“‘Perhaps she will fail, and that will amuse me,’” ruminated FranÇois on his high seat next to the coachman, repeating the marquis’ words, as they drove home after the nobleman’s precipitous retreat from the theater. “Well, he didn’t look as though he had been particularly amused. But no wonder he was startled! It even”––reviewing the impression first made upon him at sight of the actress––“sent a shiver through me!” Here the carriage drew up sharply before the marquis’ home, and FranÇois, hastily alighting, threw open the door.

“Eh? What? Are we here?” muttered the marquis, starting from the corner where he had been reclining.

He arose with some difficulty; traversed the sidewalk and the shell-strewn path to the house which loomed darkly before them; paused at the foot of the stairs where he breathed heavily, complaining of the oppressiveness of the air; and finally, with the assistance of the valet, found himself once more in his 345 room, the sick chamber he had grown to detest! Here alone––having dismissed the servant as soon as possible––he moved restlessly to and fro, pondering deeply. Since the moment when he had seen and recognized his daughter, all the buoyancy which had given his wasted figure a sort of galvanic vitality seemed to vanish. It was like the exhaustion of a battery, the collapse of the sustaining power.

“That resemblance can not be coincidence!” he thought. “Oh, errors of the past, you come home in our old age when the limbs are faltering and life is failing!”

Going to the secrÉtaire, he took out a box that had not been opened in years, and, with trembling fingers, turned over many papers. He shivered, and, thinking it was cold, stirred the fire. Returning to the secretary, he took from the box a package tied with a ribbon still, after the lapse of these many years, slightly fragrant, and he breathed that perfume, so faint, so subtle, while recollections smote him like a knife.

Its scent was familiar to him; it seemed to bring life to the dead, and for the moment in his mind’s eye he saw her glowing figure, the love of his youth, with flashing, revengeful eyes and noble mien. He cowered over the desk, as if shrinking from an avenging spirit, while the perfume, like opium, filled his brain with strange fantasies. He strove to drown remembrance, but some force––it seemed not his own!––drove him irresistibly to untie that ribbon, to scrutinize 346 many old theater programs and to gaze upon a miniature in ivory depicting a woman in the loveliness of her charms, but whose striking likeness to the young actress he had just seen filled his heart with strange fear. Some power––surely it could not have been his will which rebelled strenuously!––impelled him to open those letters and to read them word for word. The tenderness of the epistles fell on his heart as though to scorch it, and he quivered like a guilty wretch. His eyes were fascinated by these words in her last letter: “Should you desert me and your unborn child, your end will be miserable. As I believe in retribution, I am sure you will reap as you have sown.”

Suddenly the reader in a frenzy threw the letter to the floor and trampled on it. He regarded the face in the miniature with fear and hatred, and dashing it into the drawer, called down maledictions on her. He ceased abruptly, weak and wavering.

“I am going insane,” he said, laughing harshly. “Fool! To let that woman’s memory disturb me. So much for her dire prophecy!” And he snapped his fingers and dropped the letter in the fire.

“What can her curse avail?” he said aloud. “She is gone, turned to ashes like that paper and there is no life after this one. All then is nothing––emptiness––a blank! I need rest. It is this cursed dyspepsia which has made me nervous. Something to compose me, and then to bed!”

In spite of soothing powders, however, he passed a restless night and arose unrefreshed, but ordered his valet to bring one of his lightest suits, and, having dressed, he set a white flower upon his coat, while the servant proceeded to apply various pigments to the wrinkled face, until it took on a mocking semblance to the countenance of a man fifteen years younger. The marquis leered at himself in the pier-glass and assumed a jauntiness of demeanor he was far from feeling.

“I do not look tired or worried, FranÇois?”

“Not at all, my lord,” replied the obsequious valet. “I never saw you, my lord, appear so young and well.”

“Beneath the surface, FranÇois, there is age and weakness,” answered the marquis in a melancholy tone.

“It is but a passing indisposition, my lord,” asserted the servant, soothingly.

“Perhaps. But, FranÇois”––peering around––“as I look over my shoulder, do you know what I see?”

