The Strollers

“He had joined a strolling band of players,” said the other, concealing his disappointment as best he might at his companion’s evasive reply.

“A Saint-Prosper become an actor!” shouted the marquis, his anger again breaking forth. “Has he not already dragged an honored name in the dust? A stroller! A player!” The marquis fairly gasped at the enormity of the offense; for a moment he was speechless, and then asked feebly: “What caused him to take such a humiliating step?”

“He is playing the hero of a romance,” said the land baron, moodily. “I confess he has excellent taste, though! The figure of a Juno–eyes like stars on an August night–features proud as Diana–the voice of a siren–in a word, picture to yourself your fairest conquest, Monsieur le Marquis, and you will have a worthy counterpart of this rose of the wilderness!”

“My fairest conquest!” piped the listener. With lack-luster eyes he remained motionless like a traveler in the desert who gazes upon a mirage. “You have described her well. The features of Diana! It was at a revival of Vanbrugh’s ‘Relapse’ I first met her, dressed after the fashion of the Countess of Ossory. Who would not worship before the figures of Lely?”

He half closed his eyes, as though gazing in fancy upon the glossy draperies and rosy flesh of those voluptuous court beauties.

“The wooing, begun in the wings, ended in an ivy-covered villa–a retired nook–solitary walks by day–nightingales and moonshine by night. It was a pleasing romance while it lasted, but joy palls on one. Nature abhors sameness. The heart is like Mother Earth–ever varying. I wearied of this surfeit of Paradise and–left her!”

“A mere incident in an eventful life,” said his companion, thoughtfully.

“Yes; only an incident!” repeated the marquis. “Only an incident! I had almost forgotten it, but your conversation about players and your description of the actress brought it to mind. It had quite passed away; it had quite passed away! But the cards, Monsieur Mauville; the cards!”

CHAPTER III

AT THE RACES

For several days, after rehearsals were over, the strollers were free to amuse themselves as they pleased. Their engagement at the theater did not begin for about a week, and meanwhile they managed to combine recreation with labor in nearly equal proportions. Assiduously they devoted themselves to a round of drives and rambles: through pastures and wood-land to Carrolton; along the shell road to Lake Pontchartrain; to Biloxi, the first settlement of the French; and to the battle grounds, once known as the plains of Chalmette, where volunteer soldiers were now encamped, awaiting orders to go to the front in the Mexican campaign. For those who craved greater excitement, the three race-courses–the Louisiana, the Metairie and the Carrolton offered stimulating diversion.

Within sight of the Metairie were the old dueling grounds, under the oaks, where, it is related, on one Sunday in ’39 ten duels occurred; where the contestants frequently fought on horseback with sabers; and, where the cowherds, says a chronicler, became so accustomed to seeing honor satisfied in this manner that they paid little attention to these meetings, pursuing their own humble duties, indifferent to the follies of fashionable society. The fencing schools flourished–what memories cluster around that odd, strange master of the blade, Spedella, a melancholy enigma of a man, whose art embodied much of the finest shading and phrasing peculiar to himself; from whom even many of Bonaparte’s discarded veterans were not above acquiring new technique and temperament! Men in those days were most punctilious about reputation, but permitted a sufficiently wide latitude in its interpretation not to hamper themselves or seriously interfere with their desires or pleasures. Thus, virtue did not become a burden, nor honor a millstone. Both, like epaulets or tassels, were worn lightly and befittingly.

Shortly after the players’ arrival began the celebrated Leduc matches, attracting noted men and women from all over the South. The hotels were crowded, the lodging-houses filled, while many of the large homes hospitably opened their doors to visiting friends. The afternoons found the city almost deserted; the bartenders discontentedly smoked in solitude; the legion of waiters in the hotels and resorts became reduced to a thinly scattered array; while even the street venders had “folded their tents” and silently stolen to the races. On one such memorable occasion most of the members of Barnes’ company repaired to the Metairie.

