Events of the Night

Life at Weet-sur-Mer, as at most other places of its class, swung in a round prescribed by custom, as fixed and predestined as the courses of the stars. In the late morning occurred the promenade, taken as a brisk constitutional by a few, but by the great majority as a languid stroll designed to create an appetite for luncheon. That meal was followed by a period of torpor, then every one sought the beach—the high, the low; the rich, the poor; the dowdy and the well-dressed; the virgin in white and the cocotte in scarlet; the thin and the obese; the French, the Dutch, the Italian—yea, and the angular English, for Weet-sur-Mer attracted a crowd as hybrid as its name! There they amused themselves each after his own fashion, with dignity or abandon, as the case might be. They could not be said to mingle in the way that an American crowd would have done under like circumstances—the elements of society in an aristocratic country are as incapable of mingling as oil and water. The oil floated placidly on top, while the water disported itself contentedly beneath.

The oil, to preserve the simile, consisted, in the first place, of a number of self-important individuals stalking solemnly up and down, seemingly unconscious of the fact that they were not as solitary as Crusoe; and, in the second place, of certain solid, cohesive groups, presenting to the world a front as impenetrable and threatening as any Austrian phalanx, and guarding in their midst two or three young girls who must, at any hazard, be kept unspotted from the world. Strange to say, the girls appeared contented, even happy; the position seemed to them, no doubt, the normal one for them to occupy—and they could, of course, look forward with certainty to the opening of the prison door when a marriage should be arranged for them. They order this matter better in Europe; or, at least, differently, for there, as a discerning observer has pointed out, marriage means always that a woman is taken down from the shelf, while with us, alas, too often! that she is placed upon it, never to be removed!

To this class, too, belonged certain obese women and emaciated men sitting, in couples, under the gay sunshades with which the beach was bright. The women were dressed always in gowns which, however ornate, were not quite new, not quite fresh, not quite clean; and the black coats of the men were a little shiny at the elbow, a little faded at the seams. But madame still took care to preserve such figure as unkind fate had left her; and monsieur still kept his moustaches waxed to a needle's point; and they sat there together, quite immovable, for hours at a time, staring drearily out toward the horizon, meditating, no doubt, over past glories, or arranging some coup by which their fortunes might be retrieved. Pride will slip from them gradually, as the years pass; madame will abandon her figure and monsieur his moustaches, and they will end their days miserably in some second- or third-rate pension—even, perhaps, the Maison Vauquer!

The water was more interesting, being at once more natural and lively. With it there was no question of maintaining the equilibrium of its position; there was no need of air or artifice; there was none of that heartburning with which the latest Pontifical Princess smilingly swallows the insolence of the descendant (À la main gauche) of the Great Henri, happy to have been noticed, even though to be noticed meant inevitably to be snubbed. There was a freedom about the water, an honest vulgarity, a quality as of Rabelais, refreshingly in contrast with the hot-house manners and morals of the haute noblesse. Madame need not hesitate to cross her legs, if she found that attitude comfortable; monsieur could at once remove coat, waist-coat, collar, cuffs, if he found the weather warm.

Families whose size testified to their bourgeois respectability, lolled in happy promiscuity upon the sands; the children constructed forts or canals, the women tore some neighbour's reputation to pieces, the men lay back lazily and smoked and kept an eye out for the bathers.

There were always many scores of them, belonging principally to that strange and tragic half-world which hangs suspended, like Mahomet's coffin, between earth and heaven, or, at least, between mass and class, and which stretches out its tentacles and sucks nourishment from both. These with a regularity almost religious, spent an hour of every day, weather permitting, splashing in the gentle surf or posing on the beach in costumes more or less revealing, according to the contour of the wearer. The climax of the afternoon, the coup-de-thÉÂtre which all awaited, was the appearance of Mlle. Paul, late of the VariÉtÉs. This was such a masterpiece in its way that it is worth pausing a moment to describe.

Suddenly the door of her bathing-machine, which has been drawn just to the water's edge, is flung open, and she appears on the threshold, wrapped in a white sheet with a red border, producing a toga-like effect not ungraceful. She hesitates an instant, and casts a startled glance over the crowd of onlookers, then trips modestly down the steps. With a little frisson, she casts the sheet from her and stands revealed—well, perhaps not quite as Eve was to Adam, but so nearly so that the difference is scarcely worth remarking. She glances down at her shapely legs and then again at the entranced spectators.

