The Place of Honeymoons
Her statement as to the primal cause was purely inventive. There was not a
grain of truth in it. He could not possibly have been so rude. He had been
too indifferent. Too indifferent! The repetition of the phrase made him
sit straighter. Pshaw! It could not be that. He possessed a little vanity;
if he had not, his history would not have been worth a scrawl. But he
denied the possession vehemently, as men are wont to do. Strange, a man
will admit smashing those ten articles of advisement known as the
decalogue and yet deny the inherent quality which surrenders the
admission--vanity. However you may look at it, man's vanity is a complex
thing. The vanity of a woman has a definite and commendable purpose: the
conquest of man, his purse, and half of his time. Too indifferent! Was it
possible that he had roused her enmity simply because he had made it
evident that her charms did not interest him? Beyond lifting his hat to
her, perhaps exchanging a comment on the weather, his courtesies had not
been extended. Courtlandt was peculiar in some respects. A woman attracted
him, or she did not. In the one case he was affable, winning, pleasant,
full of those agreeable little surprises that in turn attract a woman. In
the other case, he passed on, for his impressions were instant and did not
require the usual skirmishing.
A grand duchess! The straw-colored mustache now described two aggressive
points. What an impossible old world it was! The ambition of the English
nobility was on a far lower scale than that of their continental cousins.
On the little isle they were satisfied to marry soubrettes and chorus
girls. Here, the lady must be no less a personage than a grand-opera
singer or a _premiere danseuse_. The continental noble at least showed
some discernment; he did not choose haphazard; he desired the finished
product and was not to be satisfied with the material in the raw.
Oh, stubborn Dutchman that he had been! Blind fool! To have run away
instead of fighting to the last ditch for his happiness! The Desimone
woman was right: it had taken him a long time to come to the conclusion
that she had done him an ill turn. And during all these weary months he
had drawn a melancholy picture of himself as a wounded lion, creeping into
the jungle to hide its hurts, when, truth be known, he had taken the ways
of the jackass for a model. He saw plainly enough now. More than this,
where there had been mere obstacles to overcome there were now steep
mountains, perhaps inaccessible for all he knew. His jaw set, and the
pressure of his lips broke the sweep of his mustache, converting it into
bristling tufts, warlike and resolute.
As he was leaving, a square of light attracted his attention. He looked up
to see the outline of the bearded Russ in the window. Poor devil! He was
going to have a merry time of it. Well, that was his affair. Besides,
Russians, half the year chilled by their bitter snows, were susceptible to
volcanoes; they courted them as a counterbalance. Perhaps he had spoken
roughly, but his temper had not been under control. One thing he recalled
with grim satisfaction. He had sent a barbed arrow up the tube to disturb
the felicity of the dove-cote. The duke would be rather curious to know
what was meant in referring to the night she had come to his,
Courtlandt's, room. He laughed. It would be a fitting climax indeed if the
duke called him out.
But what of the pretty woman in the Taverne Royale? What about her? At
whose bidding had she followed him? One or the other of them had not told
the truth, and he was inclined to believe that the prevarication had its
source in the pomegranate lips of the Calabrian. To give the old barb one
more twist, to learn if its venomous point still held and hurt; nothing
would have afforded the diva more delight. Courtlandt glared at the window
as the shade rolled down.
When the taxicab joined the long line of carriages and automobiles
opposite the Austrian ambassador's, Courtlandt awoke to the dismal and
disquieting fact that he had formulated no plan of action. He had done no
more than to give the driver his directions; and now that he had arrived,
he had the choice of two alternatives. He could wait to see her come out
or return at once to his hotel, which, as subsequent events affirmed,
would have been the more sensible course. He would have been confronted
with small difficulty in gaining admission to the house. He knew enough of
these general receptions; the announcing of his name would have conveyed
nothing to the host, who knew perhaps a third of his guests, and many of
these but slightly. But such an adventure was distasteful to Courtlandt.
He could not overstep certain recognized boundaries of convention, and to
enter a man's house unasked was colossal impudence. Beyond this, he
realized that he could have accomplished nothing; the advantage would have
been hers. Nor could he meet her as she came out, for again the odds would
have been largely in her favor. No, the encounter must be when they two
were alone. She must be surprised. She must have no time to use her ready
wit. He had thought to wait until some reasonable plan offered itself for
trial; yet, here he was, with nothing definite or recognizable but the
fact that the craving to see her was not to be withstood. The blood began
to thunder in his ears. An idea presented itself. It appealed to him at
that moment as quite clever and feasible.
"Wait!" he called to the driver.
He dived among the carriages and cars, and presently he found what he
sought,--her limousine. He had taken the number into his mind too keenly
to be mistaken. He saw the end of his difficulties; and he went about the
affair with his usual directness. It was only at rare times that he ran
his head into a cul-de-sac. If her chauffeur was regularly employed in her
service, he would have to return to the hotel; but if he came from the
garage, there was hope. Every man is said to have his price, and a French
chauffeur might prove no notable exception to the rule.
