Complete weird tales of.., p.9
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 9
Allons, Messieurs, Mesdames, to the cloak room — to the foyer! To the escalier! or you, Madame la Comtesse, to your box, and smooth out your crumpled domino; as for ``La Pataude,’’ she is going to dance tonight.
Gethryn, with Yvonne clinging tightly to his arm, entered the great vestibule and passed through the railed lanes to the broad inclined aisle which led to the floor.
``Do you want to take a peep before we go to our box?’’ he asked, leading her to the doorway.
Yvonne’s little heart beat faster as she leaned over and glanced at the dazzling spectacle.
``Come, hurry — let us go to the box!’’ she whispered, dragging Gethryn after her up the stairway.
He followed, laughing at her excitement, and in a few minutes they found the door of their lodge and slipped in.
Gethryn lighted a cigarette and began to unstrap his field glasses.
``Take these, Yvonne,’’ he said, handing them to her while he adjusted her own tiny gold ones.
Yvonne’s cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled under the little mask, as she leaned over the velvet railing and gazed at the bewildering spectacle below. Great puffs of hot, perfumed air bore the crash of two orchestras to their ears, mixed with the distant clatter and whirl of the dancers, and the shouts and cries of the maskers.
At the end of the floor, screened by banks of palms, sat the musicians, and round about, rising tier upon tier, the glittering boxes were filled with the elite of the demimonde, who ogled and gossiped and sighed, entirely content with the material and social barriers which separate those who dance for ten francs from those who look on for a hundred.
But there were others there who should not by any means be confounded with their sisters of the ``half-world.’’
The Faubourg St Germain, the Champs Elysées, and the Parc Monceau were possibly represented among those muffled and disguised beauties, who began the evening with their fans so handy in case of need. Ah, well — now they lay their fans down quite out of reach in case of emergency, and who shall say if disappointment lurks under these dainty dominoes, that there is so little to bring a blush to modest cheeks — alas! few emergencies.
And you over there — you of the ``American Colony,’’ who are tossed like shuttlecocks in the social whirl, you, in your well-appointed masks and silks, it is all very new and exciting — yes, but why should you come? American women, brought up to think clean thoughts and see with innocent eyes, to exact a respectful homage from men and enjoy a personal dignity and independence unknown to women anywhere else — why do you want to come here? Do you not know that the foundations of that liberty which makes you envied in the old world are laid in the respect and confidence of men? Undermine that, become wise and cynical, learn the meaning of doubtful words and gestures whose significance you never need have suspected, meet men on the same ground where they may any day meet fast women of the continent, and fix at that moment on your free limbs the same chains which corrupt society has forged for the women of Europe.
Yvonne leaned back in her box with a little gasp.
``But I can’t make out anyone at all,’’ she said; ``it’s all a great, sparkling sea of color.’’
``Try the field glasses,’’ replied Gethryn, giving them to her again, at the same time opening her big plumy fan and waving it to and fro beside the flushed cheek.
Presently she cried out, ``Oh, look! There is Mr Elliott and Mr Rowden, and I think Mr Clifford — but I hope not.’’
He leaned forward and swept the floor with the field glass.
``It’s Clifford, sure enough,’’ he muttered; ``what on earth induces him to dance in that set?’’
It was Clifford.
At that moment he was addressing Elliott in pleading, though hazy, phrases.
``Come ‘long, Elliott, don’t be so — so uncomf’t’ble ‘n’ p’tic’lar! W’t’s use of be’ng shnobbish?’’ he urged, clinging hilariously to his partner, a pigeon-toed ballet girl. But Elliott only laughed and said:
``No; waltzes are all I care for. No quadrille for me—’’
The crash of the orchestra drowned his voice, and Clifford, turning and bowing gravely to his partner, and then to his vis-à-vis, began to perform such antics and cut such pigeonwings that his pigeon-toed partner glared at him through the slits of her mask in envious astonishment. The door was dotted with numerous circles of maskers, ten or fifteen deep, all watching and applauding the capers of the hilarious couples in the middle.
