The Cheat (Holman)/Chapter 1
When spring comes to Paris the city is like a stately, beautiful woman donning her most youthful and most becoming gown and going out into the boulevards to dance in the sunlight to the sprightly strains of Mendelssohn. Even the gargoyles upon Notre Dame and the gargoyles who drive the Paris taxicabs seem to sense the blood-stirring effect of the season. The sidewalks in front of the cafés are cluttered with drowsing drinkers and philosophers. The brown, swollen waters of the Seine glisten as they flow slowly from the shadows of the many bridges. And one cannot walk a hundred yards upon the Champs Elysees without encountering more pretty girls than one ever thought existed.
It was late in such an exhilarating spring afternoon that a luxurious De Dion landaulet swept around a corner into the Rue de la Paix bearing in its blue-gray cushioned tonneau an exquisitely gowned young woman whom even the most exacting boulevardier would have admitted to be arrestingly beautiful. The late afternoon sun seemed to have saved its last full radiance to provide the proper setting for her as she lounged gracefully behind the trim, black-uniformed chauffeur and looked out through the lowered window with lively, dark eyes.
Had you remarked to her about the sun's seeming benevolence, she would doubtless have dismissed it with a charming and very Latin shrug of her slim shoulders as little more than her due. Carmelita de Cordoba was used to kindness and to service and to the world in general going to a great deal of trouble for her. In her native Argentine very rich and very attractive young women are assured of a slavelike devotion from everybody except their older relatives. Should the only daughter of one of the richest and most distinguished Spanish families in South America expect less when she journeys abroad with unlimited resources to Paris, the haven of gowns, to select her wedding trousseau?
Carmelita de Cordoba had spent a month in Paris now upon this delightful mission, dipping into the expensive treasures of the famous shops—Poiret, Paquin, Cartier, Coty—spending the delightful spring days amid fawning, thin-waisted men modistes and fawning thick-waisted lady ones, with an occasional afternoon of sight-seeing or Longchamps to vary the routine, and her nights at theaters, the opera, cabarets, and supper clubs. Her day began at noon when her suite at the Ritz, sun-drenched but lifeless until then except for the softly moving French maid and the withered Spanish duenna whom her father had insisted upon sending with her as a chaperone and general factotum, became gay with the musical, insistent voice of its owner summoning her two attendants in two languages. With the sound of water rushing into the tub and later the appearance of a dainty tray breakfast at her pillow and an array of gowns spread out for her approval at her feet, Carmelita's busy round was on anew.
The climax of her visit was now approaching. This very afternoon and evening it would be reached. For, Carmelita was to leave for Cherbourg and the ship for Buenos Aires, via New York, on the morrow.
In the flattery which the Paris shopkeepers did not have to be prompted to lavish upon Señorita de Cordoba there was rather less insincerity than is the lot of the average rich lady customer. With her perfect ivory-like complexion, large, warm black eyes to match her lustrous, almost purple-black hair, a lithe figure to excite any Parisian modiste into explosive ecstasies, and an astute taste in clothes that tempered her Spanish flair for bright color with an acquired American dislike for the flagrantly gaudy—Carmelita, despite her decided opinions and her flashes of South American temper at times, was a pleasure to serve. In the good modiste there is something of the artist that responded instantly at the sight of her.
The landaulet, flowing smoothly through the mellow sunshine of the Rue de la Paix at length glided toward the curbing and came to a stop. The impassive French chauffeur held open the door and Carmelita alighted. Across the concrete sidewalk another uniformed Frenchman was holding aside another door, the entrance to the famous and, on the outside, quite somber establishment of Doucet et Cie, gowns. But within all was mellow color, soft carpets, velvet tapestries, and bowing attendants with frock coats.
Carmelita had hardly made her entrance when a small, bald-headed man with a funny, waxed moustache and a flower in his buttonhole came twittering up to meet her.
"Carmelita, my dear," he exclaimed, "we thought you would never get here." Even as he uttered his complaint his little sea-blue eyes flitted momentarily to a good-looking mannikin who was passing, and Carmelita was not disturbed. Her small delinquencies never disturbed her. She laughed.
"I don't believe you've been bored, Jackie," she chided him, with a nod at the mannikin's back. Her voice was low, rich, with the trace of an accent. "Where is the distracted Lucy?"
Jack Hodge waved his cane down the center of the shop. A tall blonde woman of thirty-five or thereabouts, obviously American, sat cross-legged upon one of M. Doucet's gilt chairs. Eyes half closed, she was smoking a cigarette in an incredibly long black-lacquered holder.
"I can see that Lucy is worried to death about me," bantered Carmelita. She had been calmly ignoring the shop attendants who bowed and fluttered around her. With Jack Hodge she approached the third member of their party.
