The final curtain had fallen upon the first performance of the new drama at the Grand Treteau.
The night had been one long triumph for Valgrand, and although it was very late the Baronne de Vibray, who plumed herself on being the great tragedian's dearest friend, had made her way behind the scenes to lavish praise and congratulations on him, and have a little triumph of her own in presenting her friends to the hero of the hour. In vain had Charlot, the old dresser, tried to prevent her invasion of his master's dressing-room. He was not proof against her perseverance, and ere long she had swept into the room with the proud smile of a general entering a conquered town. The Comte de Baral, a tall young man with a single eyegla**, followed close in her wake.
"Will you please announce us," he said to the dresser.
Charlot hesitated a moment in surprise, then broke into voluble explanations.
"M. Valgrand is not here yet. What, didn't you know? Why, at the end of the performance the Minister of Public Instruction sent for him to congratulate him! That's a tremendous honour, and it's the second time it has been paid to M. Valgrand."
Meanwhile the other two ladies in the party were roaming about the dressing-room: Mme. Simone Holbord, wife of a colonel of the Marines who had just covered himself with distinction in the Congo, and the Comtesse Marcelline de Baral.
"How thrilling an actor's dressing-room is!" exclaimed Mme. Holbord, inspecting everything in the room through her gla**. "Just look at these darling little brushes! I suppose he uses those in making up? And, oh, my dear! There are actually three kinds of rouge!"
The Comtesse de Baral was fascinated by the photographs adorning the walls.
"'To the admirable Valgrand from a comrade,'" she read in awe-struck tones. "Come and look, dear, it is signed by Sarah Bernhardt! And listen to this one: 'At Buenos Ayres, at Melbourne, and New York, wherever I am I hear the praises of my friend Valgrand!'"
"Something like a globe-trotter!" said Mme. Holbord. "I expect he belongs to the Comédie Française."
Colonel Holbord interrupted, calling to his wife.
"Simone, come and listen to what our friend de Baral is telling me: it is really very curious."
The young woman approached, and the Comte began again for her benefit.
"You have come back too recently from the Congo to be up to date with all our Paris happenings, and so you will not have noticed this little touch, but in the part that he created to-night Valgrand made himself up exactly like Gurn, the man who murdered Lord Beltham!"
"Gurn?" said Mme. Holbord, to whom the name did not convey much. "Oh, yes, I think I read about that: the murderer escaped, didn't he?"
"Well, they took a long time to find him," the Comte de Baral replied. "As usual, the police were giving up all hope of finding him, when one day, or rather one night, they did find him and arrested him; and where do you suppose that was? Why, with Lady Beltham! Yes, really: in her own house at Neuilly!"
"Impossible!" cried Simone Holbord. "Poor woman! What an awful shock for her!"
"Lady Beltham is a brave, dignified, and truly charitable woman," said the Comtesse de Baral. "She simply worshipped her husband. And yet, she pleaded warmly for mercy for the murderer—though she did not succeed in getting it."
"What a dreadful thing!" said Simone Holbord perfunctorily; her attention was wandering to all the other attractions in this attractive room. A pile of letters was lying on a writing-table, and the reckless young woman began to look at the envelopes. "Just look at this pile of letters!" she cried. "How funny! Every one of them in a woman's hand! I suppose Valgrand gets all sorts of offers?"
Colonel Holbord went on talking to the Comte de Baral in a corner of the room.
"I am enormously interested in what you tell me. What happened then?"
"Well, this wretch, Gurn, was recognised by the police as he was leaving Lady Beltham's, and was arrested and put in prison. The trial came on at the Court of Assize about six weeks ago. All Paris went to it, of course including myself! This man Gurn is a brute, but a strange brute, rather difficult to define; he swore that he had k**ed Lord Beltham after a quarrel, practically for the sake of robbing him, but I had a strong impression that he was lying."
"But why else should he have committed the murder?"
The Comte de Baral shrugged his shoulders.
"Nobody knows," he said: "politics, perhaps, nihilism, or perhaps again—love. There was one fact, or coincidence, worth noting: when Lady Beltham came home from the Transvaal after the war, during which, by the way, she did splendid work among the sick and wounded, she sailed by the same boat that was taking Gurn to England. Gurn also was a bit of a popular hero just then: he had volunteered at the beginning of the war, and came back with a sergeant's stripes and a medal for distinguished conduct. Can Gurn and Lady Beltham have met and got to know each other? It is certain that the lady's behaviour during the trial lent itself to comment, if not exactly to scandal. She had odd collapses in the presence of the murderer, collapses which were accounted for in very various ways. Some people said that she was half out of her mind with grief at the loss of her husband; others said that if she was mad, it was over someone, over this vulgar criminal—martyr or accomplice, perhaps. They even went so far as to allege that Lady Beltham had an intrigue with Gurn!"
