Chapter 3
He had not specified, in writing to Gordon Wright, the day on which he
should arrive at Baden-Baden; it must be confessed that he was not
addicted to specifying days. He came to his journey's end in the evening,
and, on presenting himself at the hotel from which his friend had dated his
letter, he learned that Gordon Wright had be taken himself after dinner,
according to the custom of Baden-Baden, to the grounds of the
Conversation-house. It was eight o'clock, and Longueville, after removing
the stains of travel, sat down to dine. His first impulse had been to send
for Gordon to come and keep him company at his repast; but on second
thought he determined to make it as brief as possible. Having brought it to
a close, he took his way to the Kursaal. The great German watering-place
is one of the prettiest nooks in Europe, and of a summer evening in the
gaming days, five-and-twenty years ago, it was one of the most brilliant
scenes. The lighted windows of the great temple of hazard (of as chaste an
architecture as if it had been devoted to a much purer divinity) opened
wide upon the gardens and groves; the little river that issues from the
bosky mountains of the Black Forest flowed, with an air of brook-like
innocence, past the expensive hotels and lodging-houses; the orchestra, in
a high pavilion on the terrace of the Kursaal, played a discreet
accompaniment to the conversation of the ladies and gentlemen who,
scattered over the large expanse on a thousand little chairs, preferred for
the time the beauties of nature to the shuffle of coin and the calculation of
chance; while the faint summer stars, twinkling above the vague black
hills and woods, looked down at the indifferent groups without venturing
to drop their light upon them.
Longueville, noting all this, went straight into the gaming-rooms; he
was curious to see whether his friend, being fond of experiments, was
trying combinations at roulette. But he was not to be found in any of the
gilded chambers, among the crowd that pressed in silence about the tables;
so that Bernard presently came and began to wander about the lamp-lit
terrace, where innumerable groups, seated and strolling,
made the place a
gigantic
conversazione. It seemed to him very agreeable and amusing, and
he remarked to himself that, for a man who was supposed not to take
especially the Epicurean view of life, Gordon Wright, in coming to
Baden, had certainly made himself comfortable. Longueville went his
way, glancing from one cluster of talkers to another; and at last he saw a
face which brought him to a stop. He stood a moment looking at it; he
knew he had seen it before. He had an excellent memory for faces; but it
was some time before he was able to attach an identity to this one. Where
had he seen a little elderly lady with an expression of timorous vigilance,
and a band of hair as softly white as a dove's wing? The answer to the
question presently came — Where but in a grass-grown corner of an old
Italian town? The lady was the mother of his inconsequent model, so that
this mysterious personage was probably herself not far off. Before
Longueville had time to verify this induction, he found his eyes resting
upon the broad back of a gentleman seated close to the old lady, and who,
turning away from her, was talking to a young girl. It was nothing but the
back of this gentleman that he saw, but nevertheless, with the instinct of
true friendship, he recognized in this featureless expanse the robust
personality of Gordon Wright. In a moment he had stepped forward and
laid his hand upon Wright's shoulder.
His friend looked round, and then sprang up with a joyous
exclamation and grasp of the hand.
My dear fellow — my dear Bernard! What on earth — when did
you arrive?
While Bernard answered and explained a little, he glanced from his
friend's good, gratified face at the young girl with whom Wright had been
talking, and then at the lady on the other side, who was giving him a
bright little stare. He raised his hat to her and to the young girl, and he
became conscious, as regards the latter, of a certain disappointment. She
was very pretty; she was looking at him; but she was not the heroine of
the little incident of the terrace at Siena.
It 's just like Longueville, you know,
Gordon Wright
went on;
he always comes at you from behind; he 's so awfully fond
of surprises.
He was laughing; he was greatly
pleased; he
introduced Bernard to the two ladies.
You must know Mrs. Vivian;
you must know Miss Blanche Evers.
Bernard took his place in the little circle; he wondered whether he
ought to venture upon a special recognition of Mrs. Vivian. Then it
seemed to him that he should leave the option of this step with the lady,
especially as he had detected recognition in her eye. But Mrs. Vivian
ventured upon nothing special; she contented herself with soft
generalities — with remarking that she always liked to know when people
would arrive; that, for herself, she never enjoyed surprises.
And yet I imagine you have had your share,
said
Longueville, with a smile. He thought this might remind her of the
moment when she came out of the little church at Siena and found her
daughter posturing to an unknown painter.
But Mrs. Vivian, turning her benignant head about, gave but a
superficial reply.
Oh, I have had my share of everything, good and bad. I don't
complain of anything.
And she gave a little deprecating laugh.
