The Bondwoman. Ryan Marah Ellis

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      While he stood there both the Marquise and her companion appeared, walking briskly. Madame Blanc, a stout woman of thirty-five, was rather breathless.

      “My dear Marquise, you do not walk, you fly,” she gasped, halting on the steps.

      “You poor dear!” said the Marquise, patting her kindly on the shoulder. “I know you are faint for want of your coffee,” and at the same time her strong young arms helped the panting attendant mount the steps more quickly.

      Once within the hall Madame Blanc dropped into the chair nearest the door, while the Marquise swept into the reception room and hastily to a window fronting on the street.

      “How foolish of me,” she breathed aloud. “How my heart beats!”

      “Allow me to prescribe,” said Dumaresque, stepping from behind the screen of the curtain, and smiling at her.

      She retreated, her hands clasped over her breast, her eyes startled; then meeting his eyes she began to laugh a little nervously.

      “How you frightened me!”

      “And it was evidently not the first, this morning.”

      She sank into a seat, indicated another to him, away from the window, removed her hat and leaned back looking at him.

      “No, you are not,” she said at last. “But account for yourself, Monsieur Loris! The sun is not yet half way on its course, yet you are actually awake, and visible to humanity–it looks serious.”

      “It is,” he agreed, smiling at her, yet a trifle nervous in his regard. “I have taken advantage of the only hour out of the twenty when there would be a chance of seeing you alone. So I made an errand–and I am here.”

      “And–?”

      “And I have determined that, after the fashion of the Americans or the English, I shall no longer ask the intervention of a third person. I decided on it last night before I left here. I have no title to offer you–you coldest and most charming of women, but I shall have fame; you will have no reason to be ashamed of the name of Dumaresque. Put me on probation, if you like, a year, two years!–only–”

      “No; no!” she said pleadingly, putting out her hands with a slight repellant gesture. “It is not to be thought of, Monsieur Loris, Maman has told you! Twice has the same reply been given. I really cannot allow you to continue this suppliance. I like you too well to be angry with you, but–”

      “I shall be content with the liking–”

      “But I should not!” she declared, smilingly. “I have my ideals, if you please, Monsieur. Marriage should mean love. It is only matrimony for which liking is the foundation. I do not approve of matrimony.”

      “Pardon; that is the expression of the romance lover–the school girl. But that I know you have lived the life of a nun I should fear some one had been before me, some one who realized those ideals of yours, and that instead of studying the philosophies of life, you have been a student of the philosophy of love.”

      He spoke lightly–half laughingly, but the flush of pink suffusing her throat and brow checked his smile. He could only stare.

      She arose hastily and walked the length of the room. When she turned the color was all gone, but her eyes were softly shining.

      “All philosophy falls dead when the heart speaks,” she said, as she resumed her chair; “and now, Monsieur Loris, I mean to make you my father confessor, for I know no better way of ending these periodical proposals of yours, and at the same time confession might–well–it might not be without a certain benefit to myself.” He perceived that while she had assumed an air of raillery, there was some substance back of the mocking shadow.

      “I shall feel honored by your confidence, Marquise,” he was earnest enough in that.

      “And when you realize that there is–some one else–will you then resume your former role of friend?”

      “I shall try. Who is the man?”

      She met his earnest gaze with a demure smile, “I do not know, Monsieur.”

      “What, then?–you are only jesting with me?”

      “Truly, I do not know his name.”

      “Yet you are in love with him?”

      “I am not quite certain even of that,” and she smiled mockingly; “sometimes I have a fancy it may be witchcraft. I only know I am haunted–have been haunted four long weeks by a face, a voice, and two blue eyes.”

      “Blue?” Dumaresque glanced in the mirror–his own eyes were blue.

      “Yes, Monsieur Loris–blue with a dash of grey–the grey of the sea when clouds are heavy, and the blue of the farthest waves before the storm breaks–don’t you see the color?”

      “Only the color of your fancy. He is the owner of blue eyes, a haunting voice, and–what else is my rival?”

      “A foreigner, and–Monsieur Incognito.”

      “You have met?”

      “Three times;” and she held up as many white fingers. The reply evidently astounded Dumaresque.

      “You have met three times a man whose name you do not know?”

      “We are even on that score,” she said, “for he has spoken to me three times and does not know what I am called.”

      “But to address you–”

      “He called me Mademoiselle Unknown.”

      “Bravo! This grows piquant; an adventure with all the flavor of the eighteenth instead of the nineteenth century. A real adventure, and you its heroine! Oh, Marquise, Marquise!”

      “Ah! since you appreciate the humor of the affair you will no longer be oppressed by sentimental fancies concerning me;” and she nodded her head as though well pleased with the experiment of her confession. “You perceive how wildly improper I have been; still, I deny the eighteenth century flavor, Monsieur. Then, with three meetings the cavalier would have developed into a lover, and having gained entrance to a lady’s heart, he would have claimed also the key to her castle.”

      “Astute pupil of the nuns!–and Monsieur Incognito?”

      “He certainly does not fancy me possessed of either castle or keys. I was to him only an unpretentious English companion in attendance on Madame Blanc in the woods of Fontainbleau.”

      “English! Since when are you fond enough of them to claim kindred?”

      “He was English; he supposed me so when I replied to him in that tongue. He had taken the wrong path and–”

      “And you walked together on another, also the wrong path.”

      “No, Monsieur; that first day we only bowed and parted, but the ghost of his voice remained,” and she sighed in comical self-pity.

      “I see! You have first given me the overture and now the curtain is to rise. Who opens the next scene?”

      “Madame СКАЧАТЬ