The Strand Magazine/Volume 4/Issue 24/A Vision of the Night
A Vision of the Night.
By Richard Marsh.
I.
harlie, do you belive in dreams?"
It was in the great hall of the Pouhon spring at Spa. The band was plaving. The motley crowd which gathers in the season at Spa to drink, or not to drink, the waters, were talking, smoking, drinking coffee, something stronger, looking at the papers, or listening to the music. Among the crowd were Gerald Lovell and his friend Charles Warren. At the particular moment in which Mr. Lovell put his question, Mr. Warren was puffing rings of cigarette smoke into the air.
"Ask me," he said, with distinct irreverence, "another."
"A queer thing happened to me last night."
"If you have any malicious mtention of inflicting on me a dream; young man, there'll be a row. I have an aunt who drcams. She's a dreaming sort. She's always dreaming. And she tells her dreams—such dreams! Ye Goths! At the mere mention of the word "dreams" the nightmare figure of my aunt rises to my mind's eye. So beware."
"But I'm not sure that this was a dream. Anyhow, just listen."
"Do you believe in dreams?"
"If I must!" said Mr. Warren. And he sighed.
"I dreamt that a woman kissed me!"
"If I could only dream such a thing. Some men have all the luck."
"The queer thing was, that it was so real. I dreamt that a woman came into my room. She came to my bedside. She stood looking down upon me as I slept. Suddenly she stooped and kissed me. That same instant I awoke. I felt her kiss still tingling on my lips. I could have sworn that someone had just kissed me. I sat up in bed and called out to know if anyone was there. I got up and lit the gas and searched the room. There was nothing and no one."
"It was a dream!"
"If it was, it was the most vivid dream I remember to have heard of; certainly the most vivid deam I ever dreamt. I saw the woman so distinctly, and her face, as she stooped over me, with laughter in her eyes. To begin with, it was the most beautiful face I ever saw, and hers were the most beautiful eyes. The whole thing had impressed me so intensely that I took my sketch-book and made a drawing of her then and there. I have my sketch-book in my pocket—here is the drawing."
Mr. Lovell handed his open sketch-book to his friend. It was open at a page on which was a drawing of a woman's face. When Mr. Warren's eyes fell on this drawing, he sat up in his chair with a show of sudden interest.
"Gerald! I say! You'll excuse my saying so, but I didn't think you were capable of anything so good as this. Do you know that this is the best drawing of yours I have ever seen, young man?"
"I believe it is."
"It looks to me—I don't want to flatter you; goodness knows you've conceit enough already!—but it looks to me as though it were a genuine bit of inspiration."
"Joking apart, it seems to me almost as if it were an inspiration."
"I wish an inspiration of the same kind would come to me. I'd be considerably grateful even for a nightmare. Do you know what I should do with this? I should use it for a picture."
"I thought of doing something of the kind myself."
"Just a study of a woman's face. And you might call it—the title would be apposite—'A Vision of the Night!'"
"A good idea. I will."
And Mr. Lovell did. When he returned to his Chelsea studio, he chose a moderate-sized canvas, and he began to paint on it a woman's face—just a woman's face, and nothing more. She was looking a little downwards, as a woman might look who was about to stoop to kiss someone lying asleep in bed—say a sleeping child—and she glanced from the canvas with laughing eyes. Mr. Warren came in to look at it several times while it was progressing. When it was finished, he regarded it for some moments in silent contemplation.
"I call that," he declared, sententiously, with what he supposed, perhaps erroneously, to be a Yankee twang, "a gen-u-ine work of art. I do. The thing. Young man, if you forward that, with your compliments, or without 'em, to the President, Fellows, and Associates of the Royal Academy, I'll bet you five to one it's hung!"
His prediction was verified—it was hung. It was the first of Mr. Lovell's pictures which ever had been hung—which made the fact none the less gratifying to Mr. Lovell. It was hung very well, too, considering. And it attracted quite a considerable amount of attention in its way. It was sold on the opening day. That fact was not displeasing to Mr. Lovell.
One morning, about the middle of June, a card was brought in to Mr. Lovell, while he was working in his studio. On it was inscribed a name—Vicomte d'Humières. The card was immediately followed by its owner, a tall, slightly built gentleman; unmistakably a foreigner. He saluted Mr. Lovell with a bow which was undoubtedly Parisian.
