The Portable Louisa May Alcott

“JUST IN TIME for the theatre.You’ll come, Ulster?”

“Because I prefer a cigar, a novel, and my bottle of cliquot.”

“But every one goes,” began Brooke, in a dissatisfied tone.

“True, and for that reason, I keep away.”

“At your age I grant it; now, I’m ten years older and wiser. I’m tired of that as of most other pleasures, so go your way, my boy, and leave me in peace.”

“Come, Ulster, don’t play Timon yet. You are lazy, not used up nor misanthropic, so be obliging, and come like a good fellow.”

Fanning away the cloud of smoke from before me, I took a look at my friend, for something in his manner convinced me that he had some particular reason for desiring my company. Arthur Brooke was a handsome young Briton, of four-and-twenty; blue-eyed, tawny-haired, ruddy and robust, with a frank face, cordial smile, and a heart both brave and tender. I loved him like a younger brother, and watched over him during his holiday in gay, delightful, wicked Paris. So far, he had taken his draught of pleasure with the relish of youth, but like a gentleman. Of late, he had turned moody, shunned me once or twice, and when I alluded to the change, affected surprise, assuring me that nothing was amiss. As I looked at him, I was surer than ever that all was not right. He was pale, and anxious lines had come on his smooth forehead; there was an excited glitter in his eyes, though he had scarcely touched wine at dinner; his smile seemed forced, his voice had lost its hearty ring, and his manner was half petulant, half pleading, as he stood undecidedly crushing up his gloves while he spoke.

“Why do you want me to go? Is it on your account, lad?” I asked, in an altered tone.

“Yes.”

“Give me a reason, and I will.”

He hesitated, colored all over his fair face, then looked me straight in the eyes, and answered steadily.

“I want you to see Mademoiselle Nairne.”

“The deuce you do! Why, Brooke, you’ve not got into a scrape with La Jeune, I hope!” I exclaimed, sitting up, annoyed.

“Far from it, but I love, and mean to marry her if I can,” he answered, in a resolute tone.

“Don’t say that for heaven’s sake. My dear boy, think of your father, your family, your prospects, and don’t ruin yourself by such folly,” I cried, in real anxiety.

“If you loved as I do, you wouldn’t call it folly,” he said, excitedly.

“Of course not, but it would be cursed folly nevertheless, and if some friend saved me from it, I should thank him for it when the delusion was over. Love her if you will, but don’t marry her, I beg of you.”

“That is impossible; she is as good as she is lovely, and will listen to none but honorable vows. Laugh, if you will, it’s so, and actress as she is, there’s not a purer woman than she in all Paris.”

“Bless your innocence, that’s not saying much for her. Why, my dear lad, she knows your fortune to a sou and makes her calculations accordingly. She sees that you are a simple, tender-hearted fellow, easy to catch, and not hard to manage when caught. She will marry you for your money, spend it like water, and when tired of the respectabilities, will elope with the first rich lover that comes along. Don’t shoot me, I speak for your good; I know the world, and warn you of this woman.”

“Do you know her?”

“No, but I know her class; they are all alike, mercenary, treacherous, and shallow.”

“You are mistaken this time, Ulster. I know I’m young, easily gulled perhaps, and in no way your equal in such matters, but I’ll stake my life that Natalie is not what you say.”

“My poor boy, you are far gone, indeed! What can I do to save you?”

“Come and see her,” he said, eagerly. “You don’t know her, never saw her beauty or talent, yet you judge her, and would have me abide by your unjust decree.”

“I’ll go; the fever is on you, and you must be helped through the crisis, or you’ll wreck your whole life. It always goes hard with your sort.”

My indolence was quite conquered by anxiety, and away we went, Brooke armed with a great bouquet, and I mentally cursing his folly in wasting time, money, and the love of his honest heart, on a painted butterfly.

We took a box, and from the intense interest we showed in the piece, both of us might have been taken for ardent admirers of “La Jeune.” I had never seen her, though all Paris had been running after her that season, as it was after any novelty from a learned pig to a hero. Having been bored by her praises, and annoyed by urgent entreaties to go, I perversely set my face against her, and affected even more indifference than I really felt. I was tired of such follies, fancied my day was over, and for a year or two had felt no interest in any actress less famous than Ristori or Rachel.

