She leaned over so that her head almost touched his.

"Go on, please!" she murmured. "Even if it hurts afterward, it will be heavenly to listen to!"

XXIV

The next night Sophy acted as showman. Her part was over at the end of the first act, and a few minutes later she slipped into a seat by John's side behind the curtain.

"What do you think of it so far?" she asked, a little anxiously.

"It seems quite good," John replied cheerfully. "Some very clever lines, and all that sort of thing; but I can't quite see what it's all leading to."

Sophy peered around the house from behind the curtain.

"There isn't standing-room anywhere," she declared. "I don't suppose there ever was a play in London that was more talked about; and then putting it off for more than three months--why, there have been all sorts of rumors about. Do you want to know who the people in the audience are?"

"Not particularly," John answered. "I shouldn't know them, if you told me. There are just a few familiar faces. I see the prince in the box opposite."

"Did you telephone to Louise to-day?" Sophy asked.

John shook his head.

"No. I thought it better to leave her alone until after to-night."

"You are going to the supper, of course?"

"I have been asked," John replied, a little doubtfully. "I don't quite know whether I want to. Is it being given by the prince or by the management?"

"The management," Sophy a.s.sured him. "Do come and take me! It's going to be rather fun."

The curtain went up upon the second act. John, from the shadows of the box, listened attentively. The subject was not a particularly new one, but the writing was brilliant. There was the old _Marquis de Guy_, a roue, a degenerate, but still overbearing and full of personality, from whose lips came some of Graillot's most brilliant sayings; Louise, his wife; and Faraday, a friend of the old marquis, and obviously the intended lover of his wife.

"I don't see anything so terrible in this," John remarked, as the curtain went down once more and thunders of applause greeted some wonderful lines of Graillot's.

"It's wonderful!" Sophy declared. "Try and bear the thread of it all in your mind. For two acts you have been asked to focus your attention upon the increasing brutality of the marquis. Remember that, won't you?"

"Not likely to forget it," John replied. "How well they all act!"

There was a quarter of an hour's interval before the curtain rose again.

Rumors concerning the last act had been floating about for weeks, and the house was almost tense with excitement as the curtain went up. The scene was the country _chateau_ of the _Marquis de Guy_, who brought a noisy crowd of companions from Paris without any warning. His wife showed signs of dismay at his coming. He had brought with him women whom she declined to receive.

The great scene between her husband and herself took place in the square hall of the _chateau_, on the first floor. The marquis is on the way to the room of one of his guests. Louise reaffirms her intention of leaving the house. Her husband laughs at her. Her position is helpless.

"What can you do?" he mocks.

She shrugs her shoulders and pa.s.ses into her room. The marquis sinks upon a settee, and presently is joined by one of the ladies who have traveled with him from Paris. He talks to her of the pictures upon the wall. She is impatient to meet the _Marquis de Guy_.

The marquis knocks at his wife's door. Her voice is heard clearly, after a moment's pause.

"In a few minutes!" she replies.

The marquis resumes his flirtation. His companion becomes impatient--the marquis has pledged his word that she should be received by his wife. An ancient enmity against the _Marquis de Guy_ prompts her to insist.

The marquis shrugs his shoulders and knocks more loudly than ever at his wife's door. She comes out--followed by Faraday.

"You asked me what I could do," she says, pointing to her lover. "You see now!"

There was a moment's breathless silence through the house. The scene in itself was a little beyond anything that the audience had expected.

Sophy, who had been leaning over the edge of the box, turned around in no little anxiety. She heard the door slam. John had disappeared!

He left the theater with only his hat in his hand, turning up his coat by instinct as he pa.s.sed through the driving rain. All his senses seemed tingling with some nameless horror. The brilliance of the language, the subtlety of the situation, seemed like some evil trail drawn across that one horrible climax. It was Louise who had come from that room and pointed to Faraday! Louise who confessed herself a--

He broke out into language as he walked. The desire of Samson burned in his heart--to stride back into the theater, to smash the scenery, to throw the puppets from the stage, one by one, to end forever this ghastly, unspeakable play. And all the time the applause rang in his ears. He had read with one swift glance the tense interest--almost lascivious, it seemed to him--on the faces of that great audience. The scene had tickled their fancies. It was to pander to such base feelings that Louise was upon the stage!

He reached his rooms--he scarcely knew how--and walked up-stairs. There he threw off some of his dripping garments, opened the window wide, and stood there.

He looked out over the Thames, and there was a red fire before his eyes.

Stephen was right, he told himself. There was nothing but evil to be found here, nothing but bitter disappointment, nothing but the pain which deepens into anguish. Better to remain like Stephen, unloving and unloved, to draw nearer to the mountains, to find joy in the crops and the rain and the sunshine, to listen stonily to the cry of human beings as if to some voice from an unknown world.

He leaned a little further from the window, and gazed into the court at a dizzy depth below. He had cut himself adrift from the peace which might have been his. He would never know again the joys of his earlier life. It was for this that he had fought so many battles, clung so tightly to one ideal--for Louise, who could show herself to any one who cared to pay his shilling or his half-guinea, glorying in her dishonor; worse than glorying in it--finding some subtle humor in the little gesture with which she had pointed, unashamed, to her lover.

John bent a little lower from the window. A sudden dizziness seemed to have come over him. Then he was forced to turn around. His door had been quickly opened and shut. It was Sophy who was crossing toward him, the rain streaming from her ruined opera-cloak.

"John!" she cried. "Oh, John!"

She led him back to his chair and knelt by his side. She held his hands tightly.

"You mustn't feel like this," she sobbed; "you mustn't, John, really!

You don't understand. It's all a play. Louise wouldn't really do anything like that!"

He shivered. Nevertheless, he clutched her hands and drew her closer to him.

"Do, please, listen to me," she begged. "It's all over. Louise is herself again--Louise Maurel. The _Marquis de Guy_ never lived except upon these boards. It is simply a wonderful creation. Any one of the great actresses would play that part and glory in it--the very greatest, John. Oh, it's so hard to make you understand! Louise is waiting for you. They are all waiting at the supper-party. You are expected. You must go and tell her that you think it was wonderful!"

He rose slowly to his feet.

"Wonderful!" he muttered. "Wonderful! But, child, it is d.a.m.nable!"

"Don't be foolish," she answered. "Go and put on another dress coat, tie your tie again, and brush your hair. I have come to take you to the supper."

He caught at her hands roughly.

"Supposing I won't go?" he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. "Supposing--I keep you here instead, Sophy?"

She swayed for a moment. Something flashed into her face and pa.s.sed away. She was paler than ever.