XXXIV
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.