The almost hideous expression of the rouÉ’s face alarmed the servant.

“No, my lord, what is it?”

“A figure stands there in black and is touching me. It is the spirit of death, FranÇois. You can not see it, but there it is––”

“My lord, you speak wildly.”

“I have seen some strange things, FranÇois. The dead have arisen. And I have received my warning. 348 Soon I shall join those dark specters which once gaily traversed this bright world. A little brandy and soda, FranÇois.”

The servant brought it to him. The marquis leered awfully over his shoulder once more. “Your health, my guest!” he exclaimed, laughing harshly. “But my hat, FranÇois; I have business to perform, important business!”

He ambled out of the room. On the street he was all politeness, removing his hat to a dark brunette who rolled by in her carriage, and pausing to chat with another representative of the sex of the blond type. Then he gaily sauntered on, until reaching the theater he stopped and made a number of inquiries. Who was the manager of Constance Carew? Where was he to be found? “At the St. Charles hotel?” He was obliged to Monsieur, the ticket-seller, and wished him good-day.

Entering the hotel, he sent his card to Barnes, requesting an interview, and the manager, overcome by the honor of such a visit, responded with alacrity. The customary formalities over, the nobleman congratulated Barnes on the performance and led the conversation to the young actress.

“Pardon my curiosity,” he said, with apparent carelessness, “but I’m sure I remember an actress of the same name in London––many years ago?”

“Her mother, undoubtedly,” replied the manager, proudly.

“She was married, was she not, to––”

“A scoundrel who took her for his wife in one church and repudiated the ties through another denomination!”

“Ah, a French-English marriage!” said the marquis, blandly. “An old device! But what was this lover’s name?”

“This husband’s, my lord!”

“Lover or husband, I fancy it is all the same to her now,” sneered the caller. “She has passed the point where reputation matters.”

“Her reputation is my concern, Monsieur le Marquis!”

“You knew her?” asked the nobleman, as though the conversation wearied him. “And she was faithful to his memory? No scandals––none of those little affairs women of her class are prone to? There”––as Barnes started up indignantly––“spare me your reproaches! I’m too feeble to quarrel. Besides, what is it to me? I was only curious about her––that is all! But she never spoke the name of her husband?”

“Not even to her own child!”

“She does not know her father’s name?” repeated the marquis. “But I thank you; Mademoiselle Constance is so charming I must needs call to ask if she were related to the London actress! Good-day, Monsieur! You are severe on the lover. Was it not the fashion of the day for the actresses to take lovers, or for the fops to have an opera girl or a comedienne? Did your most popular performers disdain such diversions?” he sneered. “Pardie, the world has suddenly 350 become moral! A gentleman can no longer, it would seem, indulge in gentlemanly follies.”

Mumbling about the decadence of fashion, the marquis departed, his manner so strange the manager gazed after him in surprise.

With no thought of direction, his lips moving, talking to himself in adynamic fashion, the nobleman walked mechanically on until he reached the great cathedral. The organ was rolling and voices arose sweet as those of seraphim. He hesitated at the portal and then laughed to himself. “Well has Voltaire said: ‘Pleasure has its time; so, too, has wisdom. Make love in thy youth, and in old age, attend to thy salvation.’” He repeated the latter words, but, although he paused at the threshold and listened, he did not enter.

As he stood there, uncertain and trembling, a figure replete with youth and vigor approached, and, glancing at her, an exclamation escaped him that caused her to pause and turn.

“You are not well,” she said, solicitously. “Can I help you?”

“It is nothing, nothing!” answered the marquis, ashy pale at the sight of her and the proximity of that face which regarded him with womanly sympathy. “Go away.”

“At least, let me assist you. You were going to the cathedral? Come!”

