“Had you but known how to play your cards,” he would often say to her, “you might have avoided the quarrel with your infernal old idiot of a father. He is soft enough, in all conscience, when one knows how to handle him. But, no; you must needs go into heroics and get yourself kicked out of the house for your pains. Upon my word, Dolores, you are worse than a fool. Without you I would never have come down in the world like this.”
The poor woman, terrified by the violence of her husband, who was fast losing his former refinement and distinction, and was becoming downright brutal, could only cry and sob, imploring her dear “Eric” to take pity on her. But her tears only seemed to exasperate him more, and as lately his gambling saloon, thanks to his partners, who were nothing but vulgar sharpers, had got into bad repute with the jeunesse doree, who cautiously avoided going there, he one fine morning gave the slip to his army of creditors, and, abandoning Dolores without a cent of money, started alone for Paris.
The unfortunate woman, when she discovered that she had been deserted, nearly went out of her mind with grief and despair. But nothing could destroy her love for Frederick, and she resolved to discover his hiding-place and to entreat him to let her live with him, if only as his servant.
Women are singularly illogical. The whole world may be against a man, but the woman who loves him will stand boldly forward as his champion. No matter how vile a man may be, if a woman loves him she exalts him to the rank of a demi-god and refuses to see the clay feet of her idol. When he is forsaken by all, she still clings to him. When all others frown, she still smiles on him, and when he dies, she adores and reverences his memory as that of a martyr of circumstances. God help the man who in time of trouble has not a true and loving woman to stand by his side and help him through life's bitter struggle!
However, Dolores, being penniless, had to leave her little house and to seek refuge at the lodgings of her old nurse, who lived in a narrow, dark street in the slums of Madrid. Old Carmen loved her, and, although the good woman was poor herself (her husband having, before he departed from this life, managed to drink up every penny), she took the unfortunate Dolores in and tended her through a violent fit of illness, brought on by sorrow and privation.
Dolores' home was now in a dark lane which glowed like a furnace during the hot months of the Spanish summer. She tried to earn some money by doing a little plain needlework, but often as she sat by the open casement of the small window which looked out into a dirty, ill-smelling alley, where ragged children played all day long in the dried-up gutter, she would let her head fall on the greasy window-sill and weep scalding tears of pain and regret. Far happier were the victims whom Frederick had dispatched from this world than this broken-hearted creature whose life he had shattered and ruined.
In the middle of 1883 Frederick arrived in Paris, and continued to live there in the same reckless and dissipated fashion. He lost all the little money he had brought with him from Spain, and sank lower and lower, cheating at cards, swindling hotel and lodging-house keepers, and gradually rolling to the very bottom of the social scale. More than once he went to bed without a dinner, and in one word he now belonged to the very lowest class of adventurers. Driven by the pangs of hunger and misery, he even went so far as to blackmail several ladies of high rank and position, but somehow or other always managed to escape the vigilant eye of the French police.
One night, having made a few napoleons at baccarat, he bought seats at the Folies-Bergeres, and after a scanty dinner at a cheap restaurant he proceeded thither accompanied by the woman who was then living with him, a gaudily dressed, red-haired, and brazen-faced creature, who was well known on the outer boulevards.
During a pause in the performance the well-assorted couple repaired to the foyer, where they began to pace up and down, arm in arm, among the crowd of habitues, where here and there a stranger was noticeable who had come to see the fun.
Suddenly Frederick and his companion found themselves face to face with a lady and gentleman who were just about to leave the place. As Frederick caught sight of the lady he unconsciously dropped his companion's arm and bowed low. Lady Margaret, for it was she, looked at him in haughty surprise, then turned to her husband as if to complain of this piece of insolence.