The play was one of those brilliant trifles possible only in Paris; for there, wit without vulgarity is appreciated, and art is so perfect, one forgets the absence of nature. The stage represented a charming boudoir, all mirrors, muslins, flowers and light. A coquettish soubrette was arranging the toilet as she delivered a few words that put the house in good humor, by whetting curiosity and raising a laugh, in the midst of which Madame la Marquise entered, not as most actresses take the stage, but as a pretty woman really would enter her room, going straight to the glass to see if the effect of her costume was quite destroyed by the vicissitudes of a balmasque. She was beautiful—I could not deny that, but answered Brooke’s eager inquiry with a shrug and the cruel words:

“Paint, dress, wine or opium.”

He turned his back to me, and I devoted myself to the study of the woman he loved. She looked scarcely twenty, so fresh and brilliant was her face, so beautifully molded her figure, so youthful her charming voice, so elastic her graceful gestures. Petite and piquant, fair hair, dark eyes, a ravishing foot and hand, a dazzling neck and arm, made this rosy, dimpled little creature altogether captivating, even to one as blasé as myself. Gay, arch, and full of that indescribable coquetry which is as natural to a pretty woman as her beauty, La Jeune well deserved the sobriquet she had won.

Being a connoisseur in dress, I observed that hers was in perfect taste—a rare thing, for the costume of the Louis Quatorze era is usually overdone on the stage. But this woman had evidently copied some portrait, for everything was in keeping, coiffure, jewels, lace, brocade; and from the tiny patch on her white chin to the diamond buckles in her scarlet-heeled shoes, she was a true French marquise. Even in gesture, gait and accent, she kept up the illusion, causing modern France to be forgotten for the hour, and making that comedy a picture of the past, and winning applause from critics whose praise was tame.

Through the sparkling dialogue, the inimitable by-play, romantic incident and courtly intrigues of the piece, she played admirably, embodying not only the beauty and coquetry, but the wit, finesse and brilliancy of the part. I was interested in spite of myself; forgot my anxiety, and found myself applauding more than once. Brooke heard my hearty “Bravo!” and turned with an exultant smile.

“You are conquering your prejudices fast, mon ami. Is she not charming?”

“Very. I never questioned her skill as an actress, and readily accord my praise, for she plays capitally. But I’d rather not see her my friend’s wife. Just fancy presenting her to your family.”

He winced at that as his eye followed mine to the stage, which just then showed the marquise languishing in a great fauteuil before her mirror, surrounded by several fops, while her lover, disguised as a coiffeur, powdered her hair and dropped billet doux into her lap.

Fascinating, fair and frivolous as she was, how could he dream of transplanting her to a decorous English home, where her name alone would raise a storm, if coupled, even in jest, with his. He looked, sighed and sat silent till the curtain fell, then applauded till his gloves were in tatters, threw his bouquet at her feet as she reappeared, and turned to me, saying, with unabated eagerness:

“Now come and see her at home; the woman is more charming than the actress. I am asked to supper, and may bring a friend with me. Come, I beg of you.”

To his surprise and satisfaction I consented at once, but did not tell him what had induced me to comply. It was a trifle, but it had weight with me, and hoping still to save my headstrong friend, I went away to sup with La Jeune.

The trifle was this: After one of her best scenes she left the stage, but did not go to her dressing room, as she must re-enter in a moment.

From our box we could command the opposite wings; a chair was placed there for her, and sinking into it, she waved away two or three devoted gentlemen who eagerly approached. They retired, and as if forgetting that she could be overlooked, La Jeune leaned back with a change of countenance that absolutely startled me.All the fire, the gayety, the youth, seemed to die out, leaving a weary, woeful face, the sadder for the contrast between its tragic pathos and the blithe comedy going on before us.

Brooke did not see her; he had seized the moment to sprinkle his flowers, already drooping in the hot air.

I said nothing, but watched that brief aside more eagerly than her best point. It was but an instant. Her cue came, and she swept on to the stage with a ringing laugh, looking the embodiment of joy.