Below the grand stand, brilliant with color, strutted the dandies attending to their bets; above they played a winning or losing game with the fair sex. Intrigue and love-making were the order of the hour, and these daughters of the South beguiled time–and mortals!–in a heyday of pleasure. In that mixed gathering burly cotton planters from the country rubbed elbows with aristocratic creoles, whose attire was distinguishable by enormous ruffles and light boots of cloth. The professional follower of these events, the importunate tout, also mingled with the crowd, plainly in evidence by the pronounced character of his dress, the size of his diamond studs or cravat pin, and the massive dimensions of his finger rings. No paltry, scrubby track cadger was this resplendent gentleman, but a picturesque rogue, with impudence as pronounced as his jewels!

Surrounded by a bevy of admirers, Susan, sprightly and sparkling, was an example of that “frippery one of her sex is made up with, a pasticcio of gauzes, pins and ribbons that go to compound that multifarious thing, a well-dressed woman.” Ever ready with a quick retort, she bestowed her favors generously, to the evident discomfiture of a young officer in her retinue whom she had met several days before, and who, ever since, had coveted a full harvest of smiles, liking not a little the first sample he had gathered. However, it was not Susan’s way to entrust herself fully to any one; it was all very interesting to play one against another; to intercept angry gleams; to hold in check clashing suitors–this was exciting and diverting–but she exercised care not to transgress those bounds where she ceased to be mistress of the situation. Perhaps her limits in coquetry were further set than most women would have ventured to place them, but without this temerity and daring, the pastime would have lost its charm for her. She might play with edged tools, but she also knew how to use them.

Near her was seated Kate, indolent as of yore, now watching her sister with an indulgent, enigmatic expression, anon permitting a scornful glance to stray toward Adonis, who, for his part, had eyes only for his companion, a distinct change from country hoidens, tavern demoiselles and dainty wenches, with their rough hands and rosy cheeks. This lady’s hands were like milk; her cheeks, ivory, and Adonis in bestowing his attentions upon her, had a two-fold purpose: to return tit for tat for Kate’s flaunting ways, and to gratify his own ever-fleeting fancy.

In a box, half the length of the grand stand removed, some distance back and to the left of Susan’s gay party, Constance, Mrs. Adams and the soldier were also observers of this scene of animation.

Since the manager’s successful flight from the landlord and the constables, the relations of the young girl and Saint-Prosper had undergone little change. At first, it is true, with the memory of the wild ride to the river fresh in her mind, and the more or less disturbing recollections of that strange, dark night, a certain reticence had marked her manner toward the soldier; but, as time went by, this touch of reserve wore off, and was succeeded by her usual frankness or gaiety. In her eyes appeared, at times, a new thoughtfulness, but for no longer period than the quick passing of a summer cloud over a sunny meadow. This half-light of brief conjecture or vague retrospection only mellowed the depths of her gaze, and Barnes alone noted and wondered.

But to-day no partial shadows lay under the black, shading lashes; the exhilarating scene, the rapidly succeeding events, the turbulence and flutter around her, were calculated to dispel the most pronounced abstraction. Beneath a protecting parasol–for the sunlight shot below the roof at the back and touched that part of the grand stand–a faint glow warmed her cheeks, while her eyes shone with the gladness of the moment. Many of the dandies, regarding her with marked persistency, asked who she was, and none knew, until finally Editor-Rhymster Straws was appealed to. Straws, informed on all matters, was able to satisfy his questioners.

“She is an actress,” said Straws. “So we are told. We shall find out next week. She is a beauty. We can tell that now.”

“You’re right, Straws!” exclaimed a pitch-and-toss youngster. “If she shows as well at the wire–”

“You’d take a long chance on her winning?” laughed the philosopher.

“I’ll play you odds on it!” cried the juvenile. “Four to one, damme! I’ll risk that on her eyes.”

“Four to one on a lady’s eyes, child! Say forty to one, and take the hazard of the die.”

Standing near the rhymster, story-writer and journalist, was a tall young man, dressed in creole fashion. He followed the glances of Straws’ questioners and a pallor overspread his dark complexion as he looked at the object of their attention.

“The stroller!” he exclaimed half audibly. “Her counterpart doesn’t exist.”

He stepped back where he could see her more plainly. In that sea of faces, her features alone shone before him, clearly, insistently.

“Do you know her, Mr. Mauville?” asked the rhymster, observing that steadfast glance.