"Vicomte D'Humières."
"Mr. Gerald Lovell?"
The accent was French, but, for a Frenchman, the English was fair.
"I am Gerald Lovell."
"Ah! That is good! You are a gentleman, Mr. Lovell, whom I particularly wish to see." The stranger had been carrying his stick in one hand and his hat in the other. These he now deposited upon one chair; himself he placed upon a second—uninvited. He crossed his legs. He folded his black gloved hands in front of him. "I believe, Mr. Lovell, that we are not strangers—you and I."
Mr. Lovell glanced at the card which he still was holding.
"You are the Vicomte d'Humières?"
"I am."
"I am afraid—it is unpardonable remissness on my part; but I am afraid that, if I have ever had the pleasure of meeting you before, it is a pleasure which has escaped my memory."
"It is not that we have ever met before—no, it is not that. It is my name to which you are not a stranger."
Mr. Lovell glanced again at the card.
"Your name? I am afraid, Vicomte, that I do not remember having ever heard your name before."
"Ah! Is that so?" The stranger regarded his polished boots. He spoke as if he were addressing himself to them. "Is it possible that she can have given another name? No, it is not possible. She is capable of many things—I do not believe she is capable of that.' He looked up again at Mr. Lovell. "My business with you, Mr. Lovell, is of rather a peculiar kind. You will think, perhaps, that mine is rather a singular errand. I have come to ask you to acquaint me with the residence of my wife."
'With the—did you say, with the—residence of your wife?"
'That is what I said. I have come to ask you to acquaint me with the residence of my wife." The artist stared.
'But, so far as I am aware, I do not know your wife.'
"That is absurd. I do not say, Mr. Lovell, that you are conscious of the absurdity. But still—it is absurd—I was not aware that you were acquainted with my wife until I learnt the fact, this morning, at your Academy."
"At our Academy?"
"Precisely. Upon the walls of your Academy of Painting, Mr. Lovell."
Mr. Lovell began to wonder if his visitor was not an amiable French lunatic.
"Is that not rather a singular place in which to learn such a fact?"
"It is a singular place. It is a very singular place, indeed. But that has nothing to do with the matter. It is as I say. You have a picture, Mr. Lovell, at the Academy?"
"I have."
"It is a portrait."
"Pardon me, it is not a portrait."
"Pardon me, Mr. Lovell, in my turn; it is a portrait. As a portrait, it is a perfect portrait. It is a portrait of my wife."
"Of your wife! You are dreaming!"
"You flatter me, Mr. Lovell. Is it that you suppose I am an imbecile? Are not the features of a wife familiar to a husband? Very good. I am the husband of my wife. Your picture, Mr. Lovell, is a portrait of my wife."
"I cannot but think you have mistaken some other picture for mine. Mine is a simple study of a woman's face. It is called 'A Vision of the Night.'"
"Precisely. And 'A Vision of the Night'—is my wife."
"It is impossible!"
"Do I understand you to say, Mr. Lovell, of a thing which I say is so that it is impossible?"
The Vicomte rose. His voice had a very significant intonation. Mr. Lovell resented it.
"I do not know, Vicomte, that I am called upon to explain to you. But, in face of your remarkable statement, I will volunteer an explanation. I saw the face, which I have painted, in a dream."
"Indeed; is that so? What sort of dream was it in which you saw my wife's face, Mr. Lovell?"
The young man flushed. The stranger's tone was distinctly offensive.
"It was in a dream which I dreamt last August at Spa."
"Ah! This is curious. At what hotel where you stopping last August at Spa?"
"At the Hôtel de Flandre—though I don't know why you ask."
"So! We approach a point, at last. Last August, my wife and I, we were at Spa. We stayed, my wife and I, at the Hôtel de Flandre. It was at the Hôtel de Flandre my wife left me. I have never seen her since. Perhaps, Mr. Gerald Lovell, you will be so good as to inform me what sort of dream it was in which you saw my wife's face, at the Hôtel de Flandre, last August, at Spa?"
Mr. Lovell hesitated. He perceived that caution was advisable. He felt that if he entered into minute particulars of his dream, there might be a misunderstanding with the Vicomte. So he temporized—or he endeavoured to.
"I have already told you that I saw the face in my picture in a dream. It is the simple fact—that I have no other explanation to offer."