This glimpse of the woman off the stage roused my curiosity, and made me anxious to see more of her.

As we drove away I asked Brooke if he had spoken yet, for I wished to know how to conduct myself in the affair.

“Not in words; my eyes and actions must have told her; but I delayed to speak till you had seen her, for willful as I seem, I value your advice, Ulster.”

“Have you spoken of me?”

“Yes; once or twice. Some one asked why you never came with me, and I said you had forsworn theatres.”

“How did she take that blunt reply?”

“Rather oddly, I thought, for, looking at me, she said, softly: ‘It would be better for you if you followed the example of your mentor.’ ”

“Art, my child, all art; warn a man against anything, and he’ll move heaven and earth to get it. How will you explain this visit of your mentor, who has forsworn theatres?” I said, nettled at having that sage and venerable name applied to me.

“It will be both gallant and truthful to say you came to see her. She bade me bring any friend I liked, and will be flattered at your coming, if you don’t put on your haughty airs.

“I’ll be amiable on your account. Here we are. Upon my word mademoiselle lodges sumptuously.”

As we drove into a courtyard, lights shone in long windows of La Jeune’s appartement, and the sound of music met us as we passed up the stairs.

Two large, luxurious rooms, brilliantly, yet tastefully decorated and furnished, received us as we stepped in unannounced. Half a dozen persons were scattered about, chatting, laughing and listening to a song from a member of the opera troupe then delighting Paris. Supper was laid in the further room, and while waiting till it was served, every one exerted themselves to amuse their hostess in return for the delight she had given them.

Mademoiselle seemed to have just arrived, for she was still en costume, and appeared to have thrown herself into a seat as if wearied with her labors.

The rich hue of the garnet velvet chair relieved her figure admirably, as she leaned back, with a white cloak half concealing her brilliant dress. The powder had shaken from her hair, leaving its gold undimmed as it hung slightly disheveled about her shoulders. She had wiped the rouge from her face, leaving it paler, but none the less lovely, for in resuming her own character, that face had changed entirely. No longer gay, arch, or coquetish, it was thoughtful, keen, and cold. She smiled graciously, received compliments tranquilly, and conversed wittily; but her heart evidently was not there, and she was still playing a part.

I made these observations and received these impressions during the brief pause at the door; then Brooke presented me with much empressement, plainly showing that he wished each to produce a favorable effect upon the other.

As my name was spoken a slight smile touched her lips, but her dark eyes scanned my face so gravely, that in spite of myself I paid my compliments with an ill grace.

“It is evident that this is not monsieur’s first visit to Paris.”

From another person, and in another mood, I should have accepted this speech as a compliment to my accent and manner, but from her I chose to see in it an ironical jest at my unwonted maladresse, a feminine return for my long negligence. Anxious to do myself justice, I gave a genuine French shrug and replied, with a satirical smile which belied my flattering words:

“I was about to say no, but I remember to whom I speak, and say yes, for by the magic of mademoiselle, modern Paris vanishes, and for the first time I visit Paris in the time of the Grand Monarque. The illusion was perfect, and like a hundred others, I am at a loss how to show my gratitude.”

“That is easily done; madame is hungry; oblige her with a morceau of that paté and a glass of champagne.”

Her mocking tone, the sparkle of her eye, and the wicked smile on her lips, annoyed me more than the unromantic request that made my speech absurd.

I obeyed with feigned devotion, telling Brooke to keep out of the way still longer, as I passed him on my way back. He had withdrawn a little, that I might see and judge for myself, and stood in an alcove near by, affecting to talk with a gentleman in the same sentimental plight as himself.

Mademoiselle ate and drank as if she was really hungry, inviting me to do the same with such hospitable grace that I drew up a little table and continued our tête-a-tête, while the others stood or sat about in groups in a pleasantly informal manner.

“My friend is much honored, I perceive. Mademoiselle shows both taste and judgment in her selection, for though young for his years, Brooke is a true gentleman,” I said, observing that of all the many bouquets thrown at her feet his was the only one she kept.

“Do you know why I selected this?” she asked, with a quick glance after a slight pause.

