Moon-Madness

and

Other Fantasies

by

Aimée Crocker Gouraud

(4th Edition)

Broadway Publishing Co.
835 Broadway      New York

COPYRIGHT 1910
By
BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO.

To
THOSE WHO KNOW

Moon-Madness

OUR LADY OF RED LIPS

The place was Paris.

A man stood in front of an art-dealer’s window, and looked at the painted picture of a woman.

The man was about twenty-five years of age and extremely handsome.

He was big and brawny.

His hair was brown and curly, and his eyes were blue and frank.

The woman was about thirty years of age, and exceedingly beautiful.

She was small and slender.

Her complexion was creamy white, her hair was inky black, her eyes were dark green, and her lips were bright red.

If you were French, you could tell that the man was American.

And if you were an American, you could tell that the woman was French.

The man stood and stared at the picture.

He stared at the white complexion—but he had seen complexion like that before.

He stared at the black hair—but he had also seen hair like that before.

He stared at the green eyes—but he had even seen eyes like that before.

He stared at the red lips—and he had never seen lips like that before.

He had never thought of such lips.

He had never dreamed of such lips.

Of course their vivid crimson color was unnatural, fantastic, grotesque.

The picture must have been designed for a poster.

But nevertheless it fascinated the man strangely.

The white face seemed to turn to him.

The green eyes seemed to look at him.

The red lips seemed to smile at him.

The man hesitated.

And then he went into the shop.

“What is that picture?” said the man.

“That is the portrait of a lady,” said the proprietor.

“Who painted it?” said the man.

“Paul Gaspard,” said the proprietor.

“Is he well known?” said the man.

“He would have been—had he lived,” said the proprietor.

“Is he dead?” said the man.

“Yes,” said the proprietor, “he died six months ago, under peculiar circumstances.”

“Tell me about it,” said the man.

“He was young, and he was clever, and he was handsome,” said the proprietor, “men admired him, and women loved him. The lady who posed for this portrait was one of those who loved him. She had loved other men. She had loved an Italian prince. But he died. She had loved an English lord. But he died, also. And then—she loved Paul Gaspard.”

“And then he too died!” said the man.

“Yes—and he too died!” said the proprietor.

“How did he die?” said the man.

“Nobody knows how—or why,” said the proprietor. “He was found dead in his bed one morning. That was all. There was some sort of a wound, or a scar, on his breast, over his heart. For a time the coroner was puzzled. At first there was some thought of suicide—or even of murder. But, in the end, the authorities decided that Paul Gaspard had died from natural causes, and there the matter ended.”

“And the picture,” said the man.

“The picture had just been finished on the very day he died,” said the proprietor, “by a strange coincidence.”

“Very strange indeed!” said the man.

“Paul Gaspard had from time to time borrowed sums of money from me, until he owed me in all some fifteen hundred francs,” said the proprietor, “so when he died, and left no money, I claimed the picture—and I got it.”

“And the lady who posed for it?” said the man.

“She left Paris as soon as Paul Gaspard was in his grave,” said the proprietor.

“Where did she go?” said the man.

“To St. Petersburg—with a Russian duke,” said the proprietor.

“Is she there now?” said the man.

“No, she is at Monte Carlo,” said the proprietor.

“With the Russian duke?” said the man.

“No, she is there alone,” said the proprietor.

“Where is the Russian duke?” said the man.

“He is dead,” said the proprietor.

“Dead?” said the man.

“Yes, dead,” said the proprietor, “as dead as all the rest of her lovers!”

“The devil!” said the man.

“Quite so!” said the proprietor.

“And the name of this woman,” said the man, “what is it?”

“She calls herself Elise Du Barry,” said the proprietor, “but other people call her something else.”

“What do they call her?” said the man.

“‘Our Lady of Red Lips’!” said the proprietor.

The man thanked the proprietor, and left the shop.

In the street he stopped before the window once more, and stood and stared at the picture.

“‘Our Lady of Red Lips’,” muttered the man.

And, as he left the window, and walked away, he murmured, “Monte Carlo!”

