_ PART IV CHAPTER IV. THE IDOL OF PARIS
It was dark when they returned to the hotel, but Paris shone with a million lights. The hotel itself had a festive air. There were flowers in all directions, and a red carpet had been laid upon the steps.
"Rozelle Daubeni is expected," said Saltash.
"Who?" Toby stopped short in the act of descending. Her face shone white in the glare. A moment before she had been laughing but the laugh went into her question with a little choked sound. "Who did you say?" she questioned more coherently.
"Mademoiselle Daubeni--the idol of Paris. Never heard of her?" Saltash handed her lightly down. "She is coming to a dance in the great _salon_ tonight. You shall see her. She is--a thing to remember."
Toby gave a quick shiver. "Yes, I have heard of her too much--too much--I don't want to see her. Shall we dine upstairs?"
"Oh, I think not," said Saltash with decision. "You are too retiring, _ma chere_. It doesn't become--a lady of your position."
He followed her towards the lift. The vestibule was full of people, laughing and talking, awaiting the coming of the favourite. But as the girl in her blue cloak went through, a sudden hush fell. Women lifted glasses to look at her, and men turned to watch.
Saltash sauntered behind her in his regal way, looking neither to right nor left, yet fully aware of all he passed. No one accosted him. There were times when even those who knew him well would have hesitated to do so. He could surround himself with an atmosphere so suavely impersonal as to be quite impenetrable to all.
It surrounded him now. He walked like a king through a crowd of courtiers, and the buzz of talk did not spring up again till he was out of sight.
"So you do not want to see _le premiere danseuse du siecle!_" he commented, as he entered the sitting-room of their suite behind Toby.
She turned, blue eyes wide with protest in her white face. "Do you wish me to see her, my lord? That--woman!"
He frowned upon her suddenly. "Call me Charles! Do you hear? We will play this game according to rule--or not at all."
"You are angry," Toby said, and turned still whiter.
He came to her, thrust a quick arm about her. "I am not angry, _mignonne_, at least not with you. But you must take your proper place. I can't keep you in hiding here. Those gaping fools downstairs--they have got to understand. You are not my latest whim, but a permanent institution. You are--my wife."
She shivered in his hold, but she clung to him. "I don't feel like--a permanent institution," she told him rather piteously. "And when you are angry--"
"I am not angry," said Saltash, and tweaked her ear as though she had been a boy. "But--whether you feel like it or not--you are my wife, and you have got to play the part. _C'est entendu, n'est-ce-pas?_"
"Whatever you wish," said Toby faintly.
He set her free. "You must look your best tonight. Wear blue! It is your colour. I shall present Spentoli to you. And tomorrow he will want to paint you."
Toby stiffened. "That--_canaille_!" she said.
He looked at her in surprise. "What is the matter with you tonight, Nonette? You are hating all the world."
Her blue eyes blazed. "I don't want to meet Spentoli," she said. "He has an evil eye. You--you--I look to you to--to--to protect me."
"My good child!" said Saltash.
He turned aside to light a cigarette, and there was a pause. But Toby still stood rigid, as it were on guard. He spoke again after a moment, and his voice was kind though it had a certain dominant quality also.
"Nonette, you need not be afraid when you are with me. I shall protect you. Now go and dress! When you are ready, come to me for inspection! And remember! You are to look your best tonight."
He turned with the last words and looked at her. His brows went up as he realized her attitude--the tense resistance of the slight figure withstanding him.
But it was only for a moment or two that the girl maintained her stand. At sight of the look that leaped to his eyes, her own were swiftly lowered. She drew back from him.
"I will do--whatever you wish," she said again nervously. "You know that."
"Yes, I know that," said Saltash with his quick grimace. "You have my sympathy, Nonette. Now go, _ma chere_, go!"
She went from his presence like a small hunted animal.
Saltash shrugged his shoulders and sauntered down again to the vestibule. The crowd had grown. They were watching the great entrance-door expectantly for the coming of the celebrated dancer. Saltash called for a drink, and mingled with the throng.
The Italian, Spentoli, came up presently and joined him. "I am hoping," he said, "that you will presently give me the great honour of presenting me to your bride."
Saltash looked at him. Spentoli was one of the very few men for whom he entertained respect. The Italian's work had always held an immense attraction for his artistic soul, and he had never troubled to disguise the fact.
"My wife is young and shy," he said, after a moment. "I will present you--some day, Spentoli, but it may not be yet."
"This is her first visit to Paris?" questioned Spentoli.
"Not her first. But she does not know Paris well." Saltash spoke carelessly. "I am not showing her everything at once. I think that is a mistake."
"That is true," agreed Spentoli. "The freshness of youth is gone all too soon. But she will be superbly beautiful in a few years' time. Will you permit me to congratulate you on the excellence of your choice?"