“I can easily guess,” I replied, with a significant smile.

She glanced over her shoulder, took up the great bouquet, and plunging her dimpled hand into the midst of the flowers, drew out a glittering bracelet, saying, as she offered it to me, with an air of pride that surprised me very much:

“I kept it that I might return this. It may annoy your friend less to take it from you, therefore restore it with my thanks, and tell him I can accept nothing but flowers.”

“Nothing, mademoiselle?”

“Nothing, monsieur.”

I put my question with emphasis, and as she answered she flashed a look at me that perplexed me, though I thought it a bit of clever acting.

Taking the bracelet, I said, in a tone of feigned regret: “Must I afflict the poor boy by returning his gift with such a cruel message?”

“If you would be a true friend to him do what I ask, and take him away from Paris.”

Her urgent tone struck me even more than this unexpected frankness, and I involuntarily exclaimed:

“Does mademoiselle know what she banishes thus?”

“I know that Sir Richard Brooke would disinherit his only son if that son made a mésalliance; I know that I regard Arthur too much to mar his future, and—I banish him.”

She spoke rapidly, and laid her hand upon her heart as if to hide its agitation, but her eyes were fixed steadily on mine with an expression which affected me with a curious sense of guilt for my hard judgment of her.

There was a pause, and in that pause I chid myself for letting a pair of lovely eyes ensnare my reason, or an enchanting smile bribe my judgment.

“Mademoiselle understands the perversity of mankind well. It will be impossible to get Arthur away after a command like yours,” I said, coldly.

She deliberately examined my face, and a change passed over her own.The earnestness vanished, the soft trouble was replaced by an almost bitter smile, and her voice had a touch of scorn in it as she said, sharply:

“Then Telemachus had better find a truer Mentor.”

A gentleman approached; she welcomed him with a genial look, and I retired, feeling more ruffled than I would confess.

As soon as I joined Brooke in the alcove he demanded in English, and with lover-like eagerness:

“What is your opinion of her?”

“Hush; she will overhear you!”

“She speaks no English—she is absorbed—answer freely.”

“Well, then, I think her a charming, artful, dangerous woman, and the sooner you leave her the better,” I answered, abruptly.

“But, Ulster, don’t joke. How artful? Why dangerous? I’ll not leave her till I’ve tried my fate,” he cried, half angry, half hurt.

I told him our conversation, gave him the jewel, and advised him to disappoint her hopes by departing without another word.

“You think she means to win me by affecting to sacrifice her own heart to my welfare?” he said as I paused.

“Exactly; she did it capitally, but I am not to be duped; and I tell you she will never let so rich a prize escape her unless she has a richer in sight, which I doubt.”

“I’ll not believe it! You wrong us both; you distrust all women, and insult her by such bare suspicions.You are deceived.”

“I never am deceived; I read men and women like books, and no character is too mysterious for me to decipher. I tell you, I am right, and I’ll prove it if you will keep silent for a few weeks longer.”

“How?” demanded Brooke, hotly.

“I’ll study this woman, and report my discoveries to you; thus, step by step, I’ll convince you that she is all I say, and save you from the folly you are about to commit.Will you agree to this?”

“Yes; but you’ll take no unfair advantage, you’ll deal justly by us both, and if you fail—”.

“I never fail—but if such an unheard of thing occurs, I’ll own I’m conquered, and pay any penalty you decree.”

“Then, I say, done. Prove that I’m a blind fool, and I’ll submit to your advice, will forget Natalie and leave Paris.”

Grateful for any delay, and already interested in the test, I pledged my word to act fair throughout, and turned to begin my work. Mademoiselle was surrounded by several gentlemen, and seemed to have recovered from her fatigue. Her eyes shone, a brilliant color burned on her cheek, she talked gayly, and mingled her silvery laughter in the peals of merriment her witty sallies produced. As we joined the group, some one was speaking of tragedy, and assuring La Jeune that she would excel in that as in comedy.

“Mon Dieu, no; one has tragedy enough off the stage; let us feign gayety in public, and laugh on even though our hearts ache,” she answered, with a charming smile.

“Yet I can testify that mademoiselle would act tragedy well if I may judge by the sample I have seen.”

