Mosquetti bowed at the compliment. “It is singular, my lord,” he said; “but I doubt if those tones are quite natural to me. I am a little of a mimic, and at one period of my life I was in the habit of imitating poor De Lancy, whose singing I very much admired.”
Valerie grasps the delicate fan in her nervous hand so tightly that the group of courtiers and fair ladies, of the time of Louis Quatorze, dancing nothing particular on a blue cloud, are crushed out of all symmetry as she listens to this conversation.
“I was, at the time I knew De Lancy, merely a chorus-singer at the Italian Opera, Paris.”
The listeners draw nearer, and form quite a circle round Mosquetti, who is the lion of the night; even Argyle Fitz-Bertram pricks up his ears, and deserts the Duchess in order to hear this conversation.
“A low chorus-singer,” he mutters to himself. “So help me, Jupiter, I knew he was a nobody.”
“This passion for mimicry,” said Mosquetti, “was so great that I acquired a sort of celebrity throughout the Opera House, and even beyond its walls. I could imitate De Lancy better, perhaps, than anyone else; for in height, figure, and general appearance I was said to resemble him.”
“You do,” said the gentleman; “you do very much resemble the poor fellow.”
“This resemblance one day gave rise to quite an adventure, which, if I shall not bore you—” he glanced round.
There is a general murmur. “Bore us! No! Delighted, enraptured, charmed above all things!” Fitz-Bertram is quite energetic in this omnes business, and says, “No, no!”—muttering to himself afterwards, “So help me, Jupiter, I knew the fellow was a nuisance!”
“But the adventure! Pray let us hear it!” cried eager voices.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, I was a careless reckless fellow; quite content to put on a pair of russet boots which half swallowed me, and a green cotton-velvet tunic short in the sleeves and tight across the chest, and to go on the stage and sing in a chorus with fifty others, as idle as myself, in other russet boots and cotton-velvet tunics, which, as you know, is the court costume of a chorus-singer from the time of Charlemagne to the reign of Louis XV. I was quite happy, I say, to lounge on to the stage, unknown, unnoticed, badly paid and worse dressed, provided when the chorus was finished I had my cigarette, dominoes, and my glass of cognac in a third-rate café. I was playing one morning at those eternal dominoes—(and never, I think,” said Mosquetti, parenthetically, “had a poor fellow so many double-sixes in his hand)—when I was told a gentleman wanted to see me. This seemed too good a joke—a gentleman for me! It couldn’t be a limb of the law, as I didn’t owe a farthing—no Parisian tradesman being quite so demented as to give me credit. It was a gentleman—a very aristocratic-looking fellow; handsome—but I didn’t like his face; affable—and yet I didn’t like his manner.”
Ah, Valerie! you may well listen now!
“He wanted me, he said,” continued Mosquetti, “to decide a little wager. Some foolish girl, who had seen De Lancy on the stage, and who believed him the ideal hero of romance, and was only in too much danger of throwing her heart and fortune at his feet, was to be disenchanted by any stratagem that could be devised. Her parents had entrusted the management of the affair to him, a relation of the lady’s. Would I assist him? Would I represent De Lancy, and play a little scene in the Bois de Boulogne, to open the eyes of this silly boarding-school miss—would I, for a consideration? It was only to act a little stage play off the stage, and was for a good cause. I consented; and that evening, at half-past ten o’clock, under the shadow of the winter night and the leafless trees, I—”
“Stop, stop! Signor Mosquetti!” cry the bystanders. “Madame! Madame de Marolles! Water! Smelling-salts! Your flacon, Lady Emily: she has fainted!”
No; she has not fainted; this is something worse than fainting, this convulsive agony, in which the proud form writhes, while the white and livid lips murmur strange and dreadful words.
“Murdered, murdered and innocent! while I, vile dupe, pitiful fool, was only a puppet in the hands of a demon!”
At this very moment Monsieur de Marolles, who has been summoned from the adjoining apartment, where he has been discussing a financial measure with some members of the lower House, enters hurriedly.
“Valerie, Valerie, what is the matter?” he says, approaching his wife.
She rises—rises with a terrible effort, and looks him full in the face.
“I thought, monsieur, that I knew the hideous abyss of your black soul to its lowest depths. I was wrong; I never knew you till tonight.”
Imagine such strong language as this in a Belgravian drawing-room, and then you can imagine the astonishment of the bystanders.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Signor Mosquetti hurriedly.
“What?” cried they eagerly.
“That is the very man I have been speaking of.”
“That? The Count de Marolles?”
“The man bending over the lady who has fainted.”
Petrified Belgravians experience a new sensation—surprise—and rather like it.
Argyle Fitz-Bertram twists his black moustachios reflectively, and mutters—
“So help me, Jupiter. I knew there’d be a row! I shan’t have to sing ‘Scots Wha Hae,’ and shall be just in time for that little supper at the Café de l’Europe.”
VII
The Golden Secret Is Told, and the Golden Bowl Is Broken
The new tiger, or, as he is called in the kitchen, the “tempory tiger,” takes his place, on the morning after Lady Londersdon’s Wednesday, behind the Count de Marolles’ cab, as that gentleman drives into the City.
There is little augury to be drawn from the pale smooth face of Raymond de Marolles, though Signor Mosquetti’s revelation has made his position rather a critical one. Till now he has ruled Valerie with a high hand; and though never conquering the indomitable spirit of the