"Come! come!" the Colonel protested: "a great lady like Lady Beltham, so religious and so austere? Absurd!"
"People say all sorts of things," said the Comte de Baral vaguely. He turned to another subject. "Anyhow, the case caused a tremendous sensation; Gurn's condemnation to d**h was very popular, and the case was so typically Parisian that our friend Valgrand, knowing that he was going to create the part of the murderer in this tragedy to-night, followed every phase of the Gurn trial closely, studied the man in detail, and literally identified himself with him in this character. It was a shrewd idea. You noticed the sensation when he came on the stage?"
"Yes, I did," said the Colonel; "I wondered what the exclamations from all over the house meant."
"Try to find a portrait of Gurn in some one of the illustrated papers," said the Comte, "and compare it with—— Ah, I think this is Valgrand coming!"
The Baronne de Vibray had tired of her conversation with the old dresser, Charlot, and had left him to take up her stand outside the dressing-room, where she greeted with nods and smiles the other actors and actresses as they hurried by on their way home, and listened to the sounds at the end of the pa**age. Presently a voice became distinguishable, the voice of Valgrand singing a refrain from a musical comedy. The Baronne de Vibray hurried to meet him, with both hands outstretched, and led him into his dressing-room.
"Let me present M. Valgrand!" she exclaimed, and then presented the two young women to the bowing actor: "Comtesse Marcelline de Baral, Mme. Holbord."
"Pardon me, ladies, for keeping you waiting," the actor said. "I was deep in conversation with the Minister. He was so charming, so kind!" He turned to the Baronne de Vibray. "He did me the honour to offer me a cigarette! A relic! Charlot! Charlot! You must put this cigarette in the little box where all my treasures are!"
"It is very full already, M. Valgrand," said Charlot deprecatingly.
"We must not keep you long," the Baronne de Vibray murmured. "You must be very tired."
Valgrand pa**ed a weary hand across his brow.
"Positively exhausted!" Then he raised his head and looked at the company. "What did you think of me?"
A chorus of eulogy sprang from every lip.
"Splendid!" "Wonderful!" "The very perfection of art!"
"No, but really?" protested Valgrand, swelling with satisfied vanity. "Tell me candidly: was it really good?"
"You really were wonderful: could not have been better," the Baronne de Vibray exclaimed enthusiastically, and the crowd of worshippers endorsed every word, until the artist was convinced that their praise was quite sincere.
"How I have worked!" he exclaimed: "do you know, when rehearsals began—ask Charlot if this isn't true—the piece simply didn't exist!"
"Simply didn't exist!" Charlot corroborated him, like an echo.
"Didn't exist," Valgrand repeated: "not even my part. It was insignificant, flat! So I took the author aside and I said: 'Frantz, my boy, I'll tell you what you must do: you know the lawyer's speech? Absurd! What am I to do while he is delivering it? I'll make the speech for my own defence, and I'll get something out of it!' And the prison scene! Just fancy, he had shoved a parson into that! I said to Frantz: 'Cut the parson out, my boy: what the dickens am I to do while he is preaching? Simply nothing at all: it's absurd. Give his speech to me! I'll preach to myself!' And there you are: I don't want to boast, but really I did it all! And it was a success, eh?"
Again the chorus broke out, to be stopped by Valgrand, who was contemplating his reflection in a mirror.
"And my make-up, Colonel? Do you know the story of my make-up? I hear they were talking about it all over the house. Am I like Gurn? What do you think? You saw him quite close at the trial, Comte: what do you think?"
"The resemblance is perfectly amazing," said the Comte de Baral with perfect truth.
The actor stroked his face mechanically: a new idea struck him.
"My beard is a real one," he exclaimed. "I let it grow on purpose. I hardly had to make myself up at all; I am the same build, the same type, same profile; it was ridiculously easy!"
"Give me a lock of hair from your beard for a locket," said the Baronne de Vibray impudently.
Valgrand looked at her, and heaved a profound sigh.
"Not yet, not yet, dear lady: I am infinitely sorry, but not yet: a little later on, perhaps; wait for the hundredth performance."
