XXIV
The next night Sophy acted as showman. Her part was over at the end ofthe first act, and a few minutes later she slipped into a seat by John'sside behind the curtain.
"What do you think of it so far?" she asked, a little anxiously.
"It seems quite good," John replied cheerfully. "Some very clever lines,and all that sort of thing; but I can't quite see what it's all leadingto."
Sophy peered around the house from behind the curtain.
"There isn't standing-room anywhere," she declared. "I don't supposethere ever was a play in London that was more talked about; and thenputting it off for more than three months--why, there have been allsorts of rumors about. Do you want to know who the people in theaudience are?"
"Not particularly," John answered. "I shouldn't know them, if you toldme. There are just a few familiar faces. I see the prince in the boxopposite."
"Did you telephone to Louise to-day?" Sophy asked.
John shook his head.
"No. I thought it better to leave her alone until after to-night."
"You are going to the supper, of course?"
"I have been asked," John replied, a little doubtfully. "I don't quiteknow whether I want to. Is it being given by the prince or by themanagement?"
"The management," Sophy assured him. "Do come and take me! It's going tobe rather fun."
The curtain went up upon the second act. John, from the shadows of thebox, listened attentively. The subject was not a particularly new one,but the writing was brilliant. There was the old _Marquis de Guy_, aroue, a degenerate, but still overbearing and full of personality, fromwhose lips came some of Graillot's most brilliant sayings; Louise, hiswife; and Faraday, a friend of the old marquis, and obviously theintended lover of his wife.
"I don't see anything so terrible in this," John remarked, as thecurtain went down once more and thunders of applause greeted somewonderful lines of Graillot's.
"It's wonderful!" Sophy declared. "Try and bear the thread of it all inyour mind. For two acts you have been asked to focus your attention uponthe increasing brutality of the marquis. Remember that, won't you?"
"Not likely to forget it," John replied. "How well they all act!"
There was a quarter of an hour's interval before the curtain rose again.Rumors concerning the last act had been floating about for weeks, andthe house was almost tense with excitement as the curtain went up. Thescene was the country _chateau_ of the _Marquis de Guy_, who brought anoisy crowd of companions from Paris without any warning. His wifeshowed signs of dismay at his coming. He had brought with him women whomshe declined to receive.
The great scene between her husband and herself took place in the squarehall of the _chateau_, on the first floor. The marquis is on the way tothe room of one of his guests. Louise reaffirms her intention ofleaving the house. Her husband laughs at her. Her position is helpless.
"What can you do?" he mocks.
She shrugs her shoulders and passes into her room. The marquis sinksupon a settee, and presently is joined by one of the ladies who havetraveled with him from Paris. He talks to her of the pictures upon thewall. She is impatient to meet the _Marquis de Guy_.
The marquis knocks at his wife's door. Her voice is heard clearly, aftera moment's pause.
"In a few minutes!" she replies.
The marquis resumes his flirtation. His companion becomes impatient--themarquis has pledged his word that she should be received by his wife. Anancient enmity against the _Marquis de Guy_ prompts her to insist.
The marquis shrugs his shoulders and knocks more loudly than ever at hiswife's door. She comes out--followed by Faraday.
"You asked me what I could do," she says, pointing to her lover. "Yousee now!"
There was a moment's breathless silence through the house. The scene initself was a little beyond anything that the audience had expected.Sophy, who had been leaning over the edge of the box, turned around inno little anxiety. She heard the door slam. John had disappeared!
He left the theater with only his hat in his hand, turning up his coatby instinct as he passed through the driving rain. All his senses seemedtingling with some nameless horror. The brilliance of the language, thesubtlety of the situation, seemed like some evil trail drawn across thatone horrible climax. It was Louise who had come from that room andpointed to Faraday! Louise who confessed herself a--
He broke out into language as he walked. The desire of Samson burned inhis heart--to stride back into the theater, to smash the scenery, tothrow the puppets from the stage, one by one, to end forever thisghastly, unspeakable play. And all the time the applause rang in hisears. He had read with one swift glance the tense interest--almostlascivious, it seemed to him--on the faces of that great audience. Thescene had tickled their fancies. It was to pander to such base feelingsthat Louise was upon the stage!
He reached his rooms--he scarcely knew how--and walked up-stairs. Therehe threw off some of his dripping garments, opened the window wide, andstood there.
He looked out over the Thames, and there was a red fire before his eyes.Stephen was right, he told himself. There was nothing but evil to befound here, nothing but bitter disappointment, nothing but the painwhich deepens into anguish. Better to remain like Stephen, unloving andunloved, to draw nearer to the mountains, to find joy in the crops andthe rain and the sunshine, to listen stonily to the cry of human beingsas if to some voice from an unknown world.
He leaned a little further from the window, and gazed into the court ata dizzy depth below. He had cut himself adrift from the peace whichmight have been his. He would never know again the joys of his earlierlife. It was for this that he had fought so many battles, clung sotightly to one ideal--for Louise, who could show herself to any one whocared to pay his shilling or his half-guinea, glorying in her dishonor;worse than glorying in it--finding some subtle humor in the littlegesture with which she had pointed, unashamed, to her lover.
John bent a little lower from the window. A sudden dizziness seemed tohave come over him. Then he was forced to turn around. His door had beenquickly opened and shut. It was Sophy who was crossing toward him, therain streaming from her ruined opera-cloak.
"John!" she cried. "Oh, John!"
She led him back to his chair and knelt by his side. She held his handstightly.
"You mustn't feel like this," she sobbed; "you mustn't, John, really!You don't understand. It's all a play. Louise wouldn't really doanything like that!"
He shivered. Nevertheless, he clutched her hands and drew her closer tohim.
"Do, please, listen to me," she begged. "It's all over. Louise isherself again--Louise Maurel. The _Marquis de Guy_ never lived exceptupon these boards. It is simply a wonderful creation. Any one of thegreat actresses would play that part and glory in it--the very greatest,John. Oh, it's so hard to make you understand! Louise is waiting foryou. They are all waiting at the supper-party. You are expected. Youmust go and tell her that you think it was wonderful!"
He rose slowly to his feet.
"Wonderful!" he muttered. "Wonderful! But, child, it is damnable!"
"Don't be foolish," she answered. "Go and put on another dress coat, tieyour tie again, and brush your hair. I have come to take you to thesupper."
He caught at her hands roughly.
"Supposing I won't go?" he whispered hoarsely. "Supposing--I keep youhere instead, Sophy?"
She swayed for a moment. Something flashed into her face and passedaway. She was paler than ever.
"Dear John," she begged, "pull yourself together! Remember that Louiseis waiting for you. It's Louise you want--not me. Nothing that she hasdone to-night should make her any the less worthy of you and your love."
He strode away into the farther room. He reappeared in a moment or two,his hair smoothly brushed, his tie newly arranged.
"I'll come, little girl," he promised. "I don't know what I'll say toher, but I'll come. There can't be any harm in that!"
"Of cou
rse not," she answered cheerfully. "You're the most terriblegoose, John," she added, as they walked down the corridor. "Do, please,lose your tragical air. The whole world is at Louise's feet to-night.You mustn't let her know how absurdly you have been feeling. To-morrowyou will find that every paper in London will be acclaiming her genius."
John squared his shoulders.
"All the same," he declared grimly, "if I could burn the theater and theplay, and lock up Graillot for a month, to-night, I'd do it!"
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