Robert Orange Part 37

"_Do not misjudge me----_"

"Stop!" exclaimed Castrillon, falling upon his feet at once; "that is from a woman. Why didn't you say so?"

"It is from Madame Parflete," replied Isidore.

"Impossible!" said Castrillon, s.n.a.t.c.hing it from his hand; "impossible!"

He read the letter, flushed to the roots of his hair, and kicked Isidore for the second time.

"You beast!" said he; "where did you get this? It is her writing, but she never wrote it--never on G.o.d's earth! Where did you get it?"

"It was given to me by one of her servants."

"Why the devil do you tell me such lies?" exclaimed the young man in a fury; "it's some d----d practical joke in the most infernal bad taste, and, by G.o.d! I have a mind to shoot you."

Castrillon was not given to the utterance of vain threats, and his anger was so great that the wretched Isidore, shaking, whining, and cursing, edged round the room with his back to the wall and his eyes fixed on his master.

"Stand still, will you?" continued the Marquis; "I want to hear a little more. How much were you paid for giving me this twaddle? Answer me that."

"Two guineas!"

"Two? I'll bet you had twenty. Stand still, I tell you, or I'll kick you again. Do you expect me to believe that Mrs. Parflete's servant gave you twenty guineas?"

"No, I don't," answered Isidore. "I don't expect you to believe anything. But if that isn't Madame Parflete's writing, whose writing is it?"

"That is just what I mean to find out," replied Castrillon, "and that is why I won't shoot you till it suits my convenience."

Isidore, who had a venomous attachment to the Marquis, burst into tears.

For many generations their respective ancestors had stood in the relation, each to the other, of tyrant and dependent. Isidore's father had robbed, cheated, deceived, and adored Castrillon's father; the fathers of these two reprobates had observed the same measure of whippings and treacheries, and so it had been always from the first registered beginnings of the n.o.ble and the slavish house. But an Isidore had never been known to leave a Castrillon's service. The hereditary, easy-going forbearance, on the one hand, which found killing less tedious than a crude dismissal, and the hereditary guilty conscience, on the other, which had to recognise the justice of punishment, kept the connection rudely loyal.

"I detest you," said Castrillon; "I hate the sight of you."

Isidore blubbered aloud, and accepted the information as a turn for the better in the tide of his master's wrath.

"Who gave you that letter?"

"Well, if you must know, it was Signor Mudara."

"Mudara? Then Mudara wrote it. I'll wring his neck."

"I'll wring his neck, too--if he has tried any of his games on me,"

sobbed Isidore. "But it may not be a game. You are always so hasty."

Castrillon read the letter through once more.

"I can't believe that she wrote it," he said. "I'll swear she didn't."

"And why?"

"Because the style is not in keeping with her character, blockhead! She does not ask me--or any one else--to visit her at two o'clock in the morning."

A revolting smile made the valet's loose-hanging, sullen lips quiver with emotion.

"No, that is not Madame's style. She is too clever. But does that affect the opportunity!"

"What opportunity?"

"You have the letter. It is for Madame herself to deny the handwriting--not you. Why should you, of all people, think it a joke?

Why not act upon it? Why not ask her what it means?"

"At two in the morning? I have no wish to compromise Madame--not the least. She is too rich to compromise. She is the sort of lady one marries. Tell Mudara, with my compliments, he must understand gentlemen before he can play successful tricks upon them."

"I will take my oath that I am not sure it is a trick," answered Isidore.

Castrillon studied the letter for a third time.

"Here and there," he said, "it has the ring of her voice, and the words are the words she uses."

"With such a justification in my pocket, I know what I should do,"

mumbled Isidore.

"So do I. But you are the sc.u.m of the earth, and what you would, or wouldn't do, could only interest the hangman."

The Marquis locked the note in his dressing-case, and handed his keys, with his usual simplicity, to Isidore.

"I do not propose to tire myself with this nonsense before the play,"

said he. "Get my raw eggs and milk."