"I must have one too," said Simone Holbord, and Valgrand with great dignity replied:
"I will put your name down for one, madame!"
But the Comte de Baral had looked furtively at his watch, and uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"My good people, it is most horribly late! And our great artiste must be overcome with sleep!"
Forthwith they all prepared to depart, in spite of the actor's courteous protests that he could not hear of letting them go so soon. They lingered at the door for a few minutes in eager, animated conversation, shaking hands and exchanging farewells and thanks and congratulations. Then the sound of their footsteps died away along the corridors, and the Baronne de Vibray and her friends left the theatre. Valgrand turned back into his dressing-room and locked the door, then dropped into the low and comfortable chair that was set before his dressing-table.
He remained there resting for a few minutes, and then sat up and threw a whimsical glance at his dresser who was putting out his ordinary clothes.
"Hang it all, Charlot! What's exhaustion? The mere sight of such j**els as those enchanting women would wake one from the dead!"
Charlot shrugged his shoulders.
"Will you never be serious, M. Valgrand?"
"Heavens, I hope not!" exclaimed the actor. "I hope not, for if there is one thing of which one never tires here below, it is Woman, the peerless rainbow that illuminates this vale of tears!"
"You are very poetical to-night," the dresser remarked.
"I am a lover—in love with love! Oh, Love, Love! And in my time, you know——" He made a sweeping, comprehensive gesture, and came back abruptly to mundane affairs. "Come, help me to dress."
Charlot offered him a bundle of letters, which Valgrand took with careless hand. He looked at the envelopes one after another, hugely amused.
"Violet ink, and monograms, and coronets, and—perfume. Say, Charlot, is this a proposal? What do you bet?"
"You never have anything else," the dresser grumbled "—except bills."
"Do you bet?"
"If you insist, I bet it is a bill; then you will win," said Charlot.
"Done!" cried Valgrand. "Listen," and he began to declaim the letter aloud: "'Oh, wondrous genius, a flower but now unclosing'—— Got it, Charlot? Another of them!" He tore open another envelope. "Ah-ha! Photograph enclosed, and will I send it back if the original is not to my fancy!" He flung himself back in his chair to laugh. "Where is my collar?" He picked up a third envelope. "What will you bet that this violet envelope does not contain another tribute to my fatal beauty?"
"I bet it is another bill," said the dresser; "but you are sure to win."
"I have," Valgrand replied, and again declaimed the written words: "'if you promise to be discreet, and true, you shall never regret it.' Does one ever regret it—even if one does not keep one's promises?"
"At lovers' perjuries——" Charlot quoted.
"Drunken promises!" Valgrand retorted. "By the way, I am dying for a drink. Give me a whisky and soda." He got up and moved to the table on which Charlot had set decanters and gla**es, and was about to take the gla** the dresser offered him when a tap on the door brought the conversation to a sudden stop. The actor frowned: he did not want to be bothered by more visitors. But curiosity got the better of his annoyance and he told Charlot to see who it was.
Charlot went to the door and peered through a narrow opening at the thoughtless intruder.
"Fancy making all this bother over a letter!" he growled. "Urgent? Of course: they always are urgent," and he shut the door on the messenger and gave the letter to Valgrand. "A woman brought it," he said.
Valgrand looked at it.
"H'm! Mourning! Will you bet, Charlot?"
"Deep mourning," said Charlot: "then I bet it is a declaration. I expect you will win again, for very likely it is a begging letter. Black edges stir compa**ion."
Valgrand was reading the letter, carelessly to begin with, then with deep attention. He reached the signature at the end, and then read it through again, aloud this time, punctuating his reading with flippant comments: "'In creating the part of the criminal in the tragedy to-night, you made yourself up into a most marvellous likeness of Gurn, the man who murdered Lord Beltham. Come to-night, at two o'clock, in your costume, to 22 rue Messier. Take care not to be seen, but come. Someone who loves you is waiting for you there.'"
"And it is signed——?" said the dresser.
"That, my boy, I'm not going to tell you," said Valgrand, and he put the letter carefully into his pocket-book. "Why, man, what are you up to?" he added, as the dresser came up to him to take his clothes.
"Up to?" the servant exclaimed: "I am only helping you to get your things off."
"Idiot!" laughed Valgrand. "Didn't you understand? Give me my black tie and villain's coat again."
"What on earth is the matter with you?" Charlot asked with some uneasiness. "Surely you are not thinking of going?"
