But Lady Champignon was wrong. It is not that the self-made man cannot or will not pay two guineas for a ball-ticket. It is merely that, in his commercial way, he thinks that he will not have his money’s worth, and therefore prefers keeping his two guineas to spend on something more tangible—say food. The nouveau riche never quite purges3 his mind of the instinct commercial, and it therefore goes against the grain to pay heavily for a form of entertainment which his soul had not the opportunity of learning to love in its youth. The aristocrat4, on the other hand, has usually been brought up to the cultivation5 of enjoyment6, and he therefore spends with perfect equanimity7 more on his pleasure than the bourgeois8 mind can countenance9.
The ball to which Paul and Etta were going was managed by some titled ladies who knew their business well. The price of the tickets was fabulous10. The lady patronesses of the great Charity Ball were tactful and unabashed. They drew the necessary line (never more necessary than it is to-day) with a firm hand.
The success of the ball was therefore a foregone conclusion. In French fiction there is invariably a murmur11 of applause when the heroine enters a room full of people, which fact serves, at all events, to show the breeding and social status of persons with whom French novelists are in the habit of associating. There was therefore no applause when Paul and Etta made their appearance, but that lady had, nevertheless, the satisfaction of perceiving glances, not only of admiration12, but of interest and even of disapproval13, among her own sex. Her dress she knew to be perfect, and when she perceived the craning pale face of the inevitable14 lady-journalist, peering between the balusters of a gallery, she thoughtfully took up a prominent position immediately beneath that gallery, and slowly turned round like a beautifully garnished15 joint16 before the fire of cheap publicity17.
To Paul this ball was much like others. There were a number of the friends of his youth—tall, clean-featured, clean-limbed men, with a tendency toward length and spareness—who greeted him almost affectionately. Some of them introduced him to their wives and sisters, which ladies duly set him down as nice but dull—a form of faint praise which failed to damn. There were a number of ladies to whom it was necessary for him to bow in acknowledgment of past favors which had missed their mark. From the gallery the washed-out female journalists poked18 out their eager faces—for they were women still, and liked to look upon a man when he was strong.
And all the while Karl Steinmetz was storming in his guttural English at the door, upbraiding19 hired waiters for their stupidity in accepting two literal facts literally20. The one fact was that they were forbidden to admit any one without a ticket; the second fact being that tickets were not to be obtained at the price of either one or the other of the two great motives21 of man—Love or Money.
Steinmetz was Teutonic and imposing22, with the ribbon of a great Order on his breast. He mentioned the names of several ladies who might have been, but were not, of the committee. Finally, however, he mentioned the historic name of one whose husband had braved more than one Russian emperor successfully for England.
“Yes, me lord, her ladyship’s here,” answered the man.
Steinmetz wrote on a card, “In memory of ‘56, let me in,” and sent in the missive.
“What mischief24 are you about?” she enquired25, “you stormy petrel! This is no place for your deep-laid machinations. We are here to enjoy ourselves and found a hospital. Come in, however. I am delighted to see you. You used to be a famous dancer—well, some little time ago.”
“Yes, my dear countess, let us say some little time ago. Ach, those were days! those were days! You do not mind the liberty I have taken?”
“I am glad you took it. But your card gave me a little tug26 at the heart. It brought back so much. And still plain Karl Steinmetz—after all. We used to think much of you in the old days. Who would have thought that all the honors would have slipped past you?”
“Ah, what matter? Who cares, so long as my old friends remember me? Who would have thought, my dear madam, that the map of Europe would have been painted the colors it is to-day? It was a kaleidoscope—the clatter28 of many stools, and I fell down between them all. Still plain Karl Steinmetz—still very much at your service. Shall I send my check for five guineas to you?”
“Yes, do; I am secretary. Always businesslike; a wonderful man you are still.”
“And you, my dear countess, a wonderful lady. Always gay, always courageous29. I have heard and sympathized. I have heard of many blows and wounds that you have received in the battle we began—well, some little time ago.”
