The Trespasser, Complete - Gilbert Parker
Was Delia, then, so strong in the barbarian's mind? He could not think
so, but Gaston had not shown yet, either for model, for daughter of joy,
or for the mademoiselles of the stage any disposition to an amour or a
misalliance; and either would be interesting and sufficient! Models went
in and out of Ian's studio and the studios of others, and Gaston chatted
with them at times; and once he felt the bare arm and bare breast of a
girl as she sat for a nymph, and said in an interested way that her flesh
was as firm and fine as a Tongan's. He even disputed with his uncle on
the tints of her skin, on seeing him paint it in, showing a fine eye for
colour. But there was nothing more; he was impressed, observant,
interested--that was all. His uncle began to wonder if the Englishman
was, after all, deeper in the grain than the savage. He contented himself
with the belief that the most vigorous natures are the most difficult to
rouse. Mademoiselle Cerise sang, with chic and abandon very fascinating
to his own sensuous nature, a song with a charming air and sentiment. It
was after a night at the opera when they had seen her in "Lucia," and the
contrast, as she sang in his garden, softly lighted, showed her at the
most attractive angles. She drifted from a sparkling chanson to the
delicate pathos of a song of De Musset's.
Gaston responded to the artist; but to the woman--no. He had seen a new
life, even in its abandon, polite, fresh. It amused him, but he could
still turn to the remembrance of Delia without blushing, for he had come
to this in the spirit of the idler, not the libertine. Mademoiselle
Cerise said to Ian at last:
"Enfin, is the man stone? As handsome as a leopard, too! But, it is no
matter."
She made another effort to interest him, however. It galled her that he
did not fall at her feet as others had done. Even Ian had come there in
his day, but she knew him too well. She had said to him at the time:
"You, monsieur? No, thank you. A week, a month, and then the brute in you
would out. You make a woman fond, and then--a mat for your feet, and your
wicked smile, and savage English words to drive her to the vitriol or the
Seine. Et puis, dear monsieur, accept my good friendship; nothing more. I
will sing to you, dance to you, even pray for you--we poor sinners do
that sometimes, and go on sinning; but, again, nothing more."
Ian admired her all the more for her refusal of him, and they had been
good friends. He had told her of his nephew's coming, had hinted at his
fortune, at his primitive soul, at the unconventional strain in him, even
at marriage. She could not read his purpose, but she knew there was
something, and answering him with a yes, had waited. Had Gaston have come
to her feet she would probably have got at the truth somehow, and have
worked in his favour--the joy vice takes to side with virtue, at
times--when it is at no personal sacrifice. But Gaston was superior in a
grand way. He was simple, courteous, interested only. This stung her, and
she would bring him to his knees, if she could. This night she had rung
all the changes, and had done no more than get his frank applause. She
became petulant in an airy, exacting way. She asked him about his horse.
This interested him. She wanted to see it. To-morrow? No, no, now.
Perhaps to-morrow she would not care to; there was no joy in deliberate
pleasure. Now--now--now! He laughed. Well then, now, as she wished!
Jacques was called. She said to him:
"Come here, little comrade." Jacques came. "Look at me," she added. She
fixed her eyes on him, and smiled. She was in the soft flare of the
lights.
"Well," she said after a moment, "what do you think of me?"
Jacques was confused. "Madame is beautiful."
"The eyes?" she urged.
"I have been to Gaspe, and west to Esquimault, and in England, but I have
never seen such as those," he said. Race and primitive man spoke there.
She laughed. "Come closer, little man."
He did so. She suddenly rose, dropped her hands on his shoulders, and
kissed his cheek.
"Now bring the horse, and I will kiss him too."
Did she think she could rouse Gaston by kissing his servant? Yet it did
not disgust him. He knew it was a bit of acting, and it was well done.
Besides, Jacques Brillon was not a mere servant, and he, too, had done
well. She sat back and laughed lightly when Jacques was gone. Then she
said: "The honest fellow!" and hummed an air:
"'The pretty coquette
Well she needs to be wise,
Though she strike to the heart
By a glance of her eyes.
"'For the daintiest bird
Is the sport of the storm,
And the rose fadeth most
When the bosom is warm.'"
In twenty minutes the gate of the garden opened, and Jacques appeared
with Saracen. The horse's black skin glistened in the lights, and he
tossed his head and champed his bit. Gaston rose. Mademoiselle Cerise
sprang to her feet and ran forward. Jacques put out his hand to stop her,
and Gaston caught her shoulder. "He's wicked with strangers," Gaston
said. "Chat!" she rejoined, stepped quickly to the horse's head and,
laughing, put out her hand to stroke him. Jacques caught the beast's
nose, and stopped a lunge of the great white teeth.
