CHAPTER XXI

Sara awoke that same morning with a foreboding heart. She wrote a letter

to Reckage postponing his call, and another to Pensee Fitz Rewes, asking

her to be at home that afternoon. At half-past two the young lady drove

up, in her brougham, to the widow's door in Curzon Street. The blinds

were down, and the house gave every indication that its owner was not in

London. Sara, however, was admitted, and Pensee received her in a little

room, hung with lilac chintz and full of porcelain, at the back of the

house. Pensee, wearing a loose blue robe, seemed over-excited and

sad--with that sadness which seems to fall upon the soul as snow upon

water. She was reclining on the sofa, reading a worn copy of Law's

_Serious Call_ which had belonged to the late Viscount, and bore many of

his pencil-marks. This in itself was to Sara a sign of some unusual

melancholy in her friend.

"Why," she said, kissing her soft, pale cheek, "why didn't you let me

know that you had returned? I thought you were still in Paris."

"My dear," said Pensee, sitting up with a sudden movement and

supporting herself on her two hands. "I am no longer my own mistress. I

have become a puppet--a marionette: a kind of lady-in-waiting--a person

to whom women talk when they have nothing to say, and to whom men talk

when they have nothing to do."

Sara chose a seat and studied the speaker with a new curiosity. She was

charming; vexation gave humanity to her waxen features, and the flash in

her eyes suggested hitherto unsuspected fires in her temperament, "She

has more spirit than I gave her credit for," thought Sara, and she

added, "Darling!" aloud.

"Darling, indeed!" said Pensee. "I can tell you I am tired of being a

darling. There are limits.... I have no patience with Brigit, and Robert

drives me to the conclusion that good men are fools--fools! I suppose he

told you that I was in town again?"

"Yes."

"Well, he won't come and see me himself because _she_ is here."

"That is merely a decision on principle. He longs to come."

"Quite so. But the girl does not deserve him."

Sara showed no astonishment; she maintained her thoughtful air, and

replied with tranquillity--

"He thinks she is perfect."

"I find no vulgar faults in her, myself, although there seems no foolish

thing left that she hasn't done. I am sure that every one will think

her light, worldly, and frivolous. Let me say what I have been through.

After the first terrible day and night at St. Malo, there was no more

crying. There was not another tear. We went to Paris. She spent all her

mornings at Notre Dame, all her afternoons with old Monsieur Lanitaux of

the Conservatoire, all her evenings at the theatre. She found many of

her mother's old friends. In the theatrical world I find much loyalty

toward those actually born in the profession. They treated her as though

she were a young queen. Lanitaux managed to get her privately before the

Empress Eugenie. She sang for the Empress: the Empress cried and gave

her an emerald ring."

"Then she has talent."

"Genius, I believe," said Pensee, solemnly. "This makes her hateful and

lovable at the same moment. She is determined to be an actress. She

never speaks of Robert, and she shuts herself up in her room reciting

Marivaux and Moliere. The d'Alchingens have invited her to Hadley next

Saturday. They encourage her theatrical ideas. And why? They wish her to

lose caste. She is an Archduchess, Sara, an Alberian Archduchess. What a

living argument against unequal marriages!"

"Will she go to Hadley?"

"Yes--wholly against my advice. I don't trust Prince d'Alchingen."

"How I wish I could see her!"

"She is in the library now. I will ask her to come down."

Pensee left the room, and Sara paced the floor till she returned.

"She is coming," said Pensee, "be nice to her--for Robert's sake!"

Sara nodded, and both women watched the door till the handle moved, and

Mrs. Parflete entered.

She was dressed in violet silk without ornaments or jewels of any

description. Her face was slightly flushed, and the colour intensified

the pale gold diadem of her blonde hair. The expression--sweet-tempered,

yet a little arrogant--of her countenance and its long oval form bore a

striking resemblance to the early portraits of Marie Antoinette. Her

under-lip had also a slight outward bend, which seemed an encouragement

when she smiled, and contemptuous when she frowned. Her figure--though

too slight even for a girl of seventeen--was extraordinarily graceful,

and, in spite of her height, she was so well proportioned that she did

not appear too tall. Youth showed itself, however, in a certain

childlikeness of demeanour--a mixture of timidity, confidence,

embarrassment, and, if one looked in her face for any sign of the

emotions she had experienced, or the scenes in which she had played no

feeble part, one sought in vain. Gaiety covered the melancholy, almost

sombre depths in her character. And it was the gaiety of her French

mother--petulant, reckless, irresistible, giddy, uncertain. As a child,

dressed up in ribbons and lace, with flowers in her hair, she had been

the chief amusement and plaything of Madame Duboc--to be held on her

lap, perched upon the piano, placed on high cushions in the carriage,

and lifted on the table of the drawing-room, where she entertained a

brilliant, if dissipated company, by her talk, her little songs, her

laughter, her mimicry, and her dancing. She rarely danced now, yet all

the seductive arts of perfect dancing seemed hers by right of birth.