“Ah, don’t mention them! They hurt none the less because we cover them with a smile, eh? I dare say you know. You have been in the thick of the fight yourself. But you did not come here to chat with me, though your manner might lead one to think so. I will not keep you.”
“I came to see Prince Pavlo,” answered Steinmetz. “I must thank you for enabling me to do so. I may not see you again this evening. My best thanks, my very dear lady.”
He bowed, and with his half-humorous, half-melancholy smile, left her.
The first face he recognized was a pretty one. Miss Maggie Delafield was just turning away from a partner who was taking his congi, when she looked across the room and saw Steinmetz. He had only met her once, barely exchanging six words with her, and her frank, friendly bow was rather a surprise to him. She came toward him, holding out her hand with an open friendliness30 which this young lady was in the habit of bestowing31 upon men and women impartially—upon persons of either sex who happened to meet with her approval. She did not know what made her incline to like this man, neither did she seek to know. In a quiet, British way Miss Delafield was a creature of impulse. Her likes and dislikes were a matter of instinct, and, much as one respects the doctrine32 of charity, it is a question whether an instinctive33 dislike should be quashed by an exaggerated sense of neighborly duty. Steinmetz she liked, and there was an end to it.
“I was afraid you did not recognize me,” she said.
“My life has not so many pleasures that I can afford to forget one of them,” replied Steinmetz, in his somewhat old-fashioned courtesy. “But an old—buffer34, shall I say?—hardly expects to be taken much notice of by young ladies at a ball.”
“It is not ten minutes since Paul assured me that you were the best dancer that Vienna ever produced,” said the girl, looking at him with bright, honest eyes.
Karl Steinmetz looked down at her, for he was a tall man when Paul Alexis was not near. His quiet gray eyes were almost affectionate. There was a sudden sympathy between these two, and sudden sympathies are the best.
“Will you give an old man a trial?” he asked. “They will laugh at you.”
She handed him her programme.
“Let them laugh!” she said.
He took the next dance, which happened to be vacant on her card. Almost immediately the music began, and they glided35 off together. Maggie began with the feeling that she was dancing with her own father, but this wore off before they had made much progress through the crowd, and gave way to the sensation that she had for partner the best dancer she had ever met, gray-haired, stout, and middle-aged36.
“I wanted to speak to you,” she said.
“Ah!” Steinmetz answered. He was steering37 with infinite skill. In that room full of dancers no one touched Maggie’s elbow or the swing of her dress, and she, who knew what such things meant, smiled as she noted38 it.
“I have been asked to go and stay at Osterno,” she said. “Shall I go?”
“By whom?”
“By Paul.”
“Then go,” said Steinmetz, making one of the few mistakes of his life.
“You think so—you want me to go?”
“Ach! you must not put it like that. How well you dance—colossal! But it does not affect me—your going, fra|lein.”
“Since you will be there?”
“Does that make a difference, my dear young lady?”
“Of course it does.”
“I wonder why.”
“So do I,” answered Maggie frankly39. “I wonder why. I have been wondering why, ever since Paul asked me. If you had not been going I should have said ‘No’ at once.”
Karl Steinmetz laughed quietly.
“What do I represent?” he asked.
“Safety,” she replied at once.
She gave a queer little laugh and went on dancing.
“And Paul?” he said, after a little while.
He looked down at her—a momentary41 glance of wonder. He was like a woman, inasmuch as he judged a person by a flicker42 of the eyelids—a glance, a silence—in preference to judging by the spoken word.
“Then with us both to take care of you, may we hope that you will brave the perils43 of Osterno? Ah—the music is stopping.”
“If I may assure my mother that there are no perils.”
Something took place beneath the gray mustache—a smile or a pursing up of the lips in doubt.
“Ah, I cannot go so far as that. You may assure Lady Delafield that I will protect you as I would my own daughter. If—well, if the good God in heaven had not had other uses for me I should have had a daughter of your age. Ach! the music has stopped. The music always does stop, Miss Delafield; that is the worst of it. Thank you for dancing with an old buffer.”
He took her back to her chaperon, bowed in his old-world way to both ladies, and left them.