Gordon Wright shook hands with Bernard again; he seemed really
very glad to see him. Longueville, remembering that Gordon had written
to him that he had been
making love,
began to seek in his
countenance for the ravages of passion. For the moment, however, they
were not apparent; the excellent, honest fellow looked placid and
contented. Gordon Wright had a clear gray eye, short, straight, flaxen
hair, and a healthy diffusion of color. His features were thick and rather
irregular; but his countenance — in addition to the merit of its
expression — derived a certain grace from a powerful yellow moustache, to
which its wearer occasionally gave a martial twist. Gordon Wright was not
tall, but he was strong, and in his whole person there was something
well-planted and sturdy. He almost always dressed in light-colored
garments, and he wore round his neck an eternal blue cravat. When he
was agitated he grew very red. While he questioned Longueville about his
journey and his health, his whereabouts and his intentions, the latter,
among his own replies, endeavored to read in Wright's eyes some account
of his present situation. Was that pretty girl at his side the ambiguous
object of his adoration, and, in that case, what was the function
of the
elder lady, and what had become of her argumentative daughter? Perhaps
this was another, a younger daughter, though, indeed, she bore no
resemblance to either of Longueville's friends. Gordon Wright, in spite of
Bernard's interrogative glances, indulged in no optical confidences. He
had too much to tell. He would keep his story till they should be alone
together. It was impossible that they should adjourn just yet to social
solitude; the two ladies were under Gordon's protection. Mrs.
Vivian — Bernard felt a satisfaction in learning her name; it was as if a
curtain, half pulled up and stopped by a hitch, had suddenly been raised
altogether — Mrs. Vivian sat looking up and down the terrace at the crowd
of loungers and talkers with an air of tender expectation. She was
probably looking for her elder daughter, and Longueville could not help
wishing also that this young lady would arrive. Meanwhile, he saw that
the young girl to whom Gordon had been devoting himself was extremely
pretty, and appeared eminently approachable. Longueville had some talk
with her, reflecting that if she were the person concerning whom Gordon
had written him, it behooved him to appear to take an interest in her. This
view of the case was confirmed by Gordon Wright's presently turning
away to talk with Mrs. Vivian, so that his friend might be at liberty to
make acquaintance with their companion.
Though she had not been with the others at Siena, it seemed to
Longueville, with regard to her, too, that this was not the first time he had
seen her. She was simply the American pretty girl, whom he had seen a
thousand times. It was a numerous sisterhood, pervaded by a strong
family likeness. This young lady had charming eyes (of the color of
Gordon's cravats), which looked everywhere at once and yet found time to
linger in some places, where Longueville's own eyes frequently met them.
She had soft brown hair, with a silky-golden thread in it, beautifully
arranged and crowned by a smart little hat that savoured of Paris. She had
also a slender little figure, neatly rounded, and delicate, narrow hands,
prettily gloved. She moved about a great deal in her place, twisted her
little flexible body and tossed her head, fingered her hair and examined
the ornaments of her dress. She had a great deal of conversation,
Longueville speedily learned, and she
expressed herself with extreme
frankness and decision. He asked her, to begin with, if she had been long
at Baden, but the impetus of this question was all she required. Turning
her charming, conscious, coquettish little face upon him, she instantly
began to chatter.
I have been here about four weeks. I don't know whether you
call that long. It does n't seem long to me; I have had such a lovely time.
I have met ever so many people here I know — every day some one turns
up. Now you have turned up to-day.
Ah, but you don't know me,
said Longueville,
laughing.
Well, I have heard a great deal about you!
cried the
young girl, with a pretty little stare of contradiction.
I think you
know a great friend of mine, Miss Ella Maclane, of Baltimore. She 's
travelling in Europe now.
Longueville's memory did not instantly
respond to this signal, but he expressed that rapturous assent which the
occasion demanded, and even risked the observation that the young lady
from Baltimore was very pretty.
She 's far too lovely,
his
companion went on.
I have often heard her speak of you. I think
you know her sister rather better than you know her. She has not been out
very long. She is just as interesting as she can be. Her hair comes down
to her feet. She 's travelling in Norway. She has been everywhere you can
think of, and she 's going to finish off with Finland. You can't go any
further than that, can you? That 's one comfort; she will have to turn
round and come back. I want her dreadfully to come to
Baden-Baden.
I wish she would,
said Longueville.
Is she
travelling alone?
Oh, no. They 've got some Englishman. They say he 's
devoted to Ella. Every one seems to have an Englishman, now. We 've
got one here, Captain Lovelock, the Honourable Augustus Lovelock.
Well, they 're awfully handsome. Ella Maclane is dying to come to
Baden-Baden. I wish you 'd write to her. Her father and mother have got
some idea in their heads; they think it 's improper — what do you call
it? — immoral. I wish you would write to her and tell her it is n't. I wonder
if they think that Mrs. Vivian would come to a place that 's immoral.
