The Monster. Saltus Edgar

brutality of the scene.

      “It was just my luck to have missed it,” Silverstairs threw in.

      De Joyeuse turned to him. “We count on you next autumn. And on you also, mon vieux,” he added to Tempest who had approached.

      Tempest nodded. He was lighting a cigar. The operation concluded, he drew a chair beside Silverstairs. “Now, tell me all about Madame B.”

      Silverstairs eyed him quizzingly. “She interests you?”

      “Enormously.”

      “Then look out for Barouffski whom she interests still more.”

      Tempest shrugged his shoulders. “Was it her interest in Number One or Number One’s interest in her that declined?”

      “You mean Verplank?”

      “I suppose I do. Anyway I mean her first husband. Why were they divorced?”

      “Why? But my dear Tempest, divorce in the States is what racing is with us, a national amusement. Everybody takes a hand in it.”

      “The right or the left?”

      “Both I fancy. Though in the case of Madame B. I have an idea that the right turned out to be wrong.”

      Tempest flicked the ashes from his cigar. “I may compliment you, Silverstairs. You have a manner of expressing yourself which is highly cryptic. But now, to an every day sort of chap like myself, would you mind being less abstruse?”

      “I should feel sordid if I refused. Verplank is a very good sort, whereas this Barouffski is a rotter.”

      Tempest bowed. “Thank you for descending to my level. The long and short of it is that she has made a mess of it. Well, most people do. I don’t wonder now that over the soup she talked about fate.”

      “Oh, as for that, after certain experiences of my own, with which, pray do not be alarmed, I have no intention of boring you, I have stopped wondering at anything at all.”

      “Silverstairs, in ceasing to be cryptic, do not become Spartan. My cousin told me that Joyeuse hunted with this, with What’s-his-name, with – er – ”

      “With Verplank?”

      “Yes, that he had hunted with him in the States. And that reminds me. What have you decided about that horse?”

      Silverstairs pulled at his straw-coloured moustache. “I’ll let you know to-morrow. When are you to be at home?”

      “Any time after two.”

      Silverstairs nodded. “Very good, I will drop in on you.”

      From beyond, blue and vibrant, came the upper notes of a violin. In the now crowded salons a Roumanian, the rage of the season, a youth, very pale, with melancholy eyes, flowing hair and the waist of a girl, was executing a fantasy of his own.

      De Joyeuse flicked a speck from his sleeve, threw back his noble and empty head, gave a circular look of inquiry, a little gesture of invitation, and accompanied by his friends, sauntered to the rooms without.

      There, Barouffski after saluting Mme. de Joyeuse had engaged her briefly in talk. But her attention had been attracted rather than claimed by the Montebiancan prince, a young man extremely gentlemanly and equally modest who, with that diffidence which royals and poets share, stood bashfully at her side.

      Barouffski, bowing again, passed on. During his short and entirely fragmentary conversation with Mme. de Joyeuse, his eyes had rummaged the room.

      Leilah, meanwhile, rising from the sofa where she had been seated, moved with the inflammatory d’Arcy into the salon beyond.

      Barouffski would have followed. But the young Baronne de Fresnoy addressed him. Perversely, with sudden glimpses of little teeth and an expression of glee in her piquant face, she asked:

      “Was it you who performed that high act of gallantry at Longchamps to-day?”

      “Was it I who did what?” Barouffski surprisedly exclaimed.

      “What was it?” asked Aurelia, who with Buttercups in tow, had approached.

      But Mme. de Fresnoy waved at her. “Go away my dear, it is not for an ingénue.”

      “Ah then, but you see,” Aurelia indolently interjected, “I am tired of being an ingénue. An ingénue is supposed to be in a state of constant surprise and that is so exhausting.”

      None the less, with Buttercups still in tow she betook herself to a corner where she was promptly joined by Farnese.

      Then at once to Barouffski, to Mustim Pasha, to the Helley-Quetgens, to others that stood about, the young baroness related a morsel of gossip, the report of which had been brought her but a moment before, a story that had one of the reigning demireps for heroine and for hero a man unidentified by the baronne’s informant, the tale of an assault committed before all Paris, before all Paris that is, that happened to be at the races that day; an extravaganza in which the heroine, erupting suddenly on the pelouse before the Grand Stand, had, with her parasol, struck the hero over the head and had been about to strike him again, when he, pinioning her arms with his own, had to the applause of everybody, prevented the second assault by kissing her through her veil; after which releasing the lady, he had raised his hat and strolled away.

      “Was it you, Barouffski?” Mme. de Fresnoy, the narrative at an end, inquired. “Was it?”

      “I? Nonsense! Why should you ask?”

      “It would be just like you, you know. Besides, I hear that the man was tall and good-looking.”

      “You are exceedingly complimentary. But the world is peopled with tall, good-looking men.”

      “Pas tant que ça,” laughed the baroness. “Well, if it was not you, perhaps it was that man who is just coming in.”

      Involuntarily Barouffski turned, while a footman bawled:

      “Monsieur Verplank!”

      III

      It was in circumstances which, if not dramatic, were, at least, uncommon, that Leilah Verplank met Barouffski.

      At Los Angeles, after her flight from Coronado, she caught an express that would have taken her East. Even so, it could not take her from herself, it could not distance memory, it could not annihilate the past. The consciousness of that obsessed her. Each of her thoughts became a separate throb. About her head formed an iron band. Her body ached. She felt hot and ill. She had a sense of thirst, a sense, too, of fear.

      In the compartment where she sat, a stranger came. She hid her face, covering it with her hands. The stranger sidled in between them, looked her in the eyes, penetrated them, permeated her, shook long shudders through her, shrieked at her: “I am Fright!”

      She cried aloud. No one heard. She got to the door.

      In the section immediately adjoining were her women. Perplexed at the start by her unaccountable flight and, since then, alarmed by the abnormal excitability which she had displayed, both, at the sight of her then, rushed to her.

      Salt Lake was the first possible asylum. There, weeks later, Leilah arose from one of those attacks, which, for lack of a better term, has been called brain fever.

      Like fire, fever may consume, it does not necessarily obliterate. The past remained. But in that lassitude which fever leaves, Leilah was able to consider it with a wearied certainty that no immediate effort could be required of her then.

      “Forget,” some considerate and subliminal self admonished. “Forget.”

      Even in sleep she could not always do that. But though she could not forget the past, she could, she believed, barricade herself against it. The idea was suggested by the local sheet in which she found an item about neighbourly Nevada. The item hung a hammock for her thoughts, rested her mentally, unrolled a carpet for the returning steps of health.

      Verplank, meanwhile, misdirected at Los Angeles, reached San Francisco. Learning there that a party of three women had, that morning, at the last moment, embarked on