Delphi Collected Works of Ouida, page 777
“I wouldn’t,” said Waldemar, wilfully. “If I had money, I could find oblivion for my past, and hope for my future. If I had money, what loads of friends would open their purses for me to borrow the money they’d know I did not need. As it is, if I except poor Tom Bevan, who’s as hard up as I am, and who’s a good-hearted, single-minded fellow, and likes me, I believe I haven’t a friend. Godolphin welcomes me as a companion, a bon vivant, a good card player; but if he heard I was in the Queen’s Bench, or had shot myself, he’d say, ‘Poor devil! I am not surprised,’ as he lighted his pipe and forgot me a second after. So they would all. I don’t blame them.”
“But I do,” cried Valérie, her cheeks burning; “they are wicked and heartless, and I hate them all. Oh! Count Waldemar, I would not do so. I would not desert you if all the world did!”
He smiled: he was accustomed to her passionate ebullitions. “Poor child, I believe you would be truer than the rest,” he muttered, half aloud, as he rose hastily and took out his watch. “I must be in Downing Street by eleven, and it only wants ten minutes. If you will walk with me to the gates, I have something to tell you about your MS.”
III. “SCARLET AND WHITE” MAKES A HIT, AND FALKENSTEIN FEELS THE WEIGHT OF THE GOLDEN FETTERS.
“Tom, will you come to the theatre with me to-night?” said Falkenstein as they lounged by the rails one afternoon in May.
“The theatre! What for? Who’s that girl with a scarlet tie, on that roan there? I don’t know her face. The ballet is the only thing worth stirring a step for in town. Which theatre is it?”
“I am going to see the new piece Pomps and Vanities is bringing out, and I want you as a sort of claqueur.”
“Very well. I’ll come,” said Tom, who regarded Falkenstein, who had been his school and formfellow, still rather as a Highlandman his chief; “but, certainly, the first night of a play is the very last I should select. But if you wish it —— There’s that roan coming round again! Good action, hasn’t it?”
Obedient to his chiefs orders, Bevan brushed his whiskers, settled his tie, or rather let his valet do it for him, and accompanied Waldemar to one of the crack-up theatres, where Pomps and Vanities, as the manager was irreverently styled by the habitués of his green-room, reigned in a state of scenic magnificence, very different to the days when Garrick played Macbeth in wig and gaiters.
Bevan asked no questions; he was rather a silent man, and probably knew by experience that he would most likely get no answers, unless the information was volunteered. So settling in his own mind that it was the début of some protégée of Falkenstein’s, he followed him to the door of a private box. Waldemar opened it, and entered. In it sat two women: one, a middle-aged lady-like-looking person; the other a young one, in whom, as she turned round with a radiant smile, and gave Falkenstein her hand, Bevan recognised Valérie L’Estrange. “Keep up your courage,” whispered Waldemar, as he took the seat behind her, and leaned forward with a smile. Tom stared at them both. It was high Dutch to him; but being endowed with very little curiosity, and a lion’s share of British immovability, he waited without any impatience for the elucidation of the mystery, and seeing the Count and Valérie absorbed in earnest and low-toned conversation, he first studied the house, and finding not a single decent-looking woman, he dropped his glass and studied the play-bill. The bill announced the new piece as “Scarlet and White.” “Queer title,” thought Bevan, a little consoled for his self-immolation by seeing that Rosalie Rivers, a very pretty little brunette, was to fill the soubrette rôle. The curtain drew up. Tom, looking at Valérie instead of the stage, fancied she looked very pale, and her eyes were fixed, not on the actors, but on Falkenstein. The first act passed off in ominous silence. An audience is often afraid to compromise itself by applauding a new piece too quickly. Then the story began to develop itself — wit and passion, badinage and pathos, were well intermingled. It turned on the love of a Catholic girl, a fille d’honneur to Catherine de Médicis, for a Huguenot, Vicomte de Valère, a friend of Condé and Coligny. The despairing love of the woman, the fierce struggle of her lover between his passion and his faith, the intrigues of the court, the cruelty and weakness of Charles Neuf, were all strikingly and forcibly written. The actors, being warmly applauded as the plot thickened and the audience became interested, played with energy and spirit; and when the curtain fell the success of “Scarlet and White” was proclaimed through the house.
