"We shall never have war with Russia," said some one; "her dukes love
Paris too well."
Light careless laughter followed this cynical observation. Another time
Courtlandt might have smiled. He pushed his way into the passage leading
to the dressing-rooms, and followed its windings until he met a human
barrier. To his inquiry the answer was abrupt and perfectly clear in its
meaning: La Signorina da Toscana had given most emphatic orders not to
disclose her address to any one. Monsieur might, if he pleased, make
further inquiries of the directors; the answer there would be the same.
Presently he found himself gazing down the avenue once more. There were a
thousand places to go to, a thousand pleasant things to do; yet he
doddered, full of ill-temper, dissatisfaction, and self-contempt. He was
weak, damnably weak; and for years he had admired himself, detachedly, as
a man of pride. He started forward, neither sensing his direction nor the
perfected flavor of his Habana.
Opera singers were truly a race apart. They lived in the world but were
not a part of it, and when they died, left only a memory which faded in
one generation and became totally forgotten in another. What jealousies,
what petty bickerings, what extravagances! With fancy and desire
unchecked, what ingenious tricks they used to keep themselves in the
public mind,--tricks begot of fickleness and fickleness begetting. And
yet, it was a curious phase: their influence was generally found when
history untangled for posterity some Gordian knot. In old times they had
sung the Marseillaise and danced the carmagnole and indirectly plied
the guillotine. And to-day they smashed prime ministers, petty kings, and
bankers, and created fashions for the ruin of husbands and fathers of
modest means. Devil take them! And Courtlandt flung his cigar into the
street.
He halted. The Madeleine was not exactly the goal for a man who had, half
an hour before, contemplated a rout at Maxim's. His glance described a
half-circle. There was Durand's; but Durand's on opera nights entertained
many Americans, and he did not care to meet any of his compatriots
to-night. So he turned down the Rue Royale, on the opposite side, and went
into the Taverne Royale, where the patrons were not over particular in
regard to the laws of fashion, and where certain ladies with light
histories sought further adventures to add to their heptamerons. Now,
Courtlandt thought neither of the one nor of the other. He desired
isolation, safety from intrusion; and here, did he so signify, he could
find it. Women gazed up at him and smiled, with interest as much as with
invitation. He was brown from long exposure to the wind and the sun, that
golden brown which is the gift of the sun-glitter on rocking seas. A
traveler is generally indicated by this artistry of the sun, and once
noted instantly creates a speculative interest. Even his light brown hair
had faded at the temples, and straw-colored was the slender mustache, the
ends of which had a cavalier twist. He ignored the lips which smiled and
the eyes which invited, and nothing more was necessary. One is not
importuned at the Taverne Royale. He sat down at a vacant table and
ordered a pint of champagne, drinking hastily rather than thirstily.