"Is that so?"
"That is so."
"Very good, so far, Mr. Gerald Lovell. I thought it possible that you might have some explanation of this kind to offer. I was at the Academy with a friend. When I perceived my wife's portrait on the walls, and that it was painted by a Mr. Gerald Lovell, I said to my friend: 'I will go to this Mr. Lovell, and I will ask him, among other things, who authorized him to exhibit my wife's portrait in the absence of her husband, in a place of public resort, as if it were an advertisement.' My friend proposed to accompany me. But I said: 'No. I will go, first of all, alone. I will see what sort of explanation Mr. Gerald Lovell has to offer. If it is not a satisfactory explanation, then we will go together, you and I.' I go to seek my friend, Mr. Lovell. He is not very far away. Shortly we will return. Then I will request, of your courtesy, an explanation of that very curious dream in which you saw my wife's face at the Hôtel de Flandre. Mr. Lovell, I wish you, until then, good day."
The Vicomte withdrew, with the same extremely courteous salutation with which he had entered. The artist, left alone, looked at his visitor's card, which he still retained in his hand, with a very puzzled expression of countenance.
"Puzzled."
"If the Vicomte d'Humières returns, it strikes me there'll be a little interesting conversation."
He laid down the card. He resumed the work which had been interrupted. But the work hung fire. A painter paints, not only with his hand, but with his brain. Mr. Lovell's brain was, just then, preoccupied.
"It was a dream. And yet, as I told Warren at the time, it certainly was the most vivid dream I ever dreamt." Deserting his canvas he began to move about the room. "Supposing it wasn't a dream, and the woman was a creature of flesh and blood! Then she must have come into my room, and kissed me while I slept. I'll swear that someone kissed me. By Jove! the Vicomte won't like to be told a tale like that! As he says, a man ought to know his own wife's face when he sees it, even in a portrait. And if the picture is a portrait of his wife, then it was his wife who came into my room and kissed me. But whatever made her do a thing like that? There's no knowing what things some women will do. I rather fancy that I ought to have made a few inquiries before I took it for granted that it was nothing but a dream. They would have been able to tell me at the hotel if the original of my dream had been staying there. As it is, unless I mind my P's and Q's, I rather fancy there'll be a row."
"Pardon!—May I enter?"
Mr. Lovell was standing with his back to the door. The inquiry, therefore, was addressed to him from behind. The voice in which it was uttered was feminine, and the accent foreign. The artist turned and stared. For there, peeping through the partly open door, was the woman of his dream! There could not be he slightest doubt about it. Although the head was covered with the latest thing in Parisian hats, there was no mistaking, when one once had seen it—as he had seen it that lovely face, those laughing eyes. He stared—and gaped. The lady seemed to take his silence to imply consent. She advanced into the room.
"You are Mr. Gerald Lovell?"
As she came into the room, he perceived that she was not only most divinely fair, but most divinely tall. Her figure, clad in the most recent coquetries of Paris, was the most exquisite thing in figures he had lately seen. So completely had she taken his faculties of astonishment by storm, that he could only stammer a response.
"You are the painter of my portrait?" For the life of him, he knew not what to say. "But, if you are Mr. Gerald Lovell, it is certain that you are. Besides, I see it in your face. There is genius in your eyes. Mr. Lovell, how am I to thank you for the honour you have done me?" Moving to him, she held out to him her hand. He gave her his. She retained it—or, rather, part of it—in her small palm. "If I am ever destined to attain to immortality, it is to your brush it will be owing. Monsieur, permit me to salute the master!"
"May I enter?"
Before he had an inkling of her intention, she raised his hand and touched it with her lips. He withdrew it quickly.
"Madame!"
She exhibited no signs of discomposure.
"I was at your Academy, with a friend—not half an hour ago. I beheld miles of mediocrity. Suddenly I saw—my face! my own face! glancing at me from the walls! Ah, quelle plaisir! But my face—how many times more lovely! How many times more beautiful! My face—depicted by the hand of a great artist! by the brush of a poet, and a genius!—Monsieur, you have placed on me ten thousand obligations."
She gave him the most sweeping curtsey with which he ever had been favoured—and in her eyes was laughter all the time. He was recovering his presence of mind. He felt that it was time to put a stop to the lady's flow of flowery language. He was about to do so—when a question she put to him again sent half his senses flying.