At nine o'clock that evening, a brilliant company were gathered in the Salle de Comedie. Most of the Foreign Amba.s.sadors, and about fifty ill.u.s.trious personages of great social importance, were present. Prince d'Alchingen had resolved that the daughter of Henriette Duboc should have every opportunity of making a successful _debut_ in England. He had sprinkled most judiciously among his guests a few accredited experts in various departments of knowledge, and these he hoped would lead appreciation into the right channel by explaining, at fit intervals, just why Mrs. Parflete was beautiful and just where her art had its especial distinction. The play itself--_La Seconde Surprise de l'Amour_--by Pierre de Marivaux, was quite unknown to the audience.

Brigit and Castrillon had appeared in it at Madrid, and descriptions of their success were whispered through the room. The story of her birth, her unhappy marriage, her adventures in Spain, and her relations with De Hausee had quickened curiosity to the highest pitch. Was she really so young? was she really so pretty? was she going on the public stage, or would she remain an accomplished, semi-royal amateur? No one referred openly to the late Archduke Charles, but the facts that Madame Duboc had been his Canonical wife, that Mrs. Parflete was the one child of their union, kept the whole aristocratic a.s.sembly thrilled with the sense of taking part in something as distinguished as a Court function, as exciting as a Court scandal, and as bewildering as a Court conspiracy. A string orchestra--conducted by Strauss himself--played French melodies of the eighteenth century. Would there be any dancing? would she sing?

Henriette Duboc had been compared, as a dancer, to La Guimard, said Sir Piers Harding to the d.u.c.h.ess of Lossett. And who was La Guimard? asked the d.u.c.h.ess. And was Mrs. Parflete at all like her mother? And did she bear the extraordinary resemblance, _of which so much had been made_, to Marie Antoinette? Sir Piers felt bound to own that the likeness was remarkable. And this de Hausee--what of him? Had Sir Piers seen the odd announcement, about his name and antecedents, in the _Times_? The d.u.c.h.ess didn't know what to think. It was all so very odd, but most interesting, of course. Was M. de Hausee, by any chance, in the audience? No. Well, perhaps it was better taste on his part to keep away. The bell rang. All eyes turned toward the blue satin curtains; they moved: the lights were lowered; the violins played a languorous air: with a rustle--not unlike that caused by the movement of wings--the curtains were drawn back and disclosed an empty garden. Then, following the stage direction, the Marquise entered "_tristement sur la scene_."

The entrance was made quietly, and, for a breathless second, no one realised that the heroine of the evening had at last appeared. Her Grace of Lossett began to fear she felt a little disappointed when, in the nick of time, a great poet, who sat near her, murmured, "Divine."

But at this point we may quote from the _Memoirs_ of Lady Julia Babington:--

_Mrs. Parflete's personal appearance caused an immediate furore.

Many disagreed about her claims to perfect beauty, but these hostile feelings did not last longer than five minutes. She was an extremely pretty woman; rather tall for her slight proportions, but elegant to a surprising degree. The extraordinary charm of her acting, her voice, her countenance, and her accent were delightful.

It would have been impossible to display more grace, simplicity, and ingenuousness than she did: she gave several touches of pathos in a manner to make one cry, and to quite enchant all who bad taste enough and mind to appreciate her inimitable talent._

And again in the Letters of Charlotte, Lady Pardwicke, we read:--

_If Mrs. Parflete can be called handsome, it is certainly a _figure de fantasie_. She has a clear complexion, is young, tall; her manners are _doucereuses_, for, besides being a beauty, she has pretensions, I understand, to _bel-esprit_. The majority of those present were undeniably captivated by her peculiar fascination._

Augustus Barfield has the following remarks in his famous Journal:--

_There were no two opinions about the success of the _debutante_.

We had been led to expect a good deal, but fortunately every description proved inaccurate, so, while she utterly failed to realise any single preconceived idea, she had the great advantage of appearing as some one wholly new. Rumour had prepared me equally for a St. Elizabeth, a Mademoiselle Mars, a Marie-Antoinette, a Recamier, or a Sophie Arnould. She resembled none of these ladies--being far more tragic in her nature than the rather sensual Queen of France, and she is clearly an uncommon individual in her own right. The women will squabble about her looks; the men will have views about her figure: all must agree that her fortune on the stage is a.s.sured. A more pleasing performance I never saw. Love, innocence, tenderness, grief, joy, petulance, uncertainty, modesty, despair--every feminine attribute, in fact, showed to admiration in her expressive features. Voice, bewitching. Gestures, exquisite.