A supper was given the company after the performance by the manager, to which representatives of the press––artful Barnes!––had been invited. Of all the merry evenings in the bohemian world, that was one of the merriest. Next to the young girl sat the Count de Propriac, his breast covered with a double row of medals. Of the toasts drunk to Constance, the manager, poets Straws and Phazma, etc., unfortunately no record remains. Of the recollections of the wiry old lady; the impromptu verse of the rhymsters; the roaring speech of Mr. Barnes; the song and dainty flower dance by Susan and Kate––only the bare facts have descended to the chronicler.

So fancy must picture the wreaths of smoke; the superabundance of flowers, the fragrance of cigars mingling with the perfume of fading floral beauties; the pale dark-eyed girl presiding, upon her dusky hair a crown of laurel, set there, despite her protestations, by Phazma and Straws; the devotion of the count to his fair neighbor; the almost superhuman pride of 336 noisy Barnes; the attention bestowed by Susan upon Saint-Prosper, while through his mind wandered the words of a French song:

Intermixed with this sad refrain the soldier’s thoughts reverted to the performance, and amidst the chatter of Susan, he reviewed again and again the details of that evening. Was this the young girl who played in school-houses, inns or town halls, he had asked himself, seated in the rear of the theater? How coldly critical had been her auditors; some of the faces about him ironical; the bored, tired faces of men who had well-nigh drained life’s novelties; the artificially vivacious faces of women who played at light-heartedness and gaiety! Yet how free from concern had she been, as natural and composed as though her future had not depended upon that night! When she won an ovation, he had himself forgotten to applaud, but had sat there, looking from her to the auditors, to whom she was now bound by ties of admiration and friendliness.

“Don’t you like her?” a voice next to him had asked.

Like her? He had looked at the man, blankly.

“Yes,” he had replied.

Then the past had seemed to roll between them: the burning sands; the voices of the troops; the bugle call! In his brain wild thoughts had surged and flowed––as they were surging and flowing now.

“Is he not handsome, Constance’s new admirer?” whispered Susan. “What can he be saying? She looks so pleased! He is very rich, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” answered Saint-Prosper, brusquely.

Again the thoughts surged and surged, and the past intruded itself! Reaching for his glass, he drank quickly.

“Don’t you ever feel the effects of wine?” asked the young woman.

His glance chilled her, it seemed so strange and steely!

“I believe you are so––so strong you don’t even notice it,” added Susan, with conviction. “But you don’t have half as good a time!”

“Perhaps I enjoy myself in my way,” he answered.

“What is your way?” she asked quickly. “You don’t appear to be wildly hilarious in your pleasures.” And Susan’s bright eyes rested on him curiously. “But we were speaking about the count and Constance. Don’t you think it would be a good match?” she continued with enthusiasm. “Alas, my titled admirer got no further than the beginning. But men are deceivers ever! When they do reach the Songs of Solomon, they pass on to Exodus!”

“And leave the fair ones to Lamentations,” said Straws, who had caught her last remarks.

“Or Revelations!” added Phazma.

At the sound of their laughter, Constance looked coldly their way, until a remark from the count at her right, and, “As I was saying, my dear,” from the old 338 lady at her left, engrossed the young girl’s attention once more. But finally the great enemy of joy––the grim guardian of human pleasure––the reaper whose iron hands move ever in a circle, symbolical of eternity––finally, Time reminded Barnes that the hour had surely arrived when the curtain should descend upon these festivities. So he roared out a last blithe farewell, and the guests departed one by one, taking with them flowers in memory of the occasion, until all had left save Constance, the count, Saint-Prosper and the manager. Barnes was talking somewhat incoherently, holding the soldier by the coat and plunging into successive anecdotes about stage folk, while Saint-Prosper, apparently listening, observed the diplomat and Constance, whose conversation he could overhear.

“As I said to the Royal Infanta of Spain, flattery flies before truth in your presence, Mademoiselle,” sighed the count. And then raising her hand to his lips, “Ah, ma chere Mademoiselle, que je vous adore!” he whispered.

She withdrew it hastily, and, ogling and gesticulating, he bowed himself out, followed by the manager.

Leaning against the chair, her figure outlined by the glow from the crystal chandelier, her face in shadow, the hand the diplomat had pressed to his lips resting in the exposed light on the mahogany, the gaiety went out of her face, and the young girl wearily brushed the hair from her brow. As if unaware of the soldier’s presence, she glanced absently at the table 339 in its wrecked glory, and, throwing her lace wrap over her arm, was moving toward the door, when he spoke.

“Miss Carew!”

She paused, standing with clasped hands before him, while the scarf slipped from her arm and fell at her feet.

“May I not also tell you how glad I am––that you succeeded to-night?”

“I dislike congratulations!” she said, indifferently.

