." 
 
 When they raised her from the spot 
 where she had fallen, something sparkled 
 upon the stage at their feet, a cameo minia- 
 ture of the Emperor, its golden frame bat- 
 tered and one of the brilliants lost from the 
 circle, while upon her white neck there red- 
 dened a scar, and the missing diamond was 
 pressed into the flesh. 
 
 317 
 
WHEN THE TZAR 
 CROWNED 
 
WHEN THE TZAR IS 
 CROWNED 
 
 The room was a large and magnificently 
 appointed one in the palace of Gatschina, 
 an immense fire burned in the elegant porce- 
 lain stove : it was almost red hot ; a table lit- 
 tered with pamphlets and papers, also a 
 couple of arm-chairs were drawn up before 
 it ; two men stood there ; one old, but alert, 
 stern, uncompromising. General Sergius 
 Kalitzin, chief of the Imperial Military Po- 
 lice of Russia. The other, young, handsome, 
 bearded, resolute, gallant, Alexander the 
 Tzar. 
 
 The Ruler held in his hand a pen, and 
 presently he sat down and dipped it in the 
 ink : he wrote rapidly some twenty lines and 
 handed them to the General ; this is an Im- 
 perial method not uncommon of replying to 
 communications of a certain nature. 
 
 Kalitzin took it and read, his face dark- 
 321 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 ening with excited blood as he did so, his 
 brows contracting, his Hps quivering, his 
 powerful hand shaking. 
 
 " Your Majesty ! " cried he under his 
 breath, " I implore of you, for the sake of 
 the Empire, your father's sacred memory, 
 your oath, your religion, do not venture on 
 such enterprises ! 
 
 Alexander remained silent, merely shak- 
 ing his head with a smile, and pointing to the 
 slip of paper containing his autocratic in- 
 structions. 
 
 But, Sire, I implore pardon ! " The old 
 man bent his knee to the young one. " If 
 you persist in these investigations your- 
 self, death is positive. I tell you, as I 
 have just rehearsed to you, the Nihilists are 
 a power we must dread, we must crush, 
 stamp out, burn, torture, strangle, for it is 
 strong, and these of whom I have told you, 
 are keen as daggers. They have sworn ; they 
 are sharp ; they have taken the oath, and if 
 Your Majesty persists in the course here 
 outlined. I, the chief of the Military Po- 
 lice of the Empire, confess to you that I may 
 prove of no avail." 
 
 322 
 
and Other People 
 
 The Tzar again smiled as he extended his 
 hand to raise the General, at the same mo- 
 ment taking from him the slip of paper, 
 lighting it at the fire, and holding it until it 
 crumbled into a feathery nothing. 
 
 Kalitzin rose and bowed; he knew that 
 the secret orders — so secret as not even to be 
 spoken lest the very walls should possess 
 ears, and always burned lest trace of them 
 might fall into treacherous fingers — must 
 be obeyed, yet there was trouble, and even 
 sorrow on his countenance as he quitted the 
 presence of his Imperial Master, and has- 
 tened to give directions in connection with 
 the Sovereign's proposed visit to Paris, for 
 which place he set out on the following 
 morning ; Kalitzin went also ; in these days 
 he was never more than three feet distant 
 from the Tzar, with eyes watchful as the 
 hungry tiger's, and a scent for danger as 
 acute. 
 
 Once arrived in the French capital, it 
 would seem that the precautions for the Rus- 
 sian Ruler's safety were redoubled, and amid 
 all that hubbub of fetes, shows, pageants, 
 balls, exhibitions and reviews, there stalked 
 323 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 grimly the hving, breathing, palpitating 
 purpose of the followers of Prince Kra- 
 potkin, the determination to kill the Tzar. 
 Who was to do it? 
 
 General Kalitzin knew, he and three 
 others ; one, the person who was to do it ; 
 another, the accomplice; the third, the vic- 
 tim himself ; these were all, and yet Alexan- 
 der smiled on and went about apparently in 
 unconcern. 
 
 When a man is guarded as he was, it is not 
 hard to smile with unconcern. 
 
 To-night he sat in the superbly decorated 
 loge, prepared for him at the opera. Calve 
 was singing Carmen, but with a motion of 
 weariness he leaned back, and concealing a 
 yawn withdrew behind the shadow of the 
 silken curtains. 
 
 With a languid hand he picked up his 
 lorgnette and surveyed the house ; glancing 
 to the right, around the circle of boxes, his 
 gaze was suddenly arrested as the gaze of a 
 man is arrested but once in the course of his 
 life. 
 
 By the sight of a woman's face. 
 This woman was dressed like a Spanish 
 324 
 
and Other People 
 
 woman in a Velasquez portrait, in clinging 
 robes of dull browns and fawns, a little cap 
 of the same hues sat on top of her head ; her 
 hair was dull yellow, and it was worn in a 
 curious tangled mass with wing-like loops 
 over her ears ; her arms, in their tightly 
 puffed sleeves, were very long and slender, 
 and she held them crossed innocence-fashion 
 on her breast : between them, on the glint of 
 bare ivory-flesh, shining pallid next the vel- 
 vet of her bodice, hung, on a magnificent 
 golden chain bestudded with topazes, an ag- 
 gressively large and exquisitely painted min- 
 iature of the Tzar of Russia. The woman's 
 face was far from beautiful ; far more than 
 beautiful ; it possessed that divinity of differ- 
 ence from all the other women's faces Alex- 
 ander had ever seen, which made it for him 
 the most extraordinarily bewitching and al- 
 luring face in the world. She was pale with 
 a radiant pallor, features a bit Tartaric, 
 straight yet flat, full lips, pink as coral, eyes 
 under thick light eyebrows, shining like the 
 topazes that blinked on her bosom. 
 
 She looked like a moth, a strange note of 
 wildness subdued her and held her prisoner, 
 325 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 fluttering may be in irked enforcement amid 
 this sea of other tame women in their blue 
 and green, and red and yellow and white, 
 and multitudinous rainbow fallals. 
 
 Her companion, she had but one, was a 
 man, or a boy? it was difficult to determine 
 which, a being at any rate of the liveliest 
 temperament with jet black curls worn clus- 
 tering around his bright vermilion-painted 
 cheeks, on top of the curls a yellow velvet 
 beret; evening clothes it is true, but with 
 much savagery in the way of a scarlet satin 
 cravat, jeweled pins, chains, rings, while a 
 bracelet of wrought iron, delicate as a girl's 
 bauble, with a pigmy watch, set in diamonds 
 between its links, encircled his wrist. 
 
 This fat, white braceletted hand was 
 raised most of the time holding an opera- 
 glass, which, at the moment that the Tzar 
 had levelled his, and caught glimpse of the 
 moth-like girl, the painted boy handed to 
 her, whispering : 
 
 " Take the glass and look at him well." 
 
 She took it, and the rays of light from the 
 electric globes above them in the centre of 
 the ceiling, became entangled in these two 
 326 
 
and Other People 
 
 glasses, held by the Tzar of Russia, and the 
 moth-like girl ; a spark as of lightning's fire 
 was emitted by the contact, and both, the 
 man and the woman, dropped their arms as 
 if struck by some power stronger than either 
 of them. 
 
 Alexander of Russia sat bolt upright now 
 with no more languidness in look or mien ; 
 without removing his eyes from the woman's 
 face he motioned with his hand that Kalitzin 
 should approach him. 
 
 " Who is that, Kalitzin? " asked the young 
 man in a bewildered voice — " that girl yon- 
 der in the third box to the right, all ivory 
 and yellow and brown, with something like 
 tiger's eyes shining around a picture on her 
 breast. Find out for me, if you please." 
 
 General Kalitzin paused a second before 
 he either bowed or replied to his Sovereign ; 
 a strange hesitancy was in his manner, some- 
 thing between fear and irresolution. 
 
 But an instant, however, and then he in- 
 clined profoundly, and ventured to glance 
 at the Tzar with an expression of interroga- 
 tive curiosity on his wrinkled face. 
 
 Alexander felt it, and without turning his 
 327 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 head he deigned to answer the unasked ques- 
 tion with a sigh and an imperious inflection, 
 briefly thus : 
 
 " She attracts me." 
 
 " God forbid ! " exclaimed the old soldier 
 under his breath, and with such terrible fer- 
 vor, that the Ruler half turned in his seat 
 with something like a frown. 
 
 " Your Majesty," whispers Kalitzin with 
 a shudder. " That is she" 
 
 Yes ; that is she/' murmurs Alexander 
 half to himself, as once again his gaze is riv- 
 eted on the face of the moth-like girl. 
 
 " That is she." 
 
 It is what every man, however humble or 
 mighty, says to himself one time in his ca- 
 reer. 
 
 Kalitzin looked at his master, his face be- 
 traying, as he looked, a sense of horror, anx- 
 iety, and consternation. 
 
 " Your Majesty," he continues, that 
 woman is the woman I told you of before we 
 quitted Russia, to whose lot it fell, when lots 
 were drawn, to be the assassin of Your Ma- 
 jesty ; she glories in the fate ; she is here in 
 Paris masquerading as a Russian patriotic 
 328 
 
and Other People 
 
 aristocrat, so as to watch you and strike her 
 blow at the most convenient moment; she 
 wears ostentatiously on her bosom a minia- 
 ture of Your Majesty; the watchword be- 
 tween her and her accomplice, that red- 
 cheeked boy who poses as her brother, is, 
 ' When the Tzar is Crowned/ Your Ma- 
 jesty, now, now, that I am able this night to 
 reveal to you the details of the dangers 
 which encompass your sacred person, I im- 
 plore of you, cut short your stay in this ac- 
 cursed Paris. Let us begone to-morrow, 
 nay, this very night ! for nowhere and it is 
 I who say it, is Your Majesty safe except in 
 St. Petersburg." Kalitzin's voice trembles 
 with suppressed emotion as he speaks. 
 
 The Tzar turned again half-way toward 
 him, his countenance, notwithstanding the 
 thick beard and mustache, was ashy pale, 
 his eyes widened and stared. 
 
 " Her brother? " was what he said. 
 
 " God knows ! most likely her lover, if 
 such women have hearts," returns the 
 amazed soldier impatiently. " Petro Petro- 
 vitch, one of my most trusted men, came to 
 me this morning with the information I have 
 329 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 just imparted to Your Majesty ; at three this 
 afternoon his dead body was found in the 
 Seine, at St. Cloud ! " KaHtzin stares at his 
 Royal Master in blank astonishment, for, on 
 the Tzar's face there is not a trace of even 
 interest as to the fate of Petro Petrovitch, 
 and his eyes are again fastened on the moth- 
 like girl. 
 
 " They are like snakes, these Nihilists ; 
 their holes are invisible to mortal vision, 
 their fangs are deadly; the poison they use 
 is undiscoverable ; the devil himself is their 
 aid-de-camp. Oh, Your Majesty, permit 
 me, and forgive me for the persistency, per- 
 mit me to issue your command to the suite 
 for a secret departure from Paris this night ? 
 a diplomatic reason is easily arranged for 
 your going ; one has not too much to dread 
 from the displeasure of a Republic ? " Kalit- 
 zin's large hand grasps the arms of the 
 Ruler's chair as he speaks. 
 
 What is her name? " asks Alexander, in 
 a curious hushed voice. 
 
 " She goes by the name of Princess Kara 
 Chreptovitch," is the response. 
 
 " And she lives ? " 
 
 330 
 
and Other People 
 
 At number twenty-eight, Cours la 
 Reine." 
 
 " And you know nothing more than you 
 have said ? " 
 
 Kalitzin shakes his hoary head. 
 Nothing as yet ; we shall have to spill a 
 man's blood each day in sacrifice to their dia- 
 bolical methods, in order to find out." 
 
 She has baffled you, then? " remarks the 
 Ruler. 
 
 " I confess it," returns the old man. All 
 I know I have told Your Majesty ; those two 
 devils yonder laugh in derision when the 
 words : * When the Tzar is Crowned ' reach 
 their accursed ears ; and they, and every- 
 one of the three millions — yes. Your Maj- 
 esty, three millions of Nihilists scattered 
 over your dominions and over the world, 
 laugh in scorn, when they read those words, 
 when they hear those words now burning on 
 the lips of the civilized globe; they swear 
 that the coronation shall never take place ; 
 they swear that yonder fiend, with your 
 image blazing on her breast, will strike you 
 dead." 
 
 " Ah— h ! " 
 
 331 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 It is something between a gasp and a 
 sigh that parts the Tzar's Hps as at last, his 
 eyes still fixed, as were hers on him, on the 
 moth-like girl w^here she sat, he says : 
 
 " Kalitzin, you may issue orders for a se- 
 cret departure from Paris to-night, imme- 
 diately on our reaching the hotel after the 
 opera." 
 
 " Your Majesty, thank God ! " The tears 
 almost glisten in the old soldier's eyes. 
 
 Once in Russia, once in St. Petersburg, 
 far from that devil's den, Geneva, and I am 
 master of the situation, safe, sure. But not 
 here, within range of that ivory looking 
 w^oman." 
 
 Alexander gives a dismissing nod. 
 
 During the last act he sits, still watching 
 the moth-like girl, and now, too, the painted 
 boy. 
 
 By two o'clock, that is about three hours 
 after the last notes of Carmen had died out 
 in the opera-house of Paris, five carriages 
 and several horsemen, twelve soldiers of the 
 Russian Imperial Guard, twenty gens- 
 d'armes and a miscellaneous following of 
 332 
 
and Other People 
 
 grooms, servants, and luggage quitted the 
 Hotel Continental for the Gare du Nord. 
 
 By the time the cavalcade, which aroused 
 not the slightest interest in the few revel- 
 lers, street-sweepers, and early market-men 
 whom it encountered, had reached the rail- 
 way station, the dim film of violet irides- 
 cence, humid harbinger of the dawn, stole 
 up the horizon, crept across the rim, curled 
 in the tops of the chestnut flowers, wakened 
 the birds, drew the scent from the earth and 
 grass on the Cours la Reine, that matchless 
 avenue, and at last, violet melting into 
 golden arms of risen sun, night marrying 
 with day, the hymen-torch of their nuptials 
 struck the gilded cupola of the Invalides, 
 and kissed the sky into rosy joy at birth of 
 yesterday's to-morrow. 
 