“Very good play — very good indeed,” said Tom, approvingly. “I hope you’ve been pleased, Miss L’Estrange.” Valérie did not hear him; she was trembling and breathless, her blue eyes almost black with excitement, while Falkenstein bent over her, his face more full of animation and pleasure than Bevan had seen it for many a day. “Well,” thought Tom, “Forester did say little Val was original. I should think that was a polite term for insane. I suppose Falkenstein’s keeper.”
At that minute the applause redoubled. Pomps and Vanities had announced “Scarlet and White” for repetition, and from the pit to the gods there was a cry for the author. Falkenstein bent his head till his lips touched her hair, and whispered a few words. She looked up in his face. “Do you wish me?”
“Certainly.”
His word was law. She rose and went to the front of the box, a burning color in her cheeks, smiles on her lips, and tears lying under her lashes.
“The devil, Waldemar! Do you mean that — that little thing?” began Bevan.
Falkenstein nodded, and Tom, for once in his life astonished, forgot to finish his sentence in staring at the author! Probably the audience also shared his surprise, in seeing her young face and girlish form, in lieu of the anticipated member of the Garrick or new Bourcicault, with inspiration drawn from Cavendish and Cognac; for there was a moment’s silence, and then they received her with such a welcome as had not sounded through the house for years.
She bowed two or three times to thank them; then Falkenstein, knowing that though she had no shyness, she was extremely excitable, drew her gently back to her seat behind the curtain. “Your success is too much for you,” he said, softly.
“No, no,” said Valérie, passionately, utterly forgetful that any one else was near her; “but I am so glad that I owe it all to you. It would be nothing to me, as you know, unless it pleased you; and it came to me through your hands.”
Falkenstein gave a short, quick sigh, and moved restlessly.
“You would like to go home now, wouldn’t you?” he said after a pause.
She assented, and he led her out of the box, poor victimised Tom following with her duenna, who was the daily governess at No. 133.
As their cab drove away, Valérie leaned out of the window, and watched Falkenstein as long as she could see him. He waved his hand to her, and walked on into Regent Street in silence.
“Hallo, Waldemar!” began Bevan, at length, “so your protégée’s turning out a star. Do you mean that she really wrote that play?”
Falkenstein nodded.
“Well, it’s more than I could do. But what the deuce have you got to do with it? For a man who says he won’t entangle himself with another love affair, you seem pretty tolerably au mieux with her. How did it all come about?”
“Simply enough,” answered Falkenstein. “Of course I haven’t known her all these months without finding out her talents. She has a passion for writing, and writes well, as I saw at once by those New Year’s Night’s Proverbs. She has no money, as you know; she wants to turn her talents to account, and didn’t know how to set about it. She’d several conversations with me on the subject, so I took her play, looked it over, and gave it to Pomps and Vanities. He read it to oblige me, and put it on the stage to oblige himself, as he wanted something new for the season, and was pretty sure it would make a hit.”
“Do the Cashrangers know of it?”
“No; that is why she asked the governess to come with her to-night. That stingy old Pomps wouldn’t pay her much, but she thinks it an El Dorado, and I shall take care she commands her own price next time. I count on a treat on enlightening Miss Bella.”
“Yes, she’ll cut up rough. By George! I quite envy you your young genius.”
“She isn’t mine,” said Falkenstein, bitterly.
“She might be if you chose.”
“Poor little thing! — yes. But love is too expensive a luxury for a ruined man, even if —— The devil take this key, why won’t it unlock? You’re off to half a dozen parties I suppose, Tom?”
“And where are you going?”
“Nowhere.”
“What! going to bed at half-past ten?”
“There is no particular sin in going to bed at half-past ten, is there?” said Waldemar, impatiently. “I haven’t the stuff in me for balls and such things. I’m sick of them. Good-night, old fellow.”
