Robert Orange
husband. But there are others who look on life with some hope of
understanding it truly, in part, at any rate, and these know, perhaps by
experience, perhaps by sympathy, that whereas bodily disturbances may
pass away leaving little or no effect upon the general health, all
mental tumults are perpetual in their consequences: they never die out
entirely, and they live, sometimes with appalling energy, sometimes with
gnawing listlessness, to the end of an existence. Robert, in the
judgment of his intellect and his senses, had found his ideal. Brigit
did not belong to "the despised day of small things"; she was the woman
of his imagination--the well-beloved, and having gained her, was he to
say--Farewell? It seemed so. Meanwhile, the graceful, swaying dialogue
rippled between the players on the stage; the smiling audience, hushed
with interest, gazed at the delightful beings before them; the
exquisite Marquise had uttered her two last speeches--
"_Je ne croyois pas l'amitie si dangereuse._"
and--
"_Je ne me mele plus de rien!_"
Lubin brought the performance to an end by the final utterance--
"_Allons de la joie!_"
The curtain fell--to rise again a dozen times. Orange did not hear the
door of the box being opened. Prince d'Alchingen came in and put a hand
on the young man's shoulder.
"Would you like to see her?" he whispered. "I can arrange it. No one
need know."
But the training of a lifetime and constant habits of thought were
stronger still than any mood.
"No," said Robert, shortly, "I won't see her. I must get back to London
at once."
CHAPTER XXVIII
The Prince looked at him in astonishment.
"You can't get to London to-night," said he; "there are no trains."
"I can walk."
"It is thirty-five miles."
"I am accustomed to long walks."
"At any rate you will have some supper first--in my little
breakfast-room. Don't refuse, because I want you to meet Castrillon."
"Castrillon! I should like to meet Castrillon."
"Then I will tell him. You and he can take supper together. He doesn't
want to join the big party. He has the artist's detestation of the
chattering mob. How well he plays! And what a triumph for--Madame!"
"A great triumph."
"This corridor leads to my tiny cupboard--the merest cupboard! Follow
me." They went through several doors and up several small staircases
till they reached a small apartment furnished in old blue damask,
heavily fringed with tarnished gold and silver decorations.
"A few souvenirs of my hereditary castle in Alberia," explained the
Prince; "they relieve my sense of exile."
He walked across the floor and tapped on what appeared to be a portion
of the wall.
"We are here," said he.
The secret door was opened, and Castrillon, still wearing his costume as
the Chevalier, joined them. If one may believe Prince d'Alchingen's
account of this unfortunate meeting, the young men greeted each other
with composure. D'Alchingen declares that he studied Orange to the
depths of his soul, and he does him the justice to say that he did not
make a movement or utter a word which denoted the least emotion. There
was not any sort of alteration in his countenance, and he led the
conversation with a tranquillity and a gaiety really enchanting. When
the supper was served, His Excellency had no hesitation in leaving the
rivals together--so convinced was he that they would remain on good
terms.
"M. de Castrillon," said Orange, when the Prince had gone, "I cannot sit
down at supper with you. We have to settle an old score."
Castrillon bowed:
"I am here to learn your wishes. I have heard from several sources that
you wished to see me. If you have anything to say, pray say it quickly,
because--I have an appointment with Mrs. Parflete."
"Will you do me the favour to leave that lady's name out of the
discussion?"
"I see no reason why I should do you favours, M. de Hausee. But I am
quite ready to atone for my indifference by any course of action which
could satisfy the most scrupulous delicacy."
"There is but one course of action open to us."
"I shall be happy to have the honour of meeting you on your own terms.
But," he added, contemptuously, "we are both wasting our time over a
worthless woman. She was seen leaving your lodgings on Wednesday last. I
have just heard this. And I received, before the play began this
evening, a letter from her fixing a _rendez-vous_ for two o'clock. If
you doubt me I can show you the letter. I am as much disappointed as you
are. She has fooled us both. Before God I could have sworn she was a
religious and modest woman."
His chagrin was so genuine that it was impossible to doubt his good
faith.
"It is a lie," said Orange; "she was never at my lodgings."
"I don't call _you_ a liar, M. de Hausee, but I can prove my words,
whereas it might be difficult to prove yours. I can show you the
letter."
"She never wrote it."
Castrillon sat on the edge of the table, and poured out some wine.
"That is what I said," he replied, "when I read it. So long as we are
going to fight, let it be because we hate each other, and not because we
have both been deceived by the same prude."
"In other words," said Orange, quietly, "you wish to drive a good
bargain, knowing that whether you utter one insult or twenty, I can but
fight you once."
"_A l'outrance_, however," answered Castrillon, dipping a biscuit into
the glass.
"Yes, _a l'outrance_."
"This being the case, let me tell you a few of my ideas. You find life
very hard. I find it altogether amusing. I don't love a woman the less
when I cease to honour her. I don't honour a man the less when I detest
him. If you should kill me, M. de Hausee, it will be the most
respectable occurrence in my immortality. But if I should kill you, it
will be the vile conclusion of an exemplary career."