"Enough, madame, he will kill you!"
"Yet I am beautiful--is it not so?"
"The poor beast is ver' blind."
"A pretty compliment," she rejoined, yet angry at the beast.
Gaston came, took the animal's head in his hands, and whispered. Saracen
became tranquil. Gaston beckoned to Mademoiselle Cerise. She came. He
took her hand in his and put it at the horse's lips. The horse whinnied
angrily at first, but permitted a caress from the actress's fingers.
"He does not make friends easily," said Gaston. "Nor does his master."
Her eyes lifted to his, the lids drooping suggestively. "But when the
pact is made--!"
"Till death us do part?"
"Death or ruin."
"Death is better."
"That depends!"
"Ah! I understand," she said.
"On--the woman?"
"Yes."
Then he became silent. "Mount the horse," she urged.
Gaston sprang at one bound upon the horse's bare back. Saracen reared and
wheeled.
"Splendid!" she said; then, presently: "Take me up with you."
He looked doubting for a moment, then whispered to the horse.
"Come quickly," he said.
She came to the side of the horse. He stooped, caught her by the waist,
and lifted her up. Saracen reared, but Gaston had him down in a moment.
Ian Belward suddenly called out:
"For God's sake, keep that pose for five minutes--only five!" He caught
up some canvas. "Hold candles near them," he said to the others. They did
so. With great swiftness he sketched in the strange picture. It looked
weird, almost savage: Gaston's large form, his legs loose at the horse's
side, the woman in her white drapery clinging to him.
In a little time the artist said:
"There; that will do. Ten such sittings and my 'King of Ys' will have its
day with the world. I'd give two fortunes for the chance of it."
The woman's heart had beat fast with Gaston's arm around her. He felt the
thrill of the situation. Man, woman, and horse were as of a piece.
But Cerise knew, when Gaston let her to the ground again, that she had
not conquered.
CHAPTER XIV
IN WHICH THE PAST IS REPEATED
Next morning Gaston was visited by Meyerbeer the American journalist, of
whose profession he was still ignorant. He saw him only as a man of raw
vigour of opinion, crude manners, and heavy temperament. He had not been
friendly to him at night, and he was surprised at the morning visit. The
hour was such that Gaston must ask him to breakfast. The two were soon at
the table of the Hotel St. Malo. Meyerbeer sniffed the air when he saw
the place. The linen was ordinary, the rooms small; but all--he did not
take this into account--irreproachably clean. The walls were covered with
pictures; some taken for unpaid debts, gifts from students since risen to
fame or gone into the outer darkness,--to young artists' eyes, the sordid
moneymaking world,--and had there been lost; from a great artist or two
who remembered the days of his youth and the good host who had seen many
little colonies of artists come and go.
They sat down to the table, which was soon filled with students and
artists. Then Meyerbeer began to see, not only an interesting thing, but
"copy." He was, in fact, preparing a certain article which, as he said to
himself, would "make 'em sit up" in London and New York. He had found out
Gaston's history, had read his speech in the Commons, had seen paragraphs
speculating as to where he was; and now he, Salem Meyerbeer, would tell
them what the wild fellow was doing. The Bullier, the cafes in the Latin
Quarter, apartments in a humble street, dining for one-franc-fifty,
supping with actresses, posing for the King of Ys with that actress in
his arms--all excellent in their way. But now there was needed an
entanglement, intrigue, amour, and then America should shriek at his
picture of one of the British aristocracy, and a gentleman of the
Commons, "on the loose," as he put it.
He would head it:
"ARISTOCRAT, POLITICIAN, LIBERTINE!"
Then, under that he would put:
"CAN THE ETHIOPIAN CHANGE HIS SKIN, OR THE
LEOPARD HIS SPOTS?" Jer. xi. 23.
The morality of such a thing? Morality only had to do with ruining a
girl's name, or robbery. How did it concern this?
So Mr. Meyerbeer kept his ears open. Presently one of the students said
to Bagshot, a young artist: "How does the dompteuse come on?"
"Well, I think it's chic enough. She's magnificent. The colour of her
skin against the lions was splendid to-day: a regular rich gold with a
sweet stain of red like a leaf of maize in September. There's never been
such a Una. I've got my chance; and if I don't pull it off,
'Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket,
And say a poor buffer lies low!'"