I spoke significantly and her eye was instantly upon me, as she exclaimed with visible surprise:

“Seen! where?”

“To-night, as mademoiselle reposed a moment in the wing between the fourth and fifth acts.”

She knit her brows, thought an instant, then as if recalling the fact, clapped her hands and broke into that ringing laugh of hers, as she cried:

“Monsieur has penetration! It is true, I was in a tragic mood for the spur of one of my buckles wounded my foot cruelly, and I could not complain. Behold how I suffered,” and she showed a spot of scarlet that had stained through silk stocking and satin shoe.

“Great heaven! and does mademoiselle still wear the cruel ornament. Permit me to relieve this charming foot,” cried one of the French-men, in a pathetic tone; and going down upon his knee undid the buckle.

I was leaning on the back of her chair just then, and during the little stir said quietly:

“I congratulate mademoiselle, for if the pin-prick can call up such a woeful expression, her rendering of a mighty sorrow would be wonderfully truthful.”

“I believe it would.”

She looked up at me as she spoke, and in those beautiful eyes I fancied I read something like reproach. For what? Had I touched some secret wound, and was her explanation a skillful feint, as I thought it? Or did she feel with a woman’s quick instinct that I was an enemy and set herself to disarm me by her beauty? I inclined to the latter belief, and instantly saw that if I would execute my purpose, I must convince her that I was a friend, an admirer, a lover even. It was evident that simple Brooke had allowed her to perceive that I did not approve his suit; this hurt her pride, and she distrusted me. Deciding to warm gradually, I looked back at her, saying gently, as if replying to that reproachful glance alone:

“I sincerely hope mademoiselle may never be called upon to play a part in any tragedy off the stage, for smiles, not tears, should be the portion of La Jeune.”

Her face softened beautifully, and the dark curled lashes fell as if to hide the sudden dew that dimmed her eyes.

“You are kind, I thank you,” she murmured, in a tone that touched me, skeptic as I was. “I receive much flattery, and value it for what it is worth; but a friendly wish, simple and sincere, is very sweet to me, for even a path strewn with flowers has its thorns.”

She spoke as if to herself more than to me, and fancying that sentiment might succeed better than sarcasm, I began one of those speeches that may mean much or little; but in the middle of it detected her in a yawn behind her little hand, and stopped abruptly. She laughed, and with the arch expression that made her face piquante she said with a shake of the head:

“Ah, monsieur, that’s but a waste of eloquence. I detect false sympathy in an instant, and betray that I do. Pardon my rudeness, and turn me a charming compliment; that is more in your style.”

“Mademoiselle is fatigued; we are unmerciful to leave her no time for rest. Brooke, we should go,” I said, repentantly.

“I am tired,” she answered, with the air of a sleepy child. “Au revoir, not adieu, for you will come again.”

“If mademoiselle permits,” and with that we bowed ourselves away.

For a month I studied La Jeune in ways as skillful as unobtrusive. I made four discoveries, reported them to Brooke, and flattered myself that I should be able to save him from this fascinating, yet dangerous woman.

My first discovery was this. Fearing to rouse suspicion by too suddenly feigning admiration and regard, I began with an occasional call, contenting myself meantime with cultivating the friendship of a gossipy old Frenchman, who lodged in the same house. From him I learned various hints of Natalie, for the old gentleman adored her, and was as garrulous as an old woman. He said there was one room in mademoiselle’s suite that none of the servants of the house were allowed to enter.

Several times a week, early in the morning, when her mistress was invisible to every one else, Jocelynd, the maid, admitted a man, who came and went as if anxious to escape observation. He was young, handsome, an Italian, and evidently deeply interested in all concerning Mademoiselle Nairne.

“A lover, without doubt,” the old man said. I agreed with him, and Brooke, on learning this, could be with difficulty restrained from demanding an explanation from La Jeune.

My second discovery was made unexpectedly. One night, when she did not play, I went to see her on pretense of finding Brooke, who, I knew, was not there.

