Harold MacGrath - The Place of Honeymoons

“We do not speak off the stage,” said the singer, pushing the duke aside.

“I should like to make that young man’s acquaintance,” whispered the duke.

She warned him to be silent.

Came the voice again: “Will you give me her address, please? Your messenger gave me your address, inferring that you wished to see me.”

“I?” There was no impeaching her astonishment.

“Yes, Madame.”

“My dear Mr. Courtlandt, you are the last man in all the wide world I wish to see. And I do not quite like the way you are making your request. His highness does not either.”

“Send him down!”

“That is true.”

“What is?”

“I remember. You are very strong and much given to fighting.”

The duke opened and shut his hands, pleasurably. Here was something he could understand. He was a fighting man himself. Where was this going to end, and what was it all about?

“Do you not think, Madame, that you owe me something?”

“No. What I owe I pay. Think, Mr. Courtlandt; think well.”

“I do not understand,” impatiently.

“ Ebbene , I owe you nothing. Once I heard you say – ‘I do not like to see you with the Calabrian; she is – Well, you know.’ I stood behind you at another time when you said that I was a fool.”

“Madame, I do not forget that, that is pure invention. You are mistaken.”

“No. You were. I am no fool.” A light laugh drifted down the tube.

“Madame, I begin to see.”

“Ah!”

“You believe what you wish to believe.”

“I think not.”

“I never even noticed you,” carelessly.

“Take care!” whispered the duke, who noted the sudden dilation of her nostrils.

“It is easy to forget,” cried the diva, furiously. “It is easy for you to forget, but not for me.”

“Madame, I do not forget that you entered my room that night …”

“Your address!” bawled the duke. “That statement demands an explanation.”

“I should explain at once, your Highness,” said the man down below calmly, “only I prefer to leave that part in Madame’s hands. I should not care to rob her of anything so interesting and dramatic. Madame the duchess can explain, if she wishes. I am stopping at the Grand, if you find her explanations are not up to your requirements.”

“I shall give you her address,” interrupted the diva, hastily. The duke’s bristling beard for one thing and the ice in the other man’s tones for another, disquieted her. The play had gone far enough, much as she would have liked to continue it. This was going deeper than she cared to go. She gave the address and added: “To-night she sings at the Austrian ambassador’s. I give you this information gladly because I know that it will be of no use to you.”

“Then I shall dispense with the formality of thanking you. I add that I wish you twofold the misery you have carelessly and gratuitously cost me. Good night!” Click! went the little covering of the tube.

“Now,” said the duke, whose knowledge of the English tongue was not so indifferent that he did not gather the substance, if not all the shadings, of this peculiar conversation; “now, what the devil is all this about?”

“I hate him!”

“Refused to singe his wings?”

“He has insulted me!”

“I am curious to learn about that night you went to his room.”

Her bear had a ring in his nose, but she could not always lead him by it. So, without more ado, she spun the tale, laughing at intervals. The story evidently impressed the duke, for his face remained sober all through the recital.

“Did he say that you were a fool?”

“Of course not!”

“Shall I challenge him?”

“Oh, my Russian bear, he fences like a Chicot; he is a dead shot; and is afraid of nothing … but a woman. No, no; I have something better. It will be like one of those old comedies. I hate her!” with a burst of fury. “She always does everything just so much better than I do. As for him, he was nothing. It was she; I hurt her, wrung her heart.”

“Why?” mildly.

“Is not that enough?”

“I am slow; it takes a long time for anything to get into my head; but when it arrives, it takes a longer time to get it out.”

“Well, go on.” Her calm was ominous.

“Love or vanity. This American singer got what you could not get. You have had your way too long. Perhaps you did not love him. I do not believe you can really love any one but Flora. Doubtless he possessed millions; but on the other hand, I am a grand duke; I offered marriage, openly and legally, in spite of all the opposition brought to bear.”

Flora was undeniably clever. She did the one thing that could successfully cope with this perilous condition of the ducal mind. She laughed, and flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.

“I have named you well. You are a tigress. But this comedy of which you speak: it might pass in Russia, but not in Paris.”

“I shall not be in the least concerned. My part was suggestion.”

“You suggested it to some one else?”

“To be sure!”

“My objections …”

“I will have my way in this affair. Besides, it is too late.”

Her gesture was explicit. He sighed. He knew quite well that she was capable of leaving the apartment that night, in her kimono.

“I’ll go to Capri,” resignedly. Dynamite bombs were not the worst things in the world.

“I don’t want to go now.”

The duke picked up a fresh cigarette. “How the devil must have laughed when the Lord made Eve!”

With the same inward bitterness that attends the mental processes of a performing tiger on being sent back to its cage, Courtlandt returned to his taxicab. He wanted to roar and lash and devour something. Instead, he could only twist the ends of his mustache savagely. So she was a grand duchess, or at least the morganatic wife of a grand duke! It did not seem possible that any woman could be so full of malice. He simply could not understand. It was essentially the Italian spirit; doubtless, till she heard his voice, she had forgotten all about the episode that had foundered his ship of happiness.

Her statement as to the primal cause was purely inventive. There was not a grain of truth in it. He could not possibly have been so rude. He had been too indifferent. Too indifferent! The repetition of the phrase made him sit straighter. Pshaw! It could not be that. He possessed a little vanity; if he had not, his history would not have been worth a scrawl. But he denied the possession vehemently, as men are wont to do. Strange, a man will admit smashing those ten articles of advisement known as the decalogue and yet deny the inherent quality which surrenders the admission – vanity. However you may look at it, man’s vanity is a complex thing. The vanity of a woman has a definite and commendable purpose: the conquest of man, his purse, and half of his time. Too indifferent! Was it possible that he had roused her enmity simply because he had made it evident that her charms did not interest him? Beyond lifting his hat to her, perhaps exchanging a comment on the weather, his courtesies had not been extended. Courtlandt was peculiar in some respects. A woman attracted him, or she did not. In the one case he was affable, winning, pleasant, full of those agreeable little surprises that in turn attract a woman. In the other case, he passed on, for his impressions were instant and did not require the usual skirmishing.

A grand duchess! The straw-colored mustache now described two aggressive points. What an impossible old world it was! The ambition of the English nobility was on a far lower scale than that of their continental cousins. On the little isle they were satisfied to marry soubrettes and chorus girls. Here, the lady must be no less a personage than a grand-opera singer or a première danseuse . The continental noble at least showed some discernment; he did not choose haphazard; he desired the finished product and was not to be satisfied with the material in the raw.