XXXIV
The ten minutes passed very much too quickly. She was gone, and John,thrilled though he was through all his senses by the almost passionatefervor of her leave-taking, found himself once more confronted by thatlittle black demon. He sat up in the car, which bore him quickly backtoward his rooms; and although the sense of her presence, the delicateperfume, the empty place by his side, even a fallen flower from hergown, were still there, the unrest seemed sharper.
There was something about all of them, all these people whom he knew tobe his friends, which seemed to him to savor of a conspiracy. One by onethey flitted through his brain--Graillot's covert warning; Sophy'splaintive, almost fearful doubts; the prince's subtle yet cynicalsilence; and behind it all, Stephen's brutal and outspoken words. Therewas nothing that could be put into definite shape--just the ghost oftorturing, impossible thoughts. John told himself that it must be ended.Even though the words should blister his tongue with shame, they must bespoken.
A moment later he hated himself for the thought. He set his teeth,filled his thought with the glory of her presence, and crushed thosedemoniacal suggestions to the back of his brain. He was in no humor togo home, however. Changing the order he had first given to thechauffeur, he was driven instead to a small Bohemian club which he hadjoined at Graillot's instigation. He had a vague hope that he mightfind the great dramatist there. There were no signs of him, however, inthe smoking room, or any one else whom John knew.
He threw himself into an easy chair and ordered a whisky-and-soda. Twomen close at hand were writing at desks; others were lounging about,discussing the evening's reception. One man, sitting upon the table, arecognized authority, was treating the company to a fluent dissertationupon modern actresses, winding up by contrasting Louise Maurel's stylewith that of her chief French rival. John found himself listening withpleased interest. The man's opinion was certainly not unfavorable toLouise.
"It is only in the finer shades of emotionalism," the critic declared,"that these French actresses get at us a little more completely eventhan Louise Maurel. Do you know the reason? I'll tell you. It is becausethey live the life. They have a dozen new emotions in a season. Theymake a cult of feeling. They use their brains to dissect their passions.They cut their own life into small pieces and give us the result withoutconcealment. That is where they score, if anywhere. This Mme. Latrobe,who opens over here to-morrow night, is living at the present momentwith Jean Tourbet. She had an affair with that Italian poet in thesummer, so they tell me. She was certainly in Madrid in October withBretoldi, the sculptor. These men are all great artists. Think what shemust have learned from associating with them! Now Louise Maurel, so faras we know, has never had but one lover, the Prince of Seyre, and hasbeen faithful to him all the time."
It was out at last! John had heard it spoken in plain words. The blackdemon upon which his hand had lain so heavily, was alive now, without adoubt, jeering at him, mocking at him--alive and self-assertive in thesober words of the elderly, well-bred man who lounged upon the table.
For a moment or two John was stunned. A wild impulse assailed him toleap up and confront them all, to choke the lie back down the throat ofthe man who had uttered it. Every nerve in his body was tingling withthe desire for action. The stupor of his senses alone kept himmotionless, and a strange, incomprehensible clarity of thought. Herealized exactly how things were. This man had not spoken idly, or as ascandalmonger. He had spoken what he had accepted as a fact, what otherpeople believed.
John rose to his feet and made his way toward the door. His face showedlittle sign of disturbance. He even nodded to some men whom he knewslightly. As he passed down the stairs, he met Graillot. Then once morethe self-control became in danger. He seized the Frenchman savagely bythe arm.
"Come this way," he said, leading him toward the card-room. "Come inhere! I want to speak to you."
He locked the door--a most unheard-of and irregular proceeding. Graillotfelt the coming of the storm.
"Well!" he exclaimed grimly. "Trouble already, eh? I see it in yourface, young man. Out with it!"
John--who had won a hard match at rackets a few days before against amore experienced opponent simply because of his perfect condition--wasbreathing hard. There was a dull patch of color in his cheek, drops ofsweat stood upon his forehead. He controlled his voice with difficulty.Its tone was sharp and unfamiliar.
"I was sitting in the smoking room there, a few moments ago," he began,jerking his head toward the door. "There were some men talking--decentfellows, not dirty scandalmongers. They spoke of Louise Maurel."