"There is one thing which I wished to ask you, Monsieur. When and where did I sit to you for my portrait? I do not remember to have had the pleasure and the honour of meeting you before." The lady's laughing eyes were fixed intently on his face. "And yet, as I look at you, a sort of shadowy recollection comes to me of a previous encounter; it is very strange! Monsieur, where was it we encountered—you and I?"
"Madame!"
Seeing how evidently he was at a loss for words, she put out her hand to him as if to give him courage.
"Do not be afraid. Tell me—where was it that you saw me?
"I saw you in a dream."
"A dream? Monsieur! To hear you speak—it is like a poem. Monsieur, where did you dream this dream in which you dreamt of me?"
"It was last year, at Spa."
"At Spa—that horrible place?"
"I did not find it a horrible place."
"No? Was it that dream which you dreamt of me which robbed it of its horror?" He did not speak. He allowed her to infer a compliment, but he did not proffer one. "But, Monsieur, I was only at Spa one afternoon and a single night."
"It was that night I dreamed of you."
"You dreamed? How? Tell me about this dream."
"I dreamed that you came into my room while I was asleep in bed, and kissed me!"
She continued to look at him intently a moment longer, as if she did not realize the full meaning of his words. Then—let us do her justice!—the blood rushed to her face, her cheeks flamed fiery red. With her hands she veiled her eyes. She gave a little cry.
"Ah, mon Dieu! It was you—I remember. Quelle horreur!"
There was silence. Before she removed her hands from her eyes she turned away. She stood with her back towards him, trifling with a brush which he had placed upon the table. She spoke scarcely above a whisper.
"Monsieur, I thought you were asleep."
"I was asleep. I saw you in a dream."
"Then did did I wake you?"
"You must have done. I woke—you must forgive my saying so—with a kiss tingling on my lips." The lady put her hands up to her eyes again. "The dream had been so vivid I could not understand it. I got up to see if anyone was in the room."
"If you had caught me!"
"There was no one. But so acutely had your face impressed itself on my imagination that I took my sketch-book, and made a drawing of it then and there. In the morning I showed this drawing to a friend. He advised me to use it for a picture. I did. That picture is 'A Vision of the Night'!"
"A vision of the night."
"It is the most extraordinary thing, Monsieur; you will suppose I am a very peculiar person. It is but a lame explanation I have to offer. Of that I am but too conscious. But such as it is, I entreat that you will suffer me to give it you. Monsieur, I am married"—Mr. Lovell bowed. He did not mention that he was aware of that already—"to the most capricious husband in the world to a husband whom I love, but whom I cannot respect." Mr. Lovell thought. that that was good—from her. "He is a man who is extremely difficile, Monsieur. I do not think you have a word which expresses what I would say in English. He is extremely jealous; he is enraged that his wife should use the eyes which are in her head! The very day on which we arrived at Spa we had a dreadful quarrel. I will not speak of the treatment to which I was subjected; it is enough to say that he locked the door so that I should not leave the room—he wished to make of me a prisoner. Monsieur, directly he was gone, I perceived that there were two doors to the room—the one which he had locked, and another, which I tried. I found that it was open. Monsieur, when a Monsieur, when a prisoner desires to escape, he escapes by any road which offers. I was a prisoner; I desired to escape; I made use of the only road which I could find. I entered the door; I found myself in a room in which there was—how shall I say it?—in which there was a man asleep. Monsieur, it was you!"
It must be owned that at this point the lady certainly did look down.
"I was, that night, in a wicked mood. I glanced at you; I perceived that you were but a boy"—Mr. Lovell flushed: he did not consider himself a boy—"but a handsome boy." She peeped at him with malicious laughter in her eyes. "I regarded myself as your mother, or your sister, or your guardian angel. Monsieur will perceive how much I am the elder." Again, a glance of laughing malice from those bewitching eyes. "I am afraid it is too true that I approached the sleeping lips." There was silence. Then, so softly that her listener was only just able to catch the words: "I pray that Monsieur will forgive me."
"There is nothing for which Madame needs forgiveness."
"Monsieur but says so to give me pleasure. But one thing Monsieur must permit me to observe: If every woman were to be rewarded, as I have been, for what I did, half the women in France would commit—a similar little indiscretion." Mr. Lovell was silent; he did not know exactly what to say. "Monsieur will permit me to regard him, from this day forward, as my friend? Mr. Gerald Lovell, permit me to introduce to you—the Vicomtesse d'Humières!"
