The Bondwoman. Ryan Marah Ellis

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СКАЧАТЬ in which the old Marquise delights,” said big Lavergne, the sculptor, who had joined Sidonie in the window.

      “Then how she must have reveled in Alain’s marriage–a death-bed marriage!”

      “Yes; and to an Italian girl without a dot.”

      “Oh–it is quite possible. The marriage was in Rome. Both the English and Americans go to Rome.”

      “Italian! I heard it was an English or American!”

      “Surely, not so bad as that!”

      “But only those who have money;–or, if they have not the money, our sons and our brothers do not marry them.”

      “Good!” and Lavergne nodded with mock sagacity. “We reach conclusions; the newly made Marquise de Caron is either not Anglo-Saxon or was not without wealth.”

      “I heard from Dumaresque that she had attended English schools; that no doubt gives her the English suggestion.”

      “Oh, I know more than that;” said another, eager to add to the knowledge of the group. “Between Fontainbleau and Moret is the Levigne chateau. Two years ago the dowager was there with a young beauty, Judithe Levigne, and that is the girl Alain married; the dowager was also a Levigne, and the girl an adopted daughter.”

      “What is she like now? Has no one seen her?”

      “No one more worldly than her confessor–if she possess one, or the nuns of the convent to which she returned to study after her marriage and widowhood.”

      “Heavens! We must compose our features when we enter the presence!”

      “But we will go, for all that! The dowager is too delightful to miss.”

      “A religieuse and a blue stocking!” and the smile of Lavergne was accompanied by a doubtful shrug. “I might devote myself to either, if apart, but never to both in one. Is she then ugly that she dare be so superior?”

      “Greek and Latin did not lessen the charm of Heloise for Abelard, Monsieur.”

      Sidonie glanced consciously out of the window. Even the dust of six centuries refuses to cover the passion of Heloise, and despite the ecclesiastical flavor of the romance–demoiselles were not supposed to be aware–still–!

      Lavergne beckoned to a fair slight man near the piano.

      “We will ask Loris–Loris Dumaresque. He is god-son of the dowager. He was in Rome also. He will know.”

      “Certainly;” and Madame Choudey glanced in the mirror opposite and leaned her cheek on her jeweled hand, the lace fell from her pretty wrist and the effect was rather pleasing. “Loris; ah, pardon me, since your last canvas is the talk of Paris we must perhaps say Monsieur Dumaresque, or else–Master.”

      “The queen calls no man master,” replied the newcomer as he bent over the pretty coquette’s hand. “The humblest of your subjects salutes you.”

      “My faith! You have not lost in Rome a single charm of the boulevardes. We feared you would come back a devotee, and addicted to rosaries.”

      “I only needed them when departing from Paris–and you.” His eyes alone expressed the final words, but they spoke so eloquently that the woman of the world smiled; attempted to blush, and dropping her own eyes, failed to see the amusement in his.

      “Your gallantry argues no lack of practice, Monsieur Loris,” she returned; glancing at him over her fan. “Who was she, during those months of absence? Come; confess; was she some worldly soul like the Kora of your latest picture, or was it the religieuse–the new marquise about whom every one is curious?”

      “The Marquise? What particular Marquise?”

      “One more particular than you were wont to cultivate our first season in Rome,” remarked Lavergne.

      “Oh! oh! Monsieur Dumaresque!” and the fan became a shield from which Madame peered at him. Sidonie almost smiled, but recovered herself, and gave attention to the primroses.

      “You see!–Madame Choudey is shocked that you have turned to saintliness.”

      “Madame knows me too well to suppose I have ever turned away from it,” retorted Dumaresque. “Do not credit the gossip of Lavergne. He has worked so long among clays and marbles that he has grown a cold-blooded cynic. He distrusts all warmth and color in life.”

      “Then why not introduce him to the Marquise? He might find his ideal there–the atmosphere of the sanctuary! I mean the new Marquise de Caron.”

      “Oh!” Dumaresque looked from one to the other blankly and then laughed. “It is Madame Alain–the Marquise de Caron you call the devotee? My faith–that is droll!”

      “What, then, is so droll?”

      “Why should you laugh, Monsieur Loris? What else were we to think of a bride who chooses a convent in preference to society?”

      “It was decided she must be very ugly or very devout to make that choice.”

      “A natural conclusion from your point of view,” agreed Dumaresque. “Will you be shocked when I tell you she is no less a radical than Alain himself?–that her favorite prophet is Voltaire, and that her books of devotion are not known in the church?”

      “Horror!–an infidel!–and only a girl of twenty!” gasped the demure Sidonie.

      “Chut!–she may be a veteran of double that. Alain always had a fancy for the grenadiers–the originals. But of course,” he added moodily, “we must go.”

      “Take cheer,” laughed Dumaresque, “for I shall be there; and I promise you safe conduct through the gates when the grenadier feminine grows too oppressive.”

      “Do you observe,” queried Madame, slyly, “that while Monsieur Loris does speak of her religion, he avoids enlightening us as to her personality?”

      “What then do you expect?” returned Dumaresque. “She is the widow of my friend; the child, now, of my dear old god-mother. Should I find faults in her you would say I am jealous. Should I proclaim her virtues you would decide I am prejudiced by friendship, and so”–with a smile that was conciliating and a gesture comprehensive he dismissed the subject.

      “Clever Dumaresque!” laughed Lavergne–“well, we shall see! Is it true that your picture of the Kora is to be seen at the dowager’s tomorrow?”

      “Quite true. It is sold, you know; but since the dowager is not equal to art galleries I have given it a rest in her rooms before boxing it for the new owner.”

      “I envy him,” murmured Madame; “the picture is the pretty octoroon glorified. So, Madame, your god-mother has two novelties to present tomorrow. Usually it is so difficult to find even one.”

      When Delaven returned he found Lieutenant McVeigh still in the same nook by the mantel and still alone.

      “Well, you are making a lonesome time of it in the middle of the crowd,” he remarked. “How have you been amused?”

      “By listening to comments on two pictures, one of a colored beauty, and one of an atheistical grand dame.”

      “And СКАЧАТЬ