The Strollers

“Pardon my curiosity,” he said, with apparent carelessness, “but I’m sure I remember an actress of the same name in London–many years ago?”

“Her mother, undoubtedly,” replied the manager, proudly.

“She was married, was she not, to–”

“A scoundrel who took her for his wife in one church and repudiated the ties through another denomination!”

“Ah, a French-English marriage!” said the marquis, blandly. “An old device! But what was this lover’s name?”

“This husband’s, my lord!”

“Lover or husband, I fancy it is all the same to her now,” sneered the caller. “She has passed the point where reputation matters.”

“Her reputation is my concern, Monsieur le Marquis!”

“You knew her?” asked the nobleman, as though the conversation wearied him. “And she was faithful to his memory? No scandals–none of those little affairs women of her class are prone to? There”–as Barnes started up indignantly–“spare me your reproaches! I’m too feeble to quarrel. Besides, what is it to me? I was only curious about her–that is all! But she never spoke the name of her husband?”

“Not even to her own child!”

“She does not know her father’s name?” repeated the marquis. “But I thank you; Mademoiselle Constance is so charming I must needs call to ask if she were related to the London actress! Good-day, Monsieur! You are severe on the lover. Was it not the fashion of the day for the actresses to take lovers, or for the fops to have an opera girl or a comedienne? Did your most popular performers disdain such diversions?” he sneered. “Pardie, the world has suddenly become moral! A gentleman can no longer, it would seem, indulge in gentlemanly follies.”

Mumbling about the decadence of fashion, the marquis departed, his manner so strange the manager gazed after him in surprise.

With no thought of direction, his lips moving, talking to himself in adynamic fashion, the nobleman walked mechanically on until he reached the great cathedral. The organ was rolling and voices arose sweet as those of seraphim. He hesitated at the portal and then laughed to himself. “Well has Voltaire said: ‘Pleasure has its time; so, too, has wisdom. Make love in thy youth, and in old age, attend to thy salvation.’” He repeated the latter words, but, although he paused at the threshold and listened, he did not enter.

As he stood there, uncertain and trembling, a figure replete with youth and vigor approached, and, glancing at her, an exclamation escaped him that caused her to pause and turn.

“You are not well,” she said, solicitously. “Can I help you?”

“It is nothing, nothing!” answered the marquis, ashy pale at the sight of her and the proximity of that face which regarded him with womanly sympathy. “Go away.”

“At least, let me assist you. You were going to the cathedral? Come!”

His hand rested upon her strong young arm; he felt himself too weak to resist, so, together–father and daughter!–they entered the cathedral. Side by side they knelt–he to keep up the farce, fearing to undeceive her–while yet only mocking words came to the old man’s heart, as the bitterness of the situation overwhelmed him. She was a daughter in whom a prince might have found pride, but he remained there mute, not daring to speak, experiencing all the tortures of remorse and retribution. Of what avail had been ambition? How had it overleaped content and ease of mind! Into what a nest of stings and thorns his loveless marriage had plunged him! And now but the black shadow remained; he walked in the darkness of unending isolation. So he should continue to walk straight to the door of death.

He scarcely heard the organ or the voice of the priest. The high altar, with its many symbols, suggested the thousands that had worshiped there and gone away comforted. Here was abundant testimony of the blessings of divine mercy in the numerous costly gifts and in the discarded crutches, and here faith had manifested itself for generations.

The marquis’ throat was hoarse; he could have spoken no words if he had tried. He laughed in his heart at the gifts of the grateful ones; those crosses of ivory and handsome lamps were but symbols of barbarism and superstition. The tablets, with their inscriptions, “Merci” and “Ex voto,” were to him absurd, and he gibed at the simple credulity of the people who could thus be misled. All these evidences of thanksgiving were but cumulative testimony that men and women are like little children, who will be pleased over fairy tales or frightened over ghost stories. The promise of paradise, but the fairy tale told by priests to men and women; the threats of punishment, the ghost stories to awe them! A malicious delight crept into his diseased imagination that he alone in the cathedral possessed the extreme divination, enabling him to perceive the emptiness of all these signs and symbols. He labored in a fever of mental excitement and was only recalled to himself as his glance once more rested upon the young girl.

