The Bondwoman. Ryan Marah Ellis
gold in the beaded purse held out. “Come,” he half whispered to the Marquise, “let me see if oblivion is really the doom fate reads against me.”
She half put out her hand, thinking that after all it was only a part of the games of the night–the little amusements with which purses were filled for charity; then some sudden after thought made her draw it back.
“You fear the decision?” he asked.
She did not fear the decision he meant, but she did fear–
“No, Monsieur, I am not afraid. Oh, yes; she may read my palm, it is all a jest, of course.”
The Egyptian held the man’s hand at which she had not yet glanced. She took the hand of the Marquise.
“Pardon, Madame, it is no jest, it is a science,” she said briefly, and holding their hands, glanced from one to the other.
“Firm hands, strong hands, both,” she said, and then bent over that of the Marquise; as she did so the expression of casual interest faded from her face; she slowly lifted her head and met the gaze of the owner.
“Well, well? Am I to commit murders?” she asked; but her smile was an uneasy one; the gaze of the Egyptian made her shrink.
“Not with your own hand,” said the woman, slowly studying the well-marked palm; “but you will live for awhile surrounded by death and danger. You will hate, and suffer for the hate you feel. You will love, and die for the love you will not take–you–”
But the Marquise drew her hand away petulantly.
“Oh! I am to die of love, then?–I!” and her light laugh was disdainful. “That is quite enough of the fates for one evening;” she regarded the pink palm doubtfully. “See, Monsieur, it does not look so terrible; yet it contains all those horrors.”
“Naturally it would not contain them,” said the Egyptian. “You will force yourself to meet what you call the horrors. You will sacrifice yourself. You will meet the worst as the women of ’93 ascended the guillotine–laughing.”
“Ah, what pictures! Monsieur, I wish you a better fortune.”
“Than to die of love?” he asked, and met her eyes; “that were easier than to live without it.”
“Chut!–you speak like the cavalier of a romance.”
“I feel like one,” he confessed, “and it rests on your mercy whether the romance has a happy ending.”
She flashed one admonishing glance at him and towards the woman who bent over his hand.
“Oh, she does not comprehend the English,” he assured her; “and if she does she will only hear the echo of what she reads in my hand.”
“Proceed,” said the Marquise to the Egyptian, “we wait to hear the list of Monsieur’s romances.”
“You will live by the sword, but not die by the sword,” said the woman. “You will have one great passion in your life. Twice the woman will come in your path. The first time you will cross the seas to her, the second time she comes to you–and–ah!–”
She reached again for the hand of the Marquise and compared them. The two young people looked, not at her, but at each other.
In the eyes of the Marquise was a certain petulant rebellion, and in his the appealing, the assuring, the ardent gaze that met and answered her.
“It is peculiar–this,” continued the woman. “I have never seen anything like it before; the same mark, the same, Mademoiselle, Monsieur; you will each know tragedies in your experience, and the lives are linked together.”
“No!”–and again the Marquise drew her hand away. “It is no longer amusing,” she remarked in English, “when those people think it their duty to pair couples off like animals in the ark.”
Her face had flushed, though she tried to look indifferent. The Egyptian had stepped back and was regarding her curiously.
“Do not cross the seas, Mademoiselle; all of content will be left behind you.”
“Wait,” and the Monsieur Incognito put out his hand. “You call the lady ‘Mademoiselle,’ but your guess has not been good;” and he pointed to a plain ring on the hand of the Marquise.
“I call her Mademoiselle because she never has been a wife, and–she never will be a wife. There are marriages without wedding rings, and there are wedding rings without marriages; pardon!–” and passing between the ferns and palms she was gone.
“That is true!” half whispered the Marquise, looking up at him; “her words almost frighten me.”
“They need not,” and the caress in his eyes made her drop her own; “all your world of Paris knows the romance of your marriage. You are more of a celebrity than you may imagine; my knowledge of that made me fear to approach you here.”
“The fear did not last long,” and she laughed, the coquetry of the sex again uppermost. “For how many seconds did you tremble on the threshold?”
“Long enough to avoid any friends who had planned to present me.”
“And why?”
“Lest it might offend to have the person thrust on you whom you would not know among less ceremonious surroundings.”
“Yet you came alone?”
“I could not help that, I had to see you, even though you refused to recognize me; I had to see you. Did I not prophecy there in the wood that we should meet again? Even the flowers you gave me I–”
“Monsieur, no more!” and she rose from the chair with a certain decision. “It was a thoughtless, childish farce played there at Fontainbleau. But–it is over. I–I have felt humiliated by that episode, Monsieur. Young ladies in France do not converse with strangers. Pray go back to England and forget that you found one so indiscreet–oh! I know what you would say, Monsieur,” as he was about to speak. “I know many of these ladies of the court would only laugh over such an episode–it would be but a part of their amusements for the day; but I, I do not belong to the court or their fashions. I am only ashamed, and ask that you forget it. I would not want any one to think–I mean that I–”
She had commenced so bravely with her wise, firm little speech, but at the finale she wavered and broke down miserably.
“Don’t!”–he broke in as a tear fell on the fan she held; “you make me feel like a brute who has persecuted you; don’t cry. Come here to the window; listen to me. I–I loved you that first day; you just looked at me, spoke to me and it was all over with me. I can’t undo it. I can go away, and I will, rather than make you unhappy; but I can’t forget you. I have never forgotten you for an hour. That was why. Oh, I know it is the wildest, maddest, most unpardonable thing I am saying to you. Your friends would want to call me out and shoot me for it, and I shall be happy to give them the chance,” he added, grimly. “But don’t, for Heaven’s sake, think that my memory of you would be less than respectful. Why, I–I adore you. I am telling it to you like a fool, but I only ask you to not laugh until I am out of hearing. I–will go now–and do not even ask your forgiveness, because–well I can’t honestly say I am sorry.”
Sorry! She thought of those days when she had wakened to a new world because his eyes and his voice haunted her; she heard him acknowledge the same power, and he spoke of forgiveness as though convicted of a fault. Well, she had not been able to prevent the same fault, so, how dared she blame him? He need not know, of course, how well she had remembered; yet she might surely be a little kind for all that.
“Monsieur Incognito!”
Her voice had an imperious tone; she remembered she must not be too kind. He was already among the palms, in the full light of the salon, and he was boy enough for all the color to leave his face as he heard the low command. She had heard him declare his devotion, yet she had recalled him.
“Madame,” he said, and stood stubbornly the width of the alcove from her, though he was conscious of all tender words rushing