Susan dismissed her admirers at the races with some difficulty, especially the tenacious marquis, who tenderly squeezed her hand, saying:

“Were I twenty years younger, I would not thus be set aside.”

“Fie, Marquis!” she returned. “These other people are dull, while you are charmingly wicked.”

“You flatter me,” he cackled, detaining her, to the impatience of the thick-set man who was waiting to escort the young woman back to town. “But do you notice the gentleman over there with the medals?”

“The distinguished-looking man?” asked Susan.

“Yes; that is the Count de Propriac. It was he who was one of the agents of Louis Philippe in the Spanish double marriage plot. It was arranged the queen should marry her cousin, and her sister the son of Louis Philippe. The queen and her cousin were not expected to have children––but had them, to spite us all, and Louis Philippe’s projects for the throne of Spain failed disastrously.”

“How inconsiderate of the queen! Good afternoon, marquis! I have been vastly entertained.”

“And I”––kissing her hand––“enamored!” Then, chuckling: “A week ago my stupid doctors had me laid out in funereal dignity, and now I am making love to a fine woman. Pretty pouting lips!”––tapping her chin playfully––“Like rose-buds! Happy the lover who shall gather the dew! But we meet again, Mistress Susan?”

“That will depend upon you, marquis,” answered Susan, coquettishly, as a thought flashed through her mind that it would not be unpleasant to be called “Marquise,” or “Marchioness”––she did not quite know which would be the proper title. It was nearly vesper-time with the old nobleman; he seemed but a procrastinating presence in the evening of mortal life; a chateau and carriage––

“Then we will meet again,” said the marquis, interrupting these new-born ambitions.

“In that case you would soon get tired of me,” laughed Susan.

“Never!” Tenderly. “When may I see you?”

“How importunate you are! Call when you will.”

“But if you are out”––he insisted.

“That will make it the more delightfully uncertain,” she said gaily.

“So it will!” Rubbing his hands. “Delightfully uncertain!” he repeated. And he departed with many protestations, taking no more notice of the thick-set man than if he were a block of wood.

“What an old ape!” growled the latter, viciously, as the marquis ambled from their stall.

“Do you think so?” answered Susan, tossing her head. “He has that air of distinction which only persons of rank and title can command.”

“Distinction!” said the other, who was but a well-to-do merchant. “I should call it bad manners.”

“Because he never noticed you!” laughed Susan, spitefully. “But why are we standing here? I believe you expect to take me home, don’t you?”

Although she chattered like a magpie on the road, he was silent and sullen, nursing his injured pride and wounded self-sufficiency. Susan, who was interested in him for the novel reason she disliked him so heartily, parted from him with the air of a duchess, and entered the hotel, holding her head so high that he swore under his breath as he drove away. And, as a result of the quarrel with the lad, he would probably have to risk being “pinked” for this jade! Susan, on the other hand, was as happy as a lark when she entered the dining-room of the St. Charles, that great eating-place and meeting-place of all classes of people.

As she seated herself at a table, a smile lurked around the corners of her mouth and flickered faintly upon the waiter who forthwith became a Mercury for expedition and a prodigal for variety. Her quarrel on the road with her companion had in nowise interfered with that appetite which the fresh air and the 255 lateness of the hour had provoked, nor were her thoughts of a character to deter from the zest of eating.

From the present to the past was but an instant’s flight of the mind––thus may the once august years swiftly and unceremoniously be marshaled by!––and she dwelt in not unpleasing retrospection on an endless field of investigation and discovery and the various experiences which had befallen her in arriving at the present period of mature knowledge; a proficiency which converted her chosen researches into an exact science.

Thus meditating and dining––counting on her fingers twice over the fair actresses who had become titled ladies, and enviously disbelieving she would join that triumphant company––Susan was still seated at the table some time later when the soldier glanced in. Imperatively she motioned him to her side and he obeyed with not entirely concealed reluctance, and was so preoccupied, she rallied him upon his reserve.

“I believe you and Constance had a quarrel on the road.” Maliciously. “I hope you were more amiable than my companion. He hardly spoke a word, and, when I left him”––her voice sank to a whisper––“I heard him swear.”

“He pleased you so much earlier in the day that a duel will probably be the outcome.”

Susan laughed gaily.

“A duel! Then my fortune is made. All the newspapers 256 will contain paragraphs. It is too good to be true.” And she clapped her hands. “When is it to take place? Tell me about it!”