 At one of the windows of number twenty- 
 eight, a white hand opened the lattice, dis- 
 closing the moth-like girl standing in her 
 night-dress breathing in the pungent air of 
 the unsullied morning, the lace at her bosom 
 fluttered back with the breeze, revealing on 
 its golden chain another miniature of the 
 Tzar ; her dull locks were pushed behind her 
 333 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 little ears and fell forlornly in two rough 
 braids to her knees ; she put her hand up and 
 shaded her eyes from the glint of fierce cop- 
 pery light which struck them from the dome 
 of the Invalides ; she bent listening, for a 
 sharp sound as of the click of a cane on the 
 pavem.ent, attracted her; she leaned to look 
 out and beheld the painted boy coming glibly 
 in the porte-cochere. Then she withdrew 
 and pulled a dressing-gown of red cloth over 
 her white one, pinned up her braids and glid- 
 ed to the door of the room, opened it, and 
 meeting him on the landing, drew him in 
 with anxious gestures. 
 
 " Well, my princess ! " cried he, with a 
 fawn's grin on his fat face, as he ran his 
 plump fingers through his well-oiled curls 
 and cast the yellow beret on the sofa. 
 
 Hast no word for me after my absence, 
 no welcome ? " 
 
 " Liof Mouravief, I have told thee a mil- 
 lion times. I will have no words or thoughts 
 for thee or any other man, until this human 
 vampire," the moth-girl holds up the Tzar's 
 miniature as she speaks, lies dead by this 
 hand. What hast thou found out since T 
 334 
 
and Other People 
 
 parted from thee at the opera-house ? I am 
 in a fever of impatience, time hangs heavy 
 on my hands until I can set the trap and 
 catch the Imperial ermine. Oh, now that I 
 have seen him, gazed upon his flesh and 
 bone, my nerve is steadier for the deed, my 
 heart happier, my whole being the more in- 
 tensely, irrevocably absorbed in the fulfil- 
 ment of my oath." 
 
 The moth-like girl is pacing up and down 
 the room, her hand is so clenched on the 
 Tzar's miniature as to cause the gems en- 
 crusting the frame to cut into her tender fin- 
 gers. She pauses under the chandelier, the 
 candles are still lighted but sputtering to 
 their end; she raises her arms above her 
 head, her eyes uplifted as she goes on : 
 
 Oh, my Russia, my frozen, bitten, 
 whipped, oppressed country ; bleeding and 
 sweating at every pore with the thin blood of 
 starved, tortured men, women, and children ; 
 howling with the million cracked, parched 
 throats that choke in the mines of Siberia; 
 with the million backs breaking back into 
 mother earth under the sting of the lash that 
 goads you, because you have dared raise 
 335 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 voice against the despot who sits upon a 
 throne of gold. My people, shrieking with 
 your more than million tongues to me, to all 
 of us, to rescue, to avenge you, I would stick 
 spurs of steel red hot into my very heart did 
 I not quiver with impatience for the moment 
 when I may enmesh, crush, kill, the tyrant 
 whose hand is against, and never for you ! " 
 
 She has dropped upon her knees, still 
 holding the Tzar's portrait up before her. 
 
 The painted boy looks at her, shrugs his 
 shoulders, sighs, and then crossing to the 
 open window he closes it sharply, blows out 
 the dying candles, lights fresh ones, picks up 
 a sponge, wets it with cologne and water and 
 washes the rouge off his face ; he also re- 
 moves his black curls, leaving himself there- 
 after a man, pale, golden-haired, sombre, 
 with eyes of blue fire, devouring in speech- 
 less greediness the beauty of the moth-like 
 girl. 
 
 He approaches her now, and lays his hand 
 upon her head : 
 
 She shakes off his touch and in a harsh 
 voice she cries out, 
 
 " Liof Mouravief, I tell thee, no man shall 
 336 
 
and Other People 
 
 touch me until I have accomplished my mis- 
 sion. What news have you? Where sups 
 he to-night ? How soon wilt thou snap the 
 pretty bracelet on my wrist, how soon may 
 I set the watch in motion and throw it away ? 
 Tell me." 
 
 Liof Mouravief turns moodily off. 
 
 ** Alexander and his suite quitted Paris 
 two hours ago." 
 
 " What ! and the deed not yet done ! " 
 Their destination St. Petersburg. The 
 information brought them by that wretch 
 Petro Petrovitch — by the way, he is dead — 
 has set them agog. Kalitzin's eyes were 
 upon us." 
 
 " Us! and has he found ways to discover 
 that I am aught save the Princess Chrepto- 
 vitch?" 
 
 " He has. While you were staring at the 
 Tzar last night, the Tzar was staring at you, 
 and no doubt Kalitzin, at his elbow was iden- 
 tifying you for his accursed master's bene- 
 fit." 
 
 The girl pauses. 
 
 " Well, what of it? We will never come 
 in contact. If he has returned to Russia we 
 337 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 can do the same ; our passports are unim- 
 peachable : our credentials perfect : and — by 
 the living God — " she again holds up the 
 miniature. " I swear that if these eyes once 
 again behold the tyrant, they shall not quit 
 their gaze till his are sightless in death. 
 
 Liof ! " she whispers, we have wasted 
 too much time already; do you make the 
 preparations for our departuure on to-mor- 
 row night, and before I live another hour 
 without it, give me the bracelet ; here, clasp 
 it on my arm, let me eat, sleep, move, know- 
 ing that the little dainty bomb, light as a dia- 
 mond, easily thrown as a flower, is where I 
 can reach and use it at a second's warn- 
 ing." 
 
 Liof shook his head angrily : he loved this 
 woman and was biding his time to make her 
 his wife. 
 
 " I will keep it until the time comes," he 
 says sternly ; " that is part of my duty." 
 
 You will give it to me now," she says, 
 gritting her white fox teeth together, and 
 adding, with that celestial smile up into his 
 face which such women have, " if you love 
 me, as I'm sure you do." 
 
 338 
 
and Other People 
 
 He transferred the devilish bauble to her 
 wrist, blessing fate for the chance to finger 
 that adorable white arm. 
 
 That evening the Princess Kara Chrepto- 
 vitch received, as usual, on Thursdays. A 
 great crowd of clever people were always 
 to be found in her salon last winter, you will 
 easily remember, if you chanced to have been 
 then in Paris; personages, many of them, 
 in the social, literary, art, and dramatic 
 worlds; others to fill in; clever men and 
 women too, but indistinctive, each glad to be 
 in the house of the original Princess, who 
 was so enthusiastic in her patriotic devotion 
 to her Tzar. 
 
 She stood there now, her yellow hair once 
 more looped in those strange little wings, 
 and sprayed and woven into meshy masses 
 at the back, a little coronet of topazes glim- 
 mered on top of it, and she was dressed in 
 the national sarafan, the loose, square- 
 necked, sleeveless gown of yellow satin, 
 worn over a full-sleeved yellow calico che- 
 mise, thin woven yellow sandals on her feet, 
 and long yellow gloves on her hands ; the 
 miniature of the Tzar shone on her bosom, 
 339 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 and the painted boy, posing cheerily as her 
 brother, flitted near her. 
 
 There was music, something half bar- 
 baric, sensuous, sweet, sounding out from 
 the rear of the ante-room ; everyone was 
 chattering with much laughter and gayety, 
 when the servant entered, and approached 
 Kara Chreptovitch with a card and a great 
 heavy heap of purple sweetness on his sal- 
 ver. 
 
 She took the card, and the scent of the 
 violets greeted her, as if one with the lus- 
 ciousness of the music. 
 
 She read the name. 
 
 " Alexis Tzof," and beneath was written: 
 A fellow-countryman, a stranger, a sym- 
 pathizer, begs the honor of permission to pay 
 his respects to the Princess Kara Chrepto- 
 vitch." 
 
 In an instant the painted boy was beside 
 her ; he had read the card, thrown it in the 
 fire, the flame of suspicion, which is the 
 familiar of such people, leaping to his face, 
 and the violets went after the card, he stand- 
 ing between Kara and the fire, not to be sur- 
 prised if an explosion should follow. 
 
 But none did. 
 
 340 
 
and Other People 
 
 Nothing worse occurred than that the 
 stranger, possibly tired of waiting in the 
 ante-room, now entered the salon, and made 
 his way directly to the hostess. 
 
 Alexis Tzof was a young man noticeable 
 above all others, not on account of his height 
 which was great or the splendor of his phy- 
 sique, or the perfection of his toilette, or his 
 beauty, but for his atmosphere which was 
 unique, commanding, demanding, and ob- 
 taining pre-eminence wherever he was. He 
 was fair, with a face as smooth as a girl's 
 and as strong as a lion's whelp, beautiful 
 white teeth and eyes of tourmaline ; they 
 rested with an expression most caressing 
 upon Kara's face, and instantly she felt a 
 shiver pass over her ; he bent his head, took 
 her hand in his large strong white one; 
 raised it to his lips ; as he did so, the rays 
 from a cat's eye, which he wore upon his 
 finger, met those of the diamonds surround- 
 ing the Princess's portrait of the Tzar ; the 
 flash seemed electric, it smote Kara and half 
 blinded her ; she stood nerveless, passive, re- 
 sistless while the newcomer, well watched 
 by Liof Mouravief , spoke : 
 341 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 What did he say ? 
 
 Such things as all women love to hear. 
 That unseen, he had gazed upon her, fol- 
 lowed her, shadowed her; unable to obtain 
 presentation, he had at last, in desperation, 
 resorted to this means of gaining her ac- 
 quaintance; that he was amply prepared to 
 satisfy her and her brother, as to his identity 
 and qualifications, and so forth and so on. 
 
 Kara Chreptovitch listened as one listens 
 in dreams that are sweet, dreading the 
 awakening; thereafter all the evening her 
 guests float before her as misty creatures, 
 films dwarfed into nonentities by this sur- 
 passing being so full of strength, possessive- 
 ness, power, newness. 
 
 The painted boy was uneasy and alert ; he 
 thought he detected beneath all this para- 
 phernalia a secret emissary of Kalitzin's, 
 and he was very wary. 
 
 As one by one, finally almost the last of 
 the company were leaving, he contrived to 
 convey as much to Kara. 
 
 She started, rubbing her eyes as a child 
 disturbed in its refreshing sleep. 
 
 The last person had now quitted the salon, 
 342 
 
and Other People 
 
 except Tzof ; he too was at the door, but he 
 turned with a quick and gallant motion and 
 was beside Kara ; the painted boy, keen for 
 mischief, had his hand on his pistol in his 
 little pocket, while the stranger spoke. 
 
 Excellent sir," Tzof said quietly, while a 
 faint smile of amusement played upon his 
 full red lips, delay a little ; I assure you, 
 with me you will have no use for your 
 weapon." 
 
 The painted boy still held it fast however ; 
 conspirators are firm believers in the univer- 
 sality of conspiracies. 
 
 " Madame," with a profound inclination 
 before the Princess ; " I have noted both 
 here and everywhere, that I have had the 
 honor to behold you, that you wear the por- 
 trait of the man they call the Tzar of Rus- 
 sia," an inflection a trifle sad, a trifle su- 
 percilious strikes the ears of his two listen- 
 ers. 
 
 Madame, I have of late been in Gene- 
 va ; " his voice lowers to a mere whisper as 
 he glanced around cautiously, for at the 
 mention of that Swiss city, both Kara and 
 Liof could not forbear a start of bewilder- 
 ment and apprehension. 
 
 343 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 " There," continued Tzof, " where you 
 frequented not long since, I too have been 
 familiar. I mean in the small shop of Serge 
 Prost in the Rue Sturm." 
 
 The eyes of Kara and Liof dart against 
 each other like the play of criss-cross light- 
 ning. 
 
 The words you have heard I too have 
 listened to." Now his tones sink even 
 lower, and articulation is scarcely more than 
 mere breathing. 
 
 " When the Tzar is Crowned," murmurs 
 Alexis Tzof, fixing his peculiar orbs on the 
 face of Kara Chreptovitch. 
 
 The painted boy takes his hand from his 
 pocket. 
 
 The Princess shudders as her glance is 
 dissolved in his^ absorbed by his, shudders 
 with the perfect, heretofore unknown bliss 
 of actual vital divine loving. 
 
 And they three sit there with close-drawn 
 curtains late into the night, even until once 
 more the dawn pricks all the East with rose, 
 and quenches the stars, and re-awakens the 
 world to its new round of labor and sweat. 
 
 344 
 
and Other People 
 
 It had been planned by the Princess and 
 Liof Mouravief to quit Paris for St. Peters- 
 burg the night following the Tzar's sudden 
 departure ; it has been told how anxious was 
 Kara Chreptovitch to go, to place herself at 
 once within reach of her intended victim. 
 
 Very well; but they did not quit Paris. 
 So often does it happen that the desire of 
 yesterday burns out in the teeth of to-day's 
 bite. 
 
 The painted boy was for departure. 
 
 The Princess made excuse of not being 
 well ; he stared ; she was unresponsive, lan- 
 guid, indolent, lying at length on her lounge, 
 full of absent-mindedness, with lowered lids. 
 
 Alexis Tzof came again that evening, and 
 while she should have been journeying post- 
 haste to the frontier, she languished amid 
 warmth, downy cushions at her feet and 
 head, listening to the music of his voice. 
 
 The painted boy played the piano until he 
 was tired, and then he went out in the little 
 garden and smoked, peeping in at the win- 
 dows in jealous rage at these two, compla- 
 cent, quiet, content, if, for no other reasons 
 than that they had at last met, when it now 
 345 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 appeared to them that they must have been 
 waiting to meet since the world began. 
 
 What did they speak of? 
 
 Naught but themselves; naught but that 
 supreme theme which Adam and Eve, mak- 
 ing primal awakening in one another's arms, 
 found sweeter than any other ever to be 
 mentioned again. 
 
 This went on for a fortnight. 
 
 Always the St. Petersburg journey put 
 off ; always Alexis Tzof each day, and even- 
 ing too. Always the painted boy a little 
 dull, but watchful and patient, till now. 
 
 He raged up and down in front of her, his 
 light eyes swimming in tears of anger and 
 passion. 
 
 " I tell you it must stop. I will not have 
 it ; you are betrothed to me ; you are bound 
 by a sacred vow to end the tyrant. You! 
 once most eager to plunge the knife, to 
 throw the little bomb there on your wrist, 
 You! forsooth must linger on feting and 
 pleasuring here in Paris. Why? Because 
 a tall man is become your hero, your slave 
 and your master, both in one. Kara, if you 
 do not come at once to Peterburg I will 
 346 
 
and Other People 
 
 kill your lover and denounce you to the lead- 
 ers at Geneva." 
 
