Robert Orange
dangerous rival, that his well-cut mouth would have made a monster
irresistible.
"So you don't think," said he, as he executed a final bow and kicked off
his shoes because a buckle stuck into his instep--"so you don't think,
Isidore, that Her Imperial Highness loves me?"
"I know she doesn't," replied his man. "I am not going to say that I see
more than I see."
"It may be that she cannot love," said the Marquis, "and I don't think
less of her on that account. These sentimental girls become very
monotonous and sickening. The women whom men love the longest are prim,
stand-off women. Have you noticed that, Isidore?"
"No, I haven't noticed that. I haven't noticed much love lasting long
for any kind of person."
"There's something in your stupidity which refreshes me. I have a strong
notion to marry Her Imperial Highness. I could make her happy."
"Not you."
"I tell you I could. She has the oddest effect upon me. No other woman
has ever affected me in such a way. I feel when I am with her as though
we were well matched. If I were a King, I would make her my Queen. I
might love others, but I should always say, 'Remember the Queen. The
Queen must be remembered, and honoured, and obeyed in all things.'
Sometimes I see myself--with her--at a kind of Versailles: every one
standing up as we enter: Her Majesty very pale and tall and wonderful
in a blue velvet robe and pearls, I would adore her with a passion as
constant as it was respectful. I should ask in return _une amitie la
plus tendre_. Isidore, she is an angel. The sweetness of her soul is in
her face--in the very sound of her voice. I am a little too material to
be so sublime in my sentiments as M. de Hausee, but I could be unusually
faithful to that charming, beautiful creature. Isn't there a crease
under my left arm? Hold the glass for me."
Isidore held the glass while Castrillon, with knit brows, studied the
back view of his coat.
"The coat is perfect," said Isidore; "you have no heart or you would
never find fault with such a back."
"Would you call me heartless?"
"I couldn't call you anything else," replied the valet, bluntly.
"Then why have you been with me, cat-fish, ever since I was born?"
The Marquis had a stock of names for his servant, none of which he
employed unless he felt in a good humour. Owl-pig, hog-mouse, ape-dog,
rat-weasel, and cat-fish were the highest expressions of his amiability
toward the man who had been his ill-tempered, dishonest, impudent, and
treacherous attendant all the years of his life.
"You know, mule-viper," he continued, "that no one else would keep you
for five minutes. You are a liar, a thief, and a traitor. Yet I endure
you. I agree that I must be either heartless or an idiot to put up with
such a rogue."
Isidore grew livid, muttered blasphemies under his breath, and put pink
cotton-wool in the toes of his master's dancing-shoes. Castrillon then
kicked him into the adjoining room and resumed his gymnastic exercises.
At the end of half an hour, the man re-entered carrying a note
fastidiously between his left thumb and forefinger.
"Is that for me?" asked the Marquis, who was in the act of turning a
double somersault with much agility.
"It is for Monsieur."
"Then read it aloud while I stand on my head."
Isidore tore it open and began to read as follows:--
"_Do not misjudge me----_"
"Stop!" exclaimed Castrillon, falling upon his feet at once; "that is
from a woman. Why didn't you say so?"
"It is from Madame Parflete," replied Isidore.
"Impossible!" said Castrillon, snatching it from his hand; "impossible!"
He read the letter, flushed to the roots of his hair, and kicked Isidore
for the second time.
"You beast!" said he; "where did you get this? It is her writing, but
she never wrote it--never on God's earth! Where did you get it?"
"It was given to me by one of her servants."
"Why the devil do you tell me such lies?" exclaimed the young man in a
fury; "it's some d----d practical joke in the most infernal bad taste,
and, by God! I have a mind to shoot you."
Castrillon was not given to the utterance of vain threats, and his anger
was so great that the wretched Isidore, shaking, whining, and cursing,
edged round the room with his back to the wall and his eyes fixed on his
master.
"Stand still, will you?" continued the Marquis; "I want to hear a little
more. How much were you paid for giving me this twaddle? Answer me
that."
"Two guineas!"
"Two? I'll bet you had twenty. Stand still, I tell you, or I'll kick you
again. Do you expect me to believe that Mrs. Parflete's servant gave you
twenty guineas?"
"No, I don't," answered Isidore. "I don't expect you to believe
anything. But if that isn't Madame Parflete's writing, whose writing is
it?"
"That is just what I mean to find out," replied Castrillon, "and that is
why I won't shoot you till it suits my convenience."
Isidore, who had a venomous attachment to the Marquis, burst into tears.
For many generations their respective ancestors had stood in the
relation, each to the other, of tyrant and dependent. Isidore's father
had robbed, cheated, deceived, and adored Castrillon's father; the
fathers of these two reprobates had observed the same measure of
whippings and treacheries, and so it had been always from the first
registered beginnings of the noble and the slavish house. But an Isidore
had never been known to leave a Castrillon's service. The hereditary,
easy-going forbearance, on the one hand, which found killing less
tedious than a crude dismissal, and the hereditary guilty conscience, on
the other, which had to recognise the justice of punishment, kept the
connection rudely loyal.
"I detest you," said Castrillon; "I hate the sight of you."
Isidore blubbered aloud, and accepted the information as a turn for the
better in the tide of his master's wrath.
