The Strollers

For such a frivolous lady, Susan was an excellent listener. She, who on occasions chattered like a magpie, was now silent as a mouse, drinking in the other’s words with parted lips and sparkling eyes. First he showed her the letter François had brought him. Unmarked by postal indications, the missive had evidently been intrusted to a private messenger of the governor whose seal it bore. Dated about three years previously, it was written in a somewhat illegible, but not unintelligible, scrawl, the duke’s own handwriting.

“I send you, my dear marquis,” began the duke, “a copy of the secret report of the military tribunal appointed to investigate the charges against your kinsman, Lieut. Saint-Prosper, and regret the finding of the court should have been one of guilty of treason.

“Saint-Prosper and Abd-el-Kader met near the tomb of a marabout. From him the French officer received a famous ruby which he thrust beneath his zaboot–the first fee of their compact. That night when the town lay sleeping, a turbaned host, armed with yataghans, stole through the flowering cactuses. Sesame! The gate opened to them; they swarmed within! The soldiers, surprised, could render little resistance; the ruthless invaders cut them down while they were sleeping or before they could sound the alarm. The bravest blood of France flowed lavishly in the face of the treacherous onslaught; blood of men who had been his fastest friends, among whom he had been so popular for his dauntless courage and devil-may-care temerity! But a period, fearfully brief, and the beloved tri-color was trampled in the dust; the barbarian flag of the Emir floated in its place.

“All these particulars, and the part Saint-Prosper played in the terrible drama, Abd-el-Kader, who is now our prisoner, has himself confessed. The necessity for secrecy, you, my dear Marquis, will appreciate. The publicity of the affair now would work incalculable injury to the nation. It is imperative to preserve the army from the taint of scandal. The nation hangs on a thread. God knows there is iniquity abroad. I, who have labored for the honor of France and planted her flag in distant lands, look for defeat, not through want of bravery, but from internal causes. A matter like this might lead to a popular uprising against the army. Therefore, the king wills it shall be buried by his faithful servants.”

As Mauville proceeded Susan remained motionless, her eyes growing larger and larger, until they shone like two lovely sapphires, but when he concluded she gave a little sigh of pleasure and leaned back with a pleased smile.

“Well?” he said, finally, after waiting some moments for her to speak.

“How piquantly wicked he is!” she exclaimed, softly.

“Piquantly, indeed!” repeated the land baron, dryly.

“And he carries it without a twinge! What a petrified conscience!”

“I believe you find him more interesting than ever?” said Mauville, impatiently.

“Possibly!” Languidly. “An exceptional moral ailment sometimes makes a man more attractive–like a–an interesting subject in a hospital, you know! But I have always felt,” she continued, with sudden seriousness, “there was something wrong with him. When I first saw him, I was sure he had had no ordinary past, but I did not dream it was quite so–what shall we call it–”

“Unsavory?” suggested her companion.

“That accounts for his unwillingness to talk about Africa,” went on Susan. “Soldiers, as a rule, you know, like to tell all about their sanguinary exploits. But the tented field was a forbidden topic with him. And once when I asked him about Algiers he was almost rudely evasive.”

“He probably lives in constant fear his secret will become known,” said Mauville, thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, the law provides that no person is to be indicted for treason unless within three years after the offense. The tribunal did not return an indictment; the three years have just expired. Did he come to America to make sure of these three years?”

But Susan’s thoughts had flitted to another feature of the story.

“How strange my marquis should be connected with the case! What an old compliment-monger he was! He vowed he was deeply smitten with me.”

“And then went home and took to his bed!” added Mauville, grimly.

“You wretch!” said the young woman, playfully. “So that is the reason the dear old molly-coddle did not take me to any of the gay suppers he promised? Is it not strange Saint-Prosper has not met him?”

“You forget the marquis has been confined to his room since his brief, but disastrous, courtship of you. His infatuation seems to have brought him to the verge of dissolution.”

“Was it not worth the price?” she retorted, rising. “But I see my sister and Adonis are going, so I must be off, too. So glad to have met you!”

“You are no longer angry with me?”

“No; you are very nice,” she said. “And you have forgiven me?”

“Need you ask?” Pressing her hand. “Good evening, Mistress Susan!”

“Good evening. Oh, by the way, I have an appointment with Constance to rehearse a little scene together this evening. Would you mind loaning me that letter?”

“With pleasure; but remember your promise.”

“Promise?” repeated the young woman.

“Not to tell.”

“Oh, of course,” said Susan.

“But if you shouldn’t–”

“Then?”

“Then you might say the marquis, your friend and admirer, gave you the letter. It would, perhaps, be easier for you to account for it than for me.”

“But if the marquis should learn–” began the other, half-dubiously.

“He is too ill for anything except the grave.”

“Oh, the poor old dear!”

She looked at the gaming table with its indefatigable players and then turned to Kate and Adonis who approached at that moment. “How did you come out, Adonis?”

“Out,” he said, curtly.

“Lucky in love, unlucky at”–began Kate.

“Then you must be very unlucky in love,” he retorted, “for you were a good winner at cards.”

“Oh, there are exceptions to that rule,” said Kate lazily, with a yawn. “I’m lucky at both–in New Orleans!”

“I have perceived it,” retorted Adonis, bitterly.

“Don’t quarrel,” Susan implored. Regarding the table once more, she sighed: “I’m so sorry I came!”

But her feet fairly danced as she flew towards the St. Charles. She entered, airy as a saucy craft, with “all sails in full chase, ribbons and gauzes streaming at the top,” and, with a frou-frou of skirts, burst into Constance’s room, brimful of news and importance. She remained there for some time, and when she left, it was noteworthy her spirits were still high. In crossing the hall, her red stockings became a fitting color accompaniment to her sprightly step, as she moved over the heavy carpet, skirts raised coquettishly, humming with the gaiety of a young girl who has just left boarding school.

“A blooming, innocent creature!” growled an up-the-river planter, surveying her from one of the landings. “Lord love me, if she were only a quadroon, I’d buy her!”

CHAPTER IX

A DEBUT IN THE CRESCENT CITY

A versatile dramatic poet is grim Destiny, making with equal facility tragedy, farce, burletta, masque or mystery. The world is his inn, and, like the wandering master of interludes, he sets up his stage in the court-yard, beneath the windows of mortals, takes out his figures and evolves charming comedies, stirring melodramas, spirited harlequinades and moving divertissement. But it is in tragedy his constructive ability is especially apparent, and his characters, tripping along unsuspectingly in the sunny byways, are suddenly confronted by the terrifying mask and realize life is not all pleasant pastime and that the Greek philosophy of retribution is nature’s law, preserving the unities. When the time comes, the Master of events, adjusting them in prescribed lines, reaches by stern obligation the avoidless conclusion.

Consulting no law but his own will, the Marquis de Ligne had lived as though he were the autocrat of fate itself instead of one of its servants, and therefore was surprised when the venerable playwright prepared the unexpected dénouement. In pursuance of this end, it was decreed by the imperious and incontrovertible dramatist of the human family that this crabbed, vicious, antiquated marionette should wend his way to the St. Charles on a particular evening. Since the day at the races, the eccentric nobleman had been ill and confined to his room, but now he was beginning to hobble around, and, immediately with returning strength, sought diversion.

“François,” he said, “what is there at the theater to-night?”

“Comic opera, my lord?”

The marquis made a grimace. “Comic opera outside of Paris!” he exclaimed, with a shrug of the shoulders.