A Mad Marriage by May Agnes Fleming (best ebook reader android .TXT) 📖

kindly smile she remembers so

well, and trusts so entirely, on his face—that his foot is ascending

the stairs, that he is turning the key in the door, that he is in the

room. Then a light flashes through the darkness, and she looks up with

dazed dreaming eyes to see a man in the room, shading a light and

looking at her—a man who is not Terry Dennison.

 

“Hush-h-h!” this man says, putting his finger on his lip, and

noiselessly closing the door. “Not a word, not a sound, mademoiselle! I

am a friend. I have come to save you. But all depends on your being

perfectly still.”

 

She does not rise. She lies and looks at him, her wide-open, black eyes

full of silent wonder and suspicion.

 

“Who are you?” she asks.

 

He is a little yellow man, in a richly-furred coat, and with an air of

distinction, but Mam’selle Donny does not like his look.

 

“I am a friend, as I told you. I have been sent to save you. I have

been sent by him—the gentleman who brought you here—Monsieur

Dennison.”

 

She springs to her feet now, the sound of that name electrifying her.

 

“Take me to him,” she cries, breathlessly. “Oh, sir! take me to him. He

is strong, and brave, and kind. Oh, take me from this dreadful house,

from that dreadful woman to him!”

 

“Hush-h!” he says again; “softly, mademoiselle—some one may hear. I

have come to take you to him presently, but first—madame is your

mother, is she not?”

 

“Why do you ask that?” she impatiently demands; “what has that to do

with it? Oh! let me go away at once.”

 

“It has everything to do with it, mam’selle. Monsieur Dennison told me

to ascertain. He would have come himself, but you know madame distrusts

him and will not let him see you, lest you should tell him the truth.”

 

“I know! I know!” she impatiently interrupts. “She lied to him! She told

him I was ill, when he asked for me, and I was dying to see him. She

slapped my face, and locked me up here, and I hate her!” Her eyes

flashed fire, her hands clenched. “What is it you want to know?” she

cried excitedly. “I’ll tell you anything—everything so that you take me

from here, to him.”

 

“Tell me your story—who you are. She is your mother, is she not? I see

the likeness in your face. Who is your father, and where is he?”

 

“I don’t know; I wish I did. I would make Mr. Dennison take me to him.

She is my mother—oh, yes! and I was born in Quebec, more than sixteen

years ago. My father would not live with her, I don’t know why, and

there was a divorce. So Joan told me. Joan was there when I was born,

and my mother left me with her and went away. Joan brought me up; now

she is dead, and so I came here. I wish I never had—oh! I wish I never

had. Her name is not Madame Felicia—her name is Rosamond. She called

herself Mrs. Gordon when I was born, and my father’s name was Gordon

Caryll. I don’t know whether he is living or dead. Joan did not know.

That is all. And now I have told you, I want you to take me away.”

 

But her visitor arose and put her gently back. One look into her face

had settled the question of her maternity.

 

“Not to-night, petite. It is late for you to be abroad. But you shall be

taken away, and that speedily—you may trust my word when I say so.”

 

Then, before the bewildered child can quite realize it, the little man

with the yellow face and furred coat is gone, the key turned in the

lock, and she is alone in her prison once more.

 

*

 

The bal d’opera was at its height. The vast building was one sheet of

white gaslight; perfumes, pastilles, and the rich odor of flowers made

the atmosphere almost overpowering. The orchestra, playing the sweet

Strauss waltzes, filled the air with quivering melody. And above the

rich strains of the music arose the shrill laughter, the shrill clatter

of ceaseless gay voices, as dominoes, white and black, flower-girls,

debard�urs, gypsies, paysannes, coryph�es, princes au th��tre,

and men in plain evening dress, with masks off or on, as the whim took

them, flashed and flitted ceaselessly and noisily to and fro. A gorgeous

picture of one phase of Paris gaslit life—a glimpse of the Arabian

Nights—brilliant, intoxicating, wicked.

 

Among the maskers there came, quite alone and moving slowly, a short,

slight man, in a furred and frogged great-coat, which, despite the

warmth, he still retained, his mask concealing all but the glitter of

two restless black eyes. He made his way to the centre of the

assemblage, and leaning negligently against a statue of the Apollo,

watched the brilliant phantasmagoria as it flitted before him. Suddenly

he started slightly and drew in his breath with a sharp, sibilant sound.

What he looked for he saw.

 

There flew swiftly past him, in the dizzy whirl of the half-mad

waltzers, a black domino, with a knot of yellow ribbon on her left

shoulder. The tall partner who clasped her so closely, was a gentleman

in plain evening dress, a yellow rose in his button-hole, primrose kids

on his hands. The wild laughter of the lady reached him as she whirled

by like a bacchante, laughter he knew well, and had heard often. The

hawk had sprung upon its quarry—from that moment he lost sight of them

no more.

 

The waltz ended. The domino noir moved away on her companion’s arm to

a distant corner, where the glare of gaslight was less blinding, where

tall tropic plants cast shade, where but few people were, and where

seats for the weary were placed. Quietly, stealthily, the gentleman in

the mask and furred-coat followed, unobserved. The lady threw herself

into one of the seats, and fluttered open her fan.