He went up-stairs to his room, threw himself on his bed, and, lighting his pipe, lay smoking and thinking while the Abbey clock tolled the hours one after another. The longs yeux bleus haunted him, for Waldemar had already too many chains upon him not to shrink from adding to them the Golden Fetters of a fresh passion, and marriage, unless a rich one, was certain to bring about him all his entanglements. He resolved to seek her no more, to check the demonstrative affection which, like Esmeralda, “à la fois naïve et passionnée,” she had no thought of concealing from him, and which, as Falkenstein’s conscience told him, he had done everything to foster. “What is a man worth if he hasn’t strength of will?” he muttered, as he tossed on his bed. “And yet, poor little Valérie —— Pshaw! all women learn quickly enough to forget!”
Some ten days after he was calling in Lowndes Square. True as yet to his resolution, he had avoided the tête-à-tête walks in the Gardens; and Valérie keenly felt the change in his manner, though in what he did for her he was as kind as ever. The successful run of “Scarlet and White,” the praises of its talents, its promises of future triumphs — all the admiration which, despite Bella’s efforts to keep her back, the yeux bleus excited — all were valueless, if, as she vaguely feared, she had lost “Count Waldemar.” The play had made a great sensation, and the Cashrangers had taken a box the night before, as they made a point of following the lead and seeing everything, though they generally forswore theatres as not quite ton. Pah! these people, “qui se couchent roturiers et se lèvent nobles,” they paint their lilies with such superabundant coloring, that we see, at a glance, the flowers come not out of a conservatory but out of an atelier.
They were out, as it chanced, and Valérie was alone. She received him joyously, for unhappy as she was in his absence, the mere sight of his face recalled her old spirits, and Falkenstein, in all probability, never guessed a tithe she suffered, because she had always a smile for him.
“Oh! Count Waldemar,” she cried, “why have you never been to the Gardens this week? If you only knew how I miss you — —”
“I have had no time,” he answered, coldly.
“You could make time if you wished,” said Valérie, passionately. “You are so cold, so unkind to me lately. Have I vexed you at all?”
“Vexed me, Miss L’Estrange? Certainly not.”
She was silent, chilled, despite herself.
“Why do you call me Miss L’Estrange?” she said, suddenly. “You know I cannot bear it from you.”
“What should I call you?”
“Valérie,” she answered, softly.
He got up and walked to the hearth-rug, playing with Spit and Puppet with his foot, and for once hailed, as a relief, the entrance of Bella, in an extensive morning toilet, fresh from “shopping.” She looked rapidly and angrily from him to Valérie, and attacked him at once. Seeing her cousin’s vivacity told, she went in for the same stakes, with but slight success, being a young lady of the heavy artillery stamp, with no light action about her.
“Oh! Mr. Falkenstein,” she began, “that exquisite play — you’ve seen it, of course? Captain Boville told me I should be delighted with it, and so I was. Don’t you think it enchanting?”
“It is very clever,” answered Falkenstein, gravely.
“Val missed a great treat,” continued Bella; “nothing would make her go last night; however, she never likes anything I like. I should love to know who wrote it; some people say a woman, but I would never believe it.”
“The witty raillery and unselfish devotion of the heroine might be dictated by a woman’s head and heart, but the passion, and vigor, and knowledge of human nature indicate a masculine genius,” replied Waldemar.
Valérie gave him such a grateful, rapturous glance, that, had Bella been looking, might have disclosed the secret; but she was studying her dainty gloves, and went on:
“Could it be Westland Marston — Sterling Coyne?”
Falkenstein shook his head. “If it were, they would put their name on the play-bills.”
“You naughty man! I do believe you could tell me if you chose. Are you not, now, in the author’s confidence?”
The corner of Falkenstein’s mouth went up in an irresistible smile as he telegraphed a glance at “the author.” “Well, perhaps I am.”
Bella clapped her hands with enchanting gaiety. “Then, tell me this moment; I am in agonies to know!”
“It is no great mystery,” smiled Falkenstein. “I fancy you are acquainted with the unknown.”
“You don’t mean it!” cried Bella, in a state of ecstasy. “Have you written it, then?”
“I’m afraid I can’t lay claim to the honor.”
“Who can it be? Oh, do tell me! How enchanting!” cried Miss Cashranger; “I am wild to hear. Somebody I know, you say? Is it — is it Captain Tweed?”