"C'est convenable, j'espÈre hein?" she murmurs, and her bald-headed cicisbeo, who has taken possession of her sheet, hastens to assure her that all is well.

Whereupon, her doubts thus happily set at rest, she wades out to the diving-board, mounts it leisurely, stands poised for an instant at the outermost end, and then dives gracefully into the expectant billows. This she does at intervals for perhaps an hour, the supreme instant for the onlookers being that in which her glowing body, shimmering white through its single clinging garment, is outlined in mid-air against the sky. But finally Mademoiselle grows weary and returns to her machine, where the gallant and attentive gentleman previously referred to patiently awaits her—deus ex machina in more senses than one! The other bathers gradually disappear and the crowd melts imperceptibly away. The show is over.

But though all this was no doubt sufficiently diverting, Weet-sur-Mer was never gloriously, aggressively awake until the sun went down. The diversions of the day depended wholly upon the weather—a dash of rain, a wind from the north, and, pouf! they were not thought of.

Not so the festivities of the night. Nothing short of an earthquake could interfere with them. It was for the night that most of the sojourners at Weet-sur-Mer existed; it was for them, in turn, that the place itself existed! With these worthies, the first serious business of the day was dressing for dinner. As darkness came, a stir of life thrilled through the place from end to end. Rows and clusters of electric lights, many-sized and many-coloured, flashed out at the Casino, in the hotels, along the Digue. Women donned their evening gowns, thankful for handsome shoulders; got out their diamonds, real and paste, their rouge, cosmetics, what not; prepared to go forth and conquer, to play the old, old game which, by the calm light of the morning, seems so flat and savourless! Oh, what would it be without wine and lights and jewels and soft gowns, without warmth and music and perfume, without the suggestive, sensual darkness closing it in!

At the Casino presently spins the wheel of fortune—named in very mockery!—and it is there that one may gaze unrebuked into the most alluring eyes, may see the reddest lips and whitest shoulders;—crÈme de la crÈme of all in that smaller room upstairs, arranged for those whose jaded appetites demand some extra tickling; where no wager may be laid for less than a hundred francs, and for as much more as you please, monsieur, madame, provided only that you have it with you! Too bad that the immortal soul has no longer a money value, or how many would ornament that crowded table in the course of an evening's play!

But there; let a single glimpse of this tawdry, perfumed, fevered hell suffice us, even as it did Archibald Rushford on the first night of his stay at Weet-sur-Mer, and let us go out, as he did, into the pure night, and stand uncovered under the bright stars until the cool breeze from the ocean has washed us clean again, and turning our backs forever upon the Casino and its habituÉs, retrace our steps along the Digue to the Grand HÔtel Royal.

In apartment A de luxe, a man with flushed face and rumpled hair was stamping nervously up and down. It required a second glance to recognise in him that usually well-groomed and self-possessed individual known as Lord Vernon. Two others were watching his movements with scarcely concealed anxiety—Collins leaning against the window with folded arms, Blake seated at a table with an open despatch-box before him.

"Hang it all, fellows," he was saying, "don't you see what a pickle it puts me in? I was a fool to fall in with the idea—I was actually silly enough to think it would be fun!"

"Of course," put in Collins, in his smoothest tone, "nobody could foresee the presence of this American Diana."

Vernon shot him a quick glance.

"Be mighty careful what you say, my friend," he warned him, "or I'll chuck the whole thing."

"Oh, you can't do that!" protested Blake. "You've got to carry it through! You can't back out now!"

"Can't I?" said Vernon, with a grim little laugh. "Don't be too certain!
Suppose she finds it out? Pretty figure I'll cut, won't I?"

"But how can she find it out? In four or five days, you can tell her the whole story—you'll figure as a sort of hero of romance—"

"Yes—penny-dreadful romance—backstairs romance. The more I think of it, the less I like it. Diplomacy or no diplomacy, we're playing Markeld a dirty trick—that's the only expression that describes it. He's a nice fellow and we ought to treat him fairly."

Collins shrugged his shoulders as he turned away to the window and lighted a cigarette.

"You said something of the same sort yesterday, I believe," he remarked, negligently.