The lady favoured him with another sweeping curtsey.
"I have already the pleasure of being acquainted with Madame's name."
"From whom did you learn it? From the people at the hotel?"
"I but learned it a few minutes before Madame herself came here."
"So! From whom?"
"I learnt it from the Vicomte d'Humières."
"The Vicomte d'Humières! My husband! Are you acquainted with him, then?"
"I can scarcely claim to be acquainted with the Vicomte. It seems, Madame, that this has been a morning of coincidences. It would appear that just before Madame perceived my little picture at the Academy, the Vicomte d'Humières perceived it too."
"Truly! But how magnificent!"
The lady clasped her hands in a little ecstasy.
"The Vicomte d'Humières did not seem to consider it magnificent. He took a distinctly contrary view."
"But that is certain!"
"He requested me to furnish him with your address. When I informed him that I was not acquainted with Madame, he desired to know who had authorized me to send your portrait to a public exhibition. I observed that I was not aware that it was the portrait of Madame, since the face in the picture was but the study of a face which I had seen in a dream."
"In a dream! You did not tell him—the little history?"
"I entered into no particulars."
"I entreat you, Monsieur, not to tell him the little history. There will be a scandal; he is so quick to misconceive."
"I will endeavour to observe Madame's wishes."
"It is like a little romance, is it not, Monsieur? Perhaps I should explain myself a little further. That night"—she emphasized the that—"I left my husband. In effect, he had become unbearable. I have seen and heard nothing of him since. But I am beginning to become conscious of a desire to meet with him again. I know not why! I suppose, when one loves one's husband truly, one wishes to meet him—once a year. I do not wish our reconciliation to be inaugurated by a quarrel—no, I entreat you, Monsieur, not to recount to him that little history."
"I should inform Madame that I expect the Vicomte d'Humières to return."
"Return? Where? Here? When?"
"Very shortly—with a friend. In fact, unless I am mistaken, he comes already."
The lady listened.
"It is Philippe's voice! Mon Dieu! He must not find me here."
"But, Madame———"
"Ah, the screen! It is like farce at the Palais Royale—is it not a fact? I will be your model, Monsieur, behind the screen!"
"Madame!"
Before he could interpose to prevent her, the lady vanished behind the screen. The door of the studio opened, and the Vicomte d'Humières entered, accompanied by his friend.
II.
"The Vicomte's Friend."
The Vicomte's friend was a gentleman of a figure which is not uncommon in France, even to-day. His attitude suggested a ramrod, he breathed powder and shot; and he bristled—what shall we say?—with bayonets. The last person in the world with whom a modern Briton should have a serious difference of opinion. The ideas of that sort of person upon matters which involve a difference of opinion are in such contrast to ours. The Vicomte performed the ceremony of introduction.
"Mr. Gerald Lovell, permit me to introduce to your courteous consideration my friend, M. Victor Berigny!"
M. Berigny bowed, ceremoniously. Mr. Lovell only nodded—his thoughts were behind the screen. The Vicomte turned to his friend.
"Victor, I have explained to you that I have already had the pleasure of an interview with Mr. Gerald Lovell." M. Berigny bowed. "I have also explained to you that I have desired him to inform me by whose authority he exhibits a portrait of my wife in a public exhibition. To that he has replied that his picture, 'A Vision of the Night,' is not a portrait of my wife. I request you, Victor, to state, in Mr. Gerald Lovell's presence, whether that picture, in your opinion, is or is not a portrait of my wife."
"Certainly, it is a portrait."
M. Berigny's accent was more marked than the Vicomte's, but still he did speak English.
"I thank you, Victor. It remains for me to once more request, in your presence, Mr. Gerald Lovell to explain how it was that he happened to dream of the face of my wife last August, in the Hôtel de Flandre, at Spa. Mr. Gerald Lovell, I have the honour to await your explanation."
The Vicomte, his arms crossed upon his chest, his left foot a little protruding, his head thrown back, awaited the explanation. Mr. Lovell's thoughts ran screenwards.
"What the deuce shall I do if he discovers her behind the screen?"
"Monsieur, I am waiting."
"If he does discover her there'll be a row."