He looked at her quickly, but her eyes expressed only apathy. In his a sudden gleam of light appeared.

“From me, you mean?” The light became brighter.

She did not answer. His self-control was fast ebbing.

“You underestimate your favors, if you fancy they are easily forgotten!”

A crimson flush extended to her brow; the unconcern died out of her eyes.

“I do not understand,” she answered, slowly.

“When a woman says ‘I do not understand,’ she means ‘I wish to forget’.”

Her wide-open glance flashed ominously to his; she clasped and unclasped her fingers.

“Forget what?” she said, coldly.

“Nameless nothings!” he returned. “A smile––a glance––nothing to you, perhaps, but”––the set expression of his face giving way to abrupt passion!––“everything to me! Perhaps I had not meant to say this, but it seems as though the words must come out to-night. 340 It may be”––his voice vibrating with strange earnestness––“for once I want to be myself. For weeks we have been––friends––and then suddenly you begin to treat me––how? As though I no longer existed! Why did you deceive me––let me drift on? Because I was mute, did you think I was blind? Why did I join the strollers––the land baron accused me of following you across the country. He was right; I was following you. I would not confess it to myself before. But I confess it now! It was a fool’s paradise,” he ended, bitterly.

She shrank back before his vehement words; something within her appeared violated; as though his plea had penetrated the sanctity of her reserve.

“Would it not be well to say nothing about deception?” she replied, and her dark eyes swept his face. Then, turning from him abruptly, she stepped to the window, and, drawing aside the lace curtains mechanically, looked out.

The city below was yet teeming with life, lights gleaming everywhere and shadowy figures passing. Suddenly out of the darkness came a company of soldiers who had just landed, marching through the streets toward the camping ground and singing as they went.

The chorus, like a mighty breath of patriotism, filled her heart to overflowing. It seemed as though she had heard it for the first time; had never before felt its potency. All the tragedy of war swept before her; all that inspiring, strange affection for country, kith and kin, suddenly exalted her.

Above the tramping of feet, the melody rose and fell on the distant air, dying away as the figures vanished in the gloom. With its love of native land, its expression of the unity of comradeship and ties stronger than death, the song appeared to challenge an answer; and, when the music ceased, and only the drum-beats still seemed to make themselves heard, she raised her head without moving from her position and looked at him to see if he understood. But though she glanced at him, she hardly saw him. In her mind was another picture––the betrayed garrison; the soldiers slain!––and the horror of it threw such a film over her gaze that he became as a figure in some distressing dream.

An inkling of her meaning––the mute questioning of her eyes––the dread evoked by that revolting vision of the past––were reflected in his glance.

“Deceived you?” he began, and his voice, to her, sounded as from afar. “How––what––”

“Must it be––could it be put into words?”

The deepest shadows dwelt in her eyes; shadows he could not penetrate, although he still doggedly, yet apprehensively, regarded her! Watching her, his brow grew darker.

“Why not?” he continued, stubbornly.

Why? The dimness that had obscured her vision lifted. Now she saw him very plainly, indeed; tall 342 and powerful; his face, harsh, intense, as though by the vigor of physical and mental force he would override any charge or imputation.

Why? She drew herself up, as he quickly searched her eyes, bright with the passions that stirred her breast.

“You told me part of your story that day in the property wagon,” she began, repugnance, scorn and anger all mingling in her tones. “Why did you not tell me the rest?”

His glance, too, flashed. Would he still profess not to understand her? His lips parted; he spoke with an effort.

“The rest?” he said, his brow lowering.

“Yes,” she answered quickly; “the stain upon your name!––the garrison sold!––the soldiers killed!––murdered!––”

She had turned to him swiftly, fiercely, with her last words, but before the look of sudden shame and dread on his face, her eyes abruptly fell as though a portion of his dishonor had inexplicably touched her. He made no attempt to defend himself––motionless he stood an instant––then, without a word, he moved away. At the threshold he paused, but she did not look up––could not! A moment; an eternity!

“Why don’t you go?” she cried. “Why don’t you go?”

The door opened, closed; she was alone.

Pale as the dying lilies on the table, she stepped toward the threshold, when Barnes, chipper and still 343 indefatigable, entered by another door. He was too inspired with festal intoxication to observe her agitation.

“What, my dear!” he exclaimed cheerily. “Has he gone? Did you make up your little differences? Did you settle your quarrel before he leaves for Mexico?”

“For Mexico!” she repeated, mechanically.

“Of course. He has his commission in the army and leaves early in the morning. But you look tired, my dear. I declare you are quite pale”––pinching her cheek––“rest will bring back the roses, though.”

Impulsively she threw her arms around his neck.

“Why, why, what’s this?” he said, patting her head.

“I only care for you,” she whispered. “My dear! My dear!”