He became dimly conscious that people were moving past them, and he suddenly longed to cry out, “My child!” but he fought down the impulse. There could be no turning back now at the eleventh hour; the marquis was a philosopher, and did not believe that, in a twinkling of an eye, a man may set behind all that has transpired and regard it as naught. Something within held him from speaking to her–perhaps his own inherent sense of the consistency of things; his appreciation of the legitimate finale to a miserable order of circumstances! Even pride forbade departure from long-established habit. But while this train of thought passed through his mind, he realized she was regarding him with clear, compassionate eyes, and he heard her voice:

“Shall we go now? The services are over.”

He obeyed without question.

“Over!”

Those moments by her side would never return! They were about to part to meet no more on earth. He leaned heavily upon her arm and his steps were faltering. Out into the warm sunshine they passed, the light revealing more plainly the ravages of time in his face.

“You must take a carriage,” she said to the old man.

“Thank you, thank you,” he replied. “Leave me here on the bench. I shall soon be myself. I am only a little weak. You are good to an old man. May I not”–asking solely for the pleasure of hearing her speak–“may I not know the name of one who is kind to an old man?”

“My name is Constance Carew.”

He shook as with the palsy. “A good name, a good name!” he repeated. “I remember years ago another of that name–an actress in London. A very beautiful woman, and good! But even she had her detractors and none more bitter than the man who wronged her. You–you resemble her! But there, don’t let me detain you. I shall do very well here. You are busy, I dare say.”

“Yes, I should be at rehearsal,” she replied regretfully.

“At rehearsal!” he repeated. “Yes!–yes!–. But the stage is no place for you!” he added, suddenly. “You should leave it–leave it!”

She looked at him wonderingly. “Is there nothing more I can do for you?”

“Nothing! Nothing! Except–no, nothing!”

“You were about to ask something?” she observed with more sympathy.

“If you would not think me presuming–if you would not deem it an offense–you remind me of one I loved and lost–it is so long ago since I felt her kiss for the last time–I am so near the grave–”

With tears in her eyes, she bent her head and her fresh young lips just touched his withered brow.

“Good-by,” she said. “I am so sorry for you!” And she was gone, leaving him sitting there motionless as though life had departed.

A rattling cab that clattered noisily past the cabildo and calaboza, and swung around the square, aroused the marquis. He arose, stopped the driver, and entered the rickety vehicle.

“The law office of Marks and Culver,” said the marquis.

The man lashed his horse and the attenuated quadruped flew like a winged Pegasus, soon drawing up before the attorneys’ office. Fortunately Culver was in, and, although averse to business on any day–thinking more of his court-yard and his fountain than of his law books–this botanist-solicitor made shift to comply with the marquis’ instructions and reluctantly earned a modest fee. He even refused to express surprise at my lord’s story; one wife in London, another in Paris; why, many a southern gentleman had two families–quadroons being plentiful, why not? Culver unobtrusively yawned, and, with fine courtesy, bowed the marquis out.

Slowly the latter retraced his steps to his home; his feet were heavy as lead; his smile was forced; he glanced frequently over his shoulder, possessed by a strange fantasy.

“I think I will lie down a little,” he said to his valet. “In this easy chair; that will do. I am feeling well; only tired. How that mass is repeated in my mind! That is because it is Palestrina, François; not because it is a vehicle to salvation, employed by the gibbering priests. Never let your heart rule your head, boy. Don’t mistake anything for reality. ‘What have you seen in your travels?’ was asked of Sage Evemere. ‘Follies!’ was the reply. ‘Follies, follies everywhere!’ We never live; we are always in the expectation of living.”

He made an effort to smile which was little more than a grimace.

“A cigar, François!”

“My lord, are you well?–”

The marquis flew into a rage and the valet placed an imported weed in his master’s hand.

“A light, François!”

The valet obeyed. For a moment the strong cigar seemed to soothe the old man, although his hand shook like an aspen as he held it.

“Now, bring me my Voltaire,” commanded the marquis. “The volume on the table, idiot! Ah! here is what I wish: ‘It takes twenty years to bring man from the state of embryo, and from that of a mere criminal, as he is in his first infancy, to the point when his reason begins to dawn. It has taken thirty centuries to know his structure; it would take eternity to know something of the soul; it takes but an instant to kill him.’ But an instant; but an instant!” he repeated.

He puffed feebly at the cigar.