In Friendship's Guise.

by Wm. Murray Graydon.

CHAPTER I.

THE DUPLICATE REMBRANDT.

The day began well. The breakfast rolls were crisper than usual, the b.u.t.ter was sweeter, and never had Diane's slender white hands poured out more delicious coffee. Jack Clare was in the highest spirits as he embraced his wife and sallied forth into the Boulevard St. Germain, with a flat, square parcel wrapped in brown paper under his arm. From the window of the entresol Diane waved a coquettish farewell.

"Remember, in an hour," she called down to him. "I shall be ready by then, Jack, and waiting. We will lunch at Bignon's--"

"And drive in the Bois, and wind up with a jolly evening," he interrupted, throwing a kiss. "I will hasten back, dear one. Be sure that you put on your prettiest frock, and the jacket with the ermine tr.i.m.m.i.n.g."

It was a clear and frosty January morning, in the year 1892, and the streets of Paris were dry and glistening. There was intoxication in the very air, and Jack felt thoroughly in harmony with the fine weather.

What mattered it that he had but a few francs in his pocket--that the quarterly remittance from his mother, who dreaded the Channel pa.s.sage and was devoted to her foggy London, would not be due for a fortnight?

The parcel under his arm meant, without doubt, a check for a nice sum.

He and Diane would spend it merrily, and until the morrow at least his fellow-workers at Julian's Academy would miss him from his accustomed place.

Bright-eyed grisettes flung coy looks at the young artist as he strode along, admiring his well-knit figure, his handsome boyish features chiseled as finely as a cameo, the crisp brown hair with a slight tendency to curl, his velvet jacket and flowing tie. Jack nodded and smiled at a familiar face now and then, or paused briefly to greet a male acquaintance; for the Latin Quarter had been his little world for three years, and he was well-known in it from the Boulevard St. Michel to the quays of the Seine. He snapped his fingers at a mounted cuira.s.sier in scarlet and silver who galloped by him on the Point Royal, and whistled a few bars of "The British Grenadiers" as he pa.s.sed the red-trowsered, meek-faced, under-sized soldiers who shouldered their heavy muskets in the courts of the Louvre. The memory of Diane's laughing countenance, as she leaned from the window, haunted him in the Avenue de l'Opera.

"She's a good little girl, except when she's in a temper," he said to himself, "and I love her every bit as much as I did when we were married a year ago. Perhaps I was a fool, but I don't regret it. She was as straight as a die, with a will of her own, and it was either lose her altogether or do the right thing. I couldn't bear to part with her, and I wasn't blackguard enough to try to deceive her. I'm afraid there will be a row some day, though, when the Mater learns the truth. What would she say if she knew that Diane Merode, one of the most popular and fascinating dancers of the Folies Bergere, was now Mrs. John Clare?"

It was not a cheerful thought, but Jack's momentary depression vanished as he stopped before the imposing facade of the Hotel Netherlands, in the vicinity of the Opera. He entered boldly and inquired for Monsieur Martin Von Whele. The gentleman was gone, a polite garcon explained. He had received a telegram during the night to say that his wife was very ill, and he had left Paris by the first train.

The happiness faded from Jack's eyes.

"Gone--gone back to Amsterdam?" he exclaimed incredulously.

"Yes, to his own country, monsieur."

"And he left no message for me--no letter?"

"Indeed, no, monsieur; he departed in great haste."

An appeal to a superior official of the hotel met with the same response, and Jack turned away. He wandered slowly down the gay street, the parcel hanging listlessly under his left arm, and his right hand jingling the few coins in his pocket. His journey over the river, begun so hopefully, had ended in a bitter disappointment.

Martin Von Whele was a retired merchant, a rich native of Amsterdam, and his private collection of paintings was well known throughout Europe. He had come to Paris a month before to attend a private sale, and had there purchased, at a bargain, an exceedingly fine Rembrandt that had but recently been unearthed from a hiding-place of centuries. He determined to have a copy made for his country house in Holland, and chance brought him in contact with Jack Clare, who at the time was reproducing for an art patron a landscape in the Luxembourg Gallery--a sort of thing that he was not too proud to undertake when he was getting short of money.

Monsieur Von Whele liked the young Englishman's work and came to an agreement with him. Jack copied the Rembrandt at the Hotel Netherlands, going there at odd hours, and made a perfect duplicate of it--a dangerous one, as the Hollander laughingly suggested. Jack applied the finishing touches at his studio, and artfully gave the canvas an appearance of age. He was to receive the promised payment when he delivered the painting at the Hotel Netherlands, and he had confidently expected it. But, as has been seen, Martin Von Whele had gone home in haste, leaving no letter or message. For the present there was no likelihood of getting a cheque from him.

