The Strollers

“As thin as a lath and gaunt as a ghost!” repeated Saint-Prosper, as the fair penitent vanished in a whirl of gaiety. “Susan always was frank.”

Smiling somewhat bitterly, he paused long enough to light a cigar, but it went out in his fingers as he strolled mechanically toward the wharves, through the gardens of a familiar square, where the wheezing of the distant steamers and the echoes of the cathedral clock marked the hours of pleasure or pain to-day as it had tolled them off yesterday. Beyond the pale of the orange trees with their golden wealth, the drays were rumbling in the streets and there were the same signs of busy traffic–for the carnival had not yet become a legal holiday–that he had observed when the strollers had reached the city and made their way to the St. Charles. He saw her anew, pale and thoughtful, leaning on the rail of the steamer looking toward the city, where events, undreamed of, were to follow thick and fast. He saw her, a slender figure, earnest, self-possessed, enter the city gates, unheralded, unknown. He saw her as he had known her in the wilderness–not as fancy might now depict her, the daughter of a marquis–a strolling player, and as such he loved best to think of her.

Arising out of his physical weakness and the period of inaction following the treaty of peace, he experienced a sudden homesickness for his native land; a desire to re-visit familiar scenes, to breathe the sweet air of the country, where his boyhood had been passed, to listen to the thunder of the boulevards, to watch the endless, sad-joyful processions.

Not far distant from the blossoming, redolent square was the office of the Trans-Atlantic Steamship Company, where a clerk, with a spray of jessamine in his coat, bent cordially toward Saint-Prosper as the latter entered, and, approaching the desk, inquired:

“The Dauphin is advertised to sail to-morrow for France?”

“Yes, sir; at twelve o’clock noon.”

“Book me for a berth. Ernest Saint-Prosper,” he added, in answer to the other’s questioning look.

“Very good, sir. Would you like some labels for your baggage? Where shall we send for it? The St. Charles? Very well, sir. Are you going to the tableaux to-night?” he continued, with hospitable interest in one whom he rightly conceived a stranger in the city. “They say it will be the fashionable event. Good-day.” As the prospective passenger paid for and received his ticket. “A pleasant voyage! The Dauphin is a new ship and should cross in three weeks–barring bad weather! Don’t forget the tableaux. Everybody will be there.”

The soldier did not reply; his heart had given a sudden throb at the clerk’s last words. Automatically he placed his ticket in his pocket, and randomly answered the employee’s further inquiries for instructions. He was not thinking of the Dauphin or her new engines, the forerunner of the modern quadruple-expansion arrangement, but through his brain rang the assurance: “Everybody will be there.” And all the way up the street, it repeated itself again and again.

CHAPTER IX

“COMUS’ MISTICK WITCHERIES”

That elusive, nocturnal company, “The Mistick Krewe of Comus,” had appeared–“Comus, deep skilled in all his mother’s witcheries”–and the dwellers in Phantasmagoria were joyfully numerous. More plentiful than at a modern spectacular performance, reveled gods, demons and fairies, while the children resembled a flight of masquerading butterflies. The ball at the theater, the Roman Veglioni, succeeded elaborate tableaux, the “Tartarus,” of the ancients, and “Paradise Lost,” of Milton, in which the “Krewe” impersonated Pluto and Proserpine, the fates, harpies and other characters of the representation. In gallery, dress-circle and parquet, the theater was crowded, the spectacle, one of dazzling toilets, many of them from the ateliers of the Parisian modistes; a wonderful evolution of Proserpine’s toga and the mortal robes of the immortal Fates. Picture followed picture: The expulsion from Paradise; the conference of the Gorgons, and the court of pandemonium, where gluttony, drunkenness, avarice and vanity were skilfully set forth in uncompromising colors.