 Lashed into a fine fury, the painted boy in 
 his little yellow beret and his evening clothes 
 — for it was now nine o'clock, and guests, as 
 usual, were expected in the Princess's salon 
 — dashed up and down, smashing a few cups 
 and saucers en route. 
 
 Kara looked at him; how impotent, how 
 silly he was ; she shrugged her shoulders 
 and twisted the iron bracelet around on her 
 arm with a smile. 
 
 " My friend, cease upbraiding me. I 
 promise you," Kara rose and shook herself, 
 much as one does on rising from slumber 
 that has been long-sought fruitlessly. I 
 promise you as to the tyrant, within forty 
 hours from to-morrow, either he or I will 
 be no more." She sighs, for Alexis Tzof 
 has stolen all the tang, and smart, and bit- 
 ter, out of her oath. Yet she knows it must 
 be kept. 
 
 "And me! me! What of me?" almost " 
 shrieks the painted boy at her ear. 
 
 " You ! " the Princess stares at him. 
 " You can do nothing, be nothing, say noth- 
 347 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 ing, until this bracelet has done its work. 
 Run away," she says lightly, " and play the 
 piano, and compose yourself; I hear foot- 
 steps." 
 
 The guests came ; they ate and drank, and 
 made merry. 
 
 The guests went, all save Alexis Tzof. 
 
 Mouravief also had gone to see to the lug- 
 gage, for they were to start in a few hours 
 for Russia. 
 
 Kara Chreptovitch stood leaning against 
 the marble statue of Aphrodite, her hands 
 were clasped in front of her, her arms so 
 encircling the portrait of the Tzar. She 
 was looking down ; she trembled ; she knew 
 that the wonderful divine moment of life 
 had come; she knew that unspeakable joy 
 stepped across her threshold, entering in, 
 and giving her new birth, as Tzof drew near 
 to her. 
 
 He came half as conqueror, half as suppli- 
 ant, with outstretched, pleading hands, with 
 beseeching eyes, with a victorious soul quiv- 
 ering in every fibre of his great body. 
 
 " Kara," he whispered, Kara, beloved 
 one, it is something with you as it is with 
 348 
 
and Other People 
 
 me, is it not ? Speak, sweet love, and say to 
 me that thou lovest me one tithe as well as 
 I love thee? Oh, 'tis not love, my wor- 
 shipped lady," cries he, falling on his knees 
 before her and reaching up to clasp her slen- 
 der waist. " It is idolatry ; for thee I would 
 throw away a world ; for thee I would resign 
 all that men crave ; for thee honor, life. Em- 
 pires, principalities, all weigh as nothing. 
 Speak to me, my dove, one word ! " 
 
 I love thee," Kara Chreptovitch whis- 
 pers, bending, drawn by his strong arms, to 
 meet the craving of his lips on hers. 
 
 I love thee, but my oath, my mission, 
 too long have tarried ; this night must see me 
 on the way to St. Petersburgh to fulfil my 
 destiny." 
 
 " And thou canst talk of destinies when 
 this moment makes our destinies one ! Be- 
 loved, dost think I will allow thee to separate 
 from me_, risk thyself, who dost now belong 
 to me ? " Tzof holds the moth-like girl 
 close to his breast with both arms about her, 
 his eyes fixed upon her face in unutterable 
 tenderness. 
 
 " To me," he repeats rapturously, pushing 
 349 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 back the small winglike loops of her dull 
 hair. 
 
 No, thou art mine, and never shalt thou 
 endanger one hair of thy head for any 
 cause or people, or tyrant, or oath, on God's 
 earth ! " 
 
 A sound comes up through the silent 
 house; it is the creak of the painted boy's 
 boots; the Princess breaks her bonds, she 
 stands like some hunted wild thing, beaten 
 by cruel dogs into a last unavailing court ; 
 the boots of the painted boy creak nearer. 
 
 " Oh ! " cries she. " Away from me ; 
 tempt me no more, or I cannot withstand. 
 My oath must be kept. Alexis Tzof, if I ac- 
 complish my mission and live, then I am 
 thine own ; if not, farewell." 
 
 Tzof approaches her. 
 
 " Then," he says, simply, standing there 
 in the flicker of the firelight, his hand on her 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Keep your oath, now, this moment, for I 
 am Alexander the Tzar." 
 
 Smitten, blinded, stunned, she cowers at 
 the base of the statue of Aphrodite, Vv-hich 
 is no whiter than she. 
 
 350 
 
and Other People 
 
 Thou/' she murmurs, creeping slowly to 
 him. " Thou ! " And the music in her 
 voice is of heaven, so touching, so tender, 
 as she draws down his beardless face to her 
 arms and strokes and caresses it with cold, 
 trembling little fingers. 
 
 " I, even I," he says, holding her to his 
 heart. 
 
 " And I have now thy image on my heart 
 for eighteen long months, and not to know 
 thee when I saw thee bare of beard." All 
 these few moments she is caressing his face, 
 his throat, his hands. 
 
 The boots of Liof Mouravief now creak 
 on the staircase. 
 
 The moth-like girl rises. 
 
 She drags herself the whole length of the 
 very long room, while Alexis Tzof crosses 
 down to the other end to meet the painted 
 boy. 
 
 He meets him. 
 
 Neither sees the woman. 
 
 She wrests the iron bracelet from her 
 wrist, and, snatching the bomb, light as a 
 blossom from its jeweled socket, she raises 
 her arm and drops it, snapping, at her own 
 feet. 
 
 351 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 A sharp report; a dull thud, two weak 
 woman's hands clasped on the portrait of the 
 Tzar on her bosom. 
 
 Death lay between the two men who knelt 
 at either side of Kara Chreptovitch. 
 
 " When the Tzar is Crowned," mutters 
 Liof Mouravief, turning over the miniature 
 and reading the five words so engraved on it, 
 ^ and then beginning to weep and to pray. 
 ^ But Alexander the Tzar said nothing, only 
 raised her, and laid her on the sofa, and 
 kissed her on the mouth, and went out of 
 her house, and back to his own country to 
 his own family and people. 
 
 352 
 
THE SPIRIT TRAVELLER 
 
THE SPIRIT TRAVELLER 
 
 Late one August, while I was looking 
 forward to shooting on the moors, breezy 
 walks and breezier rides, a certain visit at a 
 certain box belonging to an old friend of my 
 father, and to the meeting of this worthy's 
 lovely little daughter, I was suddenly called 
 back to Cheshire on important family busi- 
 ness. I took the 8. 20 p.m. train from the 
 North British, and discovered, when it was 
 too late to rectify the mistake, that I had 
 been given a second instead of a first-class 
 
 ticket for L , where I hoped to spend the 
 
 night comfortably at the Grosvenor, an old 
 stopping-place of mine, en route between 
 England and Scotland. 
 
 However, I gave a decent tip to the guard, 
 and found myself tolerably well off ; alone, 
 and with a locked door, a package of good 
 cigars, my rug, and a note in a dainty hand, 
 355 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 which I read and re-read with strange satis- 
 faction. Presently my meditations were in- 
 terrupted by a trial at the door; it was a 
 quick, decisive touch and go, unlike the usu- 
 al rattle of disappointed rage, that attacks 
 a barred entrance to a railway coach. 
 
 In a moment more, the opposite door was 
 quietly opened and a large man, with a small 
 travelling portmanteau, got in before my as- 
 tonished eyes, and seated himself composed- 
 ly on the opposite seat. I smiled to myself 
 at the savoir faire and the agility of the man 
 whose determination and spirit, in creeping 
 beneath the coach at the risk of his life, to 
 attain the quiet and comfort of travel with 
 one fellow-passenger, instead of the allowed 
 and allotted ten, struck me as most amusing. 
 
 No lamp had as yet been placed in the 
 coach. It was a luxury I momentarily hoped 
 for, so as to read once more the little letter 
 I held. But even by the dimming twilight, 
 I could see that my companion was a man 
 of uncommon size, and the possessor of a 
 face of unusual power, if of sparse refine- 
 ment; his eyes were like a falcon's, and in 
 less than two minutes, their rapid inclusive 
 356 
 
and Other People 
 
 flash, seemed to have measured me by some 
 intuitive standard of their own. 
 
 Smoke, sir ? " I inquired, laconically, 
 extending my case to him, desiring, I know 
 not why, to be on good terms with this per- 
 son, who might after all be going to aUght 
 at the next station, and whose society, at 
 longest, I should quit at midnight. 
 
 Thank ye, na," he replied, in an unmis- 
 takable Scotch accent. " Fve no small 
 vices," he added, with a hearty, healthy 
 laugh. " Plenty o' the big uns, though, to 
 make up for the wee deficiencies ! " I laugh- 
 ingly shrugged my shoulders, in reply. 
 " You're no' a Scotsman ? " he asked, pres- 
 ently. 
 
 " No ; the next best thing," I answered, 
 half-ironically, " an Englishman ! " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; they're a fair people — a fair 
 people — but it's no' a fair country. Give me 
 auld Scotia wi' her braes and her moors, her 
 hielands and lowlands, her lochs and her 
 burns. Hark ! " he exclaimed, as the train 
 slowed in approaching a little manufactur- 
 ing town by a riverside, heard ye ever a 
 music like that frae any English brook, as ye 
 357 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 call them? " I bent my attentive ear to the 
 window at my side. 
 
 Bide a wee, bide a wee. There, noo ; 
 ye can hear the laugh o' the Galla water." 
 Truly, it was like a girl's rippling laugh, full 
 of mischief and mirth ; and, by the Hght of 
 the stars I could see it hurrying along over 
 the stones, and between the long, green 
 grasses, and under the bending beech- 
 boughs. It was only one of those burns so 
 common in Scotland, and so dear to her sons. 
 
 " D'ye hear it, mon ; d'ye hear it ! " cried 
 my companion, excitedly, rising and leaning 
 out of the open sash, gazing with a peculiar 
 wistfulness across the meadow, where the 
 sheep slept, to the laughing, murmuring 
 Galla water. 
 
 Yes," I responded, " there is an odd 
 sound to its rush, certainly : a sort of wild 
 merriment, as it dances on, winding in and 
 out of the moors and fields, slipping under 
 bridges, playing hide-and-seek with itself as 
 it travels southward." 
 
 " Yes, yes," he whispered dreamily ; " she 
 had ever a yearning after the south ; she's 
 hurrying thither the night, I'm thinking." 
 358 
 
and Other People 
 
 I looked up at him in undisguised conster- 
 nation. Was my travelling companion mad, 
 or merely poetical ? The latter phase seemed 
 almost impossible with his exterior. 
 
 " Ye're wondering about me? " he queried 
 sharply, drawing his head in with a jerk and 
 seating himself, as the train rolled slowly out 
 of the small station. " Ah," with a deep and 
 almost a heart-rending sigh, mon, mon, 
 that same Galla water brought me an angel 
 — and took an angel away frae me again ! " 
 He passed his large hand over his face as if 
 to smooth away some sign of poignant trou- 
 ble, and for a time was silent, as we sped on 
 through the darkness. 
 
 After the lapse of perhaps half an hour 
 the train came to a dead stop; apparently, 
 from the scattered lights we saw shining 
 dimly by the way, in the suburbs of some 
 town; presently, the guard coming along, 
 we learned that the cause of our detention 
 was the centenary of the Trade Guilds which 
 had been celebrated at Preston that day — 
 that the roads were lined with extra trains, 
 so loaded as to cause alarm, and so ingen- 
 iously started as to preclude the possibility 
 359 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 of anyone of them getting to its destination 
 anything under three hours behind time ! 
 The man assured us that the rush and crowd 
 we might expect at the next station would 
 be quite appalHng. Finally we crept on- 
 ward, the lights grew thicker, and I mentally 
 prepared myself for a dozen or more smok- 
 ing, and probably half-intoxicated roughs as 
 future sharers of the carriage with me and 
 my erratic companion. 
 
 The roar of thousands of angry voices 
 broke upon my ear, as we rolled into the 
 great station : in another instant a dozen 
 hardy fists were battering at our locked 
 door, and curious eyes were glaring wrath- 
 fully in at our roomy comfort. As to 
 their language, the slangy jeers and voluble 
 indignation of the British mob is as well left 
 to the imagination. 
 
 My fellow-traveller was serene under the 
 fire : he even smiled as the door-handle rat- 
 tled, and the door shook beneath the heavy 
 artillery, momently growing more impatient 
 without, as they yelled for the guard to open 
 for them. 
 
 " We will have to succumb ! 
 
 360 
 
and Other People 
 
 " De'il a bit ! " replied my Scotch friend. 
 
 Be quiet, mon, and I'll show ye the tune 
 that always plays for success ! " There was 
 a curious fire in his cool eyes as he spoke, 
 that made me rather incline to the company 
 of the great unwashed. To speak the truth, 
 there was a something uncanny " about 
 the man, and I made up my mind that I 
 would as lief share his society for the re- 
 mainder of the night with a few other peo- 
 ple. 
 
 The guard finally arrived, the door was 
 unlocked, my companion sprang out with a 
 bound, merely answering the new guard's 
 " Good-evening, sir," with a curt nod ; the 
 crowd entered, not the allotted nine, but 
 twenty at the least, all men ; while women, 
 struggling with babies in their arms were 
 pushed and buffeted aside without mercy on 
 the platform. 
 
 " Who is that person? " I queried of the 
 guard, while the people about me were tak- 
 ing possession with jeers of the carriage, the 
 racks, and every available inch of space on 
 the floor unoccupied by my two feet. 
 
 Yon? " said the man, jerking his thumb 
 361 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 over his shoulder in the direction in which 
 my Scotchman had gone. 
 
 " Yes," I answered, while a burly individ- 
 ual seated himself literally upon me, and I 
 rebelled. 
 
 " Yon's a spirit traveller, sir." 
 
 " A what ? " I cried ; receiving an invader 
 on my other knee, with almost a feeling of 
 joy. 
 
 But ere the guard could reply, the " spirit 
 traveller " himself appeared at the carriage- 
 door, and was greeted with hoots and cries 
 of contemptuous triumph by my twenty 
 companions. 
 