Each movement, each gesture had a peculiar charm, and her dark blue

eyes, the more provocative for their lack of passion, were full of a

half-mocking, half-tender vivacity. Sara, a beautiful young woman

herself, surveyed this unconscious rival and recognised, with good

sense, a fatal attractiveness which was stronger than time and far above

beauty. It was the spell of a spirit and body planned for fascination

and excelling in this indefinable power. Had she been born to ruin men?

thought Sara. Had she been given a glamour and certain gifts merely to

perplex, deceive, and destroy all those who came within the magic of her

glance? History had its long, terrible catalogue of such women whose

words are now forgotten, whose portraits leave us cold, yet whose very

names still agitate the heart and fire the imagination. Was Brigit one

of these?

She had nothing of the deliberate coquette who, eager to please, keeps

up an incessant battery of airs and graces. Her enchantments depended

rather on the fact that she neither asked for admiration nor valued it.

Free from vanity, and therefore indifferent to criticism, the

bitternesses which destroy the peace of most women never entered her

mind. The man she had chosen gave her no cause for jealousy, and, while

she enjoyed men's society, she had been so accustomed to it from her

earliest days that she had nothing to fear from the novelty of their

friendship, or the danger of their compliments. Not prudish, not morbid,

not envious, not sentimental, and not indolent, she was perhaps

especially endowed for the tantalising career which the stage offers to

the ambitious of both sexes. Acting came to her as music comes to the

true musician. She never considered whether she would become a great

actress or a rejected one: the art in itself was her delight, and she

found more happiness in reciting Moliere and Shakespeare alone in her

own room than she ever received, even at the height of her fame, from

her triumphs before the world. There was, no doubt, a great craving in

her nature for innocent pleasures and excitement. She loved gay scenes,

bright lights, beautiful clothes, lively music, witty conversation. She

had been born for the brilliant Courts of the eighteenth century when

life in each class was more highly concentrated than is possible

now--when love was put to severer tests, hatred permitted a crueller

play, politics asked a more intricate genius, and art controlled the

kingdom of the Graces.

The three women as they faced each other presented a remarkable picture.

Pensee, the eldest, who alone knew the lessons of physical pain, had a

pathetic grace which made her seem, in comparison with the

others--radiant with untried health,--some gentle, plaintive spirit from

a sadder sphere. Her clinging blue robe appeared too heavy for the frail

body; her fair curls and carefully arranged _chignon_ were too modish

for the ethereal yet anxious countenance; the massive wedding-ring

seemed too coarse a bond for the almost transparent hand which trembled

nervously on the cover of the _Serious Call_. Sara, in black velvet and

sable, with ostrich plumes and golden beads, with flashing eyes and a

gipsy's flush, with all the self-command of a woman trained for society,

living for it and in it, with all the self-assurance of a woman in an

unassailable position, handsome, rich, flattered, spoiled, domineering,

and unscrupulous, with all the insolence of an egoism which no human

force could humiliate and no human antagonist terrify, Sara seemed the

one who was destined to succeed superbly in the war of life. Mrs.

Parflete--whose courage, determination, and powers of endurance were

concealed by a face which might have been made of lovely gauze--seemed

less a being than a poetical creation: a portrait by Watteau or

Fragonard stepped from its frame, animated by pure fancy, and moving,

without sorrow and without labour, through a charmed existence.

She made two steps forward when Sara advanced to meet her, holding out

both hands and smiling with real kindness at the sight of a delightful

apparition which looked too fragile to excite such a fierce emotion as

jealousy.

"I believe we are to meet at Hadley," said Sara. "I hear you are going

to act."

"Yes," replied Brigit, with a slight note of irony in her musical voice.

"I am going to act."

"How charming! And what will you play?"

"I play the Marquise in one of Marivaux's comedies."

"And who will play the Marquis?" asked Sara.

"There is no Marquis," answered Brigit, laughing a little. "But," she

added, "there is a Chevalier and a Comte. One of Prince d'Alchingen's

attaches will play the Comte. M. de Castrillon will play the part of the

Chevalier."

"Castrillon!" exclaimed Sara, in amazement.

"The Marquis of Castrillon!" cried Pensee, turning livid; "pray, pray

put it off till you have heard from Baron Zeuill. Dear Brigit! for my

sake, for Robert's----"

"It is for your sake and Robert's that I have accepted the invitation to

Hadley. I wish you would understand. I must show them all that I mean

what I say."

"But Castrillon is a wicked wretch--a libertine."