"I still am waiting, Mr. Gerald Lovell."
With each repetition of the statement the Vicomte's tone became more acidulated. The artist arrived at a sudden resolution.
"Then I am afraid, Vicomte, that you will have to wait."
The Vicomte looked at the artist with an evident inclination to add a cubit to his own stature.
"Is it possible that I understand your meaning, Mr. Gerald Lovell?"
"My language is sufficiently simple."
"In France, Mr. Gerald Lovell, an artist is supposed to be a gentleman."
"And so in England, Vicomte. And therefore, when an artist is interrupted at his work by another gentleman, he feels himself at liberty to beg that other gentleman—to excuse him."
Mr. Lovell waved his hand, affably, in the direction of the door. The Vicomte's countenance assumed a peculiar pallor.
"You are a curious person, Mr. Gerald Lovell."
His friend interposed.
"Philippe, you had better leave the matter to me."
M. Berigny approached the painter—with a ramrod down his back.
"I have the honour, Monsieur, to request from you the name of a friend."
"Of a friend? What for?"
"Ah, Monsieur—to arrange the preliminaries!"
"What preliminaries?"
"Is it that Monsieur amuses himself?"
"Is it possible that you suppose that I am going to fight a duel?"
"Monsieur intends, then, to offer an explanation to my friend?"
"M. Berigny, I do not wish to say to you anything uncourteous, or anything unworthy an English gentleman; but I do beg you to believe that, because you choose to be an idiot, and your friend chooses to be an idiot, it does not follow that I choose to be an idiot, too."
"Monsieur!"
"One other observation. I have not seen much of you, M. Berigny, but that little has not disposed me to see more. May I therefore ask you—to leave my studio?"
"Monsieur!"
"Or—must I turn you out?"
"Turn me out!"
The Vicomte had been listening to this little dialogue. He now turned towards his friend.
"Ah, my friend, it is as he says! He will turn you out, neck and crop, as the English say. He will throw you down the stairs, he will heave half a brick at your head, to help you on your way. Then, when you require satisfaction, he will refer you to a magistrate. You will summon him—it will be in the papers—he will be fined half-a-crown! That is how they manage these affairs in England. It is true!"
"But—among gentlemen!"
"Ah, mon ami, voilà! In England, nowadays, there are no gentlemen!"
Mr. Lovell moved a step towards M. Berigny.
"I have asked you, as a gentleman, to leave my studio."
"Monsieur, you are a coward!"
The painter's eyes gleamed. But he kept his temper pretty well, considering.
"You appear to have been taught singularly ill manners in your native country, sir. I will endeavour to teach you better manners here. Are you going? Or must I eject you?"
"Polisson!"
That was M. Berigny's answer. There was just a momentary hesitation. Then, grasping M. Berigny firmly by the shoulders, Mr. Lovell began to move him, more rapidly than gently, in the direction of the door. The Vicomte came forward, with the evident intention of interposing. There would probably have been a slightly undignified scramble had not a diversion been created by the opening of the door, and the entrance of Mr. Warren. That gentleman glanced from one person to another.
"In the direction of the door."
"I beg your pardon," he observed. "I hope I don't intrude!"
Mr. Lovell laughed, a little forcedly. His complexion was distinctly ruddy.
"Not at all! I wish you had come in sooner. The most ridiculous thing has happened."
"Indeed! I have an eye for the ridiculous."
"You know that picture of mine, 'A Vision of the Night'?"
"I've heard of it."
"This gentleman says that it's a portrait of his wife."
Mr. Lovell pointed to the Vicomte d'Humières.
"No? Then, in that case, this gentleman's wife came into your bedroom in the middle of the night, and—kissed you, wasn't it?"
Mr. Warren spoke in the innocence of his heart, but, at that moment, Mr. Lovell could have struck his boyhood's friend. There was a listener behind the screen. The young gentleman's cheeks grew crimson, as the lady's had done a few minutes before. He was conscious, too, that the Vicomte's unfriendly eyes were fixed upon his face.
"So! That is it! You———" The Vicomte moved you a step forward then checked himself. "Tell me, where is my wife at this instant?"
Mr. Lovell could have told him, but he refrained.
"I decline to give you any information of any kind whatever."
"You decline?" The Vicomte raised his hand. He would have struck the artist. Mr. Warren interposed to avert the blow.