 " Noo, then, gentlemen ! " he cried. " Are 
 ye all mad ? Jimmy ! " turning to the guard, 
 
 are ye no afraid o' losing ye're place " — 
 jeers and screams — wi' letting decent folks 
 in wi' a mon that holds their lives in his 
 hand, like yon ? " pointing to me. " Oot wi' 
 ye, oot wi' ye, all ! " cried he, in a voice of 
 mingled alarm and command, yon's a lu- 
 natic, and a dangerous one, I be taking to 
 Hanwell ! " Almost before the last words 
 had escaped his lips the carriage was emp- 
 tied of its passengers — every one of them 
 362 
 
and Other People 
 
 save myself. The " spirit traveller " leaped 
 in, closed the door with a bang, and as we 
 steamed slowly off, fell back in a corner con- 
 vulsed with laughter. 
 
 I cannot say, with any degree of accuracy, 
 that I shared either his mirth or his triumph. 
 In the almost total darkness, for we had no 
 lamp as yet, with hours of slow travel before 
 me, shut up with this person, whose sanity I 
 now questioned more than ever, I felt that 
 a crowd of London roughs was preferable. 
 There was, however, nothing to be done but 
 endure the situation. 
 
 " There be ways and ways i' this weary 
 world," he finally exclaimed, with a conclud- 
 ing peal of merriment. I smiled a feeble 
 assent, and wondered if it would not be bet- 
 ter to recall his attention to the braes and 
 burns of his native land. 
 
 " Where are we now ? " I inquired. 
 
 " Blankshire. Going southward always, 
 following the course o' the streams. Yon's 
 Galla water again." He peered out into the 
 darkness. " Ye cannot see the silvery thread 
 winding in and out there, maybe, but I can. 
 I have a pair o' eyes within here," he tapped 
 363 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 his forehead significantly as he spoke, " as 
 makes me see what ithers canna." 
 
 I instinctively ruminated vaguely and not 
 pleasurably upon mediums, mesmerizers, 
 charlatans," and I know not what other spir- 
 itual agents. 
 
 " Their names are memory and love ! " 
 he adds, in a voice low, soft, well-nigh thrill- 
 ing in its tenderness. 
 
 I glance over at him with renewed inter- 
 est. He must feel rather than see it, for we 
 are in absolute darkness ; rain has set in, and 
 the drops beat fast upon the panes, as we 
 speed onward. 
 
 " I told ye the Galla water brought me an 
 angel," he says presently, " so it did — so it 
 did ! It was a morning in June. I was a 
 young lad then^ no more than twenty or so, 
 and a home lad. I knew naught of foreign 
 parts or ways, had never been outside of 
 my own shire. Well, a morning in June, 
 early four, or thereabouts ; I was up and 
 off down to the river-meadows to look after 
 my sheep, when my mother called me. 
 ' Sandy,* says she, ' I hear summat below, 
 yon, at the water-side. Whisht ! do ye no 
 364 
 
and Other People 
 
 hear till it? it he's like the wailing — nay, 
 nay ! — like the laughing o' a bairn ! ' 
 * Pshaw, mither ! ' says I ; ' ye're no' fairly 
 out o' your sleep yet. I only hear Galla 
 water, laughing away over the pebbles.' I 
 went, my way ; and she stood, shading her 
 eyes wi' her hand, watching me out o' sight. 
 Well, sir, what d'ye think? When I got 
 down to the burnside, where the sheep stood 
 drinking and waiting for me to come with 
 their bit o' salt, I found something else wait- 
 ing for me there, too. It was a bairn ! a wee, 
 smiling thing of four years, maybe, with its 
 little bare feet dabbling in the water, and its 
 twa wee hands clappit together, and its blue 
 eyes dancing in the sunshine, and its red lips 
 laughing — laughing up at me! The flock 
 was not afraid of her, they cropped close to 
 her bonny gold head, and the words she 
 spoke, perhaps they understood them, I 
 could not. Folks said it was French, sir; 
 but I knew better. It was some language 
 of the burn, the bonny burn, that brought 
 her to me that morning, long agone ! " The 
 " spirit traveller " sighed heavily, as he 
 leaned forward and rested his forehead in 
 his palms. 
 
 365 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 I was, by this time, fully impressed with 
 the belief that my new acquaintance was 
 what is popularly called a medium, and 
 doubtless the local dialect translated this 
 into spirit traveller." I was, too, vastly 
 interested in his story, and no doubt by my 
 attentive attitude, dimly discernible in the 
 gloom, testified as much. 
 
 There was a bit boat found away down 
 the river, by Melrose^ and folks said that a 
 young woman, speaking a foreign tongue, 
 had been seen lurking about the shire for 
 some days past, with a child in her arms, 
 and that later on, she was seen without the 
 bairn. Be that as it may, I believe, sir, the 
 Galla water brought my wee Jeannie to me, 
 and no living soul could persuade me that 
 a young mither would set a puir wee body 
 like that afloat, wi' naught to guide nor steer 
 it for life and death, save the tide and the 
 winds o' heaven. I took her home in my 
 arms to my mither. She was ever a good, 
 homesome body — God bless her — and she 
 loved the child frae the first. It learned to 
 speak like us after a bit, and it would clap 
 its hands for me when I came home on mar- 
 366 
 
and Other People 
 
 ket days, and the bright eyes, even then, 
 would shine the brighter for the bit of ribbon 
 I carried back to snood her bonny hair. Oh, 
 sir, she loved all that was brilliant and beau- 
 tiful ; 'twas her nature to love the sunshine 
 and flowers, and the gay colors and the fine 
 things. What had wee, winsome Jeannie 
 to do wi' dark skies and barren moorlands, 
 wi' clouds and ugly clothes? Naught, 
 naught ! She came frae the South, sir, and 
 she yearned after her happier, bluer heavens 
 always — only I did not understand it exact- 
 ly, then.'' Again he heaves a deep and pit- 
 eous sigh, and passes his hand across his 
 brow ; there was not only pathos, but tragedy 
 in the man's voice and movement. 
 
 " She grew, sir, like the finest lily, and her 
 head was like the lily's bell — now leaning 
 this way, now that, with such pretty, witch- 
 ing ways as would woo the bees from gaudi- 
 est flowers, to suck the sweetness from her 
 soft young mouth. Before I knew it, al- 
 though I was watching for it all the time, 
 Jeannie was a woman ; the burn's bairn was 
 a lassie wi' all a lassie's airs and shyness, I 
 had it in my mind for months, but I never 
 
 367 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 dared to ask her to be mine, in a dearer, 
 nearer sense than she was. My mother's 
 death hastened my hps. How I remem- 
 ber the day ! She looked up, wi' the same 
 clear laughing eyes that had shone into mine 
 fourteen years before, wet wi' the lapping of 
 the waves then ; twa Salter drops stood 'a- 
 tween their smiles that morning. ' Will you 
 take me to the South ? ' she asked of me, and 
 I promised her I would ; and then, very 
 quietly, she laid her hand in mine. I could 
 na' even press it, sir; there was such a tu- 
 mult in my veins as made even this hand 
 powerless " — he raised his powerful right 
 hand as he spoke — beneath the light touch 
 of hers. In six months we were married " — 
 he pauses abruptly — that, sir, is one of the 
 sacred times we dream over with shut lips ; 
 we've no language coined yet to convey their 
 meaning. Jeannie was my wife. Hoping 
 to better myself, and the sooner take her off 
 for the bit trip to the South, I let the pasture 
 lands to a neighbor, and took to this spirit- 
 travelling; there was more money in it, I 
 thought, but somehow, it didna' come fast 
 enough. Every journey I made, I brought 
 368 
 
and Other People 
 
 home the wee woman summat pretty and 
 gay, and she would laugh and be pleased a 
 bit, and then after awhile she would creep 
 into my arms and lay her head upon my 
 breast, and say to me, wi' her coaxing fin- 
 gers on my face, * Will it be soon, Sandy, 
 that you'll be taking me to the South ? It is 
 so cold here — so cold ! It seems to me, some- 
 times as if I could remember a beautiful land 
 where flowers grew always, where bright 
 birds sang in the branches, and where people 
 danced and sang, and were merry — not like 
 here — oh, not like here ! ' And the puir 
 bairn shuddered in my clasp, as she glanced 
 out the cottage window to the bare moors 
 and the dull gray sky." Again he paused, 
 as though lost in the mazes of a too retentive 
 memory. 
 
 " I did na' prosper, sir ; that is the sum o' 
 it all. It was my fault — all mine ; he who 
 says other speaks falsely." His tone is al- 
 most fierce, as he brings down his clenched 
 hand upon the window-ledge, with a force 
 that causes the glass to rattle. " I got up 
 one morning ; I had slept heavily, having but 
 just got home frae a long and tiresome jour- 
 369 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 ney — and she was gone ! " One great sob, 
 almost the pitifullest I ever heard, seemed 
 as if it would rend him body and soul ; 
 then : 
 
 " I knew where to look, sir ; I rushed 
 straight down to the water's edge, and my 
 instincts had na' misled me. The bit boat I 
 kept there for her pleasuring was slipped 
 its moorings ; the water rippled in the early 
 glint of the sunshine, the sheep nibbled close 
 to the brink, and there were her footprints 
 in the soft, wet clay; the blue ribbon from 
 her head lay draggled half in the water, half 
 out. I caught it to my heart with a wild 
 cry ; I carry it there to-day, and that is near 
 fourteen years ago, sir! They said there 
 were other footsteps besides my Jeannie's — 
 longer and broader ones — they said that a 
 dark-haired, foreign man, handsome as 
 Southern men are sometimes, had been oft 
 at the cottage when I was off, they said " — 
 he fairly gnashes his strong teeth together, 
 as he stops short — " but they lied. The 
 burn flowed toward the South — the warm, 
 sweet South she loved so and yearned after 
 — and poor lamb, she thought its luring 
 370 
 
and Other People 
 
 babble could float her down in safety to 
 the land where the birds are ever singing. 
 My bairn, my puir wee Jeannie ; Galla water 
 gave you to me, and Galla water took you 
 away from me! I am travelling still, sir; 
 always up and down, and I'm always looking 
 out, especially on dark nights like this, to 
 see her floating down wi' the stream ; and al- 
 ways, when I go home, I'm in haste to get 
 to the burnside o' mornings, so sure am I 
 that the tide will bring her back to me some 
 time, some way, some day. I hear her 
 laugh in every wave that chases its brother ; 
 I knozv she could na' help leaving me; she 
 was not like ither folk — my sweet, wee, win- 
 some Jeannie ! " 
 
 When I arrived in L I took occasion 
 
 to inquire about the " spirit traveller." I 
 learned that the term was used in Scotland 
 and in some of the Northern shires of Eng- 
 land, to designate a clerk travelling in the 
 interest of some large, or small, wine mer- 
 chant ; and that this particular spirit trav- 
 eller, although the pay he received was very 
 small, and tempting offers had been made to 
 him by other houses, steadily refused to quit 
 371 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 the track he had gone in for upward of six- 
 teen years — a stretch of country, not many 
 miles in extent, that never lost sight of his 
 beloved Galla water." 
 
 372 
 
THE LOST YEAR 
 
THE LOST YEAR 
 
 " There is a year in the Poet's life which re- 
 mains wholly unaccounted for, the year 1828."— 
 Life of Poe. 
 
 I WAS in Geneva, sauntering along the 
 Corraterie, when the attraction of an old 
 book-shop arrested my eager eyes. I stood 
 for some time peering into musty tomes and 
 turning over mildewed leaves ; I was going, 
 when a little volume fell to the ground at 
 my feet ; I picked it up, to restore it to the 
 counter, when a faint perfume like the pris- 
 oned soul of some forgotten flower assailed 
 me from its faded silken cover. I sat down 
 on the wooden stool and opened the book. 
 It was Baudelaire's poems. The silken case 
 in which some dainty and fanciful hand had 
 secured it was embroidered with the initials 
 
 E. A. P." Anxious to see the original 
 375 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 binding, I slipped off the silken cover, when 
 from its shield there came into my hands a 
 cluster of crumbling hyacinths pinned to a 
 thick packet of papers. 
 
 The flowers, whose aroma still bore hint 
 of sweetness, scattered in the breeze, but the 
 now loosened sheets of paper, I at once per- 
 ceived, were closely written over in an ele- 
 gant and most legible hand. 
 
 I bought the book for a couple of francs, 
 went quickly back to my hotel, and, sitting 
 down on my balcony, I did not stir until I 
 had devoured the last one of those niarvel- 
 lously fine and neat pages. 
 
 The MS. ran thus : 
 There is a lost year in my life ; I wish 
 it to remain lost forever, yet nevertheless I 
 risk my desire somewhat by here setting 
 down its history; the force of its mystery 
 and its melody, its strange, unutterable pas- 
 sion and tragedy are such as compel me to 
 record them, whether I will or no : perchance 
 when once I behold the written word my un- 
 easy spirit will rest, and I can consign these 
 pages to the flames. The year was 1828. 
 Exalted and imbued with the ardor of youth 
 376 
 
and Other People 
 
 and high ideals, I embarked from New York 
 on a stormy September morning, with the 
 avowed purpose of going to Greece and 
 there offering my strength and services in 
 aid of that strugghng and unfortunate coun- 
 try. 
 
 We sailed down the Bay, through the 
 Narrows, around the Hook, in a cloud of em- 
 purpling mist; the sun's ghost glimmered 
 athwart the gloom, and the plaint of the 
 sobbing and untiring sea surged all about 
 me. No more the ragged shore could be 
 seenvno more the faint odor of the soil as- 
 sailed the sense ; all sky, ocean, atmosphere, 
 seemed united in one molten pressure of dull 
 and mournful gray. The ship slid on as on 
 a sea of glass, hastened by a breeze that hur- 
 ried mystically through her sails, and yet 
 scarcely ruffled the hair upon my forehead. 
 For days it continued thus, one unbroken 
 impulse through a nebulosity, which the oc- 
 casional phosphorescent flashes seen afar, 
 only served to render the more strange and 
 profound. 
 
 " At the close of the tenth day I sat hud- 
 dled up on deck, my eyes seeking to pene- 
 377 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 trate the film ; they could not, but suddenly, 
 from out the awful space, I saw a black head 
 cleaving the murk asunder; I heard black 
 wings flapping against the dusk and con- 
 quering it ; I beheld a bird, livid in its swarth, 
 alight upon the ship's topmost mast, and 
 with its eyes of yellow flecked with green, it 
 pierced my eyes and riveted my gaze to it. 
 It was a raven, and from where I crouched 
 I could perceive that it opened its beak slow- 
 ly and uttered sounds so mournful, so mel- 
 ancholy, as made my heart-strings stretch 
 and the cold drops stand out on my face. I 
 prayed it to go away; I begged it to leave 
 me, but even though I knelt in supplication 
 the ominous bird perched there upon the 
 mast-top, and with its solemn and damnable 
 croak would seem to have cast a spell upon 
 my soul. 
 