Lucy Hodge drew deeply upon her cigarette and raised lazy gray eyes to acknowledge Carmelita's presence. She was the soul of languor, pampered languor that is never forced to hurry. "Ah, my dear, you are here at last. Do let's start your show and get it over with."
Carmelita at last admitted the existence of the manager of the shop, who had been standing with discreet anxiety a little aloof. She spoke sharply.
"Where is Monsieur Doucet? Why is he not here?"
Her dark eyes were narrowed a little and her tone had a note of the imperious in it. The manager disappeared and returned shortly with a small Frenchman and a large Frenchwoman, M. de Doucet and his chief assistant, both sputtering apologies.
"Mademoiselle desires to inspect her trousseau?" asked the man.
"Mademoiselle will come with me?" suggested the woman.
"The show begins," smiled Carmelita, recovering her good humor, to the Hodges and started toward the dressing parlors, followed by the subservient duo.
When she reappeared fifteen minutes later, swinging slowly, gracefully toward them, she was gowned as a beautiful bride—a lovely symphony blended of white silks and laces. Her two attendants hovered near, adjusting, admiring.
"It's wonderful, Carmelita," Jack exclaimed.
"Very good, my dear," Lucy Hodge admitted, attesting the success of the costume by really opening her eyes and removing the cigarette from her carmined lips to get a better view.
Carmelita surveyed herself in a cluster of glistening mirrors, her hand unconsciously stroking the soft, rich material. She was beautiful, unusually beautiful in this most romantic of all costumes, she told herself. Her father would be pleased. He would not be sorry he had yielded to her and allowed her to journey to Paris, to buy her wedding trousseau. And her fiancé—here Carmelita sighed. She turned to M. Doucet and suggested a few minor alterations, then retired to change back into her chic afternoon attire.
"Mademoiselle desires to see the rest of her trousseau?" the modiste asked when she reappeared.
"That was the arrangement, was it not?" Carmelita asked coldly.
"Heavens, is there another act?" Lucy sighed.
"We've hardly begun, my dear," the bride-to-be smiled, tapping her American friend consolingly upon her thin shoulder. Carmelita was thoroughly enjoying herself among these dainty, extravagant things.
The brightening eye of Jack Hodge forecasted what was coming. Carmelita had arranged to inspect her purchases by means of a private fashion show of carefully selected mannikins. Over the soft carpets they presently sauntered with their gracefully professional slouch. A stunning evening costume, a trim gray traveling suit, afternoon gowns, sport clothes, filmy lingerie and, at the last, a sheer, fluffy nightgown of crêpe de chine passed in slow, dazzling array—Carmelita's complete trousseau. Jack Hodge stood entranced until Carmelita broke the spell.
"It was worth waiting for, was it not, my Jack?" she smiled.
"You bet," he said, too forcefully, so that Lucy raised a questioning eyebrow toward her husband.
"You are a very lucky girl, my dear," said Lucy. She yawned. "And all this for an old man whom you do not love."
Carmelita sighed thoughtfully. "Why is it always impossible to combine money and love, Lucy?" she asked.
"It isn't," replied the American blandly. "But why insist upon them both in the same man? You know my advice—marry for money and position as your fussy old father wants you to,—and seek your romance where you can find it."
Carmelita shook her head.
"In a way, dear Carmelita, you are unfortunate," Lucy continued upon her favorite subject. "You have your Spanish love for the outward show of romance, the tinkling mandolin and serenading lover sort of thing, combined with the American attitude toward marriage. My countrywomen, as you know, expect husband, lover, amusing companion, good provider, and father for their children all in one poor, frail man—and, Carmelita dear, it simply cannot be done. Men are not constructed that way. One goes to one man for one thing and to another for another. And if one is discreet—"
"What a frightfully wicked lady for a prospective bride to be receiving advice from," Carmelita chaffed. She knew that in reality Lucy was far too busy keeping check upon Jack's philandering to have time for affaires du cœur of her own.
"Oh, you'll come to it, my dear. I know you so well. You cannot do without money and you love love. And one is so seldom able to find the two together." Lucy was gathering her light, gray cloak from the back of the chair. "Meantime let us disperse to our homes. You are with us to the Folies and supper to-night, of course. Your farewell party, you know. I have left it to Jackie, and he promises something extraordinary. Managing parties seems his sole accomplishment. Dudley Drake and Prince Rao-Singh, glaring at each other as usual, and the rest of your admirers will be there. Paris will be a barren place for the men when you leave, Carmelita." She lifted her long, lazy body from the chair. "Come along, Jackie, you're to buy me the peignoir I told you about, you know."
Carmelita spoke for a few moments to M. Doucet regarding the delivery of her purchases, then accompanied the Hodges to the street before taking her leave of them. The first shadows of twilight were beginning to slant across the Rue de la Paix—a warm clear evening in May, breathing of Spring. Carmelita settled with a sigh into the cushions of the landaulet.