"Your conversation is most entertaining, Monsieur. I am, unhappily, in
no mood to listen to it. May I ask you to meet me to-morrow with your
second at three o'clock at Calais? We can then go on to Dunkerque and
settle this difference."
"I am perfectly agreeable."
They arranged a few more details and parted. The interview, which took
place in French, is not easily reproduced in English. Orange wrote one
account of the scene, and Castrillon confided another to Prince
d'Alchingen, and the above is probably as nearly as possible a faithful
description of what actually passed.
Robert left Hadley Lodge, and plunged through the darkness toward
London. He reached Vigo Street about seven o'clock in the morning. It
was Sunday, and the streets were silent. He let himself into the house
with a latch-key, and groped his way up the creaking unlit staircase. On
entering his room, the draught between the open window and the door set
all his papers whirling from his writing-table, and, by a strange
accident, dislodged his crucifix from its nail. It fell to the ground,
and when he picked it up, the small Figure was broken. This accident
seemed an ill omen, but he put it from his thoughts, and scrawled a
hasty letter to Charles Aumerle, asking him to be his second. This he
delivered himself at Aumerle's chambers in St. James's Place, saying
that he would call for an answer at nine. But Aumerle, ever fond of
adventures, was at Vigo Street at half-past eight.
"If you are bent upon it," said he, "I will do everything in my power to
see it through. I think you are quite right. Every one will say the
same."
The two left for Calais by the first boat that morning. Castrillon, and
Isidore, and a young Frenchman, M. de Lamoignon, were on board also. At
Calais the two seconds conferred, and the duel was arranged to take
place in a field near Dunkerque on the following morning. On the
following morning, the four men met. The combatants were placed at
fifteen paces from each other. They fired simultaneously and Castrillon
fell--mortally wounded.
CHAPTER XXIX
Brigit returned on Monday to Pensee at Curzon Street. It was the
anniversary of Lord Fitz Rewes's death. The two women went to Catesby,
where they visited his grave together, prayed together, and, in the
quiet evening, sat by the library fire.
"This is a great contrast for you after all the excitement on Saturday
night," said Pensee. "You are full of surprises, Brigit. Few young
girls, having made such a brilliant success, would care to spend their
time with poor, dull women like me. They would naturally wish to enjoy
the triumph."
Brigit's eyes filled with tears.
"I know what you mean, _cher coeur_," she answered, "but there are no
triumphs for any artist. We suffer and we work--sometimes we are able to
please. But we suffer and work because we must; whereas we please by the
merest accident."
"That is true, no doubt. One might as well speak of a successful saint
as a successful artist. Every saint is not canonized, and every artist
is not praised. But surely appreciation is a help."
"Yes, dearest; and I am grateful for it. And it gives encouragement to
one's friends!"
"Let us suppose that they had not cared for your acting, dear child.
What then?"
"I should have known that it was my vocation just the same. Don't
believe that I shan't have my full share of doubts and struggles. This
little first step makes me the more anxious about my next."
The older woman looked at her, and sighed deeply.
"You are too young to know life so well! I am sure you have suffered
more severely than any of us--who say more and cry more. Your face has
changed a good deal in the last day or two. In one way, it isn't so
pretty as it was."
"No one can look quite so plain as I can look, Pensee," she answered,
laughing.
"Let me finish what I had in my mind! You are not so pretty--not so much
like a picture. But when I see you now, I don't think about your
features at all. I watch your expressions--they suggest the whole world
to me--all the things I have thought and felt. Rachel's face is like
that. I am sure now that you were meant to be an actress. I have been
very stupid. How I wish I understood you better, and could be more of a
friend. I don't understand Robert entirely. Do you?"
"Yes, I understand him."
"I wonder how you came to love each other. I suppose it happened for the
best. But it seems such a pity"--she paused and then repeated the
words--"it seems such a pity that all doesn't come right--in the
old-fashioned way."
"It has come right, dear," said Brigit; "perfectly right."
"You try to think so."
"I know it. His father sinned, and my father sinned. We were born for
unhappiness. Unhappiness and misgivings are in our very blood."
"But how unjust!"
"No, dearest, on the contrary, it is strict justice. The laws of the
universe are immutable. You might as well ask that fire should only burn
sometimes--that it may be water, or air, or earth to suit sentimental
occasions."
"I don't like to see you so sensible--it's--it's _unlikely_."
Brigit smiled at the word--a favourite one with Pensee when persons and
events differed from the serene, unreasoned fiction which she called her
experience.
"How can you call anything unlikely?" asked the girl. "I ought never to
have been born at all, and Life has made no provision for me. She is
boisterous and homely--like a housekeeper at an inn. She doesn't know
me, and she has prepared no room for me. But I may rest on the
staircase--that's under shelter at least."
"What whimsical ideas, darling!"
"Ah, to feel as I feel, you must have had my parents. You mustn't
suppose that I woke up one morning and saw the reason for all my
troubles. The reason did not come as though it were the sun shining into
the room. Oh, no! I found no answer for a long, long time. But I feel it
now. My father could not take me into his world, and my mother's