Graillot nodded gravely. He knew very well what was coming.
"Well?"
"They spoke, also, of the Prince of Seyre."
"Well?"
John felt his throat suddenly dry. The words he would have spoken chokedhim. He banged his fist upon the table by the side of which they werestanding.
"Look here, Graillot," he cried, almost piteously, "you know it is nottrue, not likely to be true! Can't you say so?"
"Stop, my young friend!" the Frenchman interrupted. "I know nothing. Itis a habit of mine to know nothing when people make suggestions of thatsort. I make no inquiries. I accept life and people as I find them."
"But you don't believe that such a thing could be possible?"
"Why not?" Graillot asked steadily.
John could do no more than mumble a repetition of his words. The worldwas falling away from him. He was dimly conscious that one of theengravings upon the wall opposite was badly hung. For the rest,Graillot's face, stern, yet pitying, seemed to loom like the features ofa giant, eclipsing everything else.
"I will not discuss this matter with you, my friend. I will only ask youto remember the views of the world in which we live. Louise Maurel is anartist, a great artist. If there has been such an affair as you suggest,between her and any man, if it were something which appealed to heraffections, it is my opinion that she would not hesitate. You seem tothink it an outrageous thing that the prince should have been her lover.To be perfectly frank, I do not. I should be very much more surprised ather marriage."
John made his escape somehow. He remembered opening the door, but he hadno recollection of reaching the street. A few minutes later, however, hefound himself striding down Piccadilly toward Hyde Park Corner.
The night was warm, and there were still plenty of people about. A womantouched his arm; her hackneyed greeting filled him with inexpressiblehorror. He stared at her, barely conscious of what he was doing, filledwith an indescribable sickness of heart.
"You look about done up," she said in friendly fashion. "Come round tomy flat and have a drink. You needn't stay if you don't want to."
He muttered something and passed on. A moment or two later, however, heretraced his steps. Out of the horror of his thought had come anirresistible impulse. He slipped some gold into her hand.
"Please take this and go home," he enjoined. "Go home at once! Get outof the streets and hide yourself."
She stared at him and at the money.
"Why, I've only just come out," she protested. "All the same, I'm deadtired. I'll go. Walk with me, won't you? You look as if you wantedlooking after."
"I'm all right," he answered. "You go home."
She slipped the money carefully into her purse, and hailed a taxi.
"You shall have your own way," she declared. "Can't I drop youanywhere?"
He raised his hat, and, once more swinging around, passed on his way.Presently he found himself in the street where Louise lived. He lookedat his watch--it was twenty minutes to three o'clock.
The house was in solemn darkness. He stood and looked up at it. Therewas no sign of a light, not even from the top windows. Its silenceseemed to him more than the silence of sleep. He found himself wonderingwhether it was really inhabited, whether there were really human soulsin this quiet corner, waiting peacefully for the dawn, heedless of thetorment which was tearing his soul to pieces. Perhaps, behin
d that drawnblind, Louise herself was awake. Perhaps she was thinking, looking backinto the past, wondering about the future. He took a step toward thegate.
"Are you going in there, sir?"
He turned quickly around. A policeman had flashed a lantern upon him.John suddenly became intensely matter-of-fact.
"No," he replied. "It is too late, I am afraid. I see that they have allgone to bed. Any chance of a taxi about here?"
"Most likely you'll find one at the corner," the policeman pointed out."There's a rank there, and one or two of them generally stay late. Verymuch obliged, sir."
John had slipped a coin into the man's hand. Then he walked deliberatelyaway. He found a taxicab and was driven toward the Milan. He let downboth the windows and leaned out. He was conscious of a wild desire tokeep away from his rooms--to spend the night anywhere, anyhow, soonerthan go back to the little apartment where Louise had sat with him onlya few hours ago, and had given herself into his arms. Every pulse inhis body was tingling. He was fiercely awake, eager for motion, action,excitement of any sort.
Suddenly he remembered the night-club to which he had been introduced bySophy on the first night of his arrival in London. The address, too, wasthere quite clearly in his disordered brain. He leaned out of the caband repeated it to the driver.
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