 " I called the captain and pointed the eyrie 
 creature out to him, but he assured me he 
 saw nothing there, and in this assertion the 
 officers, passengers, and crew stood by him 
 to a man, adding their laughter to his. 
 
 " But on the eleventh, the twelfth, and all 
 the days until we sighted the land of France, 
 
 378 
 
and Other People 
 
 the bird sat yonder in his monkish state, 
 sometimes flapping his broad wings, but 
 never taking flight, and always moaning out 
 his strange, dissyllabled miserere ; ahvays 
 striking the venomous ghnt of his parti- 
 colored eyes down into mine with the preci- 
 sion of an arrow — until, one day, the last on 
 board, when pleasant pasture lands and 
 flowery meadows greeted us, he spread his 
 trim and ebon sails and struck out skyward 
 toward the South. 
 
 " After I went ashore I was taken ill, so 
 mortally ill that, had it not been for the ex- 
 quisite kindness of total strangers, I had 
 perished. Recovering somewhat, the good 
 priest, whom the housefolk had quickly sum- 
 moned to my side, urged me to seek a 
 warmer climate, dissuading me utterly from 
 my original purpose of going to Greece and 
 entering the army — for which service I was 
 now indeed wholly unfit — and recommend- 
 ing to me an asylum at once healthful, beau- 
 tiful, peaceful, and retired. This was the 
 Convent of St. Onofrio, near the city of 
 Padua. The brothers, he said, would re- 
 ceive me gladly, and a few months spent 
 379 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 among them would put me once more in 
 good condition. 
 
 " Too weak to dissent, too indolent to 
 care, I followed the priest's advice, and, 
 journeying into Italy by slow stages, I final- 
 ly found myself installed as a guest beneath 
 the hospitable, if half-ruined roof, of St. 
 Onofrio. 
 
 " For some days after my arrival I re- 
 mained within doors, either in my cell, in the 
 refectory, the chapter-house, or the chapel. 
 It was sufficient to have recovered life it- 
 self; to be able, once more, to think with 
 avidity, to breathe without pain ; for the rest, 
 I was well content to let it go, or come, as it 
 might. 
 
 " So that, thus having sailed from home in 
 September, it was already April when I went 
 out into the convent garden and walked 
 about under the shade of green trees, inhal- 
 ing the voluptuous odor of hyacinths, listen- 
 ing to the music of the silence ; that undis- 
 covered source of some of the heavenliest 
 harmonies the ear has ever heard. 
 
 I lay at rest — grant that it was the es- 
 sence of physical repose, and that an over- 
 380 
 
and Other People 
 
 taxed spirit too gladly lost itself in the bod- 
 ily, and for once forgot its struggle — in the 
 convent garden ; the low-sweeping branches 
 of some fringing shrubbery swept above my 
 head; the hyacinths breathed against my 
 tired cheek ; my eyes took in the sad beauty 
 of a ruined arch overhung with vines, 
 through which there peeped the bluest sky, 
 and just above the arch was built a stone 
 chamber, whose one narrow window leaned 
 a little, and was walled up, shutting out for- 
 ever the light, shutting in some monkish 
 mystery doubtless, of perchance the middle 
 ages. I heard the brothers chanting litanies 
 at their work in the fields ; humanity was 
 near, but not in touch ; my eyelids closed, the 
 hyacinths crushed against my mouth, when I 
 heard again, as before, the dreary, dolorous 
 flapping of a bird's nearing wings. I sprang 
 to my feet. I beheld once more the raven 
 clinging to the branch above my head ; felt 
 once again the awful rivet of his gaze on 
 mine; heard now, as at first, the excruciat- 
 ing, corroding cry from his bitter throat. 
 
 " He swayed upon his perch and seemed 
 to mock me with his reiterated moan. I 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 leaned against the tree-bole, palpitating with 
 an unexplainable expectancy, and as I leaned 
 and waited, the monkish litanies lulled, and 
 in all the place there sounded nothing save 
 the crackle of the raven's claws, for he 
 hopped from the branch, and statelily passed 
 up the gravelled path that leads to the ruined 
 arch. I followed him, I cannot say against 
 my will, but unreflecting, unquestioning, un- 
 til, spreading his wings again, he flew to the 
 top of the arch amid the tangle of the vines, 
 and croaked and croaked again. 
 
 " I tried to follow him even there, but my 
 strength was not enough ; besides, the sound 
 of music, ravishing, unearthly sweet and lur- 
 ing, came creeping over to me then and there 
 from the organ in the chapel. It was such 
 melody as those forever lost, may dream of 
 as daily bread of all the heavenly host. 
 
 " The bird, silenced as myself, turned 
 aside his witch-like head and listened, too, 
 and then he laughed and whistled, and spoke 
 out as if he had been human being like my- 
 self — and ' Nevermore ' was all the word he 
 uttered, many times, over and over again, 
 while I, cursing him and his ill-omened 
 382 
 
and Other People 
 
 tongue, fell at the arch's base, and lay faint- 
 ing till the brothers came at night to find me. 
 
 " I pointed to the bird, but he had flown ; 
 I told them of the music of despair; they 
 nodded tritely as they led me into the clois- 
 ters, and one, more spokesman than the rest, 
 rehearsed to me the Legend of St. Onofrio's. 
 — How, centuries ago, a nun more beautiful 
 than pen or pencil paint, and named Lenore, 
 had lost her heart to one of St. Onofrio's 
 brethren ; from far off in her convent she had 
 travelled at much peril, to venture here and 
 see him ; how she had announced her com- 
 ing to him, in the dim hours of the night, 
 when all the household slept, by such playing 
 on the organ as wrested him from his cot 
 and drew him to her side. That morning 
 came, and with it all the story of her love ; 
 of how the Abbot, being a stern and godly 
 man, had forthwith condemned the delin- 
 quent monk to a solitary cell for life, and 
 had ordered the beautiful Lenore to be stood 
 upright in the stone chamber over the arch, 
 and to be walled up therein, alive. That 
 fanciful guests who slept at the convent had 
 often affirmed that they heard the lost Le- 
 383 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 nore playing on the chapel organ when the 
 nights were long in summer, and that the 
 legend ran, that one day the soul that was 
 the mate of that nun's soul, would travel this 
 way, and then 'twould ill-betide the traveller. 
 
 Even as the Prior ceased speaking I 
 heard the seductive melody sweep in at the 
 open window of my room, but they all said 
 that they heard nothing, and so I let them go 
 in peace. 
 
 Night after night I could not sleep for 
 listening to that marvellous music. Day 
 after day did the raven, now my accursed 
 familiar, swinging upon the branch above 
 my head, lead me with his mincing, mocking 
 footsteps yonder to the ruined arch, and, 
 perching there above the walled-up window, 
 whisper sullenly in the sunshine, ' Never- 
 more ; ' or, if it stormed, then louder charmed 
 the organ in the chapel, and fiercelier 
 shrieked the imp-bird in my ear. 
 
 " As now, a twilight in July, when all day 
 long the thunderous air had vibrated with 
 pulsing heat ; when the vault above seemed 
 stooping, steeped in languorous snares, to 
 crush the heart-beats of the denizens of 
 384 
 
and Other People 
 
 earth, and frequent lightnings flashed across 
 the hush, I sat upon the garden bench, lulled 
 in the lap of unemotional calm, the bird 
 swayed near me : anon the music, softly 
 swelling, swept the very inmost recess of my 
 soul, and seemed to call my spirit out to join 
 with it. 
 
 The hyacinths, all crushed beneath my 
 feet, incensed the air with fragrance. The 
 raven, flapping from his bough, stepped up 
 the path ; I followed, staggering, as the mel- 
 ody from the chapel seemed to whip my 
 tardy spirit to a fever heat of hurry. The 
 bird hopped on, climbed up the crumbling 
 arch, and, lighting on the lintel of the walled- 
 up window, began to peck, with his strong 
 and vicious beak, at the mason-work be- 
 tween the stones. And the swooning clouds 
 swung closer to the parched and thirsty 
 earth ; the breath of the hyacinths smelled 
 deadly sweet ; the lure of the music swayed 
 stronger, as I, too, with one awful cry, 
 sprang up the arch, slipping, crawling, yet 
 at last gaining the top. With my tense fin- 
 gers I tore at the cement and stone ; with all 
 my force I braced myself, and clawed and 
 385 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 clutched the keystone and the lintel, until a 
 great flash came out of the darkling east ; the 
 raven shrieked his ' Nevermore,' the breth- 
 ren, rushing from the fields ; and, down, 
 with a crash that matched the bolts of Jove, 
 came hurtling, as I leaped aside, the cruel 
 stones that had sealed up forever the young 
 life of the lost Lenore. 
 
 She stood there in the revealed niche, 
 a being beautiful beyond compare, and all 
 my inarticulate soul went out to her, enrapt- 
 ured, as the monks fled, crying, from the 
 spot into the chapel, and as the bird flew 
 flapping after them. 
 
 Her eyes, so soft as Love's eyes, looked 
 down into mine; her lips, so red as pome- 
 granate blossoms, smiled at me ; her bosom, 
 white as moonlight, rose and fell ; she raised 
 her arms, and then, dissolving like the dew 
 at dawn, the wondrous vision crumbled into 
 dust — down — down — lessening to a mere 
 small handful that I gathered in my palms 
 and pressed against my lips, as I, too, dashed 
 across the court and into the chapel among 
 the brethren. 
 
 " As I entered, again the music sounded 
 386 
 
and Other People 
 
 out, joyfuller than of old, but mystically 
 sweet and solemn with its monotone of pain. 
 
 The raven was hopping statelywise 
 straight up the altar steps ; the Prior and the 
 monks, aghast, stood staring at the organ, 
 whereat no player sat ; the dust within the 
 hollow of my hands burned into my flesh ; 
 with glaring orbs I watched the wretched, 
 impious bird as it paced calmly on, whisper- 
 ing hoarsely as it went, * Nevermore,' 
 * Nevermore.' 
 
 " The Abbot, roused from his trance-like 
 inaction, now ran up the aisle, his crozier in 
 his grasp uplifted, and, reaching the raven, 
 struck it a blow as rang up to the rafters. 
 And once again the black wings flapped and 
 fluttered, once again the parti-colored eyes 
 met mine, then, blinded with the holy lamp, 
 the devilish bird dashed itself against the 
 glass and fell, all streaked across his suit of 
 black with blood, dead at the pulpit stairs. 
 
 " And the witch-like music stilled, sloping 
 off into the corner of the chapel, as the music 
 of a dream, weird, wondrous, at an end. 
 
 And the pinch of dust within my palm 
 melted away into a vapor thinner than the 
 
 387 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 air and rosy as the morn, while all that lin- 
 gered was the burn and blister in my flesh ; 
 all that loitered was the echo of the raven's 
 ' Nevermore ; ' all the refluent memory that 
 remains is of the once-seen lost Lenore, and 
 the year I count all my other years without." 
 
 388 
 
THE 
 
 PRISONER OF THE STEEN 
 
THE 
 
 PRISONER OF THE STEEN 
 
 I WAS in Antwerp, sight-seeing, in lazy, 
 dilettante fashion. I was stopping at the 
 Hotel de la Paix, in the Marche anx Sou- 
 liers and the Rue des Menuisiers, and saun- 
 tered out one morning down the Place de 
 Mier. I stopped as I passed the Cathedral, 
 for just then Carolus and all his fifty-nine 
 lesser brethren, rang out a joyous jubilee of 
 bell melody from one end of the city to the 
 other. 
 
 Then I walked on in the glory of the sun- 
 shine, and presently out of it into that region 
 of narrow gassen, where the tall old houses 
 lean, nodding, gossip-wise, toward each 
 other, and where at every corner there is 
 sure to be a Madonna and Child perched 
 aloft in a tawdry little shrine, decked out 
 with paper roses, and perfumed by the sweet 
 flavor of many voiceless prayers. 
 
 Hither and yon my idling footsteps wan- 
 391 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 dered, until I came to the Street of the 
 Steen, and presently to the Steen itself. 
 
 The Steen, so far as I could discover, was 
 once the palace of some great noble, and 
 surely dates back to the tenth century, if not 
 farther. Later it became one of the prisons 
 of the Inquisition, and now it is a museum. 
 Considering its antiquity, its associations, 
 and its situation, the Steen is one of the most 
 interesting buildings in Flanders. 
 
 The Scheldt River flows noiselessly and 
 smoothly beneath a part of the stronghold, 
 and on the water side there is a deep, silent, 
 closed portico where a boat might be 
 moored, and no one the wiser save the boat- 
 man and his passengers. 
 
 I stepped within the entrance court. It 
 is surrounded and guarded on all sides by 
 the grim stone walls that tower up to touch 
 the blue, with their sharp, peaked roofs, and 
 hooding windows, no wider than my hand, 
 yet barred and spiked with iron. 
 
 The court is stone-paved, of course^ and 
 strewn about with all manner of things fit 
 to drive the artist frantic ; old carved 
 wooden figures, warriors, Marys, a Hercu- 
 392 
 
and Other People 
 
 les, carved chests, pieces of armor, empty 
 helmets — visors up — grinning- at one an- 
 other ; and in the midst of it all, in a narrow 
 slip of sunshine, sat a young painter at work, 
 while a frolicsome kitten scampered away 
 after an inconsequent but elusive fly. 
 
 There are any quantity of objects of in- 
 terest in the rooms devoted to the museum 
 collection, but with these, that morning, I 
 had nothing in common. Having escaped 
 from the thraldom of a chaperon, and evad- 
 ed the guardianship of anyone, I was bent 
 upon that which all my people told me a per- 
 son with nerves " must not even dream of 
 attempting. I was going through the prison 
 of the Inquisition, which is situated in the 
 dungeons of the Steen. 
 
 Others there were, a half-dozen, unlike 
 myself, cheery, hearty people without nerves, 
 and merely anxious to do something, so as to 
 have material for conversation. 
 