"Get the jacket ready," put in a young Frenchman, sneering.
The Englishman's jaw hardened, but he replied coolly
"What do you know about it?"
"I know enough. The Comte Ploare visits her."
"How the devil does that concern my painting her?" There was iron in
Bagshot's voice.
"Who says you are painting her?"
The insult was conspicuous. Gaston quickly interposed. His clear strong
voice rang down the table: "Will you let me come and see your canvas some
day soon, Mr. Bagshot? I remember your picture 'A Passion in the Desert,'
at the Academy this year. A fine thing: the leopard was free and strong.
As an Englishman, I am proud to meet you."
The young Frenchman stared. The quarrel had passed to a new and
unexpected quarter. Gaston's large, solid body, strong face, and
penetrating eyes were not to be sneered out of sight. The Frenchman, an
envious, disappointed artist, had had in his mind a bloodless duel, to
give a fillip to an unacquired fame. He had, however, been drinking. He
flung an insolent glance to meet Gaston's steady look, and said:
"The cock crows of his dunghill!"
Gaston looked at the landlord, then got up calmly and walked down the
table. The Frenchman, expecting he knew not what, sprang to his feet,
snatching up a knife; but Gaston was on him like a hawk, pinioning his
arms and lifting him off the ground, binding his legs too, all so tight
that the Frenchman squealed for breath.
"Monsieur," said Gaston to the landlord, "from the door or the window?"
The landlord was pale. It was in some respects a quarrel of races. For,
French and English at the tables had got up and were eyeing each other.
As to the immediate outcome of the quarrel, there could be no doubt. The
English and Americans could break the others to pieces; but neither
wished that. The landlord decided the matter:
"Drop him from this window."
He pushed a shutter back, and Gaston dropped the fellow on the hard
pavement--a matter of five feet. The Frenchman got up raging, and made
for the door; but this time he was met by the landlord, who gave him his
hat, and bade him come no more. There was applause from both English and
French. The journalist chuckled--another column!
Gaston had acted with coolness and common-sense; and when he sat down and
began talking of the Englishman's picture again as if nothing had
happened, the others followed, and the meal went on cheerfully.
Presently another young English painter entered, and listened to the
conversation, which Gaston brought back to Una and the lions. It was his
way to force things to his liking, if possible; and he wanted to hear
about the woman--why, he did not ask himself. The new arrival, Fancourt
by name, kept looking at him quizzically. Gaston presently said that he
would visit the menagerie and see this famous dompteuse that afternoon.
"She's a brick," said Bagshot. "I was in debt, a year behind with my
Pelletier here, and it took all I got for 'A Passion in the Desert' to
square up. I'd nothing to go on with. I spent my last sou in visiting the
menagerie. There I got an idea. I went to her, told her how I was fixed,
and begged her to give me a chance. By Jingo! she brought the water to my
eyes. Some think she's a bit of a devil; but she can be a devil of a
saint, that's all I've got to say."
"Zoug-Zoug's responsible for the devil," said Fancourt to Bagshot.
"Shut up, Fan," rejoined Bagshot, hurriedly, and then whispered to him
quickly.
Fancourt sent self-conscious glances down the table towards Gaston; and
then a young American, newly come to Paris, said:
"Who's Zoug-Zoug, and what's Zoug-Zoug?"
"It's milk for babes, youngster," answered Bagshot quickly, and changed
the conversation.
Gaston saw something strange in the little incident; but he presently
forgot it for many a day, and then remembered it for many a day, when the
wheel had spun through a wild arc.
When they rose from the table, Meyerbeer went to Bagshot, and said:
"Say, who's Zoug-Zoug, anyway?" Bagshot coolly replied:
"I'm acting for another paper. What price?"
"Fifty dollars," in a low voice, eagerly. Bagshot meditated.
"H'm, fifty dollars! Two hundred and fifty francs, or thereabouts.
Beggarly!"
"A hundred, then."
Bagshot got to his feet, lighting a cigarette.
"Want to have a pretty story against a woman, and to smutch a man, do
you? Well, I'm hard up; I don't mind gossip among ourselves; but sell the
stuff to you--I'll see you damned first!"
This was said sufficiently loud; and after that, Meyerbeer could not ask
Fancourt, so he departed with Gaston, who courteously dismissed him, to
his astonishment and regret, for he had determined to visit the menagerie
with his quarry.
Gaston went to his apartments, and cheerily summoned Jacques.