His hand rested upon her strong young arm; he felt himself too weak to resist, so, together––father and 351 daughter!––they entered the cathedral. Side by side they knelt––he to keep up the farce, fearing to undeceive her––while yet only mocking words came to the old man’s heart, as the bitterness of the situation overwhelmed him. She was a daughter in whom a prince might have found pride, but he remained there mute, not daring to speak, experiencing all the tortures of remorse and retribution. Of what avail had been ambition? How had it overleaped content and ease of mind! Into what a nest of stings and thorns his loveless marriage had plunged him! And now but the black shadow remained; he walked in the darkness of unending isolation. So he should continue to walk straight to the door of death.

He scarcely heard the organ or the voice of the priest. The high altar, with its many symbols, suggested the thousands that had worshiped there and gone away comforted. Here was abundant testimony of the blessings of divine mercy in the numerous costly gifts and in the discarded crutches, and here faith had manifested itself for generations.

The marquis’ throat was hoarse; he could have spoken no words if he had tried. He laughed in his heart at the gifts of the grateful ones; those crosses of ivory and handsome lamps were but symbols of barbarism and superstition. The tablets, with their inscriptions, “Merci” and “Ex voto,” were to him absurd, and he gibed at the simple credulity of the people who could thus be misled. All these evidences of thanksgiving were but cumulative testimony that 352 men and women are like little children, who will be pleased over fairy tales or frightened over ghost stories. The promise of paradise, but the fairy tale told by priests to men and women; the threats of punishment, the ghost stories to awe them! A malicious delight crept into his diseased imagination that he alone in the cathedral possessed the extreme divination, enabling him to perceive the emptiness of all these signs and symbols. He labored in a fever of mental excitement and was only recalled to himself as his glance once more rested upon the young girl.

He became dimly conscious that people were moving past them, and he suddenly longed to cry out, “My child!” but he fought down the impulse. There could be no turning back now at the eleventh hour; the marquis was a philosopher, and did not believe that, in a twinkling of an eye, a man may set behind all that has transpired and regard it as naught. Something within held him from speaking to her––perhaps his own inherent sense of the consistency of things; his appreciation of the legitimate finale to a miserable order of circumstances! Even pride forbade departure from long-established habit. But while this train of thought passed through his mind, he realized she was regarding him with clear, compassionate eyes, and he heard her voice:

“Shall we go now? The services are over.”

He obeyed without question.

“Over!”

Those moments by her side would never return! 353 They were about to part to meet no more on earth. He leaned heavily upon her arm and his steps were faltering. Out into the warm sunshine they passed, the light revealing more plainly the ravages of time in his face.

“You must take a carriage,” she said to the old man.

“Thank you, thank you,” he replied. “Leave me here on the bench. I shall soon be myself. I am only a little weak. You are good to an old man. May I not”––asking solely for the pleasure of hearing her speak––“may I not know the name of one who is kind to an old man?”

“My name is Constance Carew.”

He shook as with the palsy. “A good name, a good name!” he repeated. “I remember years ago another of that name––an actress in London. A very beautiful woman, and good! But even she had her detractors and none more bitter than the man who wronged her. You––you resemble her! But there, don’t let me detain you. I shall do very well here. You are busy, I dare say.”

“Yes, I should be at rehearsal,” she replied regretfully.

“At rehearsal!” he repeated. “Yes!––yes!––. But the stage is no place for you!” he added, suddenly. “You should leave it––leave it!”

She looked at him wonderingly. “Is there nothing more I can do for you?”

“Nothing! Nothing! Except––no, nothing!”

“You were about to ask something?” she observed with more sympathy.

“If you would not think me presuming––if you would not deem it an offense––you remind me of one I loved and lost––it is so long ago since I felt her kiss for the last time––I am so near the grave––”

With tears in her eyes, she bent her head and her fresh young lips just touched his withered brow.

“Good-by,” she said. “I am so sorry for you!” And she was gone, leaving him sitting there motionless as though life had departed.

A rattling cab that clattered noisily past the cabildo and calaboza, and swung around the square, aroused the marquis. He arose, stopped the driver, and entered the rickety vehicle.

“The law office of Marks and Culver,” said the marquis.