That night the man dreamed a strange and startling dream.

First he dreamed of black hair.

Hair as black as night.

It covered the heavens and the earth. There was nothing else in the world but black hair.

Then he dreamed of white skin.

Skin as white as snow.

It covered the heavens and the earth.

There was nothing else in the world but white skin.

Then he dreamed of green eyes.

Eyes as green as the sea.

They covered the heavens and the earth.

There was nothing else in the world but green eyes.

Then he dreamed of red lips.

Lips as red as blood.

They covered the heavens and the earth.

There was nothing else in the world but red lips.

The lips kissed him on the brow.

He felt as though he were swooning.

The lips kissed him on the mouth.

He felt as though he were dying.

The lips kissed him on the heart.

He felt as though the world were coming to an end.

His soul was full of terror.

He uttered a shriek.

And then—he awoke.

The next day the man left Paris.

He went to Monte Carlo.

The man’s name was Howard Leslie.

He was a New Yorker.

He was an only son, and his father was a millionaire.

This was his first visit to Monte Carlo.

He walked into the Casino.

He looked at the people.

They were strange to see.

And the people looked at him.

He was good to behold.

The celebrated habitues of the place passed before him.

He saw Madame de Lara, the Italian singer.

And La Belle Bolero, the Spanish dancer.

Yvonne Yvette, the French model.

And Olga Maronoff, the Russian poetess.

And then—with a bound of the heart, and a gasp of the breath—he saw her!

Elise Du Barry—Our Lady of Red Lips!...

She wore a white satin evening gown.

There were big pearls in her hair, around her throat, and on her fingers.

Her complexion was as white as her gown.

Not a touch of color, in her dress, or in her face—except her mouth.

But, just as the setting sun will dominate an evening sky, so did this crimson mouth dominate this ashen face, and this pallid figure. One was conscious of the woman’s mouth, first, last, and all the time.

One could not help but be conscious of it.

Howard Leslie stood and stared at her.

And she paused and glanced at him.

How like she was to her portrait!

Or rather, how like her portrait was to her!

At last the white face did in reality turn to him!

At last the green eyes did in reality look at him!

At last the red lips did in reality smile at him!

And then Elise Du Barry passed by.

Howard Leslie followed her.

She sat at one of the tables.

He stood beside her.

She put down some gold—on the red.

She lost.

He put down some gold—on the black.

He won.

She looked up at him.

He looked down at her.

Their eyes met—his so frank and blue, and hers so strange and green.

He spoke to her.

She answered him.

He didn’t know what he was saying to her.

He didn’t know what she was saying to him.

He only knew that he and she were talking together.

He only knew that he and she were walking together—out of the Casino....

One month passed.

And then, one day, all Monte Carlo, all Europe, and in fact all the world, was surprised and shocked to learn that Elise Du Barry, a celebrated French beauty, had been strangled at Monte Carlo, and that the man in whose company she had been much seen of late, Howard Leslie, a young American millionaire, had become a raving maniac. The madman, in his paroxysms, constantly clutched his breast, where there was some sort of a wound, or a scar, and he continually cried,

“Heart’s blood! Heart’s blood! Heart’s blood!”

The throat of Elise Du Barry had been dreadfully disfigured by the strong hands that had crushed the life out of her, but her mouth was still a bright crimson color, thus entitling the woman, even in death, to the name by which she had been popularly known in life—that of “Our Lady of Red Lips.”...

PAULA LOVED PEARLS

Paula didn’t care for diamonds.

Or rubies.

Or emeralds.

She only cared for pearls.

And her feeling was more than mere admiration.

It was—love.

Passionate love.

But she could not afford to have pearls to wear.

So she had to be content to have pearls to look at.

She used to stand in front of the jewellers’ windows where there were pearls displayed.

The rings delighted her.

The brooches bewildered her.

But the necklaces distracted her.

She used to gaze at them.

She used to gloat over them.

And then she would go home—relieved.

But not satisfied.

In her bedroom Paula had pictures on the walls.

Many were studies of women wearing pearls.

Empresses and actresses.