“Know her?” repeated the land baron, starting. “Oh, I’ve seen her act.”

“Tip me off her points and I’ll tip my readers.”

“She is going to play here then?” said the patroon.

“Yes. What is she like? Does tragedy or comedy favor her most? You see,” he added apologetically, “when people begin to talk about anybody, we Grubstreet hacks thrive on the gossip. It is deplorable”–with regret–“but small talk and tattle bring more than a choice lyric or sonnet. And, heaven help us!”–shaking his head–“what a vendible article a fine scandal is! It sells fast, like goods at a Dutch auction. Penny a line? More nearly six pence! If I could only bring myself to deal in such merchandise! If I were only a good rag picker, instead of a bad poet!” And Straws walked away, forgetting the questions he had asked in his own more interesting cogitations.

Without definite purpose, the patroon, who had listened with scant attention to the poet, began to move slowly toward the actress, and at that moment, the eyes of the soldier, turning to the saddling paddock, where the horses were being led out, fell upon the figure drawing near, recognizing in him the heir to the manor, Edward Mauville. Construing in his approach a deliberate intention, a flush of quick anger overspread Saint-Prosper’s face and he glanced at the girl by his side. But her manner assured him she had not observed the land baron, for at that moment she was looking in the opposite direction, endeavoring to discover Barnes or the others of the company in the immense throng.

Murmuring some excuse to his unconscious companion and cutting short the wiry old lady’s reminiscences of the first public trotting race in 1818, the soldier left the box, and, moving with some difficulty through the crowd, met Mauville in the aisle near the stairway. The latter’s face expressed surprise, not altogether of an agreeable nature, at the encounter, but he immediately regained his composure.

“Ah, Monsieur Saint-Prosper,” he observed easily, “I little thought to see you here.”

“Nor I you!” said the other bluntly.

The patroon gazed in seeming carelessness from the soldier to the young girl. Saint-Prosper’s presence in New Orleans could be accounted for; he had followed her from the Shadengo Valley across the continent; the drive begun at the country inn–he looking down from the dormer window to witness the start–had been a long one; very different from his own brief flight, with its wretched end. These thoughts coursed rapidly through the land baron’s brain; her appearance rekindled the ashes of the past; the fire in his breast flamed from his eyes, but otherwise he made no display of feeling. He glanced out upon the many faces below them, bowing to one woman and smiling at another.

“Oh, I couldn’t stand a winter in the North,” resumed the patroon, turning once more to the soldier. “Although the barn-burners promised to make it warm for me!”

Offering no reply to this sally, Saint-Prosper’s gaze continued to rest coldly and expectantly upon the other. Goaded by that arbitrary regard, an implied barrier between him and the young girl, the land baron sought to press forward; his glittering eyes met the other’s; the glances they exchanged were like the thrust and parry of swords. Without wishing to address the actress–and thereby risk a public rebuff–it was, nevertheless, impossible for the hot-blooded Southerner to submit to peremptory restraint. Who had made the soldier his taskmaster? He read Saint-Prosper’s purpose and was not slow to retaliate.

“If I am not mistaken, yonder is our divinity of the lane,” said the patroon softly. “Permit me.” And he strove to pass.

The soldier did not move.

“You are blocking my way, Monsieur,” continued the other, sharply.

“Not if it lies the other way.”

“This way, or that way, how does it concern you?” retorted the land baron.

“If you seek further to annoy a lady whom you have already sufficiently wronged, it is any man’s concern.”

“Especially if he has followed her across the country,” sneered Mauville. “Besides, since when have actresses become so chary of their favors?” In his anger the land baron threw out intimations he would have challenged from other lips. “Has the stage then become a holy convent?”

“You stamped yourself a scoundrel some time ago,” said the soldier slowly, as though weighing each word, “and now show yourself a coward when you malign a young girl, without father, brother–”

“Or lover!” interrupted the land baron. “Perhaps, however, you were only traveling to see the country! A grand tour, enlivened with studies of human nature, as well as glimpses of scenery!”

“Have you anything further with me?” interjected Saint-Prosper, curtly.

The patroon’s blood coursed, burning, through his veins; the other’s contemptuous manner stung him more fiercely than language.