But Clifford’s set soon attracted a large and enthusiastic audience, who were connoisseurs enough to distinguish a voluntary dancer from a hired one; and when the last thundering chords of Offenbach’s ``March into Hell’’ scattered the throng into a delirious waltz, Clifford reeled heavily into the side scenes and sat down, rather unexpectedly, in the lap of Mademoiselle Nitouche, who had crept in there with the Baron Silberstein for a nice, quiet view of a genuine cancan.
Mademoiselle did not think it funny, but the Baron did, and when she boxed Clifford’s ears he thought it funnier still.
Rowden and Elliot, who were laboriously waltzing with a twin pair of flat-footed Watteau Shepherdesses, immediately ran to his assistance; and later, with a plentiful application of cold water and still colder air, restored Mr Clifford to his usual spirits.
``You’re not a beauty, you know,’’ said Rowden, looking at Clifford’s hair, which was soaked into little points and curls; ``you’re certainly no beauty, but I think you’re all right now — don’t you, Elliott? ‘‘
``Certainly,’’ laughed the triumvir, producing a little silver pocket-comb and presenting it to the woebegone Clifford, who immediately brought out a hand glass and proceeded to construct a ``bang’’ of wonderful seductiveness.
In ten minutes they sallied forth from the dressing room and wended their way through the throngs of masks to the center of the floor. They passed Thaxton and Rhodes, who, each with a pretty nun upon his arm, were trying to persuade Bulfinch into taking the third nun, who might have been the Mother Superior or possibly a resuscitated 14th century abbess.
``No,’’ he was saying, while he blinked painfully at the ci-devant abbess, ``I can’t go that; upon my word, don’t ask me, fellows — I — I can’t.’’
``Oh, come,’’ urged Rhodes, ``what’s the odds?’’
``You can take her and I’ll take yours,’’ began the wily little man, but neither Rhodes nor Thaxton waited to argue longer.
``No catacombs for me,’’ growled Bulfinch, eyeing the retreating nuns, but catching sight of the triumvirate, his face regained its bird-like felicity of expression.
``Glad to see you — indeed I am! That Colossus is too disinterested in securing partners for his friends; he is, I assure you. If you’re looking for a Louis Quatorze partner, warranted genuine, go to Rhodes.’’
``Rex ought to be here by this time,’’ said Rowden; ``look in the boxes on that side and Clifford and I will do the same on this.’’
``No need,’’ cried Elliott, ``I see him with a white domino there in the second tier. Look! he’s waving his hand to us and so is the domino.’’
``Come along,’’ said Clifford, pushing his way toward the foyer, ``I’ll find them in a moment. Let me see,’’ — a few minutes later, pausing outside a row of white and gilt doors — ``let me see, seventh box, second tier — here we are,’’ he added, rapping loudly.
Yvonne ran and opened the door.
``Bon soir, Messieurs,’’ she said, with a demure curtsy.
Clifford gallantly kissed the little glove and then shook hands with Gethryn.
``How is it on the floor?’’ asked the latter, as Elliott and Rowden came forward to the edge of the box. ``I want to take Yvonne out for a turn and perhaps a waltz, if it isn’t too crowded.’’
``Oh, it’s pretty rough just now, but it will be better in half an hour,’’ replied Rowden, barricading the champagne from Clifford.
``We saw you dancing, Mr Clifford,’’ observed Yvonne, with a wicked glance at him from under her mask.
Clifford blushed.
``I — I don’t make an ass of myself but once a year, you know,’’ he said, with a deprecatory look at Elliott.
``Oh,’’ murmured the latter, doubtfully, ``glad to hear it.’’
Clifford gazed at him in meek reproof and then made a flank movement upon the champagne, but was again neatly foiled by Rowden.
Yvonne looked serious, but presently leaned over and filled one of the long-stemmed goblets.
``Only one, Mr Clifford; one for you to drink my health, but you must promise me truthfully not to take any more wine this evening!’’
