The Strollers

“Here she is,” said the count, as they approached an elderly lady, seated near the edge of the balcony. “Ah, Madam,” he continued to the latter, “if you would only use your good offices in my behalf! Miss Carew is cruelty itself.”

“Why, what has she done?” asked the good gentlewoman.

“Insisted upon deserting the ball-room!”

“In my day,” said the elderly ally of the nobleman, “you could not drag the young ladies from cotillion or minuet. And the men would stay till the dawn to toast them!”

“And I’ve no doubt, Madam, your name was often on their lips,” returned the count gallantly, who evidently believed in the Spanish proverb: “Woo the duenna, not the maid; then in love the game’s well played!”

The ally in his cause made some laughing response which the soldier did not hear. Himself unseen, Saint-Prosper bent his eyes upon the figure of the young girl, shadowy but obvious in the reflected light of the bright constellations. Even as he gazed, her hand removed the mask, revealing the face he knew so well. In the silence below, the fountain tinkled ever so loudly, as she stood, half-turned toward the garden, a silken head-covering around her shoulders; the head outlined without adornment, save the poppies in her hair.

Her presence recalled scenes of other days: the drive from the races, when her eyes had beamed so softly beneath the starry luster. Did she remember? He dared not hope so; he did not. To him, it brought, also, harsher memories; yet his mind was filled most with her beauty, which appeared to gloss over all else and hold him, a not impassive spectator, to the place where she was standing. She seemed again Juliet–the Juliet of inns and school-house stages–the Juliet he had known before she had come to New Orleans, whose genius had transformed the barren stage into a garden of her own creation.

And yet something made her different; an indefinable new quality appeared to rest upon her. He felt his heart beating faster; he was glad he had come; for the moment he forgot his jealousy in watching her, as with new wealth of perfume, the languid breeze stirred the tresses above her pallid, immovable features. But the expression of confidence with which the count was regarding her, although ostensibly devoting himself to her companion, renewed his inquietude.

Had she allowed herself to be drawn into a promised alliance with that titled roué? Involuntarily the soldier’s face grew hard and stern; the count’s tactics were so apparent–flattering attention to the elderly gentlewoman and a devoted, but reserved, bearing toward the young girl in which he would rely upon patience and perseverance for the consummation of his wishes. But certainly Constance did not exhibit marked preference for his society; on the contrary, she had hardly spoken to him since they had left the ball-room. Now clasping the iron railing of the balcony, she leaned farther out; the flowers of the vine, clambering up one of the supports, swayed gently around her, and she started at the moist caress on her bare arm.

“It is cold here,” she said, drawing back.

“Allow me–your wrap!” exclaimed the count, springing to her side with great solicitude.

But she adjusted the garment without his assistance.

“You must be careful of your health–for the sake of your friends!” Accompanying the words with a significant glance.

“The count is right!” interposed the elderly gentlewoman. “As he usually is!” she added, laughing.

“Oh, Madam!” he said, bowing. “Miss Carew does not agree with you, I am sure?” Turning to the girl.

“I haven’t given the matter any thought,” she replied, coldly. She shivered slightly, nervously, and looked around.

At that moment the lights were turned on in the garden–another surprise arranged by the Mistick Krewe!–illuminating trees and shrubbery, and casting a sudden glare upon the balcony.

“Bravo!” said the count. “It’s like a fête-champêtre! And hear the mandolins! Tra-la-la-la-la! Why, what is it?”

She had given a sudden cry and stood staring toward the right at the back of the balcony. Within, the orchestra once more began to play, and, as the strains of music were wafted to them, a host of masqueraders started toward the ball-room. When the inflow of merry-makers had ceased, bewildered, trembling, she looked with blanched face toward the spot where the soldier had been standing, but he was gone.

At that moment the cathedral clock began to strike–twelve times it sounded, and, at the last stroke, the Mistick Krewe, one by one began to disappear, vanishing as mysteriously as they had come. Pluto, Proserpine, the Fates, fairies and harpies; Satan, Beelzebub; the dwellers in pandemonium; the aids to appetite–all took their quick departure, leaving the musicians and the guests of the evening, including the visiting military, to their own pleasures and devices. The first carnival had come to a close.

CHAPTER X

CONSTANCE AND THE SOLDIER

“Are you the clerk?” A well-modulated voice; a silvery crown of hair leaning over the counter of the St. Charles; blue eyes, lighted with unobtrusive inquiry.