Then noting his manner, she continued with an assumption of plaintiveness: “Now you are cross with me! You think me heartless. Is it my fault? I care nothing for either of them and I am not to be blamed if they are so foolish. It might be different if either had touched my heart.” And she assumed a coquettish demeanor, while Saint-Prosper coolly studied her through the wreaths of smoke from his weed.

“You are wondering what sort of a person I am!” she continued, merrily, raising her glass of wine with: “To unrequited passion!”

Her roguish face sparkled as he asked; “Whose?”

She drained the glass and set it down demurely. “Mine!”

The cigar was suspended; the veil cleared between them.

“For whom?” he said.

“You!” Offering him the limpid depths of her blue eyes. “Is my liking returned?”

“Liking? Perhaps!”

“My love?”

“Love? No.” Coldly.

“You do not fear a woman scorned?” Her lips curved in a smile, displaying her faultless teeth.

“Not when the avenging angel is so charming and so heartless!” he added satirically.

Her lashes veiled the azure orbs.

“You think to disarm her with a compliment? How well you understand women!” And, as he rose, the pressure of the hand she gave him at parting was lingering.

Above in his room, Barnes, with plays and manuscripts scattered around him, was engaged in writing in his note and date book, wherein autobiography, ledger and journal accounts, and such miscellaneous matter mingled indiscriminately. “To-day she said to me: ‘I am going to the races with Mr. Saint-Prosper.’ What did I say? ‘Yes,’ of course. What can there be in common between Lear and Juliet? Naturally, she sometimes turns from an old fellow like me––now, if she were only a slip of a girl again––with her short frock––her disorder of long ringlets––running and romping––

“A thousand details pass through my mind, reminiscences of her girlhood, lightening a lonesome life like glimmerings of sunshine in a secluded wood; memories of her mother and the old days when she played in my New York theater––for Barnes, the stroller, was once a metropolitan manager! Her fame had preceded her and every admirer of histrionic art eagerly awaited her arrival.

“But the temple of art is a lottery. The town that had welcomed her so wildly now went Elssler-mad. The gossamer floatings of this French danseuse possessed 258 everyone. People courted trash and trumpery. Greatness gave way to triviality. This pitiful condition preyed upon her. The flame of genius never for a moment became less dim, but her eyes grew larger, brighter, more melancholy. Sometimes she would fall into a painful reverie and I knew too well the subject of her thoughts. With tender solicitude she would regard her daughter, thinking, thinking! She was her only hope, her only joy!

“‘The town wants dancers, not tragedians, Mr. Barnes,’ she said sadly one day.

“‘Nonsense,’ I replied. ‘The town wants a change of bill. We will put on a new piece next week.’

“‘It will be but substituting one tragedy for another,’ she retorted. ‘One misfortune for a different one! You should import a rival dancer. You are going down; down hill! I will leave you; perhaps you will discover your dancer, and your fortune is made!’

“‘And you? What would you do?’ I demanded. ‘And your child?’

“At this her eyes filled and she could not answer. ‘And now, Madam,’ I said firmly, ‘I refuse once and for all to permit you to break your contract. Pooh! The tide will change. Men and women are sometimes fools; but they are not fools all the time. The dancer will have had her day. She will twirl her toes to the empty seats and throw her kisses into unresponsive space. Our patrons will gradually return; 259 they will grow tired of wriggling and twisting, and look again for a more substantial diet.’

“Matters did, indeed, begin to mend somewhat, when to bring the whole fabric tumbling down on our heads, this incomparable woman fell ill.

“‘You see? I have ruined you,’ she said sadly.

“‘I am honored, Madam,’ was all I could reply.

“She placed her hand softly on mine and let her luminous eyes rest on me.

“‘Dear old friend!’ she murmured.

“Then she closed her eyes and I thought she was sleeping. Some time elapsed when she again opened them.

“‘Death will break our contract, Mr. Barnes,’ she said softly.

“I suppose my hand trembled, for she tightened her grasp and continued firmly: ‘It is not so terrible, after all, or would not be, but for one thing.’

“‘You will soon get well, Madam,’ I managed to stammer.

“‘No! Do you care? It is pleasant to have one true, kind friend in the world; one who makes a woman believe again in the nobility of human nature. My life has been sad as you know. I should not regret giving it up. Nor should I fear to die. I can not think that God will be unkind to one who has done her best; at least, has tried to. Yet there is one thing that makes me crave for life. My child––what will she do––poor, motherless, fatherless girl––all alone, all alone––.

“‘Madam, if I may––will you permit me to care for her? If I might regard her as my child!’