Mrs. Vivian says she would take her in
a moment; she does n't seem to
care how many she has. I declare, she 's only too kind. You know I 'm in
Mrs. Vivian's care. My mother 's gone to Marienbad. She would let me
go with Mrs. Vivian anywhere, on account of the influence — she thinks so
much of Mrs. Vivian's influence. I have always heard a great deal about
it, have n't you? I must say it 's lovely; it 's had a wonderful effect upon
me. I don't want to praise myself, but it has. You ask Mrs. Vivian if I
have n't been good. I have been just as good as I can be. I have been so
peaceful, I have just sat here this way. Do you call this immoral? You 're
not obliged to gamble if you don't want to. Ella Maclane's father seems to
think you get drawn in. I 'm sure I have n't been drawn in. I know what
you 're going to say — you 're going to say I have been drawn out. Well, I
have, to-night. We just sit here so quietly — there 's nothing to do but to
talk. We make a little party by ourselves — are you going to belong to our
party? Two of us are missing — Miss Vivian and Captain Lovelock. Captain
Lovelock has gone with her into the rooms to explain the gambling — Miss
Vivian always wants everything explained. I am sure I understood it the
first time I looked at the tables. Have you ever seen Miss Vivian? She 's
very much admired, she 's so very unusual. Black hair 's so uncommon — I
see you have got it too — but I mean for young ladies. I am sure one sees
everything here. There 's a woman that comes to the tables — a Portuguese
countess — who has hair that is positively blue. I can't say I admire it when
it comes to that shade. Blue 's my favorite color, but I prefer it in the
eyes,
continued Longueville's companion, resting upon him her
own two brilliant little specimens of the tint.
He listened with that expression of clear amusement which is not
always an indication of high esteem, but which even pretty chatterers, who
are not the reverse of estimable, often prefer to masculine inattention; and
while he listened Bernard, according to his wont, made his reflections. He
said to himself that there were two kinds of pretty girls — the acutely
conscious and the finely unconscious. Mrs. Vivian's
protégée was a member of the former category; she
belonged to the genus coquette. We all have our conception of the
indispensable, and the indispensable, to this young lady, was a spectator;
almost any male biped would serve the purpose. To her spectator she
addressed, for the moment, the whole volume of her being — addressed it in
her glances, her attitudes, her exclamations, in a hundred little
experiments of tone and gesture and position. And these rustling artifices
were so innocent and obvious that the directness of her desire to be well
with her observer became in itself a grace; it led Bernard afterward to say
to himself that the natural vocation and
métier of little girls for
whom existence was but a shimmering surface, was to prattle and ruffle
their plumage; their view of life and its duties was as simple and
superficial as that of an Oriental
bayadere. It surely could not be with
regard to this transparent little flirt that Gordon Wright desired advice;
you could literally see the daylight — or rather the Baden gaslight — on the
other side of her. She sat there for a minute, turning her little empty head
to and fro, and catching Bernard's eye every time she moved; she had for
the instant the air of having exhausted all topics. Just then a young lady,
with a gentleman at her side, drew near to the little group, and
Longueville, perceiving her, instantly got up from his chair.
There 's a beauty of the unconscious class!
he said to
himself. He knew her face very well; he had spent half an hour in copying
it.
Here comes Miss Vivian!
said Gordon Wright, also
getting up, as if to make room for the daughter near the mother.
She stopped in front of them, smiling slightly, and then she rested
her eyes upon Longueville. Their gaze at first was full and direct, but it
expressed nothing more than civil curiosity. This was immediately
followed, however, by the light of recognition — recognition embarrassed,
and signalling itself by a blush.
Miss Vivian's companion was a powerful, handsome fellow, with a
remarkable auburn beard, who struck the observer immediately as being
uncommonly well dressed. He carried his hands in the pockets of a little
jacket, the button-hole of which was adorned with a blooming rose. He
approached Blanche Evers, smiling and dandling his body a little, and
making her two or three jocular bows.
Well, I hope you have lost every penny you put on the
table!
said the young girl, by way of response to his obeisances.
He began to laugh and repeat them.
I don't care what I lose, so long — so long —
So long as what, pray?
So long as you let me sit down by you!
And he
dropped, very gallantly, into a chair on the other side of her.
I wish you would lose all your property!
she replied,
glancing at Bernard.
It would be a very small stake,
said Captain Lovelock.
Would you really like to see me reduced to misery?
While this graceful dialogue rapidly established itself, Miss Vivian
removed her eyes from Longueville's face and turned toward her mother.
But Gordon Wright checked this movement by laying his hand on
Longueville's shoulder and proceeding to introduce his friend.
This is the accomplished creature, Mr. Bernard Longueville,
of whom you have heard me speak. One of his accomplishments, as you
see, is to drop down from the moon.
No, I don't drop from the moon,
said Bernard,
laughing.
I drop from — Siena!
He offered his hand to Miss
Vivian, who for an appreciable instant hesitated to extend her own. Then
she returned his salutation, without any response to his allusion to Siena.
She declined to take a seat, and said she was tired and preferred to
go home. With this suggestion her mother immediately complied, and the
two ladies appealed to the indulgence of little Miss Evers, who was
obliged to renounce the society of Captain Lovelock. She enjoyed this
luxury, however, on the way to Mrs. Vivian's lodgings, toward which
they all slowly strolled, in the sociable Baden fashion. Longueville might
naturally have found himself next Miss Vivian, but he received an
impression that she avoided him. She walked in front, and Gordon Wright
strolled beside her, though Longueville noticed that they appeared to
exchange but few words. He himself offered his arm to Mrs. Vivian, who
paced along with a little lightly-wavering step, making observations upon
the beauties of Baden and the respective merits of the hotels.