CHAPTER VIII. THE DREAM
"The door," Aline commanded her footman, and "Mount here beside me," shecommanded Andre-Louis, in the same breath.
"A moment, Aline."
He turned to his companion, who was all amazement, and to Harlequinand Columbine, who had that moment come up to share it. "You permitme, Climene?" said he, breathlessly. But it was more a statement thana question. "Fortunately you are not alone. Harlequin will take care ofyou. Au revoir, at dinner."
With that he sprang into the cabriolet without waiting for a reply. Thefootman closed the door, the coachman cracked his whip, and the regalequipage rolled away along the quay, leaving the three comedians staringafter it, open-mouthed... Then Harlequin laughed.
"A prince in disguise, our Scaramouche!" said he.
Columbine clapped her hands and flashed her strong teeth. "But what aromance for you, Climene! How wonderful!"
The frown melted from Climene's brow. Resentment changed tobewilderment.
"But who is she?"
"His sister, of course," said Harlequin, quite definitely.
"His sister? How do you know?"
"I know what he will tell you on his return."
"But why?"
"Because you wouldn't believe him if he said she was his mother."
Following the carriage with their glance, they wandered on in thedirection it had taken. And in the carriage Aline was consideringAndre-Louis with grave eyes, lips slightly compressed, and a tiny frownbetween her finely drawn eyebrows.
"You have taken to queer company, Andre," was the first thing she saidto him. "Or else I am mistaken in thinking that your companion was Mlle.Binet of the Theatre Feydau."
"You are not mistaken. But I had not imagined Mlle. Binet so famousalready."
"Oh, as to that..." mademoiselle shrugged, her tone quietly scornful.And she explained. "It is simply that I was at the play last night. Ithought I recognized her."
"You were at the Feydau last night? And I never saw you!"
"Were you there, too?"
"Was I there!" he cried. Then he checked, and abruptly changed his tone."Oh, yes, I was there," he said, as commonplace as he could, beset by asudden reluctance to avow that he had so willingly descended to depthsthat she must account unworthy, and grateful that his disguise of faceand voice should have proved impenetrable even to one who knew him sovery well.
"I understand," said she, and compressed her lips a little more tightly.
"But what do you understand?"
"The rare attractions of Mlle. Binet. Naturally you would be at thetheatre. Your tone conveyed it very clearly. Do you know that youdisappoint me, Andre? It is stupid of me, perhaps; it betrays, Isuppose, my imperfect knowledge of your sex. I am aware that most youngmen of fashion find an irresistible attraction for creatures who paradethemselves upon the stage. But I did not expect you to ape the ways ofa man of fashion. I was foolish enough to imagine you to be different;rather above such trivial pursuits. I conceived you something of anidealist."
"Sheer flattery."
"So I perceive. But you misled me. You talked so much morality of akind, you made philosophy so readily, that I came to be deceived. Infact, your hypocrisy was so consummate that I never suspected it. Withyour gift of acting I wonder that you haven't joined Mlle. Binet'stroupe."
"I have," said he.
It had really become necessary to tell her, making choice of the lesserof the two evils with which she confronted him.
He saw first incredulity, then consternation, and lastly disgustoverspread her face.
"Of course," said she, after a long pause, "that would have theadvantage of bringing you closer to your charmer."
"That was only one of the inducements. There was another. Finding myselfforced to choose between the stage and the gallows, I had the incredibleweakness to prefer the former. It was utterly unworthy of a man of mylofty ideals, but--what would you? Like other ideologists, I find iteasier to preach than to practise. Shall I stop the carriage and removethe contamination of my disgusting person? Or shall I tell you how ithappened?"
"Tell me how it happened first. Then we will decide."
He told her how he met the Binet Troupe, and how the men of themarechaussee forced upon him the discovery that in its bosom he couldlie safely lost until the hue and cry had died down. The explanationdissolved her iciness.
"My poor Andre, why didn't you tell me this at first?"
"For one thing, you didn't give me time; for another, I feared to shockyou with the spectacle of my degradation."
She took him seriously. "But where was the need of it? And why did younot send us word as I required you of your whereabouts?"
"I was thinking of it only yesterday. I have hesitated for severalreasons."
"You thought it would offend us to know what you were doing?"
"I think that I preferred to surprise you by the magnitude of myultimate achievements."
"Oh, you are to become a great actor?" She was frankly scornful.
"That is not impossible. But I am more concerned to become a greatauthor. There is no reason why you should sniff. The calling is anhonourable one. All the world is proud to know such men as Beaumarchaisand Chenier."
"And you hope to equal them?"
"I hope to surpass them, whilst acknowledging that it was they whotaught me how to walk. What did you think of the play last night?"
"It was amusing and well conceived."
"Let me present you to the author."
"You? But the company is one of the improvisers."
"Even improvisers require an author to write their scenarios. That isall I write at present. Soon I shall be writing plays in the modernmanner."
"You deceive yourself, my poor Andre. The piece last night wouldhave been nothing without the players. You are fortunate in yourScaramouche."
"In confidence--I present you to him."
"You--Scaramouche? You?" She turned to regard him fully. He smiled hisclose-lipped smile that made wrinkles like gashes in his cheeks. Henodded. "And I didn't recognize you!"
"I thank you for the tribute. You imagined, of course, that I was ascene-shifter. And now that you know all about me, what of Gavrillac?What of my godfather?"
He was well, she told him, and still profoundly indignant withAndre-Louis for his defection, whilst secretly concerned on his behalf.