 We were met by a precise and particular 
 dame, whose withered visage relaxed not 
 beneath the shade of her ruffled cap-border. 
 She showed us into a small office on the 
 right, where, on a table, were set out a dozen 
 393 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 or more brass candlesticks and a tray of 
 matches. A few words in patois sufficed to 
 summon the old dame's son, a strapping 
 young fellow, who took the big bunch of 
 rusty keys from its peg on the wall, politely 
 requested the six sight-seers to light their 
 candles, and, touching the match to his own 
 long torch, motioned us to follow him. 
 
 As we stepped along the gloomy passage 
 he discoursed volubly. Few visitors came 
 to the Steen, he informed us ; there had been 
 none before, this week ; it was a spot full of 
 interest, worthy the attention of all ladies 
 and gentlemen of wealth and condition. 
 
 At this juncture, the end of the passage 
 reached, we came to a stout oaken door, 
 hewn rough, and knoj^bed with nails. The 
 guide unlocked it, we crossed the threshold 
 and he followed, swinging to the lumbering 
 portal behind him and locking it carefully 
 from the inside. Thus shut out from even a 
 glint of natural light, we stood at the head of 
 as grewsome a flight of stairs as can well be 
 imagined. 
 
 The flare of the torch and the candles 
 shone fitfully as we went down the steep, 
 394 
 
and Other People 
 
 slimy, stone steps, our feet fitting in the 
 grooves worn there by long centuries full of 
 plodders mournfuller than we. 
 
 I was last, and the guide's voice sounded 
 back eerily to me as I went. 
 
 Messieurs and Mesdames, you now de- 
 scend the staircase of the condemned ; you 
 now reach the bottom; do not fear, this 
 round stone with its ring of iron is the oubli- 
 ette; it is firmly secured at present; it was 
 not always so; centuries ago, he who was 
 bidden to walk down this stair found death 
 at the end ; with his last step he fell into the 
 Scheldt and was not heard about any more, 
 ever." 
 
 Ay, down unwittingly, into the yawning 
 arms of the river they must have plunged ; 
 the river that sidles and gurgles — I can hear 
 it now — against the stone walls, waiting for 
 prey of tortured human bodies to be carried 
 out to sea. 
 
 " The last step ! " cried out the guide's 
 harsh voice. 
 
 I put out my hand and clutched at the 
 dripping wall, damp, it seemed to me, with 
 the dews of death. My candle flickered. I 
 395 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 shuddered, and in a moment more, the 
 oubliette passed, I followed the others as 
 they went. 
 
 A brief glance at the modus operandi of 
 practical martyrdom may perhaps serve to 
 acquit our own day and fate of any such in- 
 tention toward us. 
 
 " Here is the cell," sung out the young 
 Fleming, " where murder by suffocation was 
 perpetrated." 
 
 The rude fireplace remains intact, the 
 stone charred and bitten by the flames that 
 stole away human life as they burned, 
 whose tongues flared as high up the choked 
 chimneys as they could, struggling to gain 
 light and so proclaim to men the infernal 
 fires that were fed so often in the dungeons 
 of the Steen, in the days of Philip of Spain. 
 
 " Messieurs and Mesdames, this is the 
 apartment where the hangings took place." 
 
 The rings and chains, rusty with saints' 
 tears, hang on the walls still. 
 
 '* Messieurs and Mesdames, behold here 
 the place of the deaths by slow drowning ! " 
 
 The pump which the victim was allowed 
 to use until exhausted, stands in its foul cor- 
 396 
 
and Other People 
 
 ner to-day, frightful witness of man's in- 
 humanity to man ; and there are the pipes by 
 which the sullen Scheldt waters were sucked 
 in to do their work. 
 
 " Messieurs and Mesdames, I show to you 
 here the apartment of the confession ; in this 
 iron hole the prisoner spoke, while — follow 
 me if you please " — The guide waved his 
 torch aloft and all the others made after him 
 through the slit of a doorway. I did not ; I 
 stood still, hearing his voice, quick and rasp- 
 ing, as he continued his tale. 
 
 — While here the priest listened unseen, 
 to the confession, and conferred upon the 
 repentant the absolution which he desired." 
 
 I did not know then, and have no idea 
 now, why I stood there, the great beads 
 starting on my forehead as I realized the 
 awful woe and deviltry of those days so 
 happily dead. 
 
 I leaned close to the confessional tube ; I 
 heard again the voice of the young Fleming 
 — it seemed to me a great way off — and with 
 a start I rushed through the arch to follow 
 my companions. 
 
 As I did so the draught of my precipitate 
 397 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 movement put out my candle, and I stood 
 alone in the total darkness. 
 
 I called, not loudly, for the demon of fear 
 choked my utterance and made of me a whis- 
 perer. Only the faint echo of my own 
 breath made me a mocking answer. 
 
 I stared into the blackness, for not the 
 dimmest kind of light came to my straining 
 eyes. 
 
 I put out my hands and caught blindly at 
 the slimy walls. I then crept along with 
 cautious, terrified tread, thinking I knew 
 not where an open oubliette might yawn 
 beneath my feet. 
 
 The tears of anguish started to my eyes 
 as my calls stuck in my throat. Once more 
 I dared to take a few steps, as my arms 
 seemed to catch at something like the rough- 
 ness of a supporting pillar. I clung to it, 
 swinging myself around a corner apparently, 
 and then, at last, light — soft, mellow, beauti- 
 ful light — greeted my famished sight. 
 
 I opened my lips to speak, to call^ but on 
 the instant even I remained silent and stood 
 still. 
 
 Yonder, at the end of the narrow corri- 
 398 
 
and Other People 
 
 dor where I stood, there opened out a wide, 
 square space. It was railed about with iron 
 bars and chains to the ceiling's height. 
 Within this space a carpet was spread upon 
 the stone floor, and there were a bed, chairs, 
 and a table on which a lamp burned. Books 
 and papers were littered about, also large 
 maps. A man in a shooting-jacket of rusty 
 brown velvet sat by the table, leaning over it. 
 
 His hands were large, firm, white, well- 
 shaped. 
 
 His face was hidden in a mask which com- 
 pletely defied observation of what was be- 
 hind it. 
 
 I stood still in the shadow, unseen. I dared 
 not move. Once in a place where I could 
 see, my calmness returned to me, and I felt 
 sure that the Fleming would return to fetch 
 me, or, at worst, that my party, noticing my 
 absence, would be hunting me up. 
 
 Some undefined intuition kept me silent. 
 In another moment, as I glanced down at 
 my watch to see the hour — it pointed noon — 
 I heard a clanking footstep, and started joy- 
 fully forward to greet the deliverer I be- 
 lieved to be at hand. 
 
 399 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Not so. I caught the gleam of a scabbard ; 
 I heard the cHck of higher heels than the 
 Fleming's ; I heard, too, the rattle of chains, 
 and again I drew back in my corner and 
 stood still. 
 
 I felt myself in the unbidden presence of 
 some one of Fate's mysteries, and can can- 
 didly say that I had no fear. 
 
 As I withdrew, a soldier, bearing a trayful 
 of food, appeared. He was followed by an- 
 other, evidently a subaltern, with a lantern 
 and a drawn sword. 
 
 They approached the iron fencing. The 
 figure inside remained motionless. Not 
 until the second soldier thrust his keys into 
 the double locks and pushed open the gate, 
 admitting his superior and himself, did the 
 prisoner stir, and then it was merely to re- 
 turn, with a movement of unusual grace, 
 the salutes of the two men. 
 
 Not a word was spoken. 
 
 The tray of food was placed on the table, 
 and the guard took a minute survey of every- 
 thing, however trivial, in the enclosure, 
 while the subaltern stood on guard at the 
 gate. 
 
 400 
 
and Other People 
 
 The superior crossed to the prisoner, ap- 
 parently satisfied that nothing untoward had 
 occurred since his last visit, took a small key 
 from his chain, placed it in the lock of the 
 mask, turned it with a snap, and lifted the 
 screen from the face it had shadowed. 
 
 It was the face of Louis Napoleon, third 
 Emperor of France ! 
 
 My eyes dilated ; my heart stood still. 
 The Emperor had died, been buried in Chis- 
 elhurst, and turned to dust long since. 
 
 Was I in a trance ? 
 
 No ; the soldiers saluted again, he return- 
 ing the compliment, with the same grace; 
 they shut the gate, locked it, marched away, 
 and left me standing there. 
 
 I felt myself, awestruck and amazed as I 
 was, in the indisputable presence of some 
 tragic and mysterious fate; and my own 
 gruesome position faded into insignificance 
 beside the curious history that so unfolded 
 itself to my vision. 
 
 Obeying an impulse which I stopped nei- 
 ther to combat nor question, as the foot- 
 steps of the soldiers died off in the distance, 
 I emerged from. my corner and came out into 
 401 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 the circle of mellow radiance emanating 
 from the prisoner's lamp. 
 
 The frou-frou of my garments was audi- 
 ble enough in that forlorn and torturing si- 
 lence. 
 
 He looked up startled, rose, and with part- 
 ed lips and eyes redeemed wholly from cold- 
 ness by the quick fire that shone in their lan- 
 guid depths, advanced close to the bars and 
 bowed profoundly. 
 
 I beheld this man with only the more won- 
 der as he spoke, for, notwithstanding the 
 waxen, prison-born pallor of his face, the 
 white hairs on his temples, and the attenua- 
 tion of his figure, no closer image of one 
 human being ever existed than was this of 
 Louis Napoleon. 
 
 Is it an angel ? " he asks, in a soft, low 
 tone, in French, of course. 
 
 I hurriedly make answer that I am merely 
 an American girl lost for the moment in the 
 Steen dungeons. I add exactly what it has 
 been my most ardent wish to say to this man 
 since the first moment I beheld him : 
 
 " Can I do anything for you ? 
 
 " Much — everything — if you will. First, 
 402 
 
and Other People 
 
 may I beg to know where I am, in what 
 country, what city ? I know nothing of my 
 whereabouts. I was brought here by night, 
 I do not know how long since, with this " — 
 he indicates the mask — " on my face, and 
 since the month after Sedan, where I fought 
 and was wounded, I am in complete ignor- 
 ance of everything, everybody, the world, all 
 it contains ! " 
 
 I hastily tell him what he wishes to know. 
 I add the date of the year and month. 
 
 ''And the Emperor?" he asks, with a 
 quick glance ; France ? the Prince Impe- 
 rial?" 
 
 The Emperor," I answer, '' died at Chis- 
 elhurst. The Prince Imperial is dead also. 
 France is a Republic. Neither Bourbon nor 
 Buonaparte rules there now." 
 
 He seems startled, passes his hand across 
 his forehead, and then with a stealthy look 
 around into the gloom, he crosses to the 
 table, whose thick legs are sunk in wooden 
 sockets; he lifts one up and from beneath 
 the large claw foot he draws forth some bits 
 of folded paper. 
 
 " Madame," the prisoner says, " I do not 
 403 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 understand why you are willing to risk 
 something in behalf of a man as miserable 
 as the one you behold. It is enough for me 
 to accept the bounty of God through you, 
 His messenger. I am the eldest son of Na- 
 poleon III., Emperor of the French. This 
 paper will tell you more, if you will ex- 
 amine it and this letter." Through the 
 bars he hands the papers to me. I thrust 
 them hastily into the breast-pocket of my 
 jacket. 
 
 Madame, I shall be forever your debtor 
 if you can convey this letter to Marshal Mc- 
 Mahon — if he is not dead also?" he adds, 
 with a sudden apprehension. 
 
 ''Marshal McMahon is alive," I reply, 
 " and without fail I will mail this letter to 
 him as soon as I leave the Steen." 
 
 " I wrote it," he continues, " it must be 
 years since, that and the other, to have them 
 in readiness, should fortune ever grant me 
 the chance of entrusting them to any human 
 being willing to listen to me." 
 
 " Not only willing, but happy, to aid you. 
 Monsieur," I make answer, as through my 
 brain there rushes the phantasm of the hor- 
 404 
 
and Other People 
 
 ror of the years this man has Hved since he 
 last saw the sunshine. 
 
 And then, afar, echoing through the 
 wretched place, I hear the young Fleming's 
 shrill voice. 
 
 The prisoner starts back. 
 
 " Do not let them find you here," he whis- 
 pers in sudden affright, and yet something 
 of imperial courtesy preventing him, as he 
 bows low before me, from a dismissal, even 
 in this crisis. 
 
 I put out my hand through the bars — for 
 one instant it lies in both of his. The touch 
 has in it the chill of a charnel-house. 
 
 " You have my word," I murmur, for 
 secrecy, silence, and all the help I can give 
 you." 
 
 He falls on his knees, and with the sound 
 of his " God bless you ! " in my ears I shrink 
 back into the darksome passage-way. I 
 crawl and shiver along its damp, mouldy 
 sides until I catch the faint gleam of light, 
 hear the shouts of the guide and his mother 
 and the rest of his family, and presently I am 
 up on earth once more, quit of the prison of 
 the Inquisition. 
 
 405 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 The young Fleming regards me with curi- 
 osity as I somewhat incoherently describe 
 the horror of my late situation ; a couple of 
 soldiers leaning near at hand in the court- 
 yard laugh between themselves, little dream- 
 ing how recently I have seen them, as they 
 watch me driven off in the cab back to the 
 Hotel de la Paix. 
 
 Were it not for the papers in my pocket I 
 should have said that I had fallen asleep and 
 dreamed dreams in the Steen ; but there they 
 were, the folded, creased, yellow bits. 
 
 The letter addressed to Marshal Mc- 
 Mahon I did not, of course, unfold, but the 
 other sheets (which the prisoner had re- 
 quested me to read before sending to their 
 destination) I took from the dingy envelope, 
 and with illimitable interest and deference, 
 spread out before me as soon as I reached 
 home. 
 
 I read as follows: 
 
 " I am the only child of Louis Napoleon 
 Buonaparte and an American lady, whose 
 name and parentage my most strenuous en- 
 deavors, even pleadings and prayers, failed 
 to wring from her in the years of my boy- 
 406 
 
and Other People 
 
 hood. Suffice it, she said, for me to know 
 that she had been married secretly to my 
 father in the city of New York, in America, 
 on the 14th of May, 1837, by a priest of the 
 CathoHc Church; that immediately prior to 
 this ceremony she, having been born a Prot- 
 estant, had abjured that faith and been re- 
 ceived into the religion which my father pro- 
 fessed. Not even the sworn intimates of 
 Louis Napoleon, such as Wyckoff, at whose 
 house he was a guest, dreamed of this ro- 
 mance. When he quitted America my 
 mother left in the same vessel, and all efforts 
 of her family and friends to even trace her 
 whereabouts were unavailing. Pledged to 
 the man she worshipped, for whom she re- 
 nounced all things and people, she never in 
 my presence regretted her election. 
 