The man lashed his horse and the attenuated quadruped flew like a winged Pegasus, soon drawing up before the attorneys’ office. Fortunately Culver was in, and, although averse to business on any day––thinking more of his court-yard and his fountain than of his law books––this botanist-solicitor made shift to comply with the marquis’ instructions and reluctantly earned a modest fee. He even refused to express surprise at my lord’s story; one wife in London, another in Paris; why, many a southern gentleman had two families––quadroons being plentiful, why not? Culver unobtrusively yawned, and, with fine courtesy, bowed the marquis out.

Slowly the latter retraced his steps to his home; his feet were heavy as lead; his smile was forced; he glanced frequently over his shoulder, possessed by a strange fantasy.

“I think I will lie down a little,” he said to his valet. “In this easy chair; that will do. I am feeling well; only tired. How that mass is repeated in my mind! That is because it is Palestrina, FranÇois; not because it is a vehicle to salvation, employed by the gibbering priests. Never let your heart rule your head, boy. Don’t mistake anything for reality. ‘What have you seen in your travels?’ was asked of Sage Evemere. ‘Follies!’ was the reply. ‘Follies, follies everywhere!’ We never live; we are always in the expectation of living.”

He made an effort to smile which was little more than a grimace.

“A cigar, FranÇois!”

“My lord, are you well?––”

The marquis flew into a rage and the valet placed an imported weed in his master’s hand.

“A light, FranÇois!”

The valet obeyed. For a moment the strong cigar seemed to soothe the old man, although his hand shook like an aspen as he held it.

“Now, bring me my Voltaire,” commanded the marquis. “The volume on the table, idiot! Ah! here is what I wish: ‘It takes twenty years to bring man from the state of embryo, and from that of a mere criminal, as he is in his first infancy, to the point when 356 his reason begins to dawn. It has taken thirty centuries to know his structure; it would take eternity to know something of the soul; it takes but an instant to kill him.’ But an instant; but an instant!” he repeated.

He puffed feebly at the cigar.

“It is cold here, FranÇois.”

The servant consulted the thermometer.

“It is five degrees warmer than you are accustomed to, my lord,” he replied.

“Bring me the thermometer,” commanded the old man. “You should not lie, FranÇois. It is a bad fault in servants. Leave it to your masters; it is a polite vice. The privilege of the world’s potentates, diplomats and great people. Never fall into the rut of lying, FranÇois, or you will soon outlive your usefulness as a valet.”

“You can see that I speak the truth, my lord,” was the response, as calm as ever, for nothing disturbed or ruffled this ideal servant.

He held out the thermometer for the marquis’ inspection and the latter examined it carefully. The cigar fell from his fingers to the floor. The attentive valet picked it up and threw it into the grate.

“I believe, FranÇois,” stammered the marquis, “that the fault lies with me. It is I––I, who am growing cold like death.”

“Yes, my lord,” answered the calm and imperturbable servant.

“‘Yes?’ you blockhead!” shrieked the master. “Do you know what you are saying?”

“Well, no, then, my lord,” responded the unmoved valet.

“Yes and no!” shouted the marquis in a voice that was wildly discordant. “What do you mean?”

“Whatever my lord pleases,” was the quiet response.

“Mon Dieu! I’ll discharge you.”

The servant only smiled.

“Why did you smile?”

“Oh, my lord––”

“Was it not that you thought it a good joke for a dying man to discharge his servant?”

“My lord is quick to catch the humorous side of anything,” returned FranÇois.

“Begone, idiot! You are waiting for my death to discharge you. I can see it in your eyes. Yet stay, FranÇois, for, if you leave me, I shall be alone. You will not leave me?”

“As my lord desires,” was FranÇois’ response.

“I imagine I should feel better if I had my footbath.”

The servant removed the shoes and silken stockings from his master’s feet and propped him up in a chair, throwing a blanket over his shoulders and heaping more wood upon the fire in the grate.

“More fire, you idiot!” cried the marquis, peevishly. “Do you not see that I am freezing?”

“It is ten degrees above the temperature my lord always ordered,” retorted FranÇois, coolly.

“Ten degrees! Oh, you wish to remind me that the end is approaching? You do not dare deny it!” The valet shrugged his shoulders.