“How tightly she held my hand at that! Her eyes seemed to blaze with heavenly fire. But let me not dwell further upon the sad events that led to the end of her noble career. Something of her life I had heard; something, I surmised. Unhappy as a woman, she was majestic as an actress; the fire of her voice struck every ear; its sweetness had a charm, never to be forgotten. But only to those who knew her well were revealed the unvarying truth and simplicity of her nature. Even as I write, her spirit, tender and steadfast, seems standing by my side; I feel her eyes in the darkness of night, and, when the time comes––and often of late, it has seemed not far––to go from this mere dressing-room, the earth, into the higher life––”

A knock at the door rudely dispelled these memories. For a moment the manager looked startled, as one abruptly called back to his immediate surroundings; then the pen fell from his hand, and he pushed the book from him to the center of the table.

“Come in,” he said.

The door opened and Saint-Prosper entered.

“Am I interrupting you?” asked the soldier, glancing at the littered table.

“Not at all,” answered the manager, recovering himself, and settling back in his chair. “Make yourself at home. You’ll find some cigars on the mantel, or if you prefer your pipe, there’s a jar of tobacco on 261 the trunk. Do you find it? I haven’t had time yet to bring order out of chaos. A manager’s trunks are like a junk-shop, with everything from a needle to an anchor.”

Filling his pipe from the receptacle indicated, which lay among old costumes and wigs, the soldier seated himself near an open window that looked out upon a balcony. Through a door at the far end of the balcony a light streamed from a chandelier within, playing upon the balustrade. Once the figure of the young actress stepped for a moment out upon the balcony; she leaned upon the balustrade, looked across the city, breathed the perfume of the flowers, and then quickly vanished.

“Can you spare me a little time to-morrow morning––early––before rehearsal?” said Saint-Prosper, finally.

“Yes,” returned the manager, in surprise. “What is it?”

“A foolish piece of business! The patroon is in New Orleans.”

Barnes uttered an exclamation of annoyance and apprehension. “Here! What is he doing here?” he said. “I thought we had seen the last of him. Has he followed––Constance?”

“I don’t know. We met yesterday at the races.”

“It is strange she did not tell me about it,” remarked the manager, without endeavoring to conceal the anxiety this unexpected information afforded him.

“She does not know he is here.” And Saint-Prosper briefly related the circumstances of his meeting with the land baron, to which the manager listened attentively.

“And so she must be dragged into it?” exclaimed Barnes at length, resentfully. “Her name must become public property in a broil?”

A frown darkened the soldier’s face, but he replied quickly: “Need any one know? The land baron has not been seen with her.”

“No; but you have,” returned the manager, suddenly pausing and looking down at the other.

The silence between them lasted for some moments. Barnes stood with his hands in his pockets, his face downcast and moody. He felt that events were happening over which he had no control, but which were shaping the destiny of all he loved best. In the dim light the rugged lines of his countenance were strongly, decisively outlined. Turning to the trunk, with a quick, nervous step, he filled a pipe himself. After he had lighted it, he once more contemplated the soldier, thinking deeply, reviewing the past.

“We have been together for some time, Mr. Saint-Prosper,” he said, at length. “We have gone through fair and rough weather, and”––he paused a moment before continuing––“should understand each other. You asked me when you came in if you were interrupting me, and I told you that you were not. As a matter of fact, you were.”

And, walking to a table, Barnes took up the notebook.

“A garrulous, single man must tell his little secrets somewhere,” he continued. “Will you look at the pages I was writing when you came in?”

Saint-Prosper took the book, and, while he was turning the leaves that were hardly dry, the manager relighted his pipe, over which he glanced nervously from time to time at his companion. Finally, when the soldier had finished the perusal of the diary, Barnes turned to him expectantly, but the other silently laid down the little volume, and, after waiting some moments for him to speak, the manager, as though disappointed by his reticence, breathed a sigh. Then, clearing his throat, in a voice somewhat husky, he went on, simply:

“You will understand now why she is so much to me. I have always wanted to keep her from the world as much as possible; to have her world, her art! I have tried to keep the shadow of the past from her. An actress has a pretty face; and there’s a hue and cry! It is not notoriety she seeks, but fame; fame, bright and pure as sunlight!”

“The land baron will not cry abroad the cause of the meeting,” said the soldier, gravely. “These fashionable affairs need but flimsy pretexts.”

“Flimsy pretexts!” cried Barnes. “A woman’s reputation––her good name––”

“Hush!” said Saint-Prosper.

