CHAPTER XXXV.
[A SPRAINED ANKLE.]
"My dear Rohritz,--
"Accidents will occur in the best-regulated families! As I was escorting my cousin in a ride yesterday, my horse slipped and fell on the ice, and I sprained my ankle. Was there ever anything so stupid! If it could be called a misfortune for which one could be pitied; but no, 'tis a mere tiresome annoyance. Ridiculous! And I am engaged to dance the cotillon at the Fanes' with Stella Meineck. Old fellow as I am, I had really looked forward to this pleasure. Eh bien! all the massage in the world will not enable me to put my foot on the ground before the end of a week. Have the kindness, as they say in your native Vienna, to dance the cotillon in my stead with our fair star. Send me a line to say that you agree, or come and tell me so yourself.
"Is Thérèse going to the ball? Tell her from me to be nice to Stella, and not to reckon it against her that, in spite of a moment of indecision induced by the distinguished eloquence of my very clever little sister, she has behaved nobly and honestly throughout,--in short, just as was to be expected of her. Adieu! Yours forever,
"Capito."
Such is the letter Edgar receives the second morning after the Lipinskis' soirée, while he is breakfasting with his brother in the latter's smoking-room.
"Zino?" asks Edmund, looking up from his 'Figaro,' the reading of which is as much a part of his breakfast as are the fragrant black coffee and the yellowish Viennese bread with Norman butter.
"Read it," Edgar replies, as he scribbles with a lead-pencil on a visiting-card, "I am quite at your disposal," and hands it to the waiting servant.
"He's a fool!" the elder Rohritz remarks, handing back the note to his brother. "He knows perfectly well that you do not dance."
"But one can talk through a cotillon," Edgar says, with as much indifference as he can assume.
"You have consented?"
"I could not do otherwise. Stella is a stranger in Paris: it might be a source of annoyance to her to have no partner for the cotillon. If at the last moment she should find a more desirable partner than myself, I am of course ready to retire. À propos, is Thérèse going to the ball? Her cold is better?"
"Yes."
"What kind of ball is it?"
"A kind of public ball in a wealthy private house, given by immensely wealthy Americans, who know nobody, whom nobody knows, and who arrange an entertainment from the Arabian Nights, that they may be talked of, mentioned in 'Figaro,' and laughed at in society. Only three weeks ago there was no end of ridicule heaped upon Mrs. and Mr. Fane, unknown grandees from California, when it was reported that they wished to give a ball. Nobody dreamed of accepting their invitation; but Mrs. Fane was clever enough to induce a couple of women of undeniable fashion to be her 'lady patronesses,' and when the rumour spread that the Duchess of ---- had accepted there was a perfect rage for invitations. Every one declared, 'Cela sera drôle!' Every one is going. With the best Parisian society there will of course be found people whom one sees nowhere else. I wonder how many of the guests will take sufficient notice of the host and hostess to recognize them in the street the next day? But it will certainly be a beautiful ball, and an amusing one. Stella is going with the Lipinskis, I believe. I am curious to see how she will look in a ball-dress,--charming, of course, but rather too thin."
In the course of the morning Edgar drops in upon Capito, and finds him, in half-merry, half-irritated mood, stretched upon a lounge which is covered by a bearskin, the head of the animal gnashing its teeth at the Prince's feet. Of course Capito's rooms form a tasteful chaos of Oriental rugs, Turkish embroideries, interesting bibelots, and charming pictures. Throughout their arrangement, from the antique silken hangings veined with silver that cover the walls, to the low divans and chairs, there runs a suggestion of effeminate, Oriental luxury, in whimsical contrast with the proverbially vigorous personality of the Prince, hardened as it has been by every species of manly sport and exercise. The atmosphere is heavy with the fragrance of a gardenia shrub in full bloom, the odour of cigarettes, and the aroma of some subtle Indian perfume. A tall palm lifts its leaves to the ceiling. Half a dozen French novels, two guitars, and a mandolin lie within Zino's reach. He wears a queer smoking-jacket of blue silk faced with red, and his foot is swathed in towels.
"I'm delighted to see you! Sit down. 'Tis most annoying, this sprain of mine. But what do you say to the pleasure to which you have fallen heir?"
"In fact, I never dance," Rohritz makes reply, "but, to oblige you----" Edgar's eyes are wandering here and there through the room, and suddenly rest upon a certain object.
"Ah, 'tis my Watteau that attracts you!" Capito observes. "A pretty little picture. I bought it at the Hôtel Drouot a while ago for a mere song,--five thousand francs."
"Five thousand francs! Ridiculous," says Rohritz. "The picture is really lovely. But it was not the Watteau alone that attracted my attention, but----" He points to two or three pictures which are turned with their faces to the wall.
"Ah! ah!" the Prince laughs. "You wish to know what led to that prudential measure? Well, I have had a visit from ladies."
"From whom?" Rohritz asks, absently.
"Unasked I should probably have told you, but in view of such ill-bred curiosity I am mute," Zino replies, still laughing.
"Hm!--evidently a woman of character," Rohritz observes, indifferently.
"Of course: 'tis the only kind with whom I can endure of late to associate. If you but knew how bored I was at the opera ball the other night! I was made ill by the bad air. The feminine element must always play a large part in my life; but, you see, of late I can tolerate none but the most refined, the most distinguished of the species. We are strange creatures, we men of the world: in the matter of cigars, wine, horses, we always require the best, while with regard to women we are sometimes satisfied with what----"
The arrival of a fresh caller, one of Capito's sporting friends, interrupts these interesting reflections. Rohritz takes his leave.
The same day he is driving by chance through the Rue d'Anjou, when his attention is attracted by a slender, graceful, girlish figure hurrying along, evidently anxious to reach her destination.
Is not that Stella? He leans out of the carriage window, but it is dark, and she is closely veiled. And yet he could swear that it is she. She vanishes in the Hôtel ----, in the house where he called upon Zino Capito this very day.
For one brief moment all the evil that Stasy said of Stella confuses his brain; then he compresses his lips: he cannot believe evil of her. A malicious chance has maligned her. She must have a double in Paris.