 " I was born in London on the loth of 
 March, 1838, and in 1846, my mother, al- 
 ways known as Madame St. Leon, removed 
 to Paris. My father, immediately after the 
 coup d'etat, visited us frequently in our 
 apartment in the Rue Bayard, near the Cours 
 de la Reine. I can recall him perfectly when 
 he would caress me as a child of ten, and 
 407 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 bring me bonbons and toy soldiers. Then 
 for years I saw nothing of him, and pres- 
 ently I was placed at the school of St. Cyr, 
 especially under the patronage of Marshal 
 McAIahon. My mother, always well sup- 
 plied with money, yet was ever sad, mourn- 
 ful ; and at last, becoming alarmingly ill, I 
 was hastily sent for, to return and find her 
 at the point of death with the two names on 
 her lips of Louis and Marshal McMahon. 
 
 The Marshal came, and in his presence, 
 with his concurrence, assent, and endorse- 
 ment, the story of my parentage was told to 
 me. To him my mother entrusted her pri- 
 vate papers, and with her last breath she ex- 
 horted me thus : * Louis, my son, you are 
 the lawful son of the Emperor of France; 
 none other is lawful ; my marriage to your 
 father was valid and never annulled. Now 
 that you are nearing man's estate, now that 
 I have been for years cast aside for another, 
 now that the boy of the Tuileries may usurp 
 your place, I charge you by all you hold dear 
 or sacred to right my name.* 
 
 " My mother died and was interred at 
 Montmartre very quietly, Marshal Mc- 
 408 
 
and Other People 
 
 Mahon taking charge of everything. I re- 
 turned to St. Cyr and profited entirely by the 
 counsels which the great soldier bestowed 
 upon me. His instructions were, watch, 
 wait, be silent, and observe ! 
 
 " I obeyed him to the letter, and no sylla- 
 ble of my history ever escaped my lips. 
 Upon my graduation, I received a commis- 
 sion in the army. I served with valor, yet 
 obtaining no distinction, until at last, on the 
 field of Sedan I received a ball in the left 
 shoulder, which reached me before it should 
 have struck the son of Eugenie. Such is the 
 sarcasm of destiny. Prior to this, it is quite 
 a fact that my extraordinary resemblance to 
 the Emperor was not infrequently remarked, 
 but there was a tacit passing over of this, as 
 well as an equally tacit acquiescence in it. 
 
 " Wounded and in hospital, I became, as 
 they told me afterward, delirious, and I can 
 but believe that in these moments I must 
 have betrayed the story of my identity. 
 While still unable to walk, I was conveyed 
 to Dijon, a long distance for me in my con- 
 dition. 
 
 " While there, I realized that I was more 
 409 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 closely watched than seemed necessary, and 
 after the receipt, one day, of a letter from the 
 Marshal, I felt instinctively that the espion- 
 age was redoubled. This letter ran thus : 
 ' The time is ripe. Rest assured of my de- 
 votion and my services. As soon as you 
 quit the hospital and can walk, you may also 
 talk. France will rally to you, and the 
 army, always pledged to fidelity, loyalty, and 
 legitimacy, will be yours.' " 
 
 (It must be remembered that McMahon 
 had very little to guide him save military 
 honor, and that noblesse oblige could not 
 have entered into the arrangements of the 
 man, who successively espoused an Empire 
 and a Republic, after having been born and 
 educated within a Kingdom.) 
 
 " I slept with that letter under my palm. 
 
 " When I awoke it was gone. A dim and 
 dizzy night had set in. Staggering under 
 the influence of some anodyne I was hurried 
 — whither? I have never known. The 
 mask was padlocked upon my head and after 
 that I have experienced nothing but a prison 
 dungeon, and the implacable silence of those 
 who are my jailers. Once, my first copy of 
 410 
 
and Other People 
 
 this letter was discovered, for I kept it al- 
 ways near me, hoping against hope that fate 
 would accord me the means of communica- 
 tion with the outer world. Immediately upon 
 its discovery, without a word, I was hurried 
 in the night away, but only to another dun- 
 geon — it is this one. If there is pity, justice, 
 humanity in this world, may it be granted to 
 me to live once more in the daylight and to 
 abjure forever the claims that I have to the 
 Imperial throne of France ! 
 
 [Signed] " Louis Francois Marie Na- 
 poleon Buonaparte." 
 
 When I had finished reading this extraor- 
 dinary document, whether rightly or wrong- 
 ly, I made a copy of it in English, beheving 
 that the strangeness of the circumstances 
 warranted my doing so. I then placed the 
 original, with the letter to Marshal Mc- 
 Mahon and the frayed envelope, in a fresh 
 one, addressed the packet correctly, and 
 mailed it with my own hands at the post- 
 office in Antwerp. 
 
 The next morning, accompanied by my 
 father, who counselled the move, I took a 
 cab and drove at once to the Steen. The 
 411 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 Court gates were closed, and only after re- 
 peated loud knockings did the young and 
 lusty Fleming respond to our calls. 
 
 " The Musee is closed, Monsieur and 
 Madame," he said, abruptly. " It will not 
 be reopened for some weeks ; repairs are to 
 be made." 
 
 I had misgivings ; I shuddered at the fate, 
 worse even than life in the dungeons of the 
 Steen, that might be so easily dealt out to a 
 prisoner in that horrible place, and yet at the 
 same time I questioned what the object 
 might be in keeping this man immured. 
 
 This my father easily explained ; the Re- 
 public, now on a measurably assured foun- 
 dation, yet not stable enough to run any 
 risks, thought it wisest to place such entire- 
 ly out of the question, and thus, what began 
 at the instigation of the Empress was carried 
 on for the welfare of the Republic. 
 
 Nevertheless, the Steen was all I could 
 think of, and that moonlit night found me, 
 having persuaded my companion to the un- 
 usual jaunt, down by the borders of the 
 Scheldt, gazing curiously at the frowning 
 walls of the stronghold as they rose from 
 412 
 
and Other People 
 
 the river, and then out into the broad stream 
 where a merchant-man, bound for Guiana, 
 swerved at her anchor as the smoke curled 
 up from her stacks. 
 
 " She must be going to sail early in the 
 morning," I observed. 
 
 " She is going to sail sooner than that," 
 returned my father. " They are weighing 
 anchor now." 
 
 It was as he said. And even as we were 
 chatting of the beauty of the night, there 
 shot out into the water, seemingly from 
 under the very foundations of the prison, a 
 boat. There were five men in it — two to 
 row, two to watch, and one who sat be- 
 tween them with his head bowed in his 
 hands. 
 
 I divined well enough who the passenger 
 was, as in a few moments the rowboat 
 reached the ship's side and the prisoner of 
 the Steen was put aboard. 
 
 Two days later I received the card of a 
 stranger ; it read, M. le Capitaine Georges 
 d'Hulaincourt." 
 
 I went out to see him, after having sent 
 word that I knew no such person, and having 
 413 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 in reply the assurance that the gentleman's 
 mission was an important one. 
 
 I have the honor," said Captain d'Hu- 
 laincourt, " of returning to Mademoiselle, in 
 the presence of Monsieur, her father " — 
 bowing profoundly as he spoke — " some- 
 thing that belongs to her." 
 
 Capitaine d'Hulaincourt took carefully 
 from his pocket a large official envelope 
 bearing on its corner the words " Palais de 
 I'Elysee." 
 
 " Mademoiselle will do me the honor to 
 examine the contents." 
 
 I drew out the envelope which I had ad- 
 dressed three days previously to Marshal 
 McMahon. 
 
 It was empty. 
 
 " Mademoiselle comprehends ? " 
 
 I " comprehended " entirely. 
 
 In the face of a military espionage as ex- 
 quisitely adjusted in France to-day as under 
 her last Empire my effort in behalf of the 
 prisoner of the Steen, whoever he really was, 
 had been as useless to him as the sun which 
 shone where he never could behold its 
 beams. 
 
 414 
 
and Other People 
 
 Was his story a true one? 
 
 I have searched records and memories of 
 old people for any details of the story of 
 Napoleon III. in this country, and while 
 there is the faint reminiscence of his absorp- 
 tion in a girl of great beauty who disap- 
 peared mysteriously, there is no authentic 
 connection between the two. In pursuing 
 studious inquiries in Belgium and Holland, 
 I find, however, that there is a tacit sub rosa 
 acquiescence in the actuality of the Man 
 with the Iron Mask of to-day, and, more- 
 over, of his Napoleonic origin. 
 
 415 
 
THE CATS-EYE 
 
THE CATS-EYE 
 
 FoLA Bariatinski was the wife of a gen- 
 eral of the army, now absent from Moscow 
 on a campaign in the East. 
 
 She was not, to speak strictly, a handsome 
 woman, but she possessed, nevertheless, that 
 soft and delicious attractiveness of our Slav 
 women which renders them to men irresisti- 
 ble. Mme. Bariatinski, moreover, was thirty 
 years of age, and of that mobile, luxuriant 
 and at once intellectual temperament, which 
 urged her to the enjoyment of herself. 
 
 Conscious of her powers, aware of the 
 emotions she was capable of awakening, she 
 led, in the absence of her husband, a life not 
 devoid of its excitements — if perchance at 
 the same time she reserved within herself a 
 certain subtle essence of sanctity, dedicated 
 to the worship of that which to her was life's 
 best and sweetest bread. 
 
 Each day Mme. Bariatinski wrote a letter 
 419 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 to her husband. Each day also she received 
 visits from some friends, greeting them mer- 
 rily with smiles and pleasant conversation. 
 Notable among the guests of her salon were 
 Sergius Chreptowitch and Ladislaus Her- 
 zen. 
 
 Chreptowitch was an artist, young, fanci- 
 ful, ardent, and what is called original — that 
 is to say, he had the admirable gift of doing 
 things in a way in which the world had had 
 time to forget that they had ever been done 
 before. 
 
 Herzen was a musician — the older man of 
 the two by ten years ; dreamy, sad, quiet, a 
 sorrowful gentleman to whom the instinc- 
 tive sympathy of women went out, hand in 
 hand with their admiration of his liquid gray 
 eyes and his soft, gold-colored curls. 
 
 Mme. Bariatinski received her friends in- 
 formally every day — or evening, rather — as 
 I have said, in a pair of small rooms meagre- 
 ly furnished. There were splendid large 
 drawing-rooms used on fete or gala occa- 
 sions, but these little apartments were well 
 chosen for those who gathered in them. The 
 floors were waxed wood, spread with fur 
 420 
 
and Other People 
 
 rugs, and the furniture was all of staring 
 yellow satin. There were no pictures on the 
 walls, no cabinets of art, no bric-a-brac; 
 merely myriads of tall candles, portieres and 
 curtains of yellow, mirrors and great ruddy 
 fires. A bare stupid spot without the peo- 
 ple; with them, complete. 
 
 " It is folly," Mme. Bariatinski says to 
 Herzen, who stands leaning above the top of 
 her chair, to trim one^s rooms with a mil- 
 lion little objects ; they are distracting and 
 they break. I would much rather decorate 
 my salon with people of beauty and genius.'* 
 
 " They do not break," Herzen says, softly. 
 
 " No," she laughs, looking up at him ap- 
 preciatively. 
 
 " Only their hearts do — sometimes, that 
 is all." His voice has sunk to a whisper. 
 
 " Hearts, hearts ! " echoes Fola, fondling 
 absently the fur of the large, sedate, one- 
 eyed cat who is her familiar pet. " Herzen," 
 she says, throwing up her pretty head auda- 
 ciously, as only a woman with a faultless 
 throat would risk doing, " tell me, now, what 
 is the heart?" 
 
 " The capacity alike for infinite joy and 
 421 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 for as infinite a suffering," Herzen replies, 
 glancing away from the lovely face that at 
 that moment he would like to take between 
 his cold and trembling hands, and kiss with 
 his warm and quivering lips. 
 
 " And do you think, par exemple, Herzen, 
 that I have a heart ? " Mme. Bariatinski 
 preserves the upward pose of her head, 
 knowing very well the thoughts of the man 
 who stands near her. 
 
 " Oh ! " cries he, with impatience, " yes, 
 yes." 
 
 Mme. Bariatinski laughs merrily, and 
 Herzen crosses to a piano, where he plays 
 for some time with great tenderness. 
 
 And why do you thus laugh, madame ? " 
 cries Sergius Chreptowitch, entering the 
 salon and bowing low over his hostess's 
 hand. 
 
 " Because " Fola hesitates and loses. 
 
 " I will tell you. You laughed just now 
 because there were tears salting your eyes — 
 is it not so ? One's smiles so often veil one's 
 tears." 
 
 ** Well, granted, what then ? " answers 
 she, a little defiantly, her white neck throb- 
 422 
 
and Other People 
 
 bing slightly beneath the weight of the cat's- 
 eye medallion which she always wears. 
 
 " Shall I tell you?" 
 
 " Yes, you shall." 
 
 " Well, you thought of the man you love. 
 When women like you think upon their holy 
 of holies, it is ever with that pleasure which 
 is twin of pain ; their rapture finds sound in 
 a sigh, and there sits always at their feast 
 the little serpent that stings the soul." 
 
 Which is ? " asks she, dreamily, smooth- 
 ing the long fur of the cat's coat. 
 
 " The doubt of its own destiny." 
 
 " Well," she responds, in a commonplace 
 tone, though after a brief pause, you are 
 correct." 
 
 " Put away that beast, do ! " cries the 
 young man, his eyes following her white 
 hand's wanderings with jealousy. 
 
 Mme. Bariatinski laughs, drawing the 
 one-eyed cat closer to her side. 
 
 " Sergius," she exclaims, " I wonder 
 which you hate the more, my cat, or," touch- 
 ing her bosom, " my cat's-eye ? " 
 
 It was true that not alone Chreptowitch, 
 but Herzen as well, held in great abhorrence 
 423 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 the cat, and the medalHon that glimmered 
 in a melancholy splendor about the neck of 
 Fola. 
 
 They both held to the superstition that 
 some evil would one day come of the one- 
 eyed cat, and they as well knew that the re- 
 verse of the medallion contained the portrait 
 of a man. 
 
 Well, to be sure, each occasionally thought 
 it the other ; and, if the truth is to be told, 
 each at certain moments believed it to be 
 himself. 
 