From the door at the far end of the balcony Constance had again emerged and now approached their room. A flowing gown of an early period surrounded her like a cloud as she paused before Barnes’ apartment. At the throat a deep-falling collar was closely fastened; the sleeves were gathered in at elbow and wrist, and from a “coverchief,” set upon the dusky hair, fell a long veil of ample proportions. With the light shimmering on the folds of her raiment, she stood looking through the open door, regarding the manager and Saint-Prosper.

“Oh, you are not alone?” she said to the former. “You look as though you were talking together very seriously?” she added, turning to Saint-Prosper.

“Nothing of consequence, Miss Carew!” he replied, flushing beneath her clear eyes.

“Only about some scenery!” interposed the manager, so hastily that she glanced, slightly surprised, from the one to the other. “Some sets that are––”

“‘Flimsy pretexts!’ I caught that much! I only wanted to ask you about this costume. Is it appropriate, do you think, for the part we were talking about?” Turning around slowly, with arms half-raised.

“Charming, my dear; charming!” he answered, enthusiastically.

“If I only thought that an unbiased criticism!” Her dark lashes lowered; she looked toward the soldier, half shyly, half mockingly. “What do you think, Mr. Saint-Prosper?”

At that moment her girlish grace was irresistible.

“I think it is not only appropriate, but”––looking at her and not at the costume––“beautiful!”

A gleam like laughter came into her eyes; nor did she shun his kindling gaze.

“Thank you!” she said, and courtesied low.

That same evening Spedella’s fencing rooms were fairly thronged with devotees of the ancient art of puncturing. The master of the place was a tall Italian, lank and lean, all bone and muscle, with a Don Quixote visage, barring a certain villainous expression of the eyes, irreconcilable with the chivalrous knight-errant of distressed Dulcineas. But every man with a bad eye is not necessarily a rascallion, and Spedella, perhaps, was better than he looked. With a most melancholy glance he was now watching two combatants, novices in feats of arms. Dejection sat upon his brow; he yawned over a clumsy feinte seconde, when his sinister eyes fell on a figure that had just entered the hall. Immediately his melancholy vanished, and he advanced to meet the newcomer with stately cordiality.

“Well met, Mr. Mauville,” he exclaimed, extending a bony hand that had fingers like the grip of death. “What good fortune brought you here?”

“An ill wind, Spedella, rather!”

“It’s like a breath of the old days to see you; the old days before you began your wanderings!”

“Get the foils, Spedella; I’ll have a bout with the 266 master. Gad, you’re as ill-looking as ever! It’s some time since I’ve touched a foil. I want to test myself. I have a little affair to-morrow. Hark you, my old brigand; I wish to see if I can kill him!”

“A lad of spirit!” chuckled the master, a gleam of interest illumining his cavernous eyes. “Young!––frisky!––an affair of honor to-day is but nursery sport. Two children with tin swords are more diverting. The world goes backward! A counter-jumper thinks he can lunge, because he is spry, that he can touch a button because he sells them. And I am wasting my genius with ribbon-venders––”

“I see the wolf growls as much as ever!” said the patroon. “Here’s a quiet corner. Come; tell me what I’ve forgotten.”

“Good!” returned the other. “You can tell me about your travels as we fence.”

“Hang my travels!” replied the patroon, as they leisurely engaged. “They’ve brought me nothing but regrets.”

“Feinte flanconnade––well done!” murmured Spedella. “So it was not honey you brought home from your rambles? Feinte seconde and decisive tierce! It’s long since I’ve touched a good blade. These glove-sellers and perfume-dealers––”

“You are bitter against trade, my bravo,” remarked the land baron.

“I was spoiling with languor when you came. Not bad, that feint––but dangerous, because of the possibility of misjudging the attack. Learn the paroles he 267 affects to-morrow by quick, simple thrusts, and then you will know what feints to attack him with. Time in octave––you quitted the blade in a dangerous position. Cluck; cluck, my game cock! Intemperance has befogged your judgment; high-living has dimmed your––”

“You have it!” laughed the land baron.

The button of his foil touched the old bravo’s breast; the steel was bent like a bow.

Spedella forgot his English and swore in soft and liquid Italian. “I looked around to see how those ribbon-venders were getting on,” he said after this euphonious, foreign prelude. “They pay me; I have to keep an eye on them. All the same,” he added, generously, “there isn’t another man in New Orleans could have stopped that stroke––except myself!”

“Will I do––for to-morrow?” asked the patroon, moodily.

The master cocked his head quizzically; his deep-set eyes were soft and friendly.

“The devil’s with him, if you don’t put your spur in him, my bantam!”