Clifford promised with great promptness, and taking the glass from her hand with a low bow, sprang recklessly upon the edge of the box and raised the goblet.
``A la plus belle demoiselle de Paris!’’ he cried, with all the strength of his lungs, and drained the goblet.
A shout from the crowd below answered his toast. A thousand faces were turned upward, and people leaned over their boxes, and looked at the party from all parts of the house.
Mademoiselle Nitouche turned to Monsieur de Sacrebleu.
``What audacity!’’ she murmured.
Mademoiselle Goujon smiled at the Baron Silberstein.
``Tiens!’’ she cried, ``the gayety has begun, I hope.’’
Little Miss Ducely whispered to Lieutenant Faucon:
``Those are American students,’’ she sighed; ``how jolly they seem to be, especially Mr Clifford! I wonder if she is so pretty!’’
Half a dozen riotous Frenchmen in the box opposite jumped to their feet and waved their goblets at Clifford.
``A la plus jolie femme du monde!’’ they roared.
Clifford seized another glass and filled it.
``She is here!’’ he shouted, and sprang to the edge again. But Gethryn pulled him down.
``That’s too dangerous,’’ he laughed; ``you could easily fall.’’
``Oh, pshaw!’’ cried Clifford, draining the glass, and shaking it at the opposite box.
Yvonne put her hand on Gethryn’s arm.
``Don’t let him have any more,’’ she whispered.
``Give us the goblet!’’ yelled the Frenchmen.
``Le voila!’’ shouted Clifford, and stepping back, hurled the glass with all his strength across the glittering gulf. It fell with a crash in the box it was aimed at, and a howl of applause went up from the floor.
Yvonne laughed nervously, but coming to the edge of the box buried her mask in her bouquet and looked down.
``A rose! A rose!’’ cried the maskers below; ``a rose from the most charming demoiselle in Paris!’’
She half turned to Gethryn, but suddenly stepping forward, seized a handful of flowers from the middle of the bouquet and flung them into the crowd.
There was a shout and a scramble, and then she tore the bouquet end from end, sending a shower of white buds into the throng.
``None for me?’’ sighed Clifford, watching the fast-dwindling bouquet.
She laughed brightly as she tossed the last handful below, and then turned and leaned over Gethryn’s chair.
``You destructive little wretch!’’ he laughed, ``this is not the season for the Battle of Flowers. But white roses mean nothing, so I’m not jealous.’’
``Ah, mon ami, I saved the red rose for you,’’ she whispered; and fastened it upon his breast.
And at his whispered answer her cheeks flushed crimson under the white mask. But she sprang up laughing.
``I would so like to go onto the floor,’’ she cried, pulling him to his feet, and coaxing him with a simply irresistible look; ``don’t you think we might — just for a minute, Mr Rowden?’’ she pleaded. ``I don’t mind a crowd — indeed I don’t, and I am masked so perfectly.’’
``What’s the harm, Rex?’’ said Rowden; ``she is well masked.’’
``And when we return it will be time for supper, won’t it?’’
``Yes, I should think so!’’ murmured Clifford.
``Where do we go then?’’
``Maison Dorée.’’
``Come along, then, Mademoiselle Destructiveness!’’ cried Gethryn, tossing his mask and field glass onto a chair, where they were appropriated by Clifford, who spent the next half hour in staring across at good old Colonel Toddlum and his frisky companion — an attention which drove the poor old gentleman almost frantic with suspicion, for he was a married man, bless his soul! — and a pew-holder in the American Church.
``My love,’’ said the frisky one, ``who is the gentleman in the black mask who stares?’’
``I don’t know,’’ muttered the dear old man, in a cold sweat, ``I don’t know, but I wish I did.’’
And the frisky one shrugged her shoulders and smiled at the mask.
``What are they looking at?’’ whispered Yvonne, as she tripped along, holding very tightly to Gethryn’s arm.
``Only a quadrille — `La Pataude’ is dancing. Do you want to see it?’’