"He declines for the very simple reason that he has never seen your wife; isn't that so, Gerald?"
Mr. Lovell hesitated. He scarcely saw his way to a denial while the lady was behind the screen.
"You see! He does not even dare to lie!"
"Don't talk nonsense, sir! Gerald, why don't you tell the man that you have never seen the woman in your life?"
"I repeat that I decline to give this person any information of any kind whatever."
"You decline?"
The Vicomte uttered the words in a kind of strangled screech. His patience was exhausted. He seemed to think that he was being subjected to treatment which was more than flesh and blood could bear. He rushed at Mr. Lovell. Mr. Lovell, probably forgetting himself on the impulse of the moment— or he would have been more careful—swung the Vicomte round against the screen. It tottered, reeled, and, raising a cloud of dust, it fell with a bang to the floor!
It was a leaf out of Sheridan.
"Revealed."
For an instant the several members of that little party did not distinctly realize what it was that had happened. Then they saw. There was a pause—a curious pause. Their attitudes betrayed a charming diversity of emotions. The Vicomte, his coat a little disarranged, owing to the somewhat rough handling which he had just received, stood and glared. M. Berigny, more ramroddy than ever, stared. Mr. Warren gasped. Mr. Lovell's quickened breathing, crimsoned cheeks, and flashing eyes seemed to suggest that his breast was a tumult of conflicting feelings. The lady, whose presence had been so unexpectedly revealed, stood behind the fallen screen, with the most charming air of innocence in the world, and she smiled.
It was she who broke the silence. She held out her hand to the Vicomte.
"Bon jour, Philippe!"
"Ah-h-h!" The Vicomte drew himself away with a sort of shuddering exclamation. "Antoinette! It is you! It cannot be!"
"My dear Philippe—why not?"
"Why not? She asks why not!" The Vicomte held out his hands, as though he appealed to the eternal verities. "Traîtresse! Once more is woman false and man betrayed!"
The Vicomte's gesture was worthy of the tragic stage—in France. The lady still held. out her hand, and still she smiled.
"My dear Philippe—try comedy!"
"Comedy? Ah, yes, I will try comedy—the comedy of r-r-revenge!" The Vicomte distinctly rolled his r's. He turned to Mr. Lovell. "I will kill you, even though for killing you, by the law of England, I am hanged. Victor, where is my hat?"
The Vicomte put this question to his friend with a peculiar coldness. M. Berigny shrugged his shoulders.
"How should I know? It is not a question of a hat."
"As you say, it is not a question of a hat. It is a question"—the Vicomte moved towards Mr. Lovell—"of that!"
He raised his hand with the intention of striking the artist on the cheek. Mr. Lovell never flinched; but the lady, rushing forward, caught her husband by the wrist. She looked at him, still with laughter in her eyes.
"Try not to be insane."
The Vicomte glared at her with a glare which, at least, was characteristic.
"Why do I not kill her—why?"
The lady only smiled.
"They say that a woman is devoid of humour. How is it then sometimes with a man? You, Philippe, are always thinking of the Porte St. Martin—I, of the Bouffes Parisien."
The Vicomte turned to his friend.
"Victor, why do I not kill this woman?"
M. Berigny only shrugged his shoulders. Possibly because he was not ready with a more adequate reply. The lady turned to the artist.
"Monsieur, I offer you ten thousand apologies, which my husband will one day offer you himself, as becomes a gentleman of France."
The Vicomte repeated his inquiry:
"Victor, why do I not kill this woman?"
Only a shrug in reply. The lady went on:
"You have immortalized my poor face, Monsieur; my husband insults you in return."
The Vicomte folded his arms across his chest.
"It is certain, Victor, that she still lives!"
"One night, Monsieur, my husband locked me in my room. He designed to make of me a prisoner. Why? Ah, do not ask me why! When he had left me, I escaped, not by the door which he had locked, but by a door he had not noticed. This door led into an apartment in which there was a stranger sleeping. I was but an instant in that apartment—but the instant in which it was necessary to pass through. The sleeper never spoke to me; he never saw me with his waking eyes. But, even in his sleep, my poor, frightened face so flashed upon his brain that, even in his waking hours, it haunted him so that he made of it a picture—a picture of that vision of the night!"
