The General had been more favorably impressed with Zibeline’s appearance than he cared to show. The generous action of this beautiful girl, her frankness, her ease of manner, her cleverness in repartee, were likely to attract the attention of a man of his character. He reproached himself already for having allowed himself to be influenced by the rancorous hostility of the Desvanneaux, and, as always happens with just natures, the sudden change of his mind was the more favorable as his first opinion had been unjust.
Such was the theme of his reflections on the route from the Hotel de Montgeron to that of Eugenic Gontie’s, with whom he was engaged to dine with some of her friends, invited to celebrate her success of the evening before.
On entering her dining-room Eugenie took the arm of Lenaieff, placed Henri de Prerolles on her left and Samoreau opposite her—in his character of senior member, so that no one could mistake his transitory function with that of an accredited master of the house.
The four other guests were distinguished writers or artists, including the painter Edmond Delorme, and, like him, all were intimate friends of the mistress of the house.
Naturally the conversation turned upon the representation of Adrienne, and on the applause of the fashionable audience, usually rather undemonstrative.
“Never have I received so many flowers as were given to me last night,” said Eugenic, displaying an enormous beribboned basket which ornamented the table. “But that which particularly flattered me,” she added, “was the spontaneous tribute from that pretty foreigner who sought me in the greenroom expressly to offer me her bouquet.”
“The young lady in the proscenium box, I will wager,” said Lenaieff.
“Precisely. I know that they call her Zibeline, but I did not catch her real name.”
“It is Mademoiselle de Vermont,” said Edmond Delorme. “She is, in my opinion, the most dashing of all the Amazons in the Bois de Boulogne. The Chevalier de Sainte-Foy brought her to visit my studio last autumn, and I am making a life-size portrait of her on her famous horse, Seaman, the winner of the great steeplechase at Liverpool, in 1882.”
“What were you pencilling on the back of your menu while you were talking?” asked the actress, curiously.
“The profile of General de Prerolles,” the painter replied. “I think that his mare Aida would make a capital companion picture for Seaman, and that he himself would be an appropriate figure to adorn a canvas hung on the line opposite her at the next Salon!”
“Pardon me, dear master!” interrupted the General. “Spare me, I pray, the honor of figuring in this equestrian contradance. I have not the means to bequeath to posterity that your fair model possesses—”
“Is she, then, as rich as they say?” inquired one of the guests.
“I can answer for that,” said the Baron de Samoreau. “She has a letter of credit upon me from my correspondent in New York. Last night, during an entr’acte, she gave me an order to hold a million francs at her disposal before the end of the week.”
“I know the reason why,” added Henri.
“But,” Lenaieff exclaimed, “you told me that you did not know her!”
“I have made her acquaintance since then.”
“Ah! Where?” Eugenie inquired, with interest.
“At my sister’s house, during the meeting of a charitable society.”
“Had it anything to do with the society for which Monsieur Desvanneaux asked me to appear in a kermess?”
“Well, yes. In fact, he has gone so far as to announce that he is assured of your cooperation.”
“I could not refuse him,” said Eugenie. “Under the mantle of charity, the holy man paid court to me!”
“I knew well enough that he had not yet laid down his arms forever,” said the General.
“Oh, he is not the only one. His son-in-law also honored me with an attack.”
“What, Monsieur de Thomery? Well, that is a good joke!”
“But what is funnier yet,” continued the actress, “is the fact that the first-named gentleman was on his knees, just about to make me a declaration, apparently, when the second was announced! Immediately the father-in-law jumped to his feet, entreating me not to allow them to meet. I was compelled to open for him the door leading to the servants’ stairway—”
“And what did you do with the other man?” asked Lenaieff, laughing loudly.
“I rid myself of him in the same way. At a sign from me, my maid announced the name of the father-in-law, and the alarmed son-in-law escaped by the same road! Oh, but I know them! They will come back!”
“Under some other pretext, however,” said the General. “Because Mademoiselle de Vermont’s million francs have destroyed their amorous designs.”
“So now we see Zibeline fairly launched,” remarked the banker. “Since the Duchesse de Montgeron has taken her up, all the naughty tales that have been fabricated about her will go to pieces like a house of cards.”
“That is very probable,” the General concluded, “for she has made a complete conquest of my sister.”
At these words a slight cloud passed over the actress’s face. The imagination of a jealous mistress sees rivals everywhere; especially that of an actress.
After dinner, while her other guests went into the smoking-room, Eugenic made a sign to her lover to remain with her, and seated herself beside him.
“I wish to ask you a question, Henri,” said she.
“What is it?”
“Do you still love me?”
“What reason have you to doubt it?”
“None that warrants me in reproaching you for anything. But so many things separate us! Your career, to which you owe everything! Your social standing, so different from mine! Oh, I know that you are sincere, and that if you ever have a scruple regarding our liaison, you will not be able to hide it from me. It is this possibility of which I think.”
“You are quite wrong, I assure you. Did I hide myself last night in order to prove openly my admiration for you? Did I appear to disclaim the allusions which you emphasized in seeming to address me in the course of your role?”
“No, that is true. Shall I make a confession? When I am on the stage, I fear nothing, because there the points of comparison are all in my favor, since you can say to yourself: ‘This woman on whom all eyes are fixed, whose voice penetrates to the depths of the soul—this woman, beautiful, applauded, courted, belongs to me—wholly to me,’ and your masculine vanity is pleasantly flattered. But later, Henri! When the rouge is effaced from my lips, when the powder is removed from my cheeks—perhaps revealing some premature line caused by study and late hours—if, after that, you return to your own circle, and there encounter some fresh young girl, graceful and blooming, the object, in her turn, of the fickle admiration of the multitude, forgetful already of her who just now charmed them—tell me, Henri! do you not, as do the others, covet that beautiful exotic flower, and must not the poor comedienne weep for her lost prestige?”
“It is Mademoiselle de Vermont, then, who inspires you with this apprehension,” said the General, smiling.
“Well, yes, it is she!”
“What childishness! Lenaieff will tell you that I have never even looked at her.”
“Last night, perhaps—but to-day?”
“We exchanged no more than a dozen words.”
“But the more I think of her visit to the greenroom, the more inexplicable it appears to me.”
“You need not be surprised at that: she does nothing that any one else does.”
“These things are not done to displease you.”
“I may agree as to that; but what conclusion do you draw?”
“That she is trying to turn your head.”
“My head! You jest! I might be her father.”
“That is not always a reason—”
Nevertheless, Henri’s exclamation had been so frank that Eugenie felt somewhat reassured.
“Are you going so soon?” she said, seeing him take his hat.
“I promised my sister to join her at the opera. Besides, this is your reception night, and I leave you to your duties as hostess. To-morrow, at the usual hour-and we will talk of something else, shall we not?”
“Ah, dearest, that is all I ask!” said Eugenie.
He attempted to kiss her hand, but she held up her lips. He pressed his own upon them in a long kiss, and left her.
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