“No, it isn’t,” laughed Falkenstein. Elliot Tweed — Idiot Tweed, as they all call him — who was hanging after Bella, abhorred all caligraphy, and wrote his own name with one e.
“Mr. Dashaway, then?”
“Dash never scrawled anything but I. O. U.s.”
“Lord Flippertygibbett, perhaps?”
“Wrong again. Flip took up a pen once too often, when he signed his marriage register, to have any leanings to goose quills.”
“Charlie Montmorency, then?”
“Reads nothing but his betting-book and Bell’s Life.”
“Dear me! how tiresome. Who can it be? Wait a moment. Let me see. Is it Major Powell?”
“Guess again. He wouldn’t write, save in Indian fashion, with his tomahawk on his enemies’ scalps.”
“How provoking!” cried Bella, exasperated. “Stop: is it Mr. Beauchamp?”
“No; he scribbles for six-and-eightpences too perseveringly to have time for anything, except ruining his clients.”
“Dr. Montressor, then?”
“Try once more. His prescriptions bring him too many guineas for him to waste ink on any other purpose.”
“How stupid I am! Perhaps — perhaps —— Yet no, it can’t be, because he’s at the Cape, and most likely killed, poor fellow. Could it be Cecil Green?”
Falkenstein laughed. “You needn’t go so far as Kaffirland; try a little nearer home. Think over the ladies you know.”
“The ladies! Then it is a woman!” cried Bella. “Well, I should never have believed it. Who can she be? How I shall admire her, and envy her! A lady! Can it be darling Flora?”
“No. If your pet friend can get through an invitation-note of four lines, the exertion costs her at least a dram of sal volatile.”
“How wicked you are,” murmured Miss Cashranger, delighted, after the custom of women, to hear her friend pulled to pieces. “Is it Mrs. Lushington, then?”
“Wrong again. The Lushington has so much business on hand, inditing rose-hued notes to twenty men at once, and wording them differently, for fear they may ever be compared, that she’s no time for other composition.”
“Lady Mechlin, perhaps — she is a charming creature?”
Falkenstein shook his head. “Never could learn the simplest rule of grammar. When she was engaged to Mechlin, she wrote her love-letters out of ‘Henrietta Temple,’ and flattered him immensely by their pathos.”
“Was there ever such a sarcastic creature!” cried Bella, reprovingly; her interest rather flagged, since no man was the incognito author. “Well, let me see: there is Rosa Temple — she is immensely intellectual.”
“But immensely orthodox. Every minute of her life is spent in working slippers and Bible markers for interesting curates. It is to be hoped one of them may reward her some day, though, I believe, till they do propose, she is in the habit of advocating priestly celibacy, by way of assertion of her disinterestedness. No! Miss Cashranger, the talented writer of ‘Scarlet and White,’ is not only of your acquaintance, but your family.”
“My family!” almost screamed Bella. “Good gracious, Mr. Falkenstein, is it dear papa, or — or Augustus?”
The idea of the brewer, fat, and round, and innocent of literature as one of his own teams, or of his son just plucked for his “smalls” at Cambridge, for spelling Cæsar, Sesar, sitting down to indite the pathos and poetry of “Scarlet and White,” was so exquisitely absurd that Waldemar, forgetting courtesy, lay back in his arm-chair and laughed aloud. The contagion of his ringing laugh was irresistible; Valérie followed his example, and their united merriment rang in the astonished ears of Miss Cashranger, who looked from one to the other in wrathful surprise. As soon as he could control himself, Falkenstein turned towards her with his most courteous smile.
“You will forgive our laughter, I am sure, when I tell you what I am certain must give you great pleasure, that the play you so warmly and justly admire was written by your cousin.”
Bella stared at him, her face scarlet, all the envy and reasonless spite within her flaming up at the idea of her cousin’s success.
“Valérie — Valérie,” she stammered, “is it true? I had no idea she ever thought of — —”
“No,” said Falkenstein, roused in his protégée’s defence; “I dare say you are astonished, as every one else would be, that any one so young, and, comparatively speaking, so inexperienced as your cousin, should have developed such extraordinary talent and power.”