"Yes—and I meant it then" as I mean it now. Markeld has the right to expect decent treatment at our hands."

"Rather late in the day to take that ground," retorted Collins.

"Late or not, I do take it," answered Vernon, pausing an instant in his walk to emphasise the words.

"I see," said Collins, drily, "it's a sort of moral awakening—a quickening of conscience—the kind of thing we are all so proud of displaying. Pity it didn't come before we started for this place."

Vernon did not reply, only clasped and unclasped his hands nervously.

Collins wheeled around upon him abruptly, his face very stern.

"Come," he demanded, "let's have it out, once for all. I'm sick of this shilly-shally. Why can't you let Markeld take care of himself?"

"Because you're not playing fairly."

"What do you mean by fairly?"

"I mean openly, honestly—as gentlemen should."

"You forget that this is diplomacy—and that we don't live in the Golden
Age. We fight with such weapons as come to hand. It's the game."

"Yes—as you understand it. A gang of cutthroats might say the same thing."

Collins flushed a little, but managed to keep his temper.

"I understand it as all diplomats understand it. I take no advantage that every diplomat would not take."

"Then God save me from diplomats!" retorted Vernon.

Collins flushed again, more deeply, and his eyes flashed with sudden fire.

"Your words verge upon the insulting," he said, after a moment. "I warn you not to try my patience too far. Perhaps, after this, you will see fit to choose other company—company more in accord with your really absurd ideals. But I would remind you of one thing—your career depends upon this affair. If it succeeds, you succeed. If it fails through any fault of yours, you are ruined. I assure you the fault will not be overlooked nor extenuated. You will pay for it!"

Vernon looked at him without answering, but his glance was full of meaning. Then he turned and left the room.

For a moment his companions stared after him—they had read his glance aright.

"We'll have to look sharp," said Collins, at last, "or he'll cause us trouble—he's ripe for it, confound him! We'd better wire the home office to hurry things up."

"Yes," agreed Blake, "there's no reasoning with a man in love."

"Nor frightening him," added Collins. "I'm afraid I made a mistake taking that tack. I'll go down and get off a message."

As he opened the door, he fancied that a figure melted into the shadow at the end of the hall. But his attention was distracted from it, for an instant later, he heard a step on the stair, and the Prince of Markeld mounted from the floor below, passed him with the slightest possible inclination of the head, and continued upward. Collins, staring after him, standing still as death, heard him enter the apartment of the Rushfords.

He remained a moment where he was, his heart heavy with foreboding, then he descended slowly to the office, his head bent, deep in thought. So preoccupied was he that he did not see the sleek face which leered at him from the shadow into which the dim figure had vanished.

The spy listened a moment intently; then, with a tread soft as a cat's, mounted the stair to the floor above.

* * * * *

"Of course, dad," Susie had said, in the early evening, "you will have to stay at home to-night since the Prince is coming to see you."

"Oh, it's not I he's coming to see," rejoined Rushford, easily. "In fact, he'll probably be tickled to death to find me out.''

"He's not going to find you out," retorted Susie, firmly. "You're going to stay right here."

"Nonsense, my dear! Why, when I was courting your mother—"

"What has that to do with it?" demanded Sue, very crimson. "Do you mean to say that someone is courting someone around here?"

"Of course, every man may be mistaken at times."

"Well, take my word for it, you're badly mistaken this time."

"Oh!" said her father, with assumed astonishment. "Am I? Then what is all this about?"

"And even if they were," continued Susie, a little unsteadily, "they do it differently from the American way."

"How do they do it, for heaven's sake?"

"Why, dad, how should I know?"

"You seem to have considerable information on the subject."

"I have enough information to know," retorted Sue, with some heat, "that in Europe, a young man calls upon the head of the family, and not upon any of its younger female members."

"I have always understood that Europe was behind the times," observed her father, "but I never suspected it was as bad as that. However, I take your word for it—I always do, you know. I suppose you and Nell will have to stay in your rooms."

"Oh, no," said Sue, "we may be present, so long as our chaperon is there."

"So I'm to do some chaperoning at last, am I?" queried her father. "The job has ceased to be a sinecure. I suppose I'll have to do all the talking, since young girls, of course, may only speak when spoken to and then must answer with a yes or no. Really, my dear, you're setting yourself an exceedingly difficult part!"

