The Strollers

“Would it matter–if I went?”

She drew back at the abruptness of his words.

“How unfair to answer one question with another!” she said lightly.

A pause fell between them. Perhaps she, too, felt the sudden repulse of her own answer and the ensuing constraint. Perhaps some compunction moved her to add in a voice not entirely steady:

“And so you think–of going back to France?”

“To France!” he repeated, quickly. “No”–and stopped.

Looking up, a half-questioning light in her eyes took flight to his, until suddenly arrested by the hard, set expression of his features. Abruptly chilled by she knew not what, her lashes fell. The horses champed their bits and tugged at the reins, impatient of the prolonged pause.

“Let us go!” she said in a low, constrained voice.

At her words he turned, the harshness dropping from his face like a discarded mask; the lines of determination wavering.

“Let us go!” she said again, without looking up.

He made no motion to obey, until the sound of a vehicle behind them seemed to break the spell and mechanically he touched the horses with the whip.

CHAPTER IV

LEAR AND JULIET

Susan dismissed her admirers at the races with some difficulty, especially the tenacious marquis, who tenderly squeezed her hand, saying:

“Were I twenty years younger, I would not thus be set aside.”

“Fie, Marquis!” she returned. “These other people are dull, while you are charmingly wicked.”

“You flatter me,” he cackled, detaining her, to the impatience of the thick-set man who was waiting to escort the young woman back to town. “But do you notice the gentleman over there with the medals?”

“The distinguished-looking man?” asked Susan.

“Yes; that is the Count de Propriac. It was he who was one of the agents of Louis Philippe in the Spanish double marriage plot. It was arranged the queen should marry her cousin, and her sister the son of Louis Philippe. The queen and her cousin were not expected to have children–but had them, to spite us all, and Louis Philippe’s projects for the throne of Spain failed disastrously.”

“How inconsiderate of the queen! Good afternoon, marquis! I have been vastly entertained.”

“And I”–kissing her hand–“enamored!” Then, chuckling: “A week ago my stupid doctors had me laid out in funereal dignity, and now I am making love to a fine woman. Pretty pouting lips!”–tapping her chin playfully–“Like rose-buds! Happy the lover who shall gather the dew! But we meet again, Mistress Susan?”

“That will depend upon you, marquis,” answered Susan, coquettishly, as a thought flashed through her mind that it would not be unpleasant to be called “Marquise,” or “Marchioness”–she did not quite know which would be the proper title. It was nearly vesper-time with the old nobleman; he seemed but a procrastinating presence in the evening of mortal life; a chateau and carriage–

“Then we will meet again,” said the marquis, interrupting these new-born ambitions.

“In that case you would soon get tired of me,” laughed Susan.

“Never!” Tenderly. “When may I see you?”

“How importunate you are! Call when you will.”

“But if you are out”–he insisted.

“That will make it the more delightfully uncertain,” she said gaily.

“So it will!” Rubbing his hands. “Delightfully uncertain!” he repeated. And he departed with many protestations, taking no more notice of the thick-set man than if he were a block of wood.

“What an old ape!” growled the latter, viciously, as the marquis ambled from their stall.

“Do you think so?” answered Susan, tossing her head. “He has that air of distinction which only persons of rank and title can command.”

“Distinction!” said the other, who was but a well-to-do merchant. “I should call it bad manners.”

“Because he never noticed you!” laughed Susan, spitefully. “But why are we standing here? I believe you expect to take me home, don’t you?”

Although she chattered like a magpie on the road, he was silent and sullen, nursing his injured pride and wounded self-sufficiency. Susan, who was interested in him for the novel reason she disliked him so heartily, parted from him with the air of a duchess, and entered the hotel, holding her head so high that he swore under his breath as he drove away. And, as a result of the quarrel with the lad, he would probably have to risk being “pinked” for this jade! Susan, on the other hand, was as happy as a lark when she entered the dining-room of the St. Charles, that great eating-place and meeting-place of all classes of people.

As she seated herself at a table, a smile lurked around the corners of her mouth and flickered faintly upon the waiter who forthwith became a Mercury for expedition and a prodigal for variety. Her quarrel on the road with her companion had in nowise interfered with that appetite which the fresh air and the lateness of the hour had provoked, nor were her thoughts of a character to deter from the zest of eating.

From the present to the past was but an instant’s flight of the mind–thus may the once august years swiftly and unceremoniously be marshaled by!–and she dwelt in not unpleasing retrospection on an endless field of investigation and discovery and the various experiences which had befallen her in arriving at the present period of mature knowledge; a proficiency which converted her chosen researches into an exact science.

Thus meditating and dining–counting on her fingers twice over the fair actresses who had become titled ladies, and enviously disbelieving she would join that triumphant company–Susan was still seated at the table some time later when the soldier glanced in. Imperatively she motioned him to her side and he obeyed with not entirely concealed reluctance, and was so preoccupied, she rallied him upon his reserve.

“I believe you and Constance had a quarrel on the road.” Maliciously. “I hope you were more amiable than my companion. He hardly spoke a word, and, when I left him”–her voice sank to a whisper–“I heard him swear.”

“He pleased you so much earlier in the day that a duel will probably be the outcome.”

Susan laughed gaily.

“A duel! Then my fortune is made. All the newspapers will contain paragraphs. It is too good to be true.” And she clapped her hands. “When is it to take place? Tell me about it!”

Then noting his manner, she continued with an assumption of plaintiveness: “Now you are cross with me! You think me heartless. Is it my fault? I care nothing for either of them and I am not to be blamed if they are so foolish. It might be different if either had touched my heart.” And she assumed a coquettish demeanor, while Saint-Prosper coolly studied her through the wreaths of smoke from his weed.

“You are wondering what sort of a person I am!” she continued, merrily, raising her glass of wine with: “To unrequited passion!”

Her roguish face sparkled as he asked; “Whose?”

She drained the glass and set it down demurely. “Mine!”

The cigar was suspended; the veil cleared between them.

“For whom?” he said.

“You!” Offering him the limpid depths of her blue eyes. “Is my liking returned?”

“Liking? Perhaps!”

“My love?”