Charles Rex by Ethel May Dell (easy readers .TXT) 📖

morning.
He went to meet her, a quick gleam in his eyes; and a man to whom he had been talking--a slim, foreign-looking man with black moustache and imperial--turned sharply and gave her a hard stare.
Toby's chin went up. She looked exclusively at Saltash. Her bearing at that moment was that of a princess.
"The car is ready?" she questioned. "Shall we go?"
"By all means," said Saltash.
He nodded a careless farewell to the other man, and followed her, a smile twitching at his lips, the gleam still in his eyes.
"That man is Spentoli the sculptor," he said, as he handed her into the car. "A genius, Nonette! I should have presented him to you if you had not been so haughty."
"I hate geniuses," said Toby briefly.
He laughed at her. "_Mais vraiment!_ How many have you known?"
She considered for a moment, and finally decided that the question did not require an answer.
Saltash took the wheel and spun the little car round with considerable dexterity. "Yes, a genius!" he said. "One of the most wonderful of the age. His work is amazing--scarcely human. He paints too. All Paris raves over his work--with reason. His picture, 'The Victim'--" he looked at her suddenly--"What is the matter, _cherie_? Is the sun too strong for you?"
Toby's hand was shielding her eyes. Her lips were trembling. "Don't wait!" she murmured. "Don't wait! Let's get away! I am all right--just a little giddy, that's all."
He took her at her word, and sent the car swiftly forward. They passed out into the crowded thoroughfare, and in a moment or two Toby leaned back, gazing before her with a white, set face.
Saltash asked no question. He did not even look at her, concentrating all his attention upon the task of extricating himself as swiftly as possible from the crush of vehicles around them.
It was a day of perfect autumn, and Paris lay basking in sunshine; but Saltash was a rapid traveller at all times, and it was not long before Paris was left behind. But even when free from the traffic, he did not speak or turn towards his companion, merely gave himself to the task of covering the ground as quickly as possible.
In the end it was Toby who spoke, abruptly, boyishly. "By jingo! You can drive!"
Saltash's face showed its own elastic grin. "You like this?"
"Rather!" said Toby with enthusiasm.
She threw off her silence and plunged forthwith into careless chatter--a mood to which he responded with the utmost readiness. When at length they ran into the shade of the forest, they were both in the highest spirits.
They had their tea in a mossy glade out of sight of the road. The sun was beginning to slant. Its rays fell in splashes of golden green all about them.
"Just the place for a duel!" said Saltash appreciatively.
"Have you ever fought a duel?" Toby looked at him over the picnic-basket with eyes of sparkling interest.
She had thrown aside her hat, and her fair hair gleamed as if it gave forth light. Saltash leaned his shoulders against a tree and watched her.
"I have never fought to kill," he said. "Honour is too easily satisfied in this country--though after all--" his smile was suddenly provocative--"there are very few things worth fighting for, Nonette."
Her eyes flashed their ready challenge. "Life being too short already?" she suggested.
"Even so," said Charles Rex coolly.
Toby abruptly bent her head and muttered something into the picnic-basket.
"What?" said Saltash.
She pulled out a parcel of cakes and tossed them on to the ground. "Nothing!" she said.
He leaned forward unexpectedly as she foraged for more, and gripped the small brown hand.
"Tell me what you said!" he commanded.
She flung him a look half-frightened, half-daring. "I said there was only one cup."
She would have released her hand with the words, but his fingers tightened like a spring. "_Pardonnez-moi!_ That was not what you said!"
She became passive in his hold, but she said nothing.
"Tell me what you said!" Saltash said again.
A little tremor went through Toby. "Can we do--with only one cup?" she asked, not looking at him, her eyelids flickering nervously.
"Going to answer me?" said Saltash.
She shook her head and was silent.
He waited for perhaps ten seconds, and in that time a variety of different expressions showed and vanished on his ugly face. Then, just as Toby was beginning to tremble in real trepidation, he suddenly set her free.
"We have drunk out of the same glass before now," he said. "We can do it again."
She looked at him then, relief and doubt struggling together in her eyes. "Are you angry?" she said.
His answering look baffled her. "No," he said.
She laid a conciliatory hand upon his arm. "You are! I'm sure you are!"
"I am not," said Saltash.
"Then why aren't you?" demanded Toby, with sudden spirit.
The monkeyish grin leapt into his face. "Because I know what you said," he told her coolly. "It is not easy--you will never find it easy--to deceive me."
She snatched her hand away. Her face was on fire. "I said you did not make the most of life," she flung at him. "And it's true! You don't! You don't!"
"How do you know that?" said Saltash.
She did not answer him. Her head was bent over the basket. She threw out one thing after another with nervous rapidity, and once, as he watched her, there came a faint sound that was like a hastily suppressed sob.
Saltash got to his feet with disconcerting suddenness and walked away.
When he returned some minutes later with a half-smoked cigarette between his lips, she was sitting demurely awaiting him, the picnic ready spread.
He scarcely looked at her but he flicked her cheek as he sat down, and in a moment she turned and smiled at him.
"I have found another cup," she said.
"So I see," said Saltash, and before she could realize his mood he picked it up and flung it at the trunk of a tree some yards away. It shivered in fragments on the moss, and Toby gasped and stared at him wide-eyed.
He laughed in his careless fashion at her amazement. "Now we shall drink out of one cup!" he said.
"Was that--was that--why you did it?" she stammered breathlessly.
He blew a cloud of smoke into the air with a gesture of royal indifference. "Even so,--_madame_!" he said. "One does these things--with a wife. You see, a wife--is different."
"I--I see," said Toby.


