"In truth!" she answered.

"No regrets?"

"What regrets could I have? He is a very pretty boy, and well-to-do, believe me!"

"And _I_ am not a pretty boy, nor well-to-do, hein?"

"Ah, zut!" she laughed, "you do not care for me."

"Is it so?" I said. "What would you say if I told you that I did care?"

"I should say that you told me too late, monsieur," she replied, with a shrug, "Are you ready for me to pose?" And this changed woman turned her peerless back on me without a scruple.

A little mortified, I attended strictly to business for the rest of the morning. But I found myself, on the following day, waiting for her with impatience.

"And when is the event to take place?" I inquired, more eagerly than I chose to acknowledge. This was by no means the sort of enchantress that I had been seeking, you understand.

"In the spring," she said. "Look at the ring he has given to me, monsieur; is it not beautiful?"

I remarked that Louise's hands were very well shaped; and, indeed, happiness had brought a certain charm to her face.

"Do you know, Louise, that I am sorry that you are going to marry?" I exclaimed.

"Oh, get out!" she laughed, pushing me away. "It is no good your talking nonsense to me now, don't flatter yourself!"

Pouchin, the sculptor, happened to come in at that moment. "Sapristi!"

he shouted; "what changes are to be seen! The nose of our brave Silvestre is out of joint now that we are affianced, hein?"

She joined in his laughter against me, and I picked up my brush again in a vile humour.

Well, as I have said, she was not the kind of woman that I had contemplated, but these things arrange themselves--I became seriously enamoured of her. And, recognising that Fate works with her own instruments, I did not struggle. For months I was at Louise's heels; I was the sport of her whims, and her slights, sometimes even of her insults. I actually made her an offer of marriage, at which she snapped her white fingers with a grimace--and the more she flouted me, the more fascinated I grew. In that rapturous hour when her insolent eyes softened to sentiment, when her mocking mouth melted to a kiss, I was in Paradise. My ecstasy was so supreme that I forgot to triumph at my approaching vengeance.

So I married Louise; and yesterday was the twentieth anniversary of our wedding. Berthe? To speak the truth, my plot against her was frustrated by an accident. You see, before I could communicate my pa.s.sion to Gregoire I had to recover from it, and--this invincible Louise!--I have not recovered from it yet. There are days when she turns her remarkable back on me now--generally when I am idle--but, mon Dieu! the moments when she turns her lips are worth working for. Therefore, Berthe has been all the time quite happy with the good Gregoire--and, since I possess Louise, upon my word of honour I do not mind!

HERCULES AND APHRODITE

Mademoiselle Clairette used to say that if a danseuse could not throw a glance to the conductor of the band without the juggler being jealous, the Variety Profession was coming to a pretty pa.s.s. She also remarked that for a girl to entrust her life's happiness to a jealous man would be an act of lunacy. And then "Little Flouflou, the Juggling Genius," who was dying to marry her, would suffer tortures. He tried hard to conquer his failing, but it must be owned that Clairette's glances were very expressive, and that she distributed them indiscriminately. At Chartres, one night, he was so upset that he missed the umbrella, and the cigar, and the hat one after another, and instead of condoling with him when he came off the stage, all she said was "b.u.t.ter-fingers!"

"Promise to be my wife," he would entreat: "it is not knowing where I am that gives me the pip. If you consented, I should be as right as rain--your word is better to me than any Management's contract. I trust you--it is only myself that I doubt; every time you look at a man I wonder, 'Am I up to that chap's mark? is my turn as clever as his?

isn't it likely he will cut me out with her?' If you only belonged to me I should never be jealous again as long as I lived. Straight!"

And Clairette would answer firmly, "Poor boy, you couldn't help it--you are made like that. There'd be ructions every week; I should be for ever in hot water. I like you very much, Flouflou, but I'm not going to play the giddy goat. Chuck it!"

Nevertheless, he continued to worship her--from her tawdry tiara to her tinselled shoes--and everybody was sure that it would be a match one day. That is to say, everybody was sure of it until the Strong Man had joined the troupe.

Hercule was advertised as "The Great Paris Star." Holding himself very erect, he strutted, in his latticed foot-gear, with stiff little steps, and inflated lungs, to the footlights, and tore chains to pieces as easily as other persons tear bills. He lay down and supported a posse of mere mortals, and a van-load of "properties" on his chest, and regained his feet with a skip and a smirk. He--but his achievements are well known. Preceding these feats of force, was a feature of his entertainment which Hercule enjoyed inordinately. He stood on a pedestal and struck att.i.tudes to show the splendour of his physique.

Wearing only a girdle of tiger-skin, and bathed in limelight, he felt himself to be as glorious as a G.o.d. The applause was a nightly intoxication to him. He lived for it. All day he looked forward to the moment when he could mount the pedestal again and make his biceps jump, and exhibit the magnificence of his highly developed back to hundreds of wondering eyes. No woman was ever vainer of her form than was Hercule of his. No woman ever contemplated her charms more tenderly than Hercule regarded his muscles. The latter half of his "turn" was fatiguing, but to posture in the limelight, while the audience stared open-mouthed and admired his nakedness, that was fine, it was dominion, it was bliss.