"Who gave you that letter?"
"Well, if you must know, it was Signor Mudara."
"Mudara? Then Mudara wrote it. I'll wring his neck."
"I'll wring his neck, too--if he has tried any of his games on me,"
sobbed Isidore. "But it may not be a game. You are always so hasty."
Castrillon read the letter through once more.
"I can't believe that she wrote it," he said. "I'll swear she didn't."
"And why?"
"Because the style is not in keeping with her character, blockhead! She
does not ask me--or any one else--to visit her at two o'clock in the
morning."
A revolting smile made the valet's loose-hanging, sullen lips quiver
with emotion.
"No, that is not Madame's style. She is too clever. But does that affect
the opportunity!"
"What opportunity?"
"You have the letter. It is for Madame herself to deny the
handwriting--not you. Why should you, of all people, think it a joke?
Why not act upon it? Why not ask her what it means?"
"At two in the morning? I have no wish to compromise Madame--not the
least. She is too rich to compromise. She is the sort of lady one
marries. Tell Mudara, with my compliments, he must understand gentlemen
before he can play successful tricks upon them."
"I will take my oath that I am not sure it is a trick," answered
Isidore.
Castrillon studied the letter for a third time.
"Here and there," he said, "it has the ring of her voice, and the words
are the words she uses."
"With such a justification in my pocket, I know what I should do,"
mumbled Isidore.
"So do I. But you are the scum of the earth, and what you would, or
wouldn't do, could only interest the hangman."
The Marquis locked the note in his dressing-case, and handed his keys,
with his usual simplicity, to Isidore.
"I do not propose to tire myself with this nonsense before the play,"
said he. "Get my raw eggs and milk."
* * * * *
At nine o'clock that evening, a brilliant company were gathered in the
Salle de Comedie. Most of the Foreign Ambassadors, and about fifty
illustrious personages of great social importance, were present. Prince
d'Alchingen had resolved that the daughter of Henriette Duboc should
have every opportunity of making a successful _debut_ in England. He had
sprinkled most judiciously among his guests a few accredited experts in
various departments of knowledge, and these he hoped would lead
appreciation into the right channel by explaining, at fit intervals,
just why Mrs. Parflete was beautiful and just where her art had its
especial distinction. The play itself--_La Seconde Surprise de
l'Amour_--by Pierre de Marivaux, was quite unknown to the audience.
Brigit and Castrillon had appeared in it at Madrid, and descriptions of
their success were whispered through the room. The story of her birth,
her unhappy marriage, her adventures in Spain, and her relations with De
Hausee had quickened curiosity to the highest pitch. Was she really so
young? was she really so pretty? was she going on the public stage, or
would she remain an accomplished, semi-royal amateur? No one referred
openly to the late Archduke Charles, but the facts that Madame Duboc had
been his Canonical wife, that Mrs. Parflete was the one child of their
union, kept the whole aristocratic assembly thrilled with the sense of
taking part in something as distinguished as a Court function, as
exciting as a Court scandal, and as bewildering as a Court conspiracy. A
string orchestra--conducted by Strauss himself--played French melodies
of the eighteenth century. Would there be any dancing? would she sing?
Henriette Duboc had been compared, as a dancer, to La Guimard, said Sir
Piers Harding to the Duchess of Lossett. And who was La Guimard? asked
the Duchess. And was Mrs. Parflete at all like her mother? And did she
bear the extraordinary resemblance, _of which so much had been made_, to
Marie Antoinette? Sir Piers felt bound to own that the likeness was
remarkable. And this de Hausee--what of him? Had Sir Piers seen the odd
announcement, about his name and antecedents, in the _Times_? The
Duchess didn't know what to think. It was all so very odd, but most
interesting, of course. Was M. de Hausee, by any chance, in the
audience? No. Well, perhaps it was better taste on his part to keep
away. The bell rang. All eyes turned toward the blue satin curtains;
they moved: the lights were lowered; the violins played a languorous
air: with a rustle--not unlike that caused by the movement of wings--the
curtains were drawn back and disclosed an empty garden. Then, following
the stage direction, the Marquise entered "_tristement sur la scene_."
The entrance was made quietly, and, for a breathless second, no one
realised that the heroine of the evening had at last appeared. Her
Grace of Lossett began to fear she felt a little disappointed when, in
the nick of time, a great poet, who sat near her, murmured, "Divine."
But at this point we may quote from the _Memoirs_ of Lady Julia
Babington:--
_Mrs. Parflete's personal appearance caused an immediate furore.
Many disagreed about her claims to perfect beauty, but these
hostile feelings did not last longer than five minutes. She was an
extremely pretty woman; rather tall for her slight proportions, but
elegant to a surprising degree. The extraordinary charm of her
acting, her voice, her countenance, and her accent were delightful.
It would have been impossible to display more grace, simplicity,
and ingenuousness than she did: she gave several touches of pathos
in a manner to make one cry, and to quite enchant all who bad taste
enough and mind to appreciate her inimitable talent._
And again in the Letters of Charlotte, Lady Pardwicke, we read:--
_If Mrs. Parflete can be called handsome, it is certainly a _figure
de fantasie_. She has a clear complexion, is young, tall; her