"I shall write to him to-day that I have seen you."
"Do so. Tell him that I am well and prospering. But say no more. Do nottell him what I am doing. He has his prejudices too. Besides, it mightnot be prudent. And now the question I have been burning to ask eversince I entered your carriage. Why are you in Nantes, Aline?"
"I am on a visit to my aunt, Mme. de Sautron. It was with her that Icame to the play yesterday. We have been dull at the chateau; butit will be different now. Madame my aunt is receiving several gueststo-day. M. de La Tour d'Azyr is to be one of them."
Andre-Louis frowned and sighed. "Did you ever hear, Aline, how poorPhilippe de Vilmorin came by his end?"
"Yes; I was told, first by my uncle; then by M. de La Tour d'Azyr,himself."
"Did not that help you to decide this marriage question?"
"How could it? You forget that I am but a woman. You don't expect me tojudge between men in matters such as these?"
"Why not? You are well able to do so. The more since you have heard twosides. For my godfather would tell you the truth. If you cannot judge,it is that you do not wish to judge." His tone became harsh. "Wilfullyyou close your eyes to justice that might check the course of yourunhealthy, unnatural ambition."
"Excellent!" she exclaimed, and considered him with amusement andsomething else. "Do you know that you are almost droll? You riseunblushing from the dregs of life in which I find you, and shake off thearm of that theatre girl, to come and preach to me."
"If these were the dregs of life I might still speak from them tocounsel you out of my respect and devotion, Aline." He was very, stiffand stern. "But they ar
e not the dregs of life. Honour and virtue arepossible to a theatre girl; they are impossible to a lady who sellsherself to gratify ambition who for position, riches, and a great titlebarters herself in marriage."
She looked at him breathlessly. Anger turned her pale. She reached forthe cord.
"I think I had better let you alight so that you may go back to practisevirtue and honour with your theatre wench."
"You shall not speak so of her, Aline."
"Faith, now we are to have heat on her behalf. You think I am toodelicate? You think I should speak of her as a..."
"If you must speak of her at all," he interrupted, hotly, "you'll speakof her as my wife."
Amazement smothered her anger. Her pallor deepened. "My God!" she said,and looked at him in horror. And in horror she asked him presently: "Youare married--married to that--?"
"Not yet. But I shall be, soon. And let me tell you that this girl whomyou visit with your ignorant contempt is as good and pure as you are,Aline. She has wit and talent which have placed her where she is andshall carry her a deal farther. And she has the womanliness to be guidedby natural instincts in the selection of her mate."
She was trembling with passion. She tugged the cord.
"You will descend this instant!" she told him fiercely. "That you shoulddare to make a comparison between me and that..."
"And my wife-to-be," he interrupted, before she could speak the infamousword. He opened the door for himself without waiting for the footman,and leapt down. "My compliments," said he, furiously, "to the assassinyou are to marry." He slammed the door. "Drive on," he bade thecoachman.
The carriage rolled away up the Faubourg Gigan, leaving him standingwhere he had alighted, quivering with rage. Gradually, as he walked backto the inn, his anger cooled. Gradually, as he cooled, he perceived herpoint of view, and in the end forgave her. It was not her fault that shethought as she thought. Her rearing had been such as to make her lookupon every actress as a trull, just as it had qualified her calmlyto consider the monstrous marriage of convenience into which she wasinvited.
He got back to the inn to find the company at table. Silence fell whenhe entered, so suddenly that of necessity it must be supposed he washimself the subject of the conversation. Harlequin and Columbine hadspread the tale of this prince in disguise caught up into the chariotof a princess and carried off by her; and it was a tale that had lostnothing in the telling.
Climene had been silent and thoughtful, pondering what Columbine hadcalled this romance of hers. Clearly her Scaramouche must be vastlyother than he had hitherto appeared, or else that great lady and hewould never have used such familiarity with each other. Imagining himno better than he was, Climene had made him her own. And now she was toreceive the reward of disinterested affection.
Even old Binet's secret hostility towards Andre-Louis melted beforethis astounding revelation. He had pinched his daughter's ear quiteplayfully. "Ah, ah, trust you to have penetrated his disguise, mychild!"
She shrank resentfully from that implication.
"But I did not. I took him for what he seemed."
Her father winked at her very solemnly and laughed. "To be sure, youdid. But like your father, who was once a gentleman, and knows the waysof gentlemen, you detected in him a subtle something different fromthose with whom misfortune has compelled you hitherto to herd. You knewas well as I did that he never caught that trick of haughtiness, thatgrand air of command, in a lawyer's musty office, and that his speechhad hardly the ring or his thoughts the complexion of the bourgeois thathe pretended to be. And it was shrewd of you to have made him yours. Doyou know that I shall be very proud of you yet, Climene?"
She moved away without answering. Her father's oiliness offended her.Scaramouche was clearly a great gentleman, an eccentric if you please,but a man born. And she was to be his lady. Her father must learn totreat her differently.
She looked shyly--with a new shyness--at her lover when he came into theroom where they were dining. She observed for the first time that proudcarriage of the head, with the chin thrust forward, that was a trick ofhis, and she noticed with what a grace he moved--the grace of one who inyouth has had his dancing-masters and fencing-masters.
It almost hurt her when he flung himself into a chair and exchangeda quip with Harlequin in the usual manner as with an equal, and itoffended her still more that Harlequin, knowing what he now knew, shoulduse him with the same unbecoming familiarity.
Scaramouche: A Romance of the French Revolution Page 17