In her bedroom Paula had books on the tables.

Many were volumes treating of pearls.

Their formation and their history.

Often Paula would go to sleep at night reading one of these books.

Or looking at one of these pictures.

Then she would dream that she had pearls of her own.

Plenty of them.

And she would be happy.

So you see that Paula had a mania.

But she also had a husband.

Her husband didn’t have any money.

But he had a position.

A position with an exporting concern.

This concern did business in the Far East.

So a time came when Paula’s husband was sent to the Orient.

And when Paula’s husband went there—he took Paula with him.

They went to Japan.

And to China.

And to India.

In India Paula saw strange things.

She saw the Hindoos bathing in the sacred Ganges.

She saw the Parsees exposing their dead to the vultures.

And she saw fakirs making mango trees grow out of seeds before one’s very eyes.

And in India Paula heard strange things, too.

She heard of strange lives.

And of strange deaths.

And she heard of the Rajah of Raboda who owned the finest pearls in the world.

He was said to have pearl necklaces yards long.

And pearl pendants the size of walnuts.

And he was said to be willing and glad to display these treasures to any visitors who cared to journey to his palace in the hills to see them.

Paula told her husband of these things.

He was not interested.

Paula asked her husband to take her to Raboda.

He declined.

Paula asked her husband if she might go there alone.

He consented.

So Paula got a letter of introduction from the Consul.

And she started for the hills.

Paula arrived at the Palace.

She presented her credentials.

And she was informed that she might see the pearls.

An attendant escorted her through corridors and courts, into an apartment where, in a glass case under iron bars, were displayed the objects that Paula loved.

Loved with all her heart.

And with all her soul....

Paula stood there transfixed with ecstasy.

She stood there—she knew not how long.

And then she became conscious that someone was standing beside her.

Someone was watching her.

Paula looked up.

She found herself facing a tall man wearing a green satin robe and a lavender silk turban.

Around his neck was a string of pearls.

In his turban was a clasp of pearls.

And in his eyes—was a strange expression....

“I am the Rajah of Raboda,” said the man.

“Oh!” said the woman.

“These pearls are mine,” said the man.

“They are marvellous!” said the woman.

“You like pearls?” said the man.

“I—love—them!” said the woman.

It really was a strange thing that Paula had not made a more advantageous marriage than she had done.

Her husband was not of much account.

And Paula was—quite a beauty.

Her complexion was dark.

Her hair was black and glossy.

Her eyes were black and fiery.

And her lips were full and red.

She was just the type to appeal to an American millionaire.

Or—to an Indian Prince.

But Paula had never met an American millionaire.

And she had never met an Indian Prince—before....

She looked at the face of the Rajah.

His skin was black.

But his hair and his eyes were no blacker than her own.

If she only looked into his eyes, he might have been a mate for her.

If he only looked into her eyes she might have been a mate for him.

And now he did look into her eyes.

And now she did look into his....

Paula loved pearls.

And the Rajah loved—women.

The Rajah had pearls.

And Paula was—a woman.

So they stood side by side.

And they stared at one another.

Then the Rajah showed Paula more pearls.

He conducted her about the palace.

He offered her some refreshments.

And he invited her to be his guest over night.

Paula accepted his attentions.

And his invitation.

She wondered if she were asleep.

And if this were a dream.

One of those marvellous dreams of hers.

She had imagined it all so often before.

But no, this was not a vision!

It was a reality!

She was the guest of an Indian Prince.

The Prince had the finest pearls in the world.

And he—liked her.

She appealed to him.

So Paula—thought, and thought, and thought....

That night the Rajah put on even more gorgeous robes than he had worn during the day.

And even more splendid pearls.

Paula forgot to look at his black face.

She forgot to think of it.

She only looked at his white pearls.

She couldn’t think of anything else.

The Rajah told Paula of how his ancestors had obtained these pearls from afar.

How they had sought for them.

How they had fought for them.

This one had been in the eye of a Buddha.

That one had been the cause of a battle.

And so on, and on, and on....

Then he stopped speaking of—pearls.