Mademoiselle was out, but expected momently, so I went in to wait. I heard her arrive soon after and enter an adjoining room, followed by the maid, who cast a glance into the salon as she passed. I stood in the deep window idly looking into the street below, and Jocelynd did not see me, for I heard her say:

“There is no one here, mademoiselle. Pierre was mistaken, and Monsieur Ulster did not wait.”

“Thank heaven! I am so fatigued I can see no one to-night. Count this for me. I have been playing for a high stake, but I have won, and Florimond shall profit by my success.”

I heard the clink of money, and noiselessly stole away, saying to myself as I went to join Brooke: “She gambles—so much the better.”

A week afterward I chanced to be in one of those dark little stores in the Rue Bonaparte, where cigars, cosmetics, perfumery, and drugs are sold. I was standing in the back part of the shop selecting a certain sort of toilet soap which I fancied, when a woman came in, and, beckoning the wife of the shopman aside, handed her a peculiar little flask saying in a low tone:

“The same quantity as usual, madame, but stronger.”

The woman nodded, disappeared, and returned; but having left the stopper on the counter, she passed me with the flask uncorked, and I plainly perceived the acrid scent of laudanum. I knew it well, having used it during a nervous illness, and left the shop convinced that La Jeune was an opium-eater, like many of her class, for the woman I had seen was Jocelynd.

The fourth discovery was that some secret anxiety or grief preyed upon mademoiselle, for during that month she altered visibly. Her spirits were variable, her cheek lost its bloom, her form its roundness, and her eyes burned with feverish brilliancy, as if some devouring care preyed upon her life.

I could mark these changes carefully, for I was a frequent and a welcome guest now. By imperceptible degrees I had won my way, and making Brooke my pretext, often led her to speak of him, fancying that topic the one most likely to interest her. Soon I let her see that she had wakened my admiration as an actress, for I was as constant at the theatre as Brooke.Then I, with feigned reluctance, betrayed my susceptibility to her charms as a woman, and by look, sigh, act and word, permitted her to believe that I was one of her most devout adorers.

Upon my life, I sometimes felt as if in truth I was, and half longed to drop my mask and tell her that, with all her faults and follies, I found her more dangerous to my peace than any woman I had ever known. More than once I was tempted to believe that had I been a richer man she would have smiled upon me in spite of Brooke and the unknown Florimond.

As time passed this fancy of mine increased for I observed that with others she was as careless, gay and witty as ever, but with me, especially if we were alone, her manner was subdued, her glance restless, timid and troubled, her voice often agitated or constrained, her whole air that of a woman whose heart is full and pride alone keeps her from letting it overflow.

To Brooke she was uniformly kind, but cold, and often shunned him. At first I believed this only a ruse to lure him to the point, but soon my own penetration, vanity, if you will, led me to think that for a time at least she would hold mercenary motives in check and let the master-passion rule her in spite of interest.

This belief of mine added new excitement to my task, and my undisguisable absorption in it roused Brooke’s jealousy, and nothing but a promise to hold his peace till the month was up restrained him from ruining everything, for he refused to accept my discoveries without further proof.

On the last day of the month I went to Natalie at noon, knowing that Arthur would speak that night. I had never been admitted so early before, but sending in an urgent request, it was granted.

I scarcely knew what I meant to say or do, for although my friend and I were freed by mutual consent from the pledge we had given one another, I was hardly ready to fetter myself with a lifelong tie, even to Natalie, whom I no longer disguised from myself that I loved.

I dared make no other offer, for in spite of the gossip and prejudice which always surrounds a young and beautiful actress, I felt that Natalie was innocent, from pride if not from principle, and would be to me a wife or nothing. I loved my freedom well, yet half resolved to lose it for her sake, for in spite of past experiences, I was conscious of a more ardent love at eight-and-thirty than any I had known in my youth.

Natalie came in, looking pale, yet very lovely, for her eyes possessed the soft lustre that follows tears, and on her face there was a look I had never seen before.

She wore a white cashmere peignoir, and was wrapt in a soft white mantle. Her hair hung in loose, glittering masses about her face, and her only ornament was a rosary of ebony and gold that hung from her neck.

