Read Ebook: The Hillman by Oppenheim E Phillips Edward Phillips Avison George Illustrator

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 292 lines and 15202 words, and 6 pages

one thing, my French is absurd. Then they are all talking about things which I don't understand in the least."

Sophy remained silent for a moment. Then she took John's arm and led him to the buffet.

"Give me an ice and a cigarette, will you, please? You are a dear, impractical person, but you are as much out of this world as a human being well could be!"

John waited upon her without any further remark. The Prince of Seyre, passing through, bowed to them. John looked after his retreating figure. An irresistible impulse seized him.

"Sophy," he asked, sitting down by her side, "tell me, why have the prince and Louise always been such great friends?"

Sophy looked steadfastly at her ice.

"I suppose because the prince is a very clever and cultivated person," she said. "He has been of great assistance to Louise several times. It was he who financed Miles Faraday when he put on this play of Graillot's. Graillot hasn't a penny, you know, and poor Miles was almost broke after three failures."

"That was just an investment," John remarked irritably. "He will get his money back again."

"Of course," Sophy agreed. "I think the prince generally manages to get value for what he does in life."

"You don't think Louise ever thought of caring for him, do you?" John persisted.

Sophy paused until she had lit a cigarette. The expression in her face, when she looked up at John, irritated him vaguely. It was as if she were talking to a child.

"I think," she said, "you had better ask Louise that question yourself, don't you?"

He asked it an hour or so later, when at last the party of guests had taken their leave, and, somewhat to the well-bred surprise of the one or two friends who lingered, Louise had beckoned to John to take her out to her car. Her hand had sought his at once, her head rested a little wearily but very contentedly upon his shoulder.

"Louise dear," he began, "I asked Sophy a question to-night which I ought to have asked you. Quite properly, she told me so."

"Nice little soul, Sophy!" Louise murmured. "What was it, John?"

"Once or twice I have wondered," he went on, "whether you have ever cared in any sort of way, or come near to caring, for the Prince of Seyre?"

For a moment she made no movement. Then she turned her head and looked at him. The sleepy content had gone from her eyes.

"Why do you ask?"

"Isn't it quite a natural question from a jealous man who believes that every one who sees you must be in love with you? You have seen a great deal of the prince, haven't you, in the last few years? He understands your art. There are many things that you and he have in common."

Louise was looking out of the window at the thin stream of people still passing along Piccadilly. She seemed suddenly to have become only the shadow of her former brilliant self.

"I think that once--perhaps twice," she confessed, "I came very near to caring for him."

"And now?"

"And now," she repeated, suddenly gripping John's hands, "I tell you that I am very much nearer hating him. So much for the prince! In ten minutes we shall be at home, and you are such a dear stupid about coming in. You must try to say all the nice things in the world to me quickly--in ten minutes!"

"How shall I begin?" he whispered.

She leaned once more toward him.

"You don't need any hints," she murmured. "You're really quite good at it!"

The ten minutes passed very much too quickly. She was gone, and John, thrilled though he was through all his senses by the almost passionate fervor of her leave-taking, found himself once more confronted by that little black demon. He sat up in the car, which bore him quickly back toward his rooms; and although the sense of her presence, the delicate perfume, the empty place by his side, even a fallen flower from her gown, were still there, the unrest seemed sharper.

There was something about all of them, all these people whom he knew to be his friends, which seemed to him to savor of a conspiracy. One by one they flitted through his brain--Graillot's covert warning; Sophy's plaintive, almost fearful doubts; the prince's subtle yet cynical silence; and behind it all, Stephen's brutal and outspoken words. There was nothing that could be put into definite shape--just the ghost of torturing, impossible thoughts. John told himself that it must be ended. Even though the words should blister his tongue with shame, they must be spoken.

A moment later he hated himself for the thought. He set his teeth, filled his thought with the glory of her presence, and crushed those demoniacal suggestions to the back of his brain. He was in no humor to go home, however. Changing the order he had first given to the chauffeur, he was driven instead to a small Bohemian club which he had joined at Graillot's instigation. He had a vague hope that he might find the great dramatist there. There were no signs of him, however, in the smoking room, or any one else whom John knew.

