"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.




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