"We have already acted together in this very piece at Madrid. Much

depends on my playing well next Saturday. I am quite sure of his talent,

and, in such a case, his private morals are not my affair. He is no

worse than Prince d'Alchingen was, and most of his associates are."

"You can't know what you are saying," answered Pensee. "You will be so

miserable when you find you have been madly obstinate. It is very hard,

in a country like England, for a young woman to set herself in

opposition to certain prejudices."

"Are the Duke and Duchess of Fortinbras respectable?" asked Brigit.

"What a question!" said Pensee; "of course they are most exclusive."

"Then if they are quite willing that their daughter Clementine should

marry Castrillon, surely he may play the Chevalier to my Marquise."

"I don't think, Pensee," put in Sara, "that Castrillon is exactly

tabooed. In fact, one meets him everywhere in Paris, and, beyond a

doubt, the Fortinbrases and the Huxaters and the Kentons made a great

fuss over him last season. But do you _like_ him?" she said, suddenly

turning to Brigit.

The question was skilful.

"I don't take him seriously," answered Brigit; "he has the great science

of _l'excellent ton dans le mauvis ton_. You would say--'he is vulgar in

the right way.' I feel sure he never deceived women. They may have been

foolish but they must have been frail before they met him! He can be

ridiculous in five languages, but he cannot be sincere in one of them.

As for his wickedness, one must have more than bad intentions; one must

have the circumstances. I have nothing to fear from M. de Castrillon. He

knows me perfectly well."

"I am simply wretched about you," said Pensee; "of your future I dare

not think. I try to be _sympathique_, and your difficulties come very

home to me because I have had such great sorrows myself. But I have

little hopes of doing any good while you are so self-willed."

"Dearest," exclaimed Brigit: "trust me!"

"My child, you are 'wiser in your own eyes than seven men that can

render a reason.' I implore you to abandon this mad scheme; I implore

you to abandon these wrong--these dangerous ideas of the stage. I know

how much I am asking, and how little right I have to ask anything, but I

think you ought to listen to me."

Brigit, with a sparkling glance at Sara, stroked Pensee's cheek, and

pinched her small ear.

"_Mon cher coeur_," said she, "I do not forget your goodness. And I

needed it, for I have been so wretched and forsaken. My soul is weighed

down with troubles, and grief, and anxiety: each day I expect some new

misfortune: you are the one friend I may keep. But you would not know

how to imagine the intrigues and falsehoods which surround me on every

side. _O mon amie_, I must prove to them that I want nothing they can

give me--that I possess nothing which they can take away."

"I know what she means, Pensee," said Sara; "she has to show d'Alchingen

that her interests are fixed on art--not politics. And, from her point

of view, she is right. I must say so, although I don't wish to

interfere. And so long as she knows M. de Castrillon, it is better taste

to make her first appearance with him than with some strange actor

engaged for the occasion. After all, Mario was well known as the

Marchese di Candia before he adopted the operatic stage as a profession.

As for gossip, how is anybody's tongue to be stopped?"

"I do not expect that people's tongues should be stopped," rejoined

Pensee.

"What the world says of me I have learned to disregard very much," said

Brigit: "if I vex my friends, I must nevertheless follow my vocation. It

was good enough for my mother. I do not apologise for her existence, nor

do I offer excuses for my own. She was an actress: I am an actress. She

succeeded: I may not succeed. But if you fear for my faith and my

character, it would be quite as easy to lose both in the highest society

as in the vilest theatres! I foresee mistakes and difficulties. They

must come. I shan't have a happy life, dearest Pensee: I don't look for

happiness. Why then do you scold me?"

"I am not scolding," said Lady Fitz Rewes: "I have never blamed you,

never--in my heart. We shall get on better now that we have brought

ourselves to speak out. How different it is when one judges for oneself

or for another! I do believe in having the courage of one's convictions.

But it was my duty to warn you----"

"This is all I wanted," exclaimed Brigit; "that we should understand

each other and stand close by each other. I am not on the edge of a

precipice--I am at the bottom of it already!" Her eyes had grown calm

from the mere force of sadness. "You mustn't ask me to look back," she

added: "you mustn't ask me to choose again. A simple, quiet life is out

of the question now. I have to learn how to forget."

She moved to the door, kissed her hand to Pensee, and bowed prettily to

Sara.

"I must get back to my work," she said, and so left them. The two women

turned toward each other.

"There is no hope for Orange," observed Sara drily: "no man would ever

forget her."

"He needn't forget her, but----"

"Yes, it would have to be sheer, absolute forgetfulness. I like her. I

like all beautiful things--pictures, statues, bronzes, porcelains, and

white marble visions! She is a white marble vision. And Orange will love

her forever and ever and ever. And when she is dead, he will love her

still more!"

She threw back her head and laughed--till Pensee laughed also. Then they

wished each other goodbye, and parted.