"Now, little man, for a holiday! The menagerie: lions, leopards, and a
grand dompteuse; and afterwards dinner with me at the Cafe Blanche. I
want a blow-out of lions and that sort. I'd like to be a lion-tamer
myself for a month, or as long as might be."
He caught Jacques by the shoulders--he had not done so since that
memorable day at Ridley Court. "See, Jacques, we'll do this every year.
Six months in England, and three months on the Continent,--in your
France, if you like,--and three months in the out-of-the-wayest place,
where there'll be big game. Hidalgos for six months, Goths for the rest."
A half-hour later they were in the menagerie. They sat near the doors
where the performers entered. For a long time they watched the
performance with delight, clapping and calling bravo like boys. Presently
the famous dompteuse entered,--Mademoiselle Victorine,--passing just
below Gaston. He looked down, interested, at the supple, lithe creature
making for the cages of lions in the amphitheatre. The figure struck him
as familiar. Presently the girl turned, throwing a glance round the
theatre. He caught the dash of the dark, piercing eyes, the luminous
look, the face unpainted--in its own natural colour: neither hot health
nor paleness, but a thing to bear the light of day. "Andree the gipsy!"
he exclaimed in a low tone.
In less than two years this! Here was fame. A wanderer, an Ishmael then,
her handful of household goods and her father in the grasp of the Law:
to-day, Mademoiselle Victorine, queen of animal-tamers! And her name
associated with the Comte Ploare!
With the Comte Ploare? Had it come to that? He remembered the look in her
face when he bade her good-bye. Impossible! Then, immediately he laughed.
Why impossible? And why should he bother his head about it? People of
this sort: Mademoiselle Cerise, Madame Juliette, Mademoiselle
Victorine--what were they to him, or to themselves?
There flashed through his brain three pictures: when he stood by the
bedside of the old dying Esquimaux in Labrador, and took a girl's hand in
his; when among the flowers at Peppingham he heard Delia say: "Oh,
Gaston! Gaston!" and Alice's face at midnight in the moonlit window at
Ridley Court.
How strange this figure--spangled, gaudy, standing among her
lions--seemed by these. To think of her, his veins thumping thus, was an
insult to all three: to Delia, one unpardonable. And yet he could not
take his eyes off her. Her performance was splendid. He was interested,
speculative. She certainly had flown high; for, again, why should not a
dompteuse be a decent woman? And here were money, fame of a kind, and an
occupation that sent his blood bounding. A dompteur! He had tamed moose,
and young mountain lions, and a catamount, and had had mad hours with
pumas and arctic bears; and he could understand how even he might easily
pass from M.P. to dompteur. It was not intellectual, but it was power of
a kind; and it was decent, and healthy, and infinitely better than
playing the Jew in business, or keeping a tavern, or "shaving" notes, and
all that. Truly, the woman was to be admired, for she was earning an
honest living; and no doubt they lied when they named her with Count
Ploare. He kept coming back to that--Count Ploare! Why could they not
leave these women alone? Did they think none of them virtuous? He would
stake his life that Andree--he would call her that--was as straight as
the sun.
"What do you think of her, Jacques?" he said suddenly.
"It is grand. Mon Dieu, she is wonderful--and a face all fire!"
Presently she came out of the cage, followed by two great lions. She
walked round the ring, a hand on the head of each: one growling, the
other purring against her, with a ponderous kind of affection. She talked
to them as they went, giving occasionally a deep purring sound like their
own. Her talk never ceased. She looked at the audience, but only as in a
dream. Her mind was all with the animals. There was something splendid in
it: she, herself, was a noble animal; and she seemed entirely in place
where she was. The lions were fond of her, and she of them; but the first
part of her performance had shown that they could be capricious. A lion's
love is but a lion's love after all--and hers likewise, no doubt! The
three seemed as one in their beauty, the woman superbly superior.
Meyerbeer, in a far corner, was still on the trail of his sensation. He
thought that he might get an article out of it--with the help of Count
Ploare and Zoug-Zoug. Who was Zoug-Zoug? He exulted in her
picturesqueness, and he determined to lie in wait. He thought it a pity
that Comte Ploare was not an Englishman or an American; but it couldn't
be helped. Yes, she was, as he said to himself, "a stunner." Meanwhile he
watched Gaston, noted his intense interest.
