"Your desire to welcome me," she said, gracefully, "is the greatest inducement you can offer me."

And Madame de Chandalle smiled at her victory.

Madame de Chandalle was the widow of an eminent French general. She preferred London to Paris. She was mistress of a large fortune, and gave the best entertainments of the season.

She knew that the beautiful singer accepted but few of the many invitations sent to her. Last week she had declined the invitations of a d.u.c.h.ess and the wife of an American millionaire. She was doubly delighted that her own was accepted. The same was for Tuesday evening.

On that evening Leone was free, and she had some idea that madame had chosen it purposely.

At last she was to see Lance's wife, the woman whom the laws of man, of society, and the world had placed in her place, given her position, her name, her love--the woman whom a mere legal quibble had put in her place.

The hours seemed long until Tuesday evening came. It struck her that if Lady Chandos were there Lord Chandos would be there too; he would see her at last in the regal position her own genius had won for herself; a position that seemed to her a thousand times grander than the one derived from the mere accident of birth. He would see then the world's estimation of the woman he had forsaken. She was pleased, yet half frightened, to know that at last she and her rival would meet face to face.

She had so n.o.ble a soul that vanity was not among her faults, but on this evening she was more than usually particular. Never had the matchless beauty of the great actress shown to greater advantage. She wore a dress of faint cream-colored brocade, half hidden in fine, costly lace, in the beautiful waves of her hair a large, cream-colored rose nestled, and with that she wore a set of diamonds a princess might have envied. The superb beauty, the half stately, half-languid grace, the southern eyes, the full, sweet lips, the wondrous beauty of her white neck and arms, the inexpressible charm of her att.i.tudes, the play of her superb features--all made her marvelous to look upon. A dainty, delicate perfume came from the folds of her dress. She had a richly jeweled fan, made from the delicate amber plumage of some rare tropical bird; the radiance and light of her beauty would have made a whole room bright.

She reached Madame de Chandalle's rather late. She gave one hasty glance round the superb reception-room as she pa.s.sed to where madame was receiving her guests, but the dark, handsome head and face of Lord Chandos were nowhere to be seen.

Madame overwhelmed her with civilities, and Leone soon found herself the center of an admiring crowd. The a.s.sembly was a most brilliant one; there were princes of the blood, royal dukes, marshals of France, peers of England, men of highest note in the land; to each and all the radiant, beautiful artist was the center of all attraction.

A royal duke was bending over her chair, one of the n.o.blest marshals of France, with the young Marquis of Tyrol to a.s.sist him, was trying to entertain her. They were lavishing compliments upon her.

Suddenly she saw some slight stir in the groups, the French marshal murmured: "_Comme elle est belle!_" and, looking up, she saw a fair, regal woman bowing to Madame de Chandalle--a woman whose fair, tranquil loveliness was like moonlight on a summer's lake. Leone was charmed by her. The graceful figure was shown to the best advantage by the dress of rich white silk; she wore a superb suit of opals, whose hundred tints gleamed and glistened as she moved.

"The very queen of blondes," she overheard one gentleman say to another, her eyes riveted by the fair, tranquil loveliness of this beautiful woman, whose dress was trimmed with white water-lilies, who wore a water-lily in her hair and one on her white breast.

Leone watched her intently. Watching her was like reading a sweet, half-sad poem, or listening to sweet, half-sad music--every movement was full of sweet harmony. Leone watched this beautiful woman for some time; every one appeared to know her; she was evidently a leader of fashion; still she had no idea who she was. She expected, she did not know why, to see Lord and Lady Chandos enter together.

The French marshal was the first to speak.

"You admire La Reine des Blondes, madame?" he said. "Ah, Heaven, how we should rave in Paris over so fair a lady. Do you know who she is?"

"No," answered Leone, "but I should like to know very much. She is very beautiful."

"It is the beauty of an angel," cried the marshal. "She is the wife of one of the most famous men in England--she is Lady Chandos."

"Ah," said Leone, with a long, low cry.

The very mention of the name had stabbed her through the heart.

The marshal looked up in wonder.

"I beg pardon," she said, quickly, "what name did you say? A sudden faintness seized me; the room is warm. What is the lady's name?"

She would not for the whole world that he should have known what caused either the pain or the cry.

The marshal repeated:

"That is Lady Chandos, the wife of Lord Chandos, who is the rising light of this generation."

"There are so many rising lights," she said, carelessly; but her heart was beating fast the while.

Ah, me! so fair, so graceful, so high-bred! Was it any wonder that he had loved her? Yet to this gorgeous woman, with her soul of fire, it seemed that those perfect features were almost too gentle, and lacked the fire of life. She saw several gentlemen gather round the chair on which Lady Chandos sat, like a queen on a throne; and then the golden head was hidden from her sight.

So at last she was face to face with her rival--at last she could see and hear her--this fair woman who had taken her lover from her. It was with difficulty that she was herself, that she maintained her brilliant repartees; her fire of wit, her _bon mots_ that were repeated from one to the other. Her powers of conversation were of the highest order. She could enchain twenty people at once, and keep all their intellects in active exercise. It was with difficulty she did that now; she was thinking so entirely of the golden head, with its opal stars. Then came another stir among the brilliant groups--the _entree_ of a prince, beloved and revered by all who knew him. Leone, with her quick, artistic eye, thought she had never seen a more brilliant picture than this--the magnificent apartment, with its superb pictures, its background of flowers, its flood of light; the splendid dresses and jewels of the women, the blending of rich colors, the flashing of light made it a picture never to be forgotten.

Suddenly she saw Madame de Chandalle smiling in her face, and by her side was the beautiful rival who supplanted her.

"Madame Vanira," said their hostess, "permit me to make known to you Lady Chandos, who greatly desires the pleasure of your acquaintance."

Then the two who had crossed each other's lives so strangely looked at each other face to face. Leone's heart almost stood still with a great throb of pain as she glanced steadily at the fair, lovely face of her rival. How often had he sunned himself in those blue eyes? how often had he kissed those sweet lips and held those white hands in his own? She recovered herself with a violent effort and listened. Lady Chandos was speaking to her.

"I am charmed to see you, Madame Vanira," she said; "I am one of your greatest admirers."

"You are very kind, Lady Chandos," said Leone.

Then Lady Marion turned to her hostess.

"I should like to remain with Madame Vanira," she said; "that is, if you will, madame?"

Leone drew aside her rich cream-colored draperies and lace. Lady Chandos sat down by her side.

"I am so pleased to meet you," she continued, with what was unusual animation with her. "I have longed to see you off the stage."

Leone smiled in the fair face.

"I can only hope," she said, "that you will like me as well off the stage as you do on."

"I am sure of that," said Lady Chandos, with charming frankness.

She admired the beautiful and gifted singer more than she cared to say.

She added, timidly:

"Now that I have met you here, madame, I shall hope for the pleasure and honor of receiving you at my own house."

She wondered why Madame Vanira drew back with a slight start: it seemed so strange to be asked into the house that she believed to be her own.

"I shall be delighted," continued Lady Chandos. "I give a ball on Wednesday week; promise me that you will come."

"I will promise you to think of it," she replied, and Lady Chandos laughed blithely.

"That means you will come," she said, and the next moment Lord Chandos entered the room.

CHAPTER XLV.

AN INVITATION.