The room was shaded by heavy curtains, which she did not draw aside, and as she seated herself in the deep velvet chair, her face was much in shadow. I regretted this, for never having seen her by day, except driving, I wished to see and study her when free from the illusion which dress and lamp-light can throw about the plainest woman.

Her hand trembled as I kissed it, her eyes avoided mine, and while I paid my compliments, she listened with drooping lids, a shy smile on her lips, and such a quickly beating heart that the rosary on her bosom stirred visibly. This agitation, coupled with her unusual welcome, banished my last doubt, and before I had decided to betray my passion, the words passed my lips.

As I paused, breathless with the impetuous petition I had made, she looked up with an unmistakable flash of triumph in her eye, an irrepressible accent of joy in her voice, as she answered, with a smile that thrilled my heart:

“Then you love me? You ask my hand? and give your happiness into my keeping?”

“I do.”

“You forget what I am—forget that you know nothing of my past; that my heart is a sealed book to you, and that you have seen only the gay, frivolous side I show the world.”

“I forget nothing, and glory in your talent as in the fame it wins you. I know you better than you think, for during a month I have studied you deeply, and I read you like an open book. I have discovered faults and follies, mysteries and entanglements, but I can forgive all, forget all, for the sake of this crowning discovery.You love me; I guess it; but I long to hear you confess it, and to know in words that I am blest.”

She had questioned eagerly, with her keen eyes full on my face as I replied, but in the act of answering my last speech she rose suddenly as a swift change passed across her face, and in a tone of bitterest contempt, uttered these startling words:

“You say you know me well; you boast that you never are deceived; you believe that you have discovered the secret passions, vices and ambitions of my life; you affirm that I have had a lover, that I gamble, eat opium, and—love you.That last is the blindest blunder of the four, for of all men living, you are the one for whom I have the supremest contempt.”

I had risen involuntarily when she did, but dropped into my seat as if flung back by the forceful utterance of that last word. I was so entirely taken by surprise that speech, self-possession, and courage deserted me for the moment, and I sat staring at her in dumb amazement. In a voice full of passionate pride, she rapidly continued, with her steady eyes holding me fast by their glittering spell:

“You were wise in your own conceit, and needed humbling. I heard your boast, your plot and pledge, made in this room a month ago, and resolved to teach you a lesson. You flatter yourself you know me thoroughly, yet you have not caught even a glimpse of my true nature, and Arthur’s honest instinct has won the day against your worldly wisdom.”

“Prove it!” I cried, angrily, for her words, her glance, roused me like insults.

“I will. First let us dispose of the discoveries so honorably made, and used to blast my reputation in a good man’s eyes. My lover is an Italian physician, who comes to serve a suffering friend whom I shelter; the laudanum is for the same unhappy invalid. The money I won was honestly played for—on the stage, and the secret love you fancied I cherished was not for you—but Arthur.”

“Hang the boy; it is a plot between you,” I cried, forgetting self-command in my rising wrath.

“Wrong again; he knew nothing of my purpose, never guessed my love till to-day.”

“To-day! he has been here already!” I exclaimed, “and you have snared him in spite of my sacrifice. Good! I am right in one thing, the richer prize tempts the mercenary enchantress.”

“Still deceived; I have refused him, and no earthly power can change my purpose,” she answered, almost solemnly.

“Refused him! and why?” I gasped, feeling more bewildered every moment.

“Because I am married, and—dying.”

As the last dread word dropped from her lips, I felt my heart stand still, and I could only mutter hoarsely:

“No! no! it is impossible!”

“It is true; look here and believe it.”

With a sudden gesture she swept aside the curtain, gathered back her clustered hair, dropped the shrouding mantle, and turned her face full to the glare of noonday light.

I did believe, for in the wasted figure, no longer disguised with a woman’s skill, the pallid face, haggard eyes, and hollow temples, I saw that mysterious something which foreshadows death. It shocked me horribly, and I covered up my eyes without a word, suffering the sharpest pang I had ever known. Through the silence, clear and calm as an accusing angel’s, came her voice, saying slowly:

“Judge not, lest ye be judged. Let me tell you the truth, that you may see how much you have wronged me.You think me a Frenchwoman, and you believe me to be under five-and-twenty. I am English, and thirty-seven tomorrow.”