“If I can help it, my very dear young friend,” he said to himself as he crossed the room, looking for Paul, “you will not go to Osterno.”
He found Paul talking to two men.
“You here!” said Paul, in surprise.
“Yes,” answered Steinmetz, shaking hands. “I gave Lady Fontain five guineas to let me in, and now I want a couple of chairs and a quiet corner, if the money includes such.”
“Come up into the gallery,” replied Paul.
A certain listlessness which had been his a moment before vanished when Paul recognized his friend. He led the way up the narrow stairs. In the gallery they found a few people—couples seeking, like themselves, a rare solitude44.
“What news?” asked Paul, sitting down.
“Bad!” replied Steinmetz. “We have had the misfortune to make a dangerous enemy—Claude de Chauxville.”
“Claude de Chauxville,” repeated Paul.
“Yes. He wanted to marry your wife—for her money.”
Paul leaned forward and dragged at his great fair mustache. He was not a subtle man, analyzing45 his own thoughts. Had he been, he might have wondered why he was not more jealous in respect to Etta.
“Or,” went on Steinmetz, “it may have been—the other thing. It is a singular thing that many men incapable46 of a lifelong love, can conceive a lifelong hatred47 based on that love. Claude de Chauxville has hated me all his life; for very good reasons, no doubt. You are now included in his antipathy48 because you married madame.”
“I dare say,” replied Paul carelessly. “But I am not afraid of Claude de Chauxville, or any other man.”
“I am,” said Steinmetz. “He is up to some mischief. I was calling on the Countess Lanovitch in Petersburg when in walked Claude de Chauxville. He was constrained49 at the sight of my stout person, and showed it, which was a mistake. Now, what is he doing in Petersburg? He has not been there for ten years, at least. He has no friends there. He revived a minute acquaintance with the Countess Lanovitch, who is a fool of the very first water. Before I came away I heard from Catrina that he had wheedled50 an invitation to Thors out of the old lady. Why, my friend, why?”
Paul reflected, with a frown.
“We do not want him out there,” he said.
“No; and if he goes there you must remain in England this winter.”
Paul looked up sharply.
“I do not want to do that. It is all arranged,” he said. “Etta was very much against going at first, but I persuaded her to do so. It would be a mistake not to go now.”
Looking at him gravely, Steinmetz muttered, “I advise you not to go.”
Paul shrugged his shoulders.
“I am sorry,” he said. “It is too late now. Besides, I have invited Miss Delafield, and she has practically accepted.”
“Does that matter?” asked Steinmetz quietly.
“Yes. I do not want her to think that I am a changeable sort of person.”
Steinmetz rose, and standing51 with his two hands on the marble rail he looked down into the room below. The music of a waltz was just beginning, and some of the more enthusiastic spirits had already begun dancing, moving in and out among the uniforms and gay dresses.
“Well,” he said resignedly; “it is as you will. There is a certain pleasure in outwitting De Chauxville. He is so d—d clever!”
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1
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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crave
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| vt.渴望得到，迫切需要，恳求，请求 | |
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purges
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| 清除异己( purge的名词复数 )； 整肃（行动）； 清洗； 泻药 | |
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aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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7
equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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9
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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disapproval
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| n.反对，不赞成 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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joint
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| adj.联合的，共同的；n.关节，接合处；v.连接，贴合 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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poked
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| v.伸出( poke的过去式和过去分词 )；戳出；拨弄；与（某人）性交 | |
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upbraiding
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| adj.& n.谴责（的）v.责备，申斥，谴责( upbraid的现在分词 ) | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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friendliness
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| n.友谊，亲切，亲密 | |
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31
bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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buffer
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| n.起缓冲作用的人(或物)，缓冲器；vt.缓冲 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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steering
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| n.操舵装置 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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41
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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42
flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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43
perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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44
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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45
analyzing
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| v.分析；分析( analyze的现在分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析n.分析 | |
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46
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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47
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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48
antipathy
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| n.憎恶；反感，引起反感的人或事物 | |
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49
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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50
wheedled
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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