"Are you driver for Madame da Toscana?" Courtlandt asked of the man
lounging in the forward seat.
The chauffeur looked hard at his questioner, and on finding that he
satisfied the requirements of a gentleman, grumbled an affirmative. The
limousine was well known in Paris, and he was growing weary of these
endless inquiries.
"Are you in her employ directly, or do you come from the garage?"
"I am from the garage, but I drive mademoiselle's car most of the time,
especially at night. It is not madame but mademoiselle, Monsieur."
"My mistake." A slight pause. It was rather a difficult moment for
Courtlandt. The chauffeur waited wonderingly. "Would you like to make five
hundred francs?"
"How, Monsieur?"
Courtlandt should have been warned by the tone, which contained no unusual
interest or eagerness.
"Permit me to remain in mademoiselle's car till she comes. I wish to ride
with her to her apartment."
The chauffeur laughed. He stretched his legs. "Thanks, Monsieur. It is
very dull waiting. Monsieur knows a good joke."
And to Courtlandt's dismay he realized that his proposal had truly been
accepted as a jest.
"I am not joking. I am in earnest. Five hundred francs. On the word of a
gentleman I mean mademoiselle no harm. I am known to her. All she has to
do is to appeal to you, and you can stop the car and summon the police."
The chauffeur drew in his legs and leaned toward his tempter. "Monsieur,
if you are not jesting, then you are a madman. Who are you? What do I know
about you? I never saw you before, and for two seasons I have driven
mademoiselle in Paris. She wears beautiful jewels to-night. How do I know
that you are not a gentlemanly thief? Ride home with mademoiselle! You are
crazy. Make yourself scarce, Monsieur; in one minute I shall call the
police."
"Blockhead!"
English of this order the Frenchman perfectly understood. "_La, la!_" he
cried, rising to execute his threat.
Courtlandt was furious, but his fury was directed at himself as much as at
the trustworthy young man getting down from the limousine. His eagerness
had led him to mistake stupidity for cleverness. He had gone about the
affair with all the clumsiness of a boy who was making his first
appearance at the stage entrance. It was mightily disconcerting, too, to
have found an honest man when he was in desperate need of a dishonest one.
He had faced with fine courage all sorts of dangerous wild animals; but at
this moment he hadn't the courage to face a policeman and endeavor to
explain, in a foreign tongue, a situation at once so delicate and so
singularly open to misconstruction. So, for the second time in his life he
took to his heels. Of the first time, more anon. He scrambled back to his
own car, slammed the door, and told the driver to drop him at the Grand.
His undignified retreat caused his face to burn; but discretion would not
be denied. However, he did not return to the hotel.
Mademoiselle da Toscana's chauffeur scratched his chin in perplexity. In
frightening off his tempter he recognized that now he would never be able
to find out who he was. He should have played with him until mademoiselle
came out. She would have known instantly. That would have been the time
for the police. To hide in the car! What the devil! Only a madman would
have offered such a proposition. The man had been either an American or an
Englishman, for all his accuracy in the tongue. Bah! Perhaps he had heard
her sing that night, and had come away from the Opera, moonstruck. It was
not an isolated case. The fools were always pestering him, but no one had
ever offered so uncommon a bribe: five hundred francs. Mademoiselle might
not believe that part of the tale. Mademoiselle was clever. There was a
standing agreement between them that she would always give him half of
whatever was offered him in the way of bribes. It paid. It was easier to
sell his loyalty to her for two hundred and fifty francs than to betray
her for five hundred. She had yet to find him untruthful, and to-night he
would be as frank as he had always been.
But who was this fellow in the Bavarian hat, who patrolled the sidewalk?
He had been watching him when the madman approached. For an hour or more
he had walked up and down, never going twenty feet beyond the limousine.
He couldn't see the face. The long dark coat had a military cut about the
hips and shoulders. From time to time he saw him glance up at the lighted
windows. Eh, well; there were other women in the world besides
mademoiselle, several others.
He had to wait only half an hour for her appearance. He opened the door
and saw to it that she was comfortably seated; then he paused by the
window, touching his cap.
"What is it, Francois?"
"A gentleman offered me five hundred francs, Mademoiselle, if I would
permit him to hide in the car."
"Five hundred francs? To hide in the car? Why didn't you call the
police?"
"I started to, Mademoiselle, but he ran away."
"Oh! What was he like?" The prima donna dropped the bunch of roses on the
seat beside her.
"Oh, he looked well enough. He had the air of a gentleman. He was tall,
with light hair and mustache. But as I had never seen him before, and as
Mademoiselle wore some fine jewels, I bade him be off."
"Would you know him again?"
"Surely, Mademoiselle."
"The next time any one bothers you, call the police. You have done well,
and I shall remember it. Home."
The man in the Bavarian hat hurried back to the third car from the
limousine, and followed at a reasonably safe distance.
The singer leaned back against the cushions. She was very tired. The opera
that night had taxed her strength, and but for her promise she would not
have sung to the ambassador's guests for double the fee. There was an