 

“Mon Dieu! but it is hot! Eric, mon enfant, have the common humanity to

go and fetch me a water ice. That last waltz was charming, and how well

you have my step. We must dance the Krolsbalklange valse together, and

then—home. Eric, go for the ice if you would not see me expire.”

 

She removed her mask and showed the flushed, laughing, lovely face of

Felicia. Her companion rose to obey, whispering something that caused

madame’s shrill laughter once more to peal out as she struck him with

her fan. “Fi donc, Eric, I know what your tender speeches are worth.

It is too warm, and I am too fatigued for love-making. Go for my ice.”

 

He departed. Five minutes after, as he was slowly making his way through

the revolving throng with madame’s water-ice in his hand, a man in a

furred overcoat ran rudely against him, knocking it out of his hand and

over his immaculate evening suit.

 

“Mille pardons, monsieur,” this personage cried, with a low bow, but a

mocking laugh. “But if monsieur will be clumsy! I regret exceedingly

having spoiled monsieur’s best coat; but—”

 

A chorus of laughter from the bystanders, who were in the mood to laugh

at any mishap to their neighbors, however slight, cut him short. The

next instant the little man was flat on his back, sent thither by a

well-directed blow straight from the shoulder. As if by enchantment a

crowd gathered. There is magic in a “row” that speaks to the heart of

men of all nations. The insolent gentleman in the frogged coat leaped to

his feet with a shrill cry of fury, but before he fairly reached them

he was sprawling on his back once more.

 

“Come on,” Lord Dynely said, with perfect coolness; “as my best coat

is spoiled, I don’t mind spoiling it a little more. Get up and I’ll

show you how to walk through a ball-room without running against your

neighbors.”

 

“Mon Dieu, Eric!” cried the voice of Felicia, who had replaced her mask,

and now rushed to the scene; “what is the matter? Who is this?”

 

“I have not the honor of monsieur’s acquaintance at present; but all the

same it affords me pleasure to teach him—”

 

He paused, for madame had clutched his arm with a cry of terror and

recognition. With eyes literally flashing flame, Di Venturini had sprung

to his feet like a tiger, torn off his mask, and confronted them.

 

“Yes, madame—it is I. You recognize me, I see. Tell your lover who I

am. You know me, if he does not. We shall be better acquainted before

long. I have the honor, have I not, of speaking to Lord Dynely?”

 

He hissed out his words in English that the crowd might not understand.

Eric, confounded himself by this sudden rencontre, bowed also.

 

“A friend of mine shall wait upon you, my lord, to-morrow morning,” Di

Venturini said in a rapid whisper. “You have heard of me—I am the

Prince Di Venturini. For you, madame,” with a low bow, “I shall see you

later.”

 

Before either could speak he turned, made his way through the throng,

and quitted the bal masque. For this purpose he had come—his end was

accomplished.

 

The crowd dispersed, rather disappointed at having, after all, been

cheated out of a free fight. Felicia and Lord Dynely looked at each

other blankly for a moment. Then madame broke into one of her shrill

laughs.

 

“Ma foi! Eric, my friend, but this is droll! It is like one of our

vaudevilles at the Varieties, where madame amuses herself in monsieur’s

absence, and monsieur, furious and jealous, unexpectedly appears. What a

scene that will be to-morrow!—he is all that there is of the most

jealous—that poor little M. Di Venturini, and I did promise him,

before he left, never to coquet more. There is one waltz, mon

cher—shall we dance it, or—”

 

“We will dance it, of course,” Lord Dynely answers, “a waltz with you is

too rare a treat to be lightly given up.”

 

The soft, sweet strains of the Krolsbalklange float out, and they whirl

away with it, in perfect time. Felicia is a perfect dancer, her feet do

not seem to touch the floor. Dynely means what he says when he avers

that a waltz with her is a rare treat. Then it ends, and he wraps her in

her opera cloak, and leads her to her carriage. She leans forward, her

witching face in the full glow of the gaslight, a smile on the red lips,

in the lustrous, topaz eyes.

 

“And Asni�res, mon enfant,” she says, “do we go to-morrow down the

Seine as agreed, or do we—”

 

“We go!” he answered, his blue eyes flashing; “not for all the jealous

Italians in Christendom would I throw over to-morrow’s excursion.”

 

He stoops and kisses the jewelled, ungloved hand she extends. Once again

she laughs, that sweet, derisive laugh he knows so well. Then the

carriage rolls away. Circe has gone, and her victim stands alone in the

cool February night.

 

CHAPTER XIII.

 

AFTER THE BALL.

 

He stands alone under the cold, white stars, and as the chill wind

sweeps about him, as the chill dawn breaks, his senses slowly return.

One way or other this intoxicating flirtation of his has ended at least.

To-morrow’s excursion down the Seine to Asni�res is probably its closing

act. For M. le Prince Di Venturini, the affianced of Felicia, has been

insulted, and M. le Prince is a man to wipe