He threw himself into an easy chair and ordered a whisky-and-soda. Two men close at hand were writing at desks; others were lounging about, discussing the evening's reception. One man, sitting upon the table, a recognized authority, was treating the company to a fluent dissertation upon modern actresses, winding up by contrasting Louise Maurel's style with that of her chief French rival. John found himself listening with pleased interest. The man's opinion was certainly not unfavorable to Louise.

"It is only in the finer shades of emotionalism," the critic declared, "that these French actresses get at us a little more completely even than Louise Maurel. Do you know the reason? I'll tell you. It is because they live the life. They have a dozen new emotions in a season. They make a cult of feeling. They use their brains to dissect their passions. They cut their own life into small pieces and give us the result without concealment. That is where they score, if anywhere. This Mme. Latrobe, who opens over here to-morrow night, is living at the present moment with Jean Tourbet. She had an affair with that Italian poet in the summer, so they tell me. She was certainly in Madrid in October with Bretoldi, the sculptor. These men are all great artists. Think what she must have learned from associating with them! Now Louise Maurel, so far as we know, has never had but one lover, the Prince of Seyre, and has been faithful to him all the time."

It was out at last! John had heard it spoken in plain words. The black demon upon which his hand had lain so heavily, was alive now, without a doubt, jeering at him, mocking at him--alive and self-assertive in the sober words of the elderly, well-bred man who lounged upon the table.

For a moment or two John was stunned. A wild impulse assailed him to leap up and confront them all, to choke the lie back down the throat of the man who had uttered it. Every nerve in his body was tingling with the desire for action. The stupor of his senses alone kept him motionless, and a strange, incomprehensible clarity of thought. He realized exactly how things were. This man had not spoken idly, or as a scandalmonger. He had spoken what he had accepted as a fact, what other people believed.

John rose to his feet and made his way toward the door. His face showed little sign of disturbance. He even nodded to some men whom he knew slightly. As he passed down the stairs, he met Graillot. Then once more the self-control became in danger. He seized the Frenchman savagely by the arm.

"Come this way," he said, leading him toward the card-room. "Come in here! I want to speak to you."

He locked the door--a most unheard-of and irregular proceeding. Graillot felt the coming of the storm.

"Well!" he exclaimed grimly. "Trouble already, eh? I see it in your face, young man. Out with it!"

John--who had won a hard match at rackets a few days before against a more experienced opponent simply because of his perfect condition--was breathing hard. There was a dull patch of color in his cheek, drops of sweat stood upon his forehead. He controlled his voice with difficulty. Its tone was sharp and unfamiliar.

"I was sitting in the smoking room there, a few moments ago," he began, jerking his head toward the door. "There were some men talking--decent fellows, not dirty scandalmongers. They spoke of Louise Maurel."

Graillot nodded gravely. He knew very well what was coming.

"Well?"

"They spoke, also, of the Prince of Seyre."

"Well?"

John felt his throat suddenly dry. The words he would have spoken choked him. He banged his fist upon the table by the side of which they were standing.

"Look here, Graillot," he cried, almost piteously, "you know it is not true, not likely to be true! Can't you say so?"

"Stop, my young friend!" the Frenchman interrupted. "I know nothing. It is a habit of mine to know nothing when people make suggestions of that sort. I make no inquiries. I accept life and people as I find them."

"But you don't believe that such a thing could be possible?"

"Why not?" Graillot asked steadily.

John could do no more than mumble a repetition of his words. The world was falling away from him. He was dimly conscious that one of the engravings upon the wall opposite was badly hung. For the rest, Graillot's face, stern, yet pitying, seemed to loom like the features of a giant, eclipsing everything else.

"I will not discuss this matter with you, my friend. I will only ask you to remember the views of the world in which we live. Louise Maurel is an artist, a great artist. If there has been such an affair as you suggest, between her and any man, if it were something which appealed to her affections, it is my opinion that she would not hesitate. You seem to think it an outrageous thing that the prince should have been her lover. To be perfectly frank, I do not. I should be very much more surprised at her marriage."

John made his escape somehow. He remembered opening the door, but he had no recollection of reaching the street. A few minutes later, however, he found himself striding down Piccadilly toward Hyde Park Corner.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet