The Place of Honeymoons
the corner of the eye; that is, objects at which one is not looking come
within the range of vision. The woman paused, her foot upon the step of
the modest limousine. She whispered something hurriedly into her
companion's ear, something evidently to the puzzlement of the latter, who
looked around irresolutely. She obeyed, however, and retreated to the
stage entrance. A man, quite as tall as Courtlandt, his face shaded
carefully, intentionally perhaps, by one of those soft Bavarian hats that
are worn successfully only by Germans, stepped out of the gathering to
proffer his assistance. Courtlandt pushed him aside calmly, lifted his
hat, and smiling ironically, closed the door behind the singer. The step
which the other man made toward Courtlandt was unequivocal in its meaning.
But even as Courtlandt squared himself to meet the coming outburst, the
stranger paused, shrugged his shoulders, turned and made off.
The lady in the limousine--very pale could any have looked closely into
her face--was whirled away into the night. Courtlandt did not stir from
the curb. The limousine dwindled, once it flashed under a light, and then
vanished.
"It is the American," said one of the waiting dandies.
"The icicle!"
"The volcano, rather, which fools believe extinct."
"Probably sent back her maid for her Bible. Ah, these Americans; they are
very amusing."
"She was in magnificent voice to-night. I wonder why she never sings
_Carmen_?"
"Have I not said that she is too cold? What! would you see frost grow upon
the toreador's mustache? And what a name, what a name! Eleonora da
Toscana!"
Courtlandt was not in the most amiable condition of mind, and a hint of
the ribald would have instantly transformed a passive anger into a blind
fury. Thus, a scene hung precariously; but its potentialities became as
nothing on the appearance of another woman.
This woman was richly dressed, too richly. Apparently she had trusted her
modiste not wisely but too well: there was the strange and unaccountable
inherent love of fine feathers and warm colors which is invariably the
mute utterance of peasant blood. She was followed by a Russian, huge of
body, Jovian of countenance. An expensive car rolled up to the curb. A
liveried footman jumped down from beside the chauffeur and opened the
door. The diva turned her head this way and that, a thin smile of
satisfaction stirring her lips. For Flora Desimone loved the human eye
whenever it stared admiration into her own; and she spent half her days
setting traps and lures, rather successfully. She and her formidable
escort got into the car which immediately went away with a soft purring
sound. There was breeding in the engine, anyhow, thought Courtlandt, who
longed to put his strong fingers around that luxurious throat which had,
but a second gone, passed him so closely.
"We shall never have war with Russia," said some one; "her dukes love
Paris too well."
Light careless laughter followed this cynical observation. Another time
Courtlandt might have smiled. He pushed his way into the passage leading
to the dressing-rooms, and followed its windings until he met a human
barrier. To his inquiry the answer was abrupt and perfectly clear in its
meaning: La Signorina da Toscana had given most emphatic orders not to
disclose her address to any one. Monsieur might, if he pleased, make
further inquiries of the directors; the answer there would be the same.
Presently he found himself gazing down the avenue once more. There were a
thousand places to go to, a thousand pleasant things to do; yet he
doddered, full of ill-temper, dissatisfaction, and self-contempt. He was
weak, damnably weak; and for years he had admired himself, detachedly, as
a man of pride. He started forward, neither sensing his direction nor the
perfected flavor of his Habana.
Opera singers were truly a race apart. They lived in the world but were
not a part of it, and when they died, left only a memory which faded in
one generation and became totally forgotten in another. What jealousies,
what petty bickerings, what extravagances! With fancy and desire
unchecked, what ingenious tricks they used to keep themselves in the
public mind,--tricks begot of fickleness and fickleness begetting. And
yet, it was a curious phase: their influence was generally found when
history untangled for posterity some Gordian knot. In old times they had
sung the _Marseillaise_ and danced the _carmagnole_ and indirectly plied
the guillotine. And to-day they smashed prime ministers, petty kings, and
bankers, and created fashions for the ruin of husbands and fathers of
modest means. Devil take them! And Courtlandt flung his cigar into the
street.
He halted. The Madeleine was not exactly the goal for a man who had, half
an hour before, contemplated a rout at Maxim's. His glance described a
half-circle. There was Durand's; but Durand's on opera nights entertained
many Americans, and he did not care to meet any of his compatriots
to-night. So he turned down the Rue Royale, on the opposite side, and went
into the Taverne Royale, where the patrons were not over particular in
regard to the laws of fashion, and where certain ladies with light
histories sought further adventures to add to their heptamerons. Now,
Courtlandt thought neither of the one nor of the other. He desired
isolation, safety from intrusion; and here, did he so signify, he could
find it. Women gazed up at him and smiled, with interest as much as with
invitation. He was brown from long exposure to the wind and the sun, that
golden brown which is the gift of the sun-glitter on rocking seas. A
traveler is generally indicated by this artistry of the sun, and once
noted instantly creates a speculative interest. Even his light brown hair
had faded at the temples, and straw-colored was the slender mustache, the
ends of which had a cavalier twist. He ignored the lips which smiled and
the eyes which invited, and nothing more was necessary. One is not
importuned at the Taverne Royale. He sat down at a vacant table and
ordered a pint of champagne, drinking hastily rather than thirstily.