Hercule had never experienced a great pa.s.sion--the pa.s.sion of vanity excepted--never waited in the rain at a street corner for a coquette who did not come, nor sighed, like the juggler, under the window of a girl who flouted his declarations. He had but permitted homage to be rendered to him. So when he fell in love with Clairette, he didn't know what to make of it.

For Clairette, sprightly as she was, did not encourage Hercule. He at once attracted and repelled her. When he rent chains, and poised prodigious weights above his head, she thrilled at his prowess, but the next time he att.i.tudinised in the tiger-skin she turned up her nose.

She recognised something feminine in the giant. Instinct told her that by disposition the Strong Man was less manly than Little Flouflou, whom he could have swung like an Indian club.

No, Hercule didn't know what to make of it. It was a new and painful thing to find himself the victim instead of the conqueror. For once in his career, he hung about the wings wistfully, seeking a sign of approval. For once he displayed his majestic figure on the pedestal blankly conscious of being viewed by a woman whom he failed to impress.

"What do you think of my turn?" he questioned at last.

"Oh, I have seen worse," was all she granted.

The giant winced.

"I am the strongest man in the world," he proclaimed.

"I have never met a Strong Man who wasn't!" said she.

"But there is someone stronger than I am," he owned humbly. (Hercule humble!) "Do you know what you have done to me, Clairette? You have made a fool of me, my dear."

"Don't be so cheeky," she returned. "Who gave you leave to call me 'Clairette,' and 'my dear'? A little more politeness, if you please, monsieur!" And she cut the conversation short as unceremoniously as if he had been a super.

Those who have seen Hercule only in his "act"--who think of him superb, supreme--may find It difficult to credit the statement, but, honestly, the Great Star used to trot at her heels like a poodle. And she was not a beauty by any means, with her impudent nose, and her mouth that was too big to defy criticism. Perhaps it was her carriage that fascinated him, the grace of her slender figure, which he could have snapped as a child snaps jumbles. Perhaps it was those eyes which unwittingly promised more than she gave. Perhaps, above all, it was her indifference. Yes, on consideration, it must have been her indifferent air, the novelty of being scorned, that made him a slave.

But, of course, she was more flattered by his bondage than she showed.

Every night he planted himself in the prompt-entrance to watch her dance and clap his powerful hands in adulation. She could not be insensible to the compliment, though her smiles were oftenest for Flouflou, who planted himself, adulating, on the opposite side.

_Adagio! Allegretto! Vivace!_ Unperceived by the audience, the gaze of the two men would meet across the stage with misgiving. Each feared the other's attentions to her, each wished with all his heart that the other would get the sack; they glared at each other horribly.

And, meanwhile, the orchestra played its sweetest, and Clairette pirouetted her best, and the Public, approving the obvious, saw nothing of the intensity of the situation.

Imagine the emotions of the little juggler, jealous by temperament, jealous even without cause, now that he beheld a giant laying siege to her affections!

And then, on a certain evening, Clairette threw but two smiles to Flouflou, and three to Hercule.

The truth is that she did not attach so much significance to the smiles as did the opponents who counted them. But that accident was momentous.

The Strong Man made her a burning offer of marriage within half an hour; and next, the juggler made her furious reproaches.

Now she had rejected the Strong Man--and, coming when they did, the juggler's reproaches had a totally different effect from the one that he had intended. So far from exciting her sympathy towards him, they accentuated her compa.s.sion for Hercule. How stricken he had been by her refusal! She could not help remembering his despair as he sat huddled on a hamper, a giant that she had crushed. Flouflou was a thankless little pig, she reflected, for, as a matter of fact, he had had a good deal to do with her decision. She had deserved a better reward than to be abused by him!

Yes, her sentiments towards Hercule were newly tender, and an event of the next night intensified them. It was Hercule's custom, in every town that the Constellation visited, to issue a challenge. He pledged himself to present a "Purse of Gold"--it contained a ten-franc piece-- to any eight men who vanquished him in a tug-of-war. The spectacle was always an immense success--the eight yokels straining, and tumbling over one another, while Hercule, wearing a masterful smile, kept his ten francs intact. A tug-of-war had been arranged for the night following, and by every law of prudence, Hercule should have abstained from the bottle during the day.

But he did not. His misery sent discretion headlong to the winds. Every time that he groaned for the danseuse he took another drink, and when the time came for him to go to the show, the giant was as drunk as a lord. The force of habit enabled him to fulfil some of his stereotyped performance, he emerged from that without disgrace; but when the eight brawny compet.i.tors lumbered on to the boards, his heart sank. The other artists winked at one another appreciatively, and the manager hopped with apprehension.

Sure enough, the hero's legs made strange trips to-night. The sixteen arms pulled him, not only over the chalk line, but all over the stage.

They played havoc with him. And then the manager had to go on and make a speech, besides, because the "Purse of Gold" aroused dissatisfaction.

The fiasco was hideous.

"Ah, Clairette," moaned the Strong Man, pitifully, "it was all through you!"

Elsewhere a Strong Man had put forth that plea, and the other lady had been inexorable. But Clairette faltered.