“English! thirty-seven!” I ejaculated in a tone of utter incredulity.

“I come of a race whom time touches lightly, and till the last five years of my life, sorrow, pain, and care have been strangers to me,” she said, in pure English, and with a faint smile on her pale lips.“I am of good family, but misfortune overtook us, and at seventeen I was left an orphan, poor, and nearly friendless. Before trouble could touch me Florimond married and took me away to a luxurious home in Normandy. He was much older than myself, but he has been fond as a father, as faithful, tender and devoted as a lover all these years. I married him from gratitude, not love, yet I have been happy and heart-free till I met Arthur.”

Her voice faltered there, and she pressed her hands against her bosom, as if to stifle the heavy sigh that broke from her.

“You love him; you will break the tie that binds you, and marry him?” I said, bitterly, forgetting in my jealous pain that she had refused him.

“Never! See how little you know my true character,” she answered, with a touch of indignation in the voice that now was full of a pathetic weariness. “For years my husband cherished me as the apple of his eye; then, through the treachery of others, came ruin, sickness, and a fate worse than death. My poor Florimond is an imbecile, helpless as a child. All faces are strange to him but mine, all voices empty sounds but mine, and all the world a blank except when I am with him. Can I rob him of this one delight—he who left no wish of mine ungratified, who devoted his life to me, and even in this sad eclipse clings to the one love that has escaped the wreck? No, I cannot forget the debt I owe him. I am grateful, and in spite of all temptations, I remain his faithful wife till death.”

How beautiful she was as she said that! Never in her most brilliant hour, on stage or in salon, had she shone so fair or impressed me with her power as she did now. That was art, this nature. I admired the actress, I adored the woman, and feeling all the wrong I had done her, felt my eyes dim with the first tears they had known for years. She did not see my honest grief; her gaze went beyond me, as if some invisible presence comforted and strengthened her. With every moment that went by I seemed passing further and further from her, as if she dropped me out of her world henceforth, and knew me no more.

“Now you divine why I became an actress, hid my name, my grief, and for his sake smiled, sung, and feigned both youth and gayety, that I might keep him from that. I had lived so long in France that I was half a Frenchwoman; I had played often, and with success, in my own pretty theatre at Villeroy. I was unknown in Paris, for we seldom came hither, and when left alone with Florimond to care for, I decided to try my fortune on the stage. Beginning humbly, I have worked my way up till I dared to play in Paris. Knowing that youth, beauty and talent attract most when surrounded by luxury, gayety and freedom, I hid my cares, my needs, and made my debut as one unfettered, rich and successful. The bait took; I am flattered, fêted, loaded with gifts, lavishly paid, and, for a time, the queen of my small realm. Few guess the heavy heart I bear, or dream that a mortal malady is eating my life away. But I am resigned; for if I live three months and am able to play on, I shall leave Florimond secure against want, and that is now my only desire.”

“Is there no hope, no help for you?” I said, imploringly, finding it impossible to submit to the sad decree which she received so bravely.

“None. I have tried all that skill can do, and tried in vain. It is too late, and the end approaches fast. I do not suffer much, but daily feel less strength, less spirit, and less interest in the world about me. Do not look at me with such despair; it is not hard to die,” she answered, softly.

“But for one so beautiful, so beloved, to die alone is terrible,” I murmured, brokenly.

“Not alone, thank heaven; one friend remains, tender and true, faithful to the end.”

A blissful smile broke over her face as she stretched her arms toward the place her eye had often sought during that interview. If any further punishment was needed, I received it when I saw Arthur gather the frail creature close to his honest heart, reading his reward in the tender, trusting face that turned so gladly from me to him.

It was no place for me, and murmuring some feeble farewell, I crept away, heart-struck and humbled, feeling like one banished from Paradise; for despite the shadow of sorrow, pain and death, love made a heaven for those I left behind.

I quitted Paris the next day, and four months later Brooke returned to England, bringing me the ebony rosary I knew so well, a parting gift from La Jeune, with her pardon and adieu, for Arthur left her and her poor Florimond quiet under the sod at Pere La Chaise.