"Not going? Why, in the whole of my career as amorist, I have never had such an opportunity before!"
"It may be a hoax."
"Take my word for it, I know better. Things like this aren't hoaxes. Besides, I know the—the lady. She has often been pointed out to me: and at the trial—— By Jove, Charlot, she is the most enchanting woman in the world: strangely lovely, infinitely distinguished, absolutely fascinating!"
"You are raving like a schoolboy."
"So much the better for me! Why, I was half dead with fatigue, and now I am myself again. Be quick, b**by! My hat! Time is getting on. Where is it?"
"Where is what?" the bewildered Charlot asked.
"Why, this place," Valgrand answered irritably: "this rue Messier. Look it up in the directory."
Valgrand stamped impatiently up and down the room while Charlot hurriedly turned over the pages of the directory, muttering the syllables at the top of each as he ran through them in alphabetical order.
"J ... K ... L ... M ... Ma ... Me ...—Why, M. Valgrand——"
"What's the matter?"
"Why, it is the street where the prison is!"
"The Santé? Where Gurn is—in the condemned cell?" Valgrand co*ked his hat rakishly on one side. "And I have an a**ignation at the prison?"
"Not exactly, but not far off: right opposite; yes, number 22 must be right opposite."
"Right opposite the prison!" Valgrand exclaimed gaily. "The choice of the spot, and the desire to see me in my costume as Gurn, are evidence of a positive refinement in sensation! See? The lady, and I—the counterpart of Gurn—and, right opposite, the real Gurn in his cell! Quick, man: my cloak! My cane!"
"Do think, sir," Charlot protested: "it is absolutely absurd! A man like you——"
"A man like me," Valgrand roared, "would keep an appointment like this if he had to walk on his head to get there! Good-night!" and carolling gaily, Valgrand strode down the corridor.
Charlot was accustomed to these wild vagaries on his master's part, for Valgrand was the most daring and inveterate rake it is possible to imagine. But while he was tidying up the litter in the room, after Valgrand had left him, the dresser shook his head.
"What a pity it is! And he such a great artiste! These women will make an absolute fool of him! Why, he hasn't even taken his gloves or his scarf!" There was a tap at the door, and the door-keeper looked in.
"Can I turn out the lights?" he enquired. "Has M. Valgrand gone?"
"Yes," said the dresser absently, "he has gone."
"A great night," said the door-keeper. "Have you seen the last edition of the Capitale, the eleven o'clock edition? There's a notice of us already. The papers don't lose any time nowadays. They say it is a great success."
"Let's look at it," said the dresser, and, glancing through the notice, added, "yes, that's quite true: 'M. Valgrand has achieved his finest triumph in his last creation.'" He looked casually through the newspaper, and suddenly broke into a sharp exclamation. "Good heavens, it can't be possible!"
"What's the matter?" the door-keeper enquired.
Charlot pointed a shaking finger to another column.
"Read that, Jean, read that! Surely I am mistaken."
The door-keeper peered over Charlot's shoulder at the indicated pa**age.
"I don't see anything in that; it's that Gurn affair again. Yes, he is to be executed at daybreak on the eighteenth."
"But that is this morning—presently," Charlot exclaimed.
"May be," said the door-keeper indifferently; "yes, last night was the seventeenth, so it is the eighteenth now! Are you ill, Charlot?"
Charlot pulled himself together.
"No, it's nothing; I'm only tired. You can put out the lights. I shall be out of the theatre in five minutes; I only want to do one or two little things here."
"All right," said Jean, turning away. "Shut the door behind you when you leave, if I have gone to bed."
Charlot sat on the arm of a chair and wiped his brow.
"I don't like this business," he muttered. "Why the deuce did he want to go? What does this woman want with him? I may be only an old fool, but I know what I know, and there have been no end of queer stories about this job already." He sat there meditating, till an idea took shape in his mind. "Can I dare to go round there and just prowl about? Of course he will be furious, but suppose that letter was a decoy and he is walking into a trap? One never can tell. An a**ignation in that particular street, with that prison opposite, and Gurn to be guillotined within the next hour or so?" The man made up his mind, hurriedly put on his coat and hat, and switched off the electric lights in the exquisitely appointed dressing-room. "I'll go!" he said aloud. "If I see anything suspicious, or if at the end of half an hour I don't see M. Valgrand leaving the house—well!" Charlot turned the key in the lock. "Yes, I will go. I shall be much easier in my mind!"