Availing themselves of the open-house of the unknown “Krewe,” a composite host that vanished on the stroke of twelve, many of “Old Rough and Ready’s” retinue mingled with the gathering, their uniforms, well-worn, even shabby, unlike the spick and span regimentals from the costumier. With bronzed faces and the indubitable air of campaigns endured, they were the objects of lively interest to the fair maskers, nor were themselves indifferent to the complaisance of their entertainers. Hands, burned by the sun, looked blacker that night, against the white gowns of waists they clasped; bearded faces more grim visaged in contrast with delicate complexions; embroidery and brocade whirled around with faded uniforms; and dancing aigrettes waved above frayed epaulets and shoulder straps.

“Loog at ’im!” murmured a fille à la cassette, regarding one of these officers who, however, held aloof from the festivities; a well-built young man, but thin and worn, as though he, like his uniform, had seen service. “If he would only carry my trunk!” she laughed, relapsing into French and alluding to the small chest she bore under her arm.

“Or my little white lamb!” gaily added her companion, a shepherdess.

And they tripped by with sidelong looks and obvious challenge which the quarry of these sprightly huntresses of men either chose to disregard or was unconscious of, as he deliberately surveyed his surroundings with more curiosity than pleasure and absently listened to a mountebank from “The Belle’s Strategem.”

“Who’ll buy my nostrums?” cried the buffoon.

“What are they?” asked Folly, cantering near on a hobby horse.

“Different kinds for different people. Here’s a powder for ladies–to dispel the rage for intrigue. Here’s a pill for politicians–to settle bad consciences. Here’s an eye-water for jealous husbands–it thickens the visual membrane. Here’s something for the clergy–it eliminates windy discourses. Here’s an infusion for creditors–it creates resignation and teaches patience.”

“And what have you for lovers?”

“Nothing,” answered the clown; “love like fever and ague must run its course. Nostrums! Who’ll buy my nostrums?”

“Oh, I’m so glad I came!” enthusiastically exclaimed a tall, supple girl, laden with a mass of flowers.

“Isn’t it too bad, though, you can’t polka with some of the military gentlemen?” returned her companion who wore a toga and carried a lantern. “Mademoiselle Castiglione wouldn’t let you come, until I promised not to allow you out of my sight.”

“It was lovely of you to take me,” she said, “and I don’t mind about the military gentlemen.”

“My dear, if all women were like you, we poor civilians would not be relegated to the background! I wish, though, I had worn some other costume. This–ahem, dress!–has a tendency to get between my legs and disconcert my philosophical dignity. I can understand why Diogenes didn’t care about walking abroad. My only wonder is that everybody didn’t stay in his tub in those days. Don’t talk to me about the ‘noble Roman!’ Why, he wore skirts!”

“And Monsieur Intaglio lectured to us for an hour to-day about the wonderful drapery of the ancients!” laughed the girl. “The poetry of dress, he called it!”

“Then I prefer prose. Hello!”–pausing and raising his lantern, as they drew near the officer who had fallen under the observation of the fille à la cassette. “Colonel Saint-Prosper, or set me down for an ass–or Plato, which is the same thing!”

“Straws!” said the soldier, as the bard frankly lifted his mask and tilted it back over his forehead.

“Glad to see you!” continued the poet, extending his hand. “I haven’t run across you before since the night of the banquet; the début of Barnes’ company you remember? You must have left town shortly afterward. Returned this morning, of course! By the way, there’s one of your old friends here to-night.”

Saint-Prosper felt the color mount to his face, and even Straws noted the change. “Who is that?” asked the soldier, awkwardly.

“Mrs. Service–Miss Duran that was–now one of our most dashing–I should say, charitable, ladies. Plenty of men at Service’s church now. She’s dressed in Watteau-fashion to-night, so if you see any one skipping around, looking as though she had just stepped from the Embarkation for the Island of Venus, set her down for the minister’s pretty wife!”

“And the minister?” asked Saint-Prosper, mechanically.

“He brought her; he compromised on a Roundhead costume, himself! But we must be off. Au revoir; don’t be backward; the ladies are all military-mad. It may be a field of arms”–casting his glance over the assemblage of fashionably dressed ladies, with a quizzical smile–“but not hostile arms! Come, Celestina–Nydia, I mean!”

