Between Sally and Malakoff, were eight other guests, or sixteen in all, a number relatively restricted, but, afterward, there was to be a sauterie, a little frisk, to which a hundred more were coming.
Mme. de Cérisy, outwardly smiling, but inwardly cursing her couturière, wore a confection that matched her name. It did not do and the consciousness that it did not was increased doubly, first by the glitter of Mme. de Solférino, again by the picture presented by Maud, who, with the ivory of her neck and arms, the rich orange of her hair, her incandescent eyes and too alluring looks, seemed a dream and a despair.
Malakoff, turning from Mme. de Cérisy to her, moistened his lips.
To annoy him, Mme. de Cérisy remarked: “Giselle Oppensheim is not with us tonight.”
“Unfortunately no,” he answered. “She was awaited elsewhere.”
It was a fortnight after the episode at Mrs. Cawtree’s. On the afternoon that followed the little skirmish, Sally called at the Mirifique, and finding Maud at home, embraced her, congratulated her, and asked her and Welden to dinner, an invitation which she later reinforced by another, begging both to come to her at Deauville, from the to the . The two bids had been jointly accepted, and it was in response to the first, that Maud and Welden were then dining at her house.
At the moment, Malakoff was addressing himself to Maud. Welden could not hear what he said, but in spite of intervening candelabra, he could see the girl’s face. She was smiling, apparently amused.
Welden felt no jealousy, nothing but the calm of invincible possession, and, as he ate of farcied truffles, which had just been served, and drank the blonde wine with which his glass was constantly replenished, he told himself that in a few hours the girl would be in his arms.
Some vibration of the thought must have reached Sally. Leaning forward, she called at him.
“Isn’t she radiant? In New York she was exquisite, here she is exquisite and radiant besides. What has done it? Is it love? Is it? Ah, alors! Qui done m’apprendra ce que c’est que l’amour?”
With that, a nod and a ripple of laughter, Sally turned to Cantire, an under secretary of the British Embassy, a boy with pink cheeks and fair hair.
The dinner proceeded. Courses succeeded each other. Sweets came and went. Solemnly the butler approached Sally and muttered at her.
But Sally, her attention diverted, had not heard. Presently she looked up.
“Well, Harris, what is it?”
The man muttered again.
“On arrive!” cried Sally, rising. “The others are coming! They are here!”
From beyond floated a kiss of harps that were marrying violins to the strain of a waltz; Malakoff, rising also, bent to Mme. de Solférino, and, her hand on his arm, led the way from the brilliant room, to rooms more brilliant.
In a little, though, marshalled by him, Welden, Cantire, Aquaviva and de Dol returned to the table, where cigars and liqueurs were being served, and where other men joined them.
“Monsieur Welden,” Malakoff called from where he stood. “You know the Marquis Aquaviva de Santamarta, the Comte de Dol and M. Cantire.”
Then as the men nodded, collectively he added:
“Messieurs, this gentleman, a compatriot of the duchess, is a renowned sportsman. Should he consent to enter, in all conscience, I may say, have a care.”
“Thank you,” said Welden, biting the end from a cigar. “But enter what?”
“A little run over the sticks at de Dol’s,” Cantire, in English, replied.
“Permit me,” said the count, approaching. He had honest eyes, a slight moustache, and a careful manner. “Monsieur,” he continued to Welden, “at Chantilly, I have some stables, oh, nothing to speak of, but a little stretch which is, perhaps, sufficient, and these gentlemen, with Kara Saraguine, whom I do not see at this moment, have been arranging a hurdle-race for the sixth. If now you, monsieur, will be amiable enough to enter, it will become truly an international run. Prince Kara is Russian, the Marquis Aquaviva is—”
“I should like nothing better,” Welden cut in. “But on the sixth, I have arranged to be at M. de Malakoff’s.”
“And most amiable it is of you,” Malakoff exclaimed. “I thank you infinitely, but—”
“I have also,” Cantire, in English, interrupted. “We can send our horses to Chantilly before we go, and run up from Deauville together.”
“Voyons!” said Malakoff. “Shall we not talk French? De Dol does not understand, or Aquaviva either.”
“Pardon, yes, a very little,” the count softly interposed. Then lapsing serenely into French he added: “As a baby, I studied it with my nurse.”
“It is arranged then?” said Aquaviva to Welden. He had a full beard, pursed lips, and an air of being very much pleased with everything. “You will join us, is it not so?”
Welden, turning to him, with his laughing eyes, nodded. “Yes, thanks, it ought to be very good fun.”
“Well, then, what would a little cut at baccarat say to you, messieurs?” Malakoff in his rich voice inquired. “Ah! behold Cantire, who abandons us now.”
For Cantire, rightly preferring the nobler possibilities of captivating women, to the more sordid chance of winning gold, was then making for the frisk.
“A hundred louis,” Malakoff resumed. “It is I who am banker. If you please, this way.”
He motioned at a footman and a door was opened to a fumoir where an oval table was set, and where presently Welden, to whom he dealt practically nothing but eights and nines, relieved him of a major portion of the money.
Malakoff laughed and got up. “Bah! Another time it will be my turn.”
But now Aquaviva took the bank. Other men, drifting in, staked