CHAPTER IV
THE IDOL OF PARIS

It was dark when they returned to the hotel, but Paris shone with a million lights. The hotel itself had a festive air. There were flowers in all directions, and a red carpet had been laid upon the steps.
"Rozelle Daubeni is expected," said Saltash.
"Who?" Toby stopped short in the act of descending. Her face shone white in the glare. A moment before she had been laughing but the laugh went into her question with a little choked sound. "Who did you say?" she questioned more coherently.
"Mademoiselle Daubeni--the idol of Paris. Never heard of her?" Saltash handed her lightly down. "She is coming to a dance in the great _salon_ tonight. You shall see her. She is--a thing to remember."
Toby gave a quick shiver. "Yes, I have heard of her too much--too much--I don't want to see her. Shall we dine upstairs?"
"Oh, I think not," said Saltash with decision. "You are too retiring, _ma chere_. It doesn't become--a lady of your position."
He followed her towards the lift. The vestibule was full of people, laughing and talking, awaiting the coming of the favourite. But as the girl in her blue cloak went through, a sudden hush fell. Women lifted glasses to look at her, and men turned to watch.
Saltash sauntered behind her in his regal way, looking neither to right nor left, yet fully aware of all he passed. No one accosted him. There were times when even those who knew him well would have hesitated to do so. He could surround himself with an atmosphere so suavely impersonal as to be quite impenetrable to all.
It surrounded him now. He walked like a king through a crowd of courtiers, and the buzz of talk did not spring up again till he was out of sight.
"So you do not want to see _le premiere danseuse du siecle!_" he commented, as he entered the sitting-room of their suite behind Toby.
She turned, blue eyes wide with protest in her white face. "Do you wish me to see her, my lord? That--woman!"
He frowned upon her suddenly. "Call me Charles! Do you hear? We will play this game according to rule--or not at all."
"You are angry," Toby said, and turned still whiter.
He came to her, thrust a quick arm about her. "I am not angry, _mignonne_, at least not with you. But you must take your proper place. I can't keep you in hiding here. Those gaping fools downstairs--they have got to understand. You are not my latest whim, but a permanent institution. You are--my wife."
She shivered in his hold, but she clung to him. "I don't feel like--a permanent institution," she told him rather piteously. "And when you are angry--"
"I am not angry," said Saltash, and tweaked her ear as though she had been a boy. "But--whether you feel like it or not--you are my wife, and you have got to play the part. _C'est entendu, n'est-ce-pas?_"
"Whatever you wish," said Toby faintly.
He set her free. "You must look your best tonight. Wear blue! It is your colour. I shall present Spentoli to you. And tomorrow he will want to paint you."
Toby stiffened. "That--_canaille_!" she said.
He looked at her in surprise. "What is the matter with you tonight, Nonette? You are hating all the world."
Her blue eyes blazed. "I don't want to meet Spentoli," she said. "He has an evil eye. You--you--I look to you to--to--to protect me."
"My good child!" said Saltash.
He turned aside to light a cigarette, and there was a pause. But Toby still stood rigid, as it were on guard. He spoke again after a moment, and his voice was kind though it had a certain dominant quality also.
"Nonette, you need not be afraid when you are with me. I shall protect you. Now go and dress! When you are ready, come to me for inspection! And remember! You are to look your best tonight."
He turned with the last words and looked at her. His brows went up as he realized her attitude--the tense resistance of the slight figure withstanding him.
But it was only for a moment or two that the girl maintained her stand. At sight of the look that leaped to his eyes, her own were swiftly lowered. She drew back from him.
"I will do--whatever you wish," she said again nervously. "You know that."
"Yes, I know that," said Saltash with his quick grimace. "You have my sympathy, Nonette. Now go, _ma chere_, go!"
She went from his presence like a small hunted animal.
Saltash shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down again to the vestibule. The crowd had grown. They were watching the great entrance-door expectantly for the coming of the celebrated dancer. Saltash called for a drink, and mingled with the throng.
The Italian, Spentoli, came up presently and joined him. "I am hoping," he said, "that you will presently give me the great honour of presenting me to your bride."
Saltash looked at him. Spentoli was one of the very few men for whom he entertained respect. The Italian's work had always held an immense attraction for his artistic soul, and he had never troubled to disguise the fact.
"My wife is young and shy," he said,