And Straws’ arm stole about the waist of his companion, as Saint-Prosper watched them disappearing in the throng of dancers. It was Celestina’s first ball, and after her long training at the Castiglione institute, she danced divinely. Evidently, too, she was reconciled to the warden’s edict, denying her the freedom of the ball-room, for she showed no disposition to escape from Straws’ watchful care. On the contrary, though her glance wandered to the wonders around her, they quickly returned to the philosopher with the lamp, as though she courted the restraint to which she was subjected. Something like a pang shot through the soldier’s breast as he followed the pair with his gaze; he seemed looking backward into a world of youth and pleasure, passed beyond recall.

“It is useless to deny it! I knew you when I first saw you!” exclaimed a familiar voice near by, and turning around sharply, the officer observed approaching a masked lady, graceful of figure and lacking nothing in the numerical strength of her escort. It was to her that these words were addressed by an agile man of medium stature who had apparently penetrated her disguise. The lady, who would have attracted attention anywhere by her bearing, wore a pardessus of white gauze, fitting close and bordered with a silver band; the sleeves, short; the skirt of white gauze and very ample, as the fashion of the day required; the feet shod in small white silk “bottines”; the hair in bands, ornamented with wild poppies. Altogether this costume was described by Phazma as “ravishing, the gown adorning the lady, and the lady the gown, her graces set forth against the sheen of voluminous satin folds, like those of some portrait by Sir Joshua or Gainsborough.”

“How could you expect any one not to know you?” continued the speaker, as this little coterie drew near, their masks a pretext for mystery. “You may impersonate, but you can not deceive.”

“That is a poor compliment, since you take me for an actress,” laughed the lady. An hilarious outburst from an ill-assorted cluster of maskers behind them drowned his reply, and the lady and her attendants passed on.

Saint-Prosper drew his breath sharply. “She is here, after all,” he said to himself.

“A nostrum for jilted beaux!” called out a mountebank, seeing him standing there, preoccupied, alone, at the same time tendering a pill as large as a plum. A punchinello jarred against him with: “Pardonnezmoi, pardie!” On the perfumed air the music swelled rapturously; a waltz, warm with the national life of Vienna; the swan song of Lanner! Softly, sweetly, breathed “Die Schönbrunner;” faster whirled the moving forms. Eyes flashed more brightly; little feet seemed born for dancing; cheeks, pale at midday, were flushed with excitement! Why doesn’t he dance, wondered the lady with the white lamb. Carnival comes but once a year; a mad, merry time; when gaiety should sweep all cares out of doors!

“Said Strephon to Chloe: ‘For a kiss,

I’ll give thee the choice of my flock.’
Said Chloe to Strephon: ‘What bliss,

If you’ll add to the gift a new smock,’”

hummed the lively nymph, as she tripped by.

“Said Chloe to Strephon: ‘For a kiss,

I’ll return thee the choice of your flock.
Said Strephon to Chloe: ‘What bliss,

With it I’ll buy Phyllis a new frock,’”

she concluded, throwing a glance over her shoulder.

A sudden distaste for the festal ferment, the laughter and merriment; a desire to escape from the very exuberance of high spirits and cheer led the soldier to make his way slowly from the ball-room to the balcony, where, although not removed from the echoes of liveliness within, he looked out upon the quietude of the night. Overhead stretched the sky, a measureless ocean, with here and there a silvery star like the light on a distant ship; an unfathomable sea of ether that beat down upon him. Radiant and serene, in the boundless calm of the heavens, the splendent lanterns seemed suspended on stationary craft peacefully rocked at anchor. Longings, suppressed through months of absence, once more found full sway; Susan’s words were recalled by the presence of the count.

Suddenly the song of “Die Schönbrunner” ceased within, and, as its pulsations became hushed, many of the dancers, an elate, buoyant throng, sought the balcony. Standing in the shadow near the entrance, aroused from a train of reflections by this abrupt exodus, the soldier saw among the other merry-makers, Constance and the count, who passed through the door, so near he could almost have touched her.