“But I am not gone yet.” He wagged his head cunningly and began to laugh to himself. His mind apparently rambled, for he started to chant a French love song in a voice that had long since lost its capacity for a sustained tone. The words were distinct, although the melody was broken, and the spectacle was gruesome enough. As he concluded he looked at the valet as if for approbation and began to mumble about his early love affairs.

“Bah, FranÇois,” he said shrilly, “I’ll be up to-morrow as gay as ever. Vive l’amour! vive la joie! It was a merry life we led, eh, FranÇois?”

“Merry indeed, my lord.”

“It kept you busy, FranÇois. There was the little peasant girl on the Rhine. What flaxen hair she had and eyes like the sky! Yet a word of praise––a little flattery––”

“My lord was irresistible,” said the valet with mild sarcasm.

“Let me see, FranÇois, what became of her?”

“She drowned herself in the river.”

“That is true. I had forgotten. Well, life is measured by pleasures, not by years, and I was the prince of coxcombs. Up at ten o’clock; no sooner on account 359 of the complexion; then visits from the tradespeople and a drive in the park to look at the ladies. It was there I used to meet the English actress. ’Twas there, with her, I vowed the park was a garden of Eden! What a scene, when my barrister tried to settle the case! Fortunately a marriage in England was not a marriage in France. I saw her last night, FranÇois”––with an insane look––“in the flesh and blood; as life-like as the night before we took the stage for Brighton!” Suddenly he shrieked and a look of terror replaced the vain, simpering expression.

“There, FranÇois!” Glancing with awe behind him. And truly there stood a dark shadow; a gruesome presence. His face became distorted and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

The valet gazed at him with indifference. Then he went to an inner room and brought a valise which he began packing carefully and methodically. After he had completed this operation he approached the dressing table and took up a magnificent jeweled watch, which he examined for a moment before thrusting it into his pocket. A snuff box, set with diamonds, and several rings followed. FranÇois with the same deliberation opened a drawer and took out a small box which he tried to open, and, failing, forced the lid with the poker. At this, my lord opened his eyes, and, in a weak voice, for his strength had nearly deserted him, demanded:

“What are you doing, FranÇois?”

“Robbing you, my lord,” was the slow and dignified response.

The marquis’ eyes gleamed with rage. He endeavored to call out, but his voice failed him and he fell back, trembling and overcome.

“Thief! Ingrate!” he hissed, hoarsely.

“I beg you not to excite yourself, my lord,” said the stately valet. “You are already very weak and it will hasten the end.”

“Is this the way you repay me?”

“My lord will not need these things soon.”

“Have you no gratitude?” stammered the marquis, whose physical and mental condition was truly pitiable.

“Gratitude for having been called ‘idiot,’ ‘dog,’ and ‘blockhead’ nearly all my life! I am somewhat lacking in that quality, I fear.”

“Is there no shame in you?”

“Shame?” repeated FranÇois, as he proceeded to ransack another drawer. “There might have been before I went into your service, my lord. Yes; once I felt shame for you. It was years ago, in London, when you deserted your beautiful wife. When I saw how she worshiped you and what a noble woman she was, I confess I felt ashamed that I served one of the greatest blackguards in Europe––”

“Oh, you scoundrel––” exclaimed the marquis, his face becoming a ghastly hue.

“Be calm, my lord. You really are in need of all 361 your energy. For years I have submitted to your shameful service. I have been at the beck and call of one of the greatest rouÉs and villains in France. Years of such association would somewhat soil any nature. Another thing, my lord, I must tell you, since you and I are settling our last accounts. For years I have endured your miserable King Louis Philippe. A king? Bah! He fled from the back door! A coward, who shaved his whiskers for a disguise.”

“No more, rascal!”

“Rascal yourself, you worn-out, driveling breath of corruption! It is so pleasant to exercise a gentleman’s privilege of invective! Ah, here is the purse. Au revoir, my lord. A pleasant dissolution!”

But by this time the marquis was speechless, and FranÇois, taking the valise in hand, deferentially left the room. He locked the door behind him and thrust the key into his pocket.