The small, quiet-looking man addressed glanced up. “No,” he said; “I am the proprietor. This”–waving his hand to a resplendent-appearing person–“is the clerk.”

Whereupon the be-diamonded individual indicated (about whom an entire chapter has been written by an observing English traveler!) came forward leisurely; a Brummell in attire; an Aristarchus for taste! Since his period–or reign–there have been many imitators; but he was the first; indeed, created the office, and is deserving of a permanent place in American annals. “His formality just bordered on stiffness,” wrote the interested Briton, as though he were studying some new example of the human species; “his conversation was elegant, but pointed, as he was gifted with a cultured economy of language. He accomplished by inflection what many people can only attain through volubility.”

“Yes?” he interrogatively remarked, gazing down at the caller in the present instance.

“Is Colonel Saint-Prosper stopping here?”

“Yes.”

“Send this card to his room.”

“Yes?” Doubtfully.

“Is there any reason why you shouldn’t?”

“There was a military banquet last night,” interposed the quiet, little man. “Patriotism bubbled over until morning.”

“Ah, yes,” commented Culver–for it was he–“fought their battles over again! Some of them in the hospital to-day! Well, well, they suffered in a glorious cause, toasting the president, and the army, and the flag, and the girls they left behind them! I read the account of it in the papers this morning. Grand speech of the bishop; glorious response of ‘Old Rough and Ready’! You are right to protect sleeping heroes, but I’m afraid I must run the guard, as my business is urgent.”

A few moments later the lawyer, breathing heavily, followed a colored lad down a crimson-carpeted corridor, pausing before a door upon which his guide knocked vigorously and then vanished.

“Colonel Saint-Prosper?” said the lawyer, as he obeyed the voice within and entered the room, where a tall young man in civilian attire was engaged in packing a small trunk. “One moment, pray–let me catch my breath. That lad accomplished the ascent two steps at a time, and, I fear, the spectacle stimulated me to unusual expedition. We’re apt to forget we are old and can’t keep up with boys and monkeys!”

During this somewhat playful introduction the attorney was studying the occupant of the room with keen, bright gaze; a glance which, without being offensive, was sufficiently penetrating and comprehensive to convey a definite impression of the other’s face and figure. The soldier returned his visitor’s look deliberately, but with no surprise.

“Won’t you sit down?” he said.

Culver availed himself of the invitation. “I am not disturbing you? I have long known of you, although this is our first meeting.”

“You have then the advantage of me,” returned Saint-Prosper, “for I–”

“You never heard of me?” laughed the lawyer. “Exactly! We attorneys are always getting our fingers in every one’s affairs! I am acquainted with you, as it were, from the cradle to the–present!”

“I am unexpectedly honored!” remarked the listener, satirically.

“First, I knew you through the Marquis de Ligne.”

Saint-Prosper started and regarded his visitor more closely.

“I was the humble instrument of making a fortune for you; it was also my lot to draw up the papers depriving you of the same!” Culver laughed amiably. “‘Oft expectation fails, where most it promises.’ Pardon my levity! There were two wills; the first, in your favor; the last, in his daughter’s. I presume”–with a sudden, sharp look–“you have no intention of contesting the final disposition? The paternity of the child is established beyond doubt.”

Artful Culver was not by any means so sure in his own mind that, if the other were disposed to make trouble, the legal proofs of Constance’s identity would be so easily forthcoming. Barnes was dead; her mother had passed away many years before; the child had been born in London–where?–the marquis’ rationality, just before his demise, was a debatable question. In fact, since he had learned Saint-Prosper was in the city, the attorney’s mind had been soaring among a cloud of vague possibilities, and now, regarding his companion with a most kindly, ingratiating smile, he added:

“Besides, when the marquis took you as a child into his household, there were, I understood, no legal papers drawn!”

“I don’t see what your visit portends,” said Saint-Prosper, “unless there is some other matter?”

“Just so,” returned Culver, his doubts vanishing. “There was a small matter–a slight commission. Miss Carew requested me to hand you this message.” The visitor now detected a marked change in the soldier’s imperturbable bearing, as the latter took the envelope which the attorney offered him. “The young lady saw you at the Mistick Krewe ball last night, and, recognizing an old friend,”–with a slight accent–“pressed me into her service. And now, having completed my errand, I will wish you good-morning!” And the lawyer briskly departed.

The young man’s hand trembled as he tore open the envelope, but he surveyed the contents of the brief message with tolerable firmness.

“Colonel Saint-Prosper: Will you kindly call this morning to see me?