"Where did you learn so much about it, dad?"

"I'm reasoning by deduction—all this follows from what you've already told me. Well, I'll do my best to entertain this Dutchman. What does he talk about? Wiener-wurst and sauerkraut?"

"Oh, no," said Susie, with a reminiscent smile and a heightened colour; "he talks about things much more interesting than those."

And, indeed, the first moments past, Rushford found the Prince an entertaining fellow, with a fund of anecdote and experience decidedly unusual. But conversations of this sort are rarely worth recording; the less so in this instance, since the Prince had taken care to seat himself where he had a good view of the enchanting Susie, and that vision more than once caused his thoughts to wander. Still, they discussed America and Europe, art, nature, the universe—none of which has anything to do with this story—everything, in short, except the warm, palpitating human heart, with which we are principally concerned—and it was very late before the Prince finally arose to go.

Sue whispered her thanks as she kissed her father good-night.

"Good old daddy!" she said, and patted him on the cheek. "And it wasn't such a trial, after all, was it?"

Her father looked down at her quizzically.

"No, my dear," he answered. "In fact, I rather enjoyed it. I fancy he'd be a mighty interesting talker if there weren't any distractions around. Not that I blame him," he added, hastily. "I was that way myself once upon a time," and he bent and kissed her tenderly again.

Susie, before her glass, stared at herself long and earnestly, then took down her hair and proceeded to arrange it in various ways. At last, she got out a diamond bracelet, placed it tiara-wise upon her head, and studied the effect. She was thus engaged when an agitated tap at the door gave her a mighty start, and she had just time to snatch off the decoration when Nell burst in, her face white with emotion.

"Why, what is it, Nellie?" cried her sister, springing up.

"I—I've lost it!" gasped Nell, sinking limply into a chair, and trembling convulsively. "I'm sure—it's been stolen!"

"Lost it!" echoed Sue, reviewing in one quick mental flash Nell's most valuable possessions. "Not the diamond necklace!"

"Oh, Sue!" wailed Nell. "How can you be so mercenary? Oh, I wish it was the necklace! But it isn't! It's the note!"

It was Sue's turn to gasp, to turn pale, to sink into a chair.

"The note!" she echoed, hoarsely. "Not Lord Vernon's!"

Nell nodded mutely, her face a study for the Tragic Muse.

"But I thought you destroyed it," said Sue. "You said you were going to!"

"I know—but I didn't," answered Nell, a faint tinge of pink in her pallid cheeks. "I—I didn't see the need of destroying it. I supposed nobody knew, and I—I thought I'd keep it as a—a souvenir, you know. I had it in my desk. I am sure I locked it before I came down this evening, but just now I found it open and the note gone."

"Well, and what did you do then?"

"I looked all through the desk—I thought maybe it had slipped out of sight somehow—but it hadn't—it wasn't there. Then I called the maid, Julie, and told her something had been stolen. She swore no one had entered the room since I left it—that no one could have entered it. Of course, I couldn't tell her about the note, so I sent her away and came to you. I—I feel like a traitor. I don't know what to do!"

Susie went to her and put her arms about her and drew her close.

"We can't do anything to-night, dear," she said; "that's certain.
To-morrow you must tell Lord Vernon."

She felt Nell quiver at the words and drew her closer still, with intimate understanding.

"I don't believe he will care so much," she went on, comfortingly. "Perhaps the note isn't so important as we think. I suppose we should have destroyed it at once."

"Yes," said Nell, drearily, "I suppose we should. But who could have foreseen anything like this!"

"The best thing to do now is to go to bed," added Sue, practically, and she raised her sister and led her back to her room. "In the morning we can make a thorough search for the note. Perhaps, after all, you overlooked it."

"I couldn't have overlooked it," answered Nell. "I remember perfectly placing it in this drawer," she continued, going to the desk and opening it, "here, just under this pile of note-paper."

"Perhaps it slipped in between the sheets," suggested Sue.

"I thought of that," said Nell, but nevertheless she began mechanically to open sheet after sheet. As she opened the third one, a little slip of paper fluttered to the floor.

She sprang upon it with a cry of joy, opened it, glanced at it.

"Thank God!" she said, thickly. "It's all right—it's—"

And she fell forward into Susie's arms.