 But no one knew. 
 
 The jewel had been seen, shining for cen- 
 turies in the forehead of an idol, by genera- 
 tions of Hindoos. General Bariatinski had 
 pecured it as a bridal present for his wife. 
 
 The gift of a husband, it was exactly in 
 the vein of this woman to use it as the cover 
 to the portrait of a lover — at least that was 
 one of the many remarks made of her by 
 some of her guests behind the yellow silk 
 hangings, as they gratefully sipped their tea 
 and drank their wine. 
 
 " I hate neither," he replies, quickly. " I 
 fear the beast ; it as an evil one, I tell you. 
 424 
 
and Other People 
 
 It looks at you sometimes with that malic- 
 ious eye as if it believed your jewel belonged 
 to it. ' Aha ! some day/ it seems to me to 
 say, ' Madame, I will spring ; I will tear my 
 other eye from your neck with my claws. I 
 will bite.' That is what I hear it say, Mad- 
 ame, when it purrs so softly beside you." 
 
 Mme. Bariatinski shrinks away from her 
 pet, folding her arms tightly together. Then 
 she looks up at Chreptowitch. 
 
 " Oh, I see ! " cries she, catching the large 
 cat in her embrace. " You are a jealous 
 man. Yes, yes, I see." 
 
 Not of a beast," Sergius responds, with 
 contempt. " Of that jewel, perhaps. Fola," 
 he whispers, bending before her, " for whom 
 were those salt drops shining in your eyes 
 when I entered? Who is the man whose 
 face lies upon your white skin there al- 
 ways?" He glances at the cat's-eye. "Is it, 
 as they say, the face of the man you love? " 
 
 Mme. Bariatinski, with the cat lying com- 
 placently in her arms, nods her head in a 
 matter-of-fact fashion. 
 
 " And he is " Sergius Chreptowitch 
 
 has lost his head. Reeling with an internal 
 425 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 fever that no conventionahty has power to 
 cool ; maddened with the strength and deep- 
 ness of his own love for this lady, he reck- 
 lessly — crunching some of the folds of her 
 yellow gown in his fingers, while Herzen 
 still plays his sad airs at the piano, while the 
 guests laugh and jest with considerable noise 
 — asks his question. 
 
 " Who should he be? " Fola speaks very 
 softly, raising her beautiful large eyes to his 
 with an expression of unutterable, indescrib- 
 able pathos and tenderness, and at the same 
 moment laying her hand with a caressing 
 motion upon the jewel on her bosom. 
 
 Sergius Chreptowitch is perhaps not more 
 vain than many men, and just at this mo- 
 ment his cup of bliss appears to him over- 
 flowing with the nectar that at once quenches 
 the unquenchable thirst, and causes it to cry 
 out for more and more. 
 
 He catches wildly at her hand, but to hold 
 those five small fingers for a second of time. 
 
 Well, the cat, disturbed, perchance, from 
 its comfortable position by his abrupt move- 
 ment, strikes at him with its paw, and the 
 blood comes out in little drops on his wrist. 
 426 
 
and Other People 
 
 That one-eyed devil ! " he mutters, go- 
 ing away out of the room for water and a 
 towel. 
 
 " Does it please you ? " Herzen now in- 
 quires, having quitted his piano, as it is very 
 late in the evening, and all the guests, save 
 himself and perchance some lingerer with a 
 patient purpose in an ante-room, have left. 
 
 " Your music is very beautiful, it always 
 is," answers Fola, soaking up with her 
 dainty handkerchief the one drop of Chrep- 
 towitch's blood which stains her gown. 
 
 " Beautiful ! " murmurs the musician. 
 " Surely you do not call music merely beau- 
 tiful ? It is one of the divinities." 
 
 "And the others are ?" she asked 
 
 with languorous lips. 
 
 " You — and you — and you," Herzen says, 
 with anxious timidity, as his questioning 
 and adoring eyes meet hers. 
 
 " Seriously, Herzen " Mme. Baria- 
 
 tinski smiles a little to herself it seems. 
 " Your art, your music is a great deal for 
 you. Not simply an episode, but even a reli- 
 gion, which each day solaces and sustains 
 you. Is it not so ? " 
 
 427 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 " Aha ! " cries he, emboldened a little by 
 their solitude, broken only by the sputtering 
 of the fire and the tinkle of the clock-bell 
 on the shelf. 
 
 You are my religion — dare I say it? " 
 
 Yes," she replies, calmly, you may say 
 
 it!" 
 
 Herzen throws himself on the rug at her 
 feet, and, transported, lays his head upon the 
 sofa, beside where she sits. 
 
 " And since I am your creed, what be- 
 comes of your music ? " 
 
 " It is," Herzen says, raising his head and 
 clasping it with both his hands — it is the 
 sublimated essence of poetry which daily I 
 lay before your shrine ! " 
 
 " No, no, Herzen," Mme. Bariatinski 
 shakes her head. Music such as you made 
 to-night sitting yonder at the piano is not 
 poetry." 
 
 " It is what, then? " 
 Prose, prose. Oh, Herzen ! " cries she, 
 throwing her lovely arms up over her head 
 and clasping her hands together tightly there 
 as she leans backward slightly. 
 
 " Do we speak in rhythm or rhyme when 
 428 
 
and Other People 
 
 we strive to express the best and hoHest, the 
 truest and tenderest thoughts that we have? 
 No ; in prose. Do we break into harmonious 
 numbers and words that jingle, when we 
 pray to our God to protect the one who is 
 most absolutely dear to us? " Fola's voice 
 is tremulous with a passionate joy and grief. 
 
 No, no; in prose, Herzen " — laughing a 
 little, as she had at the entrance of Chrepto- 
 witch — Herzen, your music is prose, for it 
 speaks, too, of all this and more — of that 
 which never was — and " 
 
 " Never shall be." 
 
 The musician rises and stands before 
 her. 
 
 Why is it that a woman like you, a creat- 
 ure of fire and snow, at once a siren and a 
 vestal, full of intellect, nerve, tenderness, 
 
 wastes her time with such men as " He 
 
 stops short. 
 
 " You mean Chreptowitch," she says, 
 panting, with a half coquettish glance 
 through her black eyelashes. 
 
 Herzen sighs and sits down near her. 
 
 Mme. Bariatinski, stroking the soft ears 
 of the cat, looks at her companion with an 
 429 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 expression most puzzling — a little derision, 
 a little pathos, impatience, weariness. What 
 else ! heaven knows ! 
 
 " Herzen ! " exclaimed she, " do you not 
 know that there are women who, in the ab- 
 sence of the man who is the whole world to 
 them, must have love, devotion, adoration, 
 expression from some one — any one." Mme. 
 Bariatinski rises and throws the cat — ill 
 pleased with his transfer — to the floor. 
 
 Herzen buries his face in his palms. 
 And yet I have seen you look into his 
 
 eyes with the same expression that " 
 
 He falters. 
 
 *' Well ? Fola leans her shoulder against 
 the shelf and touches the cat with the tip of 
 her slipper as she speaks. " The same ex- 
 pression that you have beheld in them when 
 looking at you, eh ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, yes ! " he staggers toward her. 
 Herzen, you are very clever, but you are 
 like Chreptowitch ; to you I am a sphinx — by 
 the way, he is going to paint me as one." 
 
 " No ? " with inquiring anxiety. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Oh, very well." 
 
 430 
 
and Other People 
 
 " Do you not know that there are women 
 who must lavish their glances, their smiles, 
 their caprices — no more than these — on 
 some one, any one! In the absence of the 
 idol one still bows the knee. Oh, Herzen," 
 she cries, with almost a sob in her voice, " I 
 am such a woman ! " 
 
 " Fola, for the love of heaven, tell me if it 
 is possible for you to love ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, truly," she replies, quietly, " it 
 is indeed possible." 
 
 They say," murmurs he, spreading his 
 chilly fingers before the warmth of the fire, 
 and looking up at her very piteously, that 
 under your jewel there, your cat's-eye, is the 
 portrait of the man you love." 
 
 '*It is the truth," she says, laying her hand 
 over her treasure. 
 
 Ah." Herzen touches with one timid 
 finger the little slipper with which the cat 
 is amusing himself — even caressingly allows 
 himself to smoothe the silken stocking. 
 " Fola, who is he?" 
 
 " Who should he be ? " Mme. Bariatinski 
 makes answer, looking down with an expres- 
 sion of indescribable tenderness and emotion 
 431 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 into the face of the man who kneels before 
 her. 
 
 Chreptowitch has waited quite long 
 enough, he thinks, in the ante-room, toying 
 with books and photographs. 
 
 He comes in. 
 
 " You want me to give you a sitting to- 
 morrow, do you not ? " Fola says, without 
 moving or turning her head. 
 If you will be so gracious." 
 
 " And, Herzen, you will come and play for 
 me — sitting is so tedious — will you not? " 
 
 " Indeed, I am but too glad. At what 
 hour? " 
 
 Well, let us say in the afternoon.'* 
 
 " So be it," the artist answers. 
 
 Mme. Bariatinski picks up the cat, and 
 makes a slight movement away from the 
 fireplace. 
 
 It is the signal of dismissal, w^hich each is 
 reluctant to obey, but happier for being 
 obliged to submit to it together. 
 
 Yes ; it was to-morrow afternoon." 
 
 Fola, in the long blue gown that she was 
 to sit in, stood in her boudoir; she listened 
 to a footstep on the staircase very intently, 
 432 
 
and Other People 
 
 her hand to her ear. The one-eyed cat was 
 cleaning his paws after emptying a bowl of 
 milk. 
 
 Hurry, Zaca, hurry. Why do you lag 
 so ! " cries Mme. Bariatinski to the maid ser- 
 vant, who now, panting, enters the room, 
 bearing a packet of letters on a tray of 
 bronze. 
 
 There is also this dispatch, madame," 
 the girl says, giving it to her mistress. 
 " A dispatch ! " 
 
 Mme. Bariatinski rushes to the window, 
 the better to read the slip of paper that flut- 
 ters in her grasp. 
 
 It is not long — a line and a half. 
 
 A sound escapes her — half a sigh, half a 
 sob, a terrible sound of human woe — and 
 uttering it, she falls with a dull thud to the 
 floor. 
 
 The maid servant shrieks, thus calling to 
 her aid a half dozen more, who scream and 
 wring their hands, running about, pulling 
 bell-ropes, then rushing all of them down 
 the staircase. 
 
 At the bottom they meet Chreptowitch 
 and Herzen entering the house. 
 
 433 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 They inquire. 
 
 Incoherently the servants tell their tale, 
 forgetting that above, and still unattended 
 to, lies the beloved mistress whose virtues 
 they are occupied in loudly extolling. 
 
 Chreptowitch dashes up the stairs, Herzen 
 follows him, and then the servants. 
 
 From the glare of the candles and lamps 
 of the entrance-hall, they pass bewildered, 
 into the gloom of Fola's boudoir. The in- 
 terminable twilight of the Russian winter 
 has set in, and through its gloom all they can 
 see at first is the glow and fire of two cat's- 
 eyes very near to each other over by the win- 
 dow. 
 
 Chreptowitch bounds across the room ; 
 Herzen staggers after him, while the stew- 
 ard at last brings light to the scene. 
 
 Yes, the one-eyed cat sat curled close to 
 Fola's white throat, sucking her breath with 
 pleasure ; and across her neck were the sharp 
 scratches of his claws where he had tried 
 vainly to pull away her jewel. 
 
 Chreptowitch kicked the cat out of the 
 room, swearing at its unearthly shrieks. 
 
 Herzen took Fola's head upon his knees, 
 434 
 
and Other People 
 
 and presently, when Chreptowitch returned 
 and knelt down there beside her, they both 
 looked at each other in a stupid way, and 
 laid her upon the sofa. 
 
 Mme. Bariatinski was dead. 
 
 They walked silently to the door of the 
 room, and there they, as if by a common im- 
 pulse, turned again and looked in. The 
 cat's-eye shone in splendor on her neck. 
 
 Well — each person has his way. 
 
 Herzen, for once seemed not timid ; was 
 content to take the lead. He went to her, 
 and stooping, turned over with cold fingers 
 the glimmering jewel. 
 
 Very quietly Ladislaus Herzen laid it back 
 again as it had been, and went downstairs 
 and out of the house. 
 
 Chreptowitch picked it up eagerly with a 
 warm hand. He gazed at the other side ; 
 he wrenched it from the chain and, with 
 an oath, flung it against the opposite 
 wall. 
 
 The one-eyed cat had crawled back into 
 his mistress's room; he pounced upon the 
 medallion, and playing with it, purred with 
 satisfaction and good-humor. 
 
 435 
 
The New Yorkers 
 
 The portrait was that of Mme. Bariatin- 
 ski's husband. 
 
 The dispatch had announced his death on 
 the field of battle the day previous. 
 
 436 
 
Two Summer Girls and I 
 
 By Theodore Burt Sayre, author of the plays 
 "Charles O'Malley" and Two Rogues 
 and a Romance." With five flill-page illus- 
 trations by Frederic Thornburgh. i6mo, 
 cloth, $1.25. 
 
 **The reader will find it hardly possible to help yielding 
 himself to the volatile and cheerful spirit. . . . One 
 remarks here if not the influence at least the smartness of 
 'Dodo.' . . . These people are modern and alive. Every- 
 body knows them, and everybody who has trouble wishes he 
 could be as cheerful." — Neiv York Sun. 
 
 ** A pretty little volume telling a pretty love-story of the 
 seaside. It is gay, humorous, witty, brimming over with the 
 sunny spirit of Summer idling by the sea, abounding in light 
 glancing raillery, 'chaff,' and persiflage," — Chicago Chronicle. 
 
 " A lively story told in a sort of monologue style. The 
 hero, the ♦ I ' of the title, had a good time, a statement 
 which the reader can verify by imitating the * I's ' experience, 
 or easier, by reading this entertaining book." — Boston Globe. 
 
 Not every day does one stumble on a book so scintillating 
 with spontaneous jollity and with repartee. The most serious- 
 minded reader will unbend over it and laugh healthily and 
 heartily in sympathy with the tricks, pranks, conceits, and 
 even contretemps of the frisky young fellows caught in the 
 meshes of * Summer-girl ' charms and kept at bay by their 
 playful but independent sauciness." — Home Journal^ N. Y. 
 
 Sold by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, by 
 
 GODFREY A. S. WIENERS 
 
 66l SIXTH AVENUE, NEW YORK