Presently the girl stopped beside the cage. A chariot was brought out,
and the two lions were harnessed to it. Then she called out another
larger lion, which came unwillingly at first. She spoke sharply, and then
struck him. He growled, but came on. Then she spoke softly to him, and
made that peculiar purr, soft and rich. Now he responded, walked round
her, coming closer, till his body made a half-circle about her, and his
head was at her knees. She dropped her hand on it. Great applause rang
through the building. This play had been quite accidental. But there lay
one secret of the girl's success. She was original; she depended greatly
on the power of the moment for her best effects, and they came at
unexpected times.
It was at this instant that, glancing round the theatre in acknowledgment
of the applause, her eyes rested mechanically on Gaston's box. There was
generally some one important in that box: from a foreign prince to a
young gentleman whose proudest moment was to take off his hat in the Bois
to the queen of a lawless court. She had tired of being introduced to
princes. What could it mean to her? And for the young bloods, whose
greatest regret was that they could not send forth a daughter of joy into
the Champs Elysee in her carriage, she had ever sent them about their
business. She had no corner of pardon for them. She kissed her lions, she
hugged the lion's cub that rode back and forth with her to the menagerie
day by day--her companion in her modest apartments; but sell one of these
kisses to a young gentleman of Paris, whose ambition was to master all
the vices, and then let the vices master him!--she had not come to that,
though, as she said in some bitter moments, she had come far.
Count Ploare--there was nothing in that. A blase man of the world, who
had found it all not worth the bothering about, neither code nor
people--he saw in this rich impetuous nature a new range of emotions, a
brief return to the time when he tasted an open strong life in Algiers,
in Tahiti. And he would laugh at the world by marrying her--yes, actually
marrying her, the dompteuse! Accident had let him render her a service,
not unimportant, once at Versailles, and he had been so courteous and
considerate afterwards, that she had let him see her occasionally, but
never yet alone. He soon saw that an amour was impossible. At last he
spoke of marriage. She shook her head. She ought to have been grateful,
but she was not. Why should she be? She did not know why he wished to
marry her; but, whatever the reason, he was selfish. Well, she would be
selfish. She did not care for him. If she married him, it would be
because she was selfish: because of position, ease; for protection in
this shameless Paris; and for a home, she who had been a wanderer since
her birth.
It was mere bargaining. But at last her free, independent nature
revolted. No: she had had enough of the chain, and the loveless hand of
man, for three months that were burned into her brain--no more! If ever
she loved--all; but not the right for Count Ploare to demand the
affection she gave her lions freely.
The manager of the menagerie had tried for her affections, had offered a
price for her friendship; and failing, had become as good a friend as
such a man could be. She even visited his wife occasionally, and gave
gifts to his children; and the mother trusted her and told her her
trials. And so the thing went on, and the people talked.
As we said, she turned her eyes to Gaston's box. Instantly they became
riveted, and then a deep flush swept slowly up her face and burned into
her splendid hair. Meyerbeer was watching through his opera-glasses. He
gave an exclamation of delight:
"By the holy smoke, here's something!" he said aloud.
For an instant Gaston and the girl looked at each other intently. He made
a slight sign of recognition with his hand, and then she turned away,
gone a little pale now. She stood looking at her lions, as if trying to
recollect herself. The lion at her feet helped her. He had a change of
temper, and, possibly fretting under inaction, growled. At once she
summoned him to get into the chariot. He hesitated, but did so. She put
the reins in his paws and took her place behind. Then a robe of purple
and ermine was thrown over her shoulders by an attendant; she gave a
sharp command, and the lions came round the ring, to wild applause. Even
a Parisian audience had never seen anything like this. It was amusing
too; for the coachman-lion was evidently disgusted with his task, and
growled in a helpless kind of way.
As they passed Gaston's box, they were very near. The girl threw one
swift glance; but her face was well controlled now. She heard, however, a
whispered word come to her:
"Andree!"
A few moments afterwards she retired, and the performance was in other
and less remarkable hands. Presently the manager himself came, and said
that Mademoiselle Victorine would be glad to see Monsieur Belward if he
so wished. Gaston left Jacques, and went.
Meyerbeer noticed the move, and determined to see the meeting if
possible. There was something in it, he was sure. He would invent an
excuse, and make his way behind.
Gaston and the manager were in the latter's rooms waiting for Victorine.
Presently a messenger came, saying that Monsieur Belward would find
Mademoiselle in her dressing-room. Thither Gaston went, accompanied by
the manager, who, however, left him at the door, nodding good-naturedly
to Victorine, and inwardly praying that here was no danger to his
business, for Victorine was a source of great profit. Yet he had failed
himself, and all others had failed in winning her--why should this man
succeed, if that was his purpose?