The brightness of the day aggravated Jack's disappointment as he walked back to the little street just off the Boulevard St. Germain. He tried to look cheerful as he mounted the stairs and threw the duplicate Rembrandt into a corner of the studio, behind a stack of unfinished sketches. Diane entered from the bedroom, ravishingly dressed for the street in a costume that well set off her perfect figure. She was a picture of beauty with her ivory complexion, her ma.s.s of dark brown hair, and the wonderfully large and deep eyes that had been one of her chief charms at the Folies Bergere.

"Good boy!" she cried. "You did not keep me waiting long. But you look as glum as a bear. What is the matter?"

Jack explained briefly, in an appealing voice.

"I'm awfully sorry for your sake, dear," he added. "We are down to our last twenty-franc piece, but in another fortnight--"

"Then you won't take me?"

"How can I? Don't be unreasonable."

"You promised, Jack. And see, I am all ready. I won't stay at home!"

"Is it my fault, Diane? Can I help it that Von Whele has left Paris?"

"You can help it that you have no money. Oh, I wish I had not given up the stage!"

Diane stamped one little foot, and angry tears rose to her eyes. She tore off her hat and jacket and dashed them to the floor. She threw herself on a couch.

"You deceived me!" she cried bitterly. "You promised that I should want for nothing--that you would always have plenty of money. And this is how you keep your word! You are selfish, unkind! I hate you!"

She continued to reproach him, growing more and more angry. Words of the lowest Parisian argot, picked up from her companions of the Folies Bergere, fell from her lovely lips--words that brought a blush of shame, a look of horror and repulsion, to Jack's face.

"Diane," he said pleadingly, as he bent over the couch.

Her mood changed as quickly, and she suddenly clasped her arms around his neck.

"Forgive me, Jack," she whispered.

"I always do," he sighed.

"And, please, please get some money--now."

"You know that I can't."

"Yes, you can. You have lots of friends--they won't refuse you."

"But I hate to ask them. Of course, Jimmie Drexell would gladly loan me a few pounds--"

"Then go to him," pleaded Diane, as she hung on his neck and stopped his protests with a shower of kisses. "Go and get the money, Jack, dear--you can pay it back when your remittance comes. And we will have such a jolly day! I am sure you don't want to work."

Jack hesitated, and finally gave in; it was hard for him to resist a woman's tears and entreaties--least of all when that woman was his fascinating little wife. A moment later he was in the street, walking rapidly toward the studio of his American friend and fellow-artist, Jimmie Drexell.

"How Diane twists me around her finger!" he reflected ruefully. "I hate these rows, and they have been more frequent of late. When she is in a temper, and lets loose with her tongue, she is utterly repulsive. But I forget everything when she melts into tears, and then I am her willing slave again. I wonder sometimes if she truly loves me, or if her affection depends on plenty of money and pleasure. Hang it all! Why is a man ever fool enough to get married?"

On a corner of the Boulevard St. Michel and a cross street there is a bra.s.serie beloved of artists and art students, and slightly more popular with them than similar inst.i.tutions of the same ilk in the Latin Quarter. Here, one hazy October evening, nine months after Mr. Von Whele's hurried departure from Paris, might have been found Jack Clare.

Tete-a-tete with him, across the little marble-topped table, was his friend Victor Nevill, whom he had known in earlier days in England, and whose acquaintance he had recently renewed in gay Paris. Nevill was an Oxford graduate, and a wild and dissipated young man of Jack's age; he was handsome and patrician-looking, a hail-fellow-well-met and a favorite with women, but a close observer of character would have proclaimed him to be selfish and heartless. He had lately come into a large sum of money, and was spending it recklessly.

The long, low-ceilinged room was dim with tobacco smoke, noisy with ribald jests and laughter. Here and there the waitresses, girls coquettishly dressed, tripped with bottles and syphons, foaming bocks, and gla.s.ses of brandy or liqueurs. The customers of the bra.s.serie were a mixed lot of women and men, the latter comprising' numerous nationalities, and all drawn to Paris by the wiles of the G.o.ddess of Art. Topical songs of the day succeeded one another rapidly. A group of long-haired, polyglot students hung around the piano, while others played on violins or guitars, which they had brought to contribute to the evening's enjoyment. At intervals, when there was a lull, the click of billiard b.a.l.l.s came from an adjoining apartment. Out on the boulevard, under the glaring lights, the tide of revelers and pleasure-seekers flowed unceasingly.

"I consider this a night wasted," said Jack. "I would rather have gone to the Casino, for a change."

"It didn't much matter where we went, as long as we spent our last evening together," Victor Nevill replied. "You know I leave for Rome to-morrow. I fancy it will be a good move, for I have been going the pace too fast in Paris."