She nodded, and they approached the circle in the middle of which `La Pataude’ and `Grille d’Egout’ were holding high carnival. At every ostentatious display of hosiery the crowd roared.
``Brava! Bis!’’ cried an absinthe-soaked old gentleman; ``vive La Pataude!’’
For answer the lady dexterously raised his hat from his head with the point of her satin slipper.
The crowd roared again. ``Brava! Brava, La Pataude!’’
Yvonne turned away.
``I don’t like it. I don’t find it amusing,’’ she said, faintly.
Gethryn’s hand closed on hers.
``Nor I,’’ he said.
``But you and your friends used to go to the students’ ball at `Bullier’s,’’’ she began, a little reproachfully.
``Only as Nouveaux, and then, as a rule, the high-jinks are pretty genuine there — at least, with the students. We used to go to keep cool in spring and hear the music; to keep warm in winter; and amuse ourselves at Carnival time.’’
``But — Mr Clifford knows all the girls at `Bullier’s.’ Do — do you?’’
``Some.’’
``How many?’’ she said, pettishly.
``None — now.’’
A pause. Yvonne was looking down.
``See here, little goose, I never cared about any of that crowd, and I haven’t been to the Bullier since — since last May.’’
She turned her face up to his; tears were stealing down from under her mask.
``Why, Yvonne!’’ he began, but she clung to his shoulder, as the orchestra broke into a waltz.
``Don’t speak to me, Rex — but dance! Dance!’’
They danced until the last bar of music ceased with a thundering crash.
``Tired?’’ he asked, still holding her.
She smiled breathlessly and stepped back, but stopped short, with a little cry.
``Oh! I’m caught — there, on your coat!’’
He leaned over her to detach the shred of silk.
``Where is it? Oh! Here!’’
And they both laughed and looked at each other, for she had been held by the little golden clasp, the fleur-de-lis.
``You see,’’ he said, ``it will always draw me to you.’’
But a shadow fell on her fair face, and she sighed as she gently took his arm.
When they entered their box, Clifford was still tormenting the poor Colonel.
``Old dog thinks I know him,’’ he grinned, as Yvonne and Rex came in. Yvonne flung off her mask and began to fan herself.
``Time for supper, you know,’’ suggested Clifford.
Yvonne lay back in her chair, smiling and slowly waving the great plumes to and fro.
``Who are those people in the next box?’’ she asked him. ``They do make such a noise.’’
``There are only two, both masked.’’
``But they have unmasked now. There are their velvets on the edge of the box. I’m going to take a peep,’’ she whispered, rising and leaning across the railing.
``Don’t; I wouldn’t—’’ began Gethryn, but he was too late.
Yvonne leaned across the gilded cornice and instantly fell back in her chair, deathly pale.
``My God! Are you ill, Yvonne?’’
``Oh, Rex, Rex, take me away — home—’’
Then came a loud hammering on the box door. A harsh, strident voice called, ``Yvonne! Yvonne!’’
Clifford thoughtlessly threw it open, and a woman in evening dress, very decolletée, swept by him into the box, with a waft of sickly scented air.
Yvonne leaned heavily on Gethryn’s shoulder; the woman stopped in front of them.
``Ah! here you are, then!’’
Yvonne’s face was ghastly.
``Nina,’’ she whispered, ``why did you come?’’
``Because I wanted to make you a little surprise,’’ sneered the woman; ``a pleasant little surprise. We love each other enough, I hope.’’ She stamped her foot.
``Go,’’ said Yvonne, looking half dead.
``Go!’’ mimicked the other. ``But certainly! Only first you must introduce me to these gentlemen who are so kind to you.’’
``You will leave the box,’’ said Gethryn, in a low voice, holding open the door.
The woman turned on him. She was evidently in a prostitute’s tantrum of malicious deviltry. Presently she would begin to lash herself into a wild rage.
``Ah! this is the one!’’ she sneered, and raising her voice, she called, ``Mannie, Mannie, come in here, quick!’’