Saltash grimaced. "Do we ever choose?" he said. "Do we not rather receive such gifts as the gods send us in more or less of a grudging spirit?"
Spentoli smiled. "I did not think you would marry one so young," he said. "She has the athletic look of a boy. She reminds me--"
"Of a picture called 'The Victim' by one--Spentoli!" Saltash's voice was suave. "A cruel picture, _mon ami_, but of an amazing merit. I have seen the likeness also. Where did you get it?"
The Italian was still smiling, but his eyes were wary.
"From a little circus-rider in California," he said. "A child--an imp of a child--astonishingly clever--a wisp of inspiration. Yes, a girl of course; but she had all the lines of a boy--the perfect limbs of an athlete. I took her from her circus. I should have paid her well had she remained with me. But before the picture was finished, she was tired. She was a little serpent--wily and wicked. One day we had a small discussion in my studio--oh, quite a small discussion. And she stuck her poison-fang into me--and fled." Spentoli's teeth gleamed through his black moustache. "I do not like these serpent-women," he said. "When I meet her again--it will be my turn to strike."
"Our turn so seldom comes," said Saltash lazily, his eyes wandering to the door. "Mademoiselle Rozelle for instance would hold her own against any of us."
"Ah! Rozelle!" Spentoli's face changed magically. "But she is beautiful--and without venom--a rose without a thorn!"
Saltash's mouth twitched mockingly. "And without a heart also?" he suggested.
"She is all heart!" cried Spentoli, with flashing eyes.
Saltash laughed aloud. "That also is sometimes a drawback, _mon ami_. I gather she is the attraction who has drawn you here."
"She draws all the world," said Spentoli.
And with that he sprang to his feet, for there was a general stir in the vestibule, such as might herald the coming of a queen. In a moment the buzz of voices died down, and a great silence fell. Saltash remained seated, a certain arrogance in his pose, though his eyes also watched the door.
There came the sound of a laugh--a clear, ringing laugh, childishly, irresistibly gay--and a figure in blue came in through the marble pillars. As a queen they had prepared for her, and as a queen she entered--a being so exquisite, so goddess-like, that every breath was drawn in wonder.
She looked around her with eyes that shone like sapphires. Her red lips were parted. She had the expectant look of girlhood, yet her beauty had a quality unknown to youth. And it was to that quality, almost unknown to himself, that Saltash did homage as he rose.
Her look flashed across to him, comprehended his action, and laughed open triumph. Then with a suddenness almost too swift to follow, she turned to a man who had entered behind her and softly spoke.
Saltash's eyes went to the man, and he drew a low whistle between his teeth. It was well known that Rozelle Daubeni never travelled without an escort; but this man--this man--He was tall and broad, and he carried himself with a supreme contempt for his fellow-men. He did not look at Saltash, did not apparently even see the hushed crowd that hung upon every movement of that wonderful woman-creature who took the world by storm wherever she went.
He was superbly indifferent to his surroundings, gazing straight before him with the eyes of a Viking who searches the far horizon. He walked with the free swing of a pirate. And as the woman turned her dazzling face towards him, it was plain to all that she saw none but him in that vast and crowded place.
He was by her side as they moved forward, and they saw her lightly touch his arm, with an intimate gesture, as though they were alone. Then the whole throng broke into acclamations, and the spell was broken. She saw them all again, and laughed her gracious thanks. The great hall rang with their greeting as she passed through, but no one sought to detain her and she did not pause.
Later, she would give them all they desired, but her moment had not arrived. So she went on to the great curving staircase, side by side with her fair-bearded Viking, still laughing like a happy child who looks for the morrow.
As she rounded the curve of the stair, she snatched a red rose from her breast and threw it down to her worshippers below. It was aimed at Saltash, but it fell before Spentoli, and he caught and held it with wild adoration leaping in his eyes. As he pressed it to his lips, he was sobbing.
"_Mon ami_," said Saltash's voice behind him, maliciously humorous, "you have stolen my property. But--since I have no use for it--you may keep it."
Spentoli looked at him with burning eyes. "Ah! You may laugh!" he said, in a fierce undertone. "You are--without a soul."
"Isn't it better to laugh?" queried Saltash. "Did you expect a blow in the face?"
Spentoli glared for a moment, and recovered himself. "Do you know what they are saying of her?" he said. "They say that she is dying. But it is not true--not true! Such beauty as that--such loveliness--could never die!"
The cynical lines in Saltash's face deepened very perceptibly. He shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.
"Who is the man with her?" demanded Spentoli. "I have never seen him before--the man with the face of a Dane. Do you know him?"
"Yes, I know him," said Saltash.
"Then who is he? Some new lover?" There was suppressed eagerness in the question. Spentoli's eyes were smouldering again.
Saltash was looking supremely ironical. "Perhaps new," he said. "More likely--very old. His name is Larpent, and he is the captain of my yacht." _