Lorraine. Chambers Robert William
on his wife's arm and passed slowly along the terrace towards the house.
"I wonder why Lorraine has not come?" he said to his wife. "Won't she come to-night for the dance?"
"Lorraine is a very sweet but a very uncertain girl," replied Madame de Morteyn. She led him through the great bay-window opening on the terrace, drew his easy-chair before his desk, placed the journals before him, and, stooping, kissed him.
"If you want me, send Charles. I really ought to be with the young people a moment. I wonder why Ricky must leave?"
"How far away are you going, Helen?"
"Only to the Lisse."
"Then I shall read about Monsieur Bismarck and his Spanish friends until you come. The day is long without you."
They smiled at each other, and she sat down by the window.
"Read," she said; "I can see my children from here. I wonder why Ricky is leaving?"
Suddenly, in the silence of the summer noon, far in the east, a dull sound shook the stillness. Again they heard it—again, and again—a deep boom, muttering, reverberating like summer thunder.
"Why should they fire cannon to-day, Helen?" asked the old man, querulously. "Why should they fire cannon beyond the Rhine?"
"It is thunder," she said, gently; "it will storm before long."
"I am tired," said the vicomte. "Helen, I shall sleep. Sit by me—so—no—nearer yet! Are the children happy?"
"Yes, dear."
"When the cannon cease, I shall fall asleep. Listen! what is that?"
"A blackbird singing in the pear-tree."
"And what is that—that sound of galloping? Look out and see, Helen."
"It is a gendarme riding fast towards the Rhine."
CHAPTER IV
THE FARANDOLE
That evening Dorothy Marche stood on the terrace in the moonlight waving her plumed fan and listening to the orchestra from the hamlet of Saint-Lys. The orchestra—two violins, a reed-pipe, a biniou, and a harp—were playing away with might and main. Through the bay-window she could see the crystal chandeliers glittering with prismatic light, the slender gilded chairs, the cabinets and canapés, golden, backed with tapestry; and everywhere massed banks of ferns and lilies. They were dancing in there; she saw Lady Hesketh floating in the determined grip of Cecil Page, she saw Sir Thorald proudly prancing to the air of the farandole; Betty Castlemaine, Jack, Alixe, Barbara Lisle passed the window only to re-pass and pass again in a whirl of gauze and filmy colour; and the swish! swish! swish! of silken petticoats, and the rub of little feet on the polished floor grew into a rhythmic, monotonous cadence, beating, beating the measure of the farandole.
Dorothy waved her fan and looked at Rickerl, standing in the moonlight beside her.
"Why won't you dance, Ricky?" she asked; "it is your last evening, if you are determined to leave to-morrow." He turned to her with an abrupt gesture; she thought he was going to speak, but he did not, and after a moment she said: "Do you know what that despatch from the New York Herald to my brother means?"
"Yes," he said. His voice was dull, almost indifferent.
"Will you tell me?"
"Yes, to-morrow."
"Is—is it anything dangerous that they want him to do?"
"Yes."
"Ricky—tell me, then! You frighten me."
"To-morrow—perhaps to-night."
"Perhaps to-night?"
"If I receive another telegram. I expect to."
"Then, if you receive another despatch, we shall all know?"
Rickerl von Elster bent his head and laid a gloved hand lightly on her own.
"I am very unhappy," he said, simply. "May we not speak of other things?"
"Yes, Ricky," she said, faintly. He looked almost handsome there in the moonlight, but under his evening dress the square build of the Prussian trooper, the rigid back, and sturdy limbs were perhaps too apparent for ideal civilian elegance. Dorothy looked into his serious young face. He touched his blond mustache, felt unconsciously for the sabre that was not dangling from his left hip, remembered, coloured, and stood up even straighter.
"We are thinking of the same thing," said Dorothy; "I was trying to recall that last time we met—do you remember? In Paris?"
He nodded; eyes fixed on hers.
"At the Diplomatic Ball?"
"Yes."
"And you were in uniform, and your sabre was very beautiful, but—do you remember how it clashed and banged on the marble stairway, and how the other attachés teased you until you tucked it under your left arm? Dear me! I was fascinated by your patent-leather sabre-tache, and your little spurs, that rang like tiny chimes when you walked. What sentimental creatures young girls are! Ne c'est pas, Ricky?"
"I have never forgotten that evening," he said, in a voice so low that she leaned involuntarily nearer.
"We were very young then," she said, waving her fan.
"It was not a year ago."
"We were young," she repeated, coldly.
"Yet I shall never forget, Dorothy."
She closed her fan and began to examine the fluffy plumes. Her cheeks were red, and she bit her lips continually.
"Do you particularly admire Molly Hesketh's hand?" she asked, indifferently.
He turned crimson. How could she know of the episode in the orangery? Know? There was no mystery in that; Molly Hesketh had told her. But Rickerl von Elster, loyal in little things, saw but one explanation—Dorothy must have seen him.
"Yes—I kissed her hand," he said. He did not add that Molly had dared him.
Dorothy raised her head with an icy smile.
"Is it honourable to confess such a thing?" she asked, in steady tones.
"But—but you knew it, for you saw me—" he stammered.
"I did not!" she flashed out, and walked straight into the house.
"Dorrie!" cried her brother as she swept by him, "what do you think? Lorraine de Nesville is coming this evening!"
"Lorraine?" said his sister—"dear me, I am dying to see her."
"Then turn around," whispered Betty Castlemaine, leaning across from Cecil's arm. "Oh, Dorrie! what a beauty!"
At the same moment the old vicomte rose from his gilded chair and stepped forward to the threshold, saying, "Lorraine! Lorraine! Then you have come at last, little bad one?" And he kissed her white hands and led her to his wife, murmuring, "Helen, what shall we do with the little bad one who never comes to bid two old people good-day?"
"Ah, Lorraine!" said Madame de Morteyn; "kiss me, my child."
There she stood, her cheeks faintly touched with colour, her splendid eyes shining like azure stars, the candle-light setting her heavy hair aglow till it glistened and burned as molten ore flashes in a crucible. They pressed around her; she saw, through the flare of yellow light, a sea of rosy faces; a vague mist of lace set with jewels; and she smiled at them while the colour deepened in her cheeks. There was music in her ears and music in her heart, and she was dancing now—dancing with a tall, bronzed young fellow who held her strong and safe, and whose eyes continually sought her own.
"You see," she said, demurely, "that my gowns came to-day from Paris."
"It is a dream—this one," he said, smiling back into her eyes, "but I shall never forget the scarlet skirt and little bodice of velvet, and the silver chains, and your hair—"
"My hair? It is still on my head."
"It was tangled across your face—then."
"Taisez-vous, Monsieur Marche!"
"And