The Vicomte approached closer to his friend. He addressed him in a sort of confidential, but still distinctly audible, aside:
"Victor, is it possible that this is true?"
"I beg, my friend, that of me you will ask nothing."
"Monsieur, this morning I was at your Academy. I saw my own countenance looking at me from the walls. For the first time I learned that my poor, frightened woman's face had appeared to a sleeping stranger in a vision of the night. Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur!"
The lady covered her face with her hands. It would, perhaps, be rash to say that she cried; but, at least, she seemed to cry, and if it was only seeming, she did it very well.
"Victor," again inquired the Vicomte of his friend, "is it possible that this is true?"
M. Berigny wagged his finger in the Vicomte's face.
"D'Humières, it now becomes a question of hats."
The Vicomte laid his hand on his companion's arm.
"One instant, Victor—still one instant more."
The lady, uncovering her eyes—which actually were sparkling with tears—continued to address the artist:
"Monsieur, I will not speak to you of my love for my husband—my Philippe! I will not speak to you of how we have been parted for a year—a whole, long year—mon Dieu, Monsieur, mon Dieu! I will not speak to you of how, every instant of that long, long year I have thought of him, of how I have yearned for him, of how I have longed for one touch of his hand, one word from his lips, one glance from his eyes. No, Monsieur, I will not speak to you of all these things. And for this reason: That, with me, all things are finished. I go, never to return again. My face—you have made immortal; the rest of me will perish. For the woman whose heart is broken there remains but one place—the grave. It is to that place I go!"
The lady had become as tragic as her husband—even more so, in her way. She moved across the room with the air of a tragedy queen—Parisian. The Vicomte was visibly affected. He fastened a convulsive clutch upon M. Berigny's arm.
"Victor, tell me, what shall I do? Advise me, oh, my friend! This is a critical moment in my life! It is impossible that I should let her go. Antoinette!"
The Vicomte advanced, just in time, between the lady and the door.
"Monsieur, I entreat of you this last boon, to let me go. You have insulted me in the presence of a stranger; for me, therefore, nothing else remains. You have inquired if you should kill me. No, Philippe, you need not kill me; it is myself I will kill!"
"Antoinette!"
"I am no longer Antoinette; I am the woman whose happiness you have destroyed. It is only when I am dead that you will learn what is written on my heart for you."
"Antoinette," the strong man's voice faltered, "Antoinette, am I never, then, to be forgiven?"
There was a momentary pause. Then the lady held out both her hands. "Philippe!"
"My heart! my soul! thou treasure of my life! thou star of my existence! Is it possible that a cloud should have interposed itself between thy path and mine?"
He took her in his arms. He pressed her to his breast. M. Berigny turned away. From his attitude it almost seemed as if the soldier—the man of ramrods and of bayonets!—wiped away a tear.
"Philippe! Take care, or you will derange my hat!"
"Antoinette! My beautiful, my own!"
"Philippe, do you not think you should apologize—take care, my friend, or you certainly will derange my hat!—to the stranger who has made immortal the face of the woman who loved you better than her life—my friend, take ca re!—who has made her appear on canvas so much more beautiful than she is in life?"
"No, Antoinette, that I will not have. It is impossible. Beauty such as yours is not to be rendered by a painter's brush!"
"If that be so, all the more reason why we should be grateful to Mr. Lovell for endeavouring the impossible."
The lady peeped at Mr Lovell with the quaintest malice in her eyes.
"Certainly, Antoinette, there is something in what you say. And, after all, it is a charming painting. I said, Victor, when I saw it, there can be no doubt, as a painting, it is charming—did I not say so?" M. Berigny inclined his head. With his handkerchief the Vicomte smoothed his moustache. He advanced towards Mr. Lovell: "Monsieur, a Frenchman—a true Frenchman—seldom errs. On those rare occasions on which he errs he is always willing, under proper conditions, to confess his error. Monsieur, I perceive that I have done you an injustice. For the injustice which I have done you—I desire to apologize."
Mr. Lovell smiled, He held out his hand.
"My dear fellow! There's nothing for which you need apologize."
The Vicomte grasped the artist's hand in both of his.
"My dear friend!" he cried.
"Philippe," whispered the lady into her husband's ear, "do you not think that you would like Mr. Lovell and his friend to favour us with their company at luncheon?"
The Vicomte seemed to think he would. They lunched together—all the five! Why not?