Would Monsieur like anything to eat?
No, the wine was sufficient.
Courtlandt poured out a second glass slowly. The wine bubbled up to the
brim and overflowed. He had been looking at the glass with unseeing eyes.
He set the bottle down impatiently. Fool! To have gone to Burma, simply to
stand in the golden temple once more, in vain, to recall that other time:
the starving kitten held tenderly in a woman's arms, his own scurry among
the booths to find the milk so peremptorily ordered, and the smile of
thanks that had been his reward! He had run away when he should have hung
on. He should have fought every inch of the way....
"Monsieur is lonely?"
A pretty young woman sat down before him in the vacant chair.
CHAPTER II
THERE IS A WOMAN?
Anger, curiosity, interest; these sensations blanketed one another
quickly, leaving only interest, which was Courtlandt's normal state of
mind when he saw a pretty woman. It did not require very keen scrutiny on
his part to arrive swiftly at the conclusion that this one was not quite
in the picture. Her cheeks were not red with that redness which has a
permanency of tone, neither waxing nor waning, abashed in daylight. Nor
had her lips found their scarlet moisture from out the depths of certain
little porcelain boxes. Decidedly she was out of place here, yet she
evinced no embarrassment; she was cool, at ease. Courtlandt's interest
strengthened.
"Why do you think I am lonely, Mademoiselle?" he asked, without smiling.
"Oh, when one talks to one's self, strikes the table, wastes good wine,
the inference is but natural. So, Monsieur is lonely."
Her lips and eyes, as grave and smileless as his own, puzzled him. An
adventure? He looked at some of the other women. Those he could
understand, but this one, no. At all times he was willing to smile, yet to
draw her out he realized that he must preserve his gravity unbroken. The
situation was not usual. His gaze came back to her.
"Is the comparison favorable to me?" she asked.
"It is. What is loneliness?" he demanded cynically.
"Ah, I could tell you," she answered. "It is the longing to be with the
one we love; it is the hate of the wicked things we have done; it is
remorse."
"That echoes of the Ambigu-Comique." He leaned upon his arms. "What are
you doing here?"
"I?"
"Yes. You do not talk like the other girls who come here."
"Monsieur comes here frequently, then?"
"This is the first time in five years. I came here to-night because I
wanted to be alone, because I did not wish to meet any one I knew. I have
scowled at every girl in the room, and they have wisely left me alone. I
haven't scowled at you because I do not know what to make of you. That's
frankness. Now, you answer my question."
"Would you spare me a glass of wine? I am thirsty."
He struck his hands together, a bit of orientalism he had brought back
with him. The observant waiter instantly came forward with a glass.
The young woman sipped the wine, gazing into the glass as she did so.
"Perhaps a whim brought me here. But I repeat, Monsieur is lonely."
"So lonely that I am almost tempted to put you into a taxicab and run away
with you."
She set down the glass.
"But I sha'n't," he added.
The spark of eagerness in her eyes was instantly curtained. "There is a
woman?" tentatively.
"Is there not always a woman?"
"And she has disappointed Monsieur?" There was no marked sympathy in the
tone.
"Since Eve, has that not been woman's part in the human comedy?" He was
almost certain that her lips became firmer. "Smile, if you wish. It is not
prohibitory here."
It was evident that the smile had been struggling for existence, for it
endured to the fulness of half a minute. She had fine teeth. He
scrutinized her more closely, and she bore it well. The forehead did not
make for beauty; it was too broad and high, intellectual. Her eyes were
splendid. There was nothing at all ordinary about her. His sense of
puzzlement renewed itself and deepened. What did she want of him? There
were other men, other vacant chairs.
"Monsieur is certain about the taxicab?"
"Absolutely."
"Ah, it is to emulate Saint Anthony!"
"There are several saints of that name. To which do you refer?"
"Positively not to him of Padua."
Courtlandt laughed. "No, I can not fancy myself being particularly
concerned about bambini. No, my model is Noah."
"Noah?" dubiously.
"Yes. At the time of the flood there was only one woman in the world."
"I am afraid that your knowledge of that event is somewhat obscured.
Still, I understand."
She lifted the wine-glass again, and then he noticed her hand. It was
large, white and strong; it was not the hand of a woman who dallied, who
idled in primrose paths.
"Tell me, what is it you wish? You interest me, at a moment, too, when I
do not want to be interested. Are you really in trouble? Is there anything
I can do ... barring the taxicab?"
She twirled the glass, uneasily. "I am not in actual need of assistance."
"But you spoke peculiarly regarding loneliness."
"Perhaps I like the melodrama. You spoke of the Ambigu-Comique."
"You are on the stage?"
"Perhaps."
"The Opera?"
"Again perhaps."
He laughed once more, and drew his chair closer to the table.
"Monsieur in other moods must have a pleasant laughter."
"I haven't laughed from the heart in a very long time," he said, returning
to his former gravity, this time unassumed.
"And I have accomplished this amazing thing?"
"No. You followed me here. But from where?"
"Followed you?" The effort to give a mocking accent to her voice was a
failure.
"Yes. The idea just occurred to me. There were other vacant chairs, and