UC-NRLF 
 
 B 3 
 
 EflD 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
OTHER BOOKS 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 Monsieur Beaucaire 
 
 The Gentleman from Indiana 
 
 The Two Vanrevels 
 
THE i 
 
 BO< 
 
 
 
 New York ; Jfc<?**> Phillips 
 

 
 
 r 
 
 & 
 
 The Beautiful Lady 
 
 DRAWN BY BLENDON CAMPBELL 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
 BOOTH TARKINGTON 
 
 New York : McClure, Phillies & Co.: Mcmv. 
 
Copyright, 1905, by 
 McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO. 
 
 Published May, 1905 
 
 Copyright, 1904, by Harper and Brothers 
 
Ps 
 
 ? 
 835- 
 
 To My Wife 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 The Beautiful Lady . . . Frontispiece 
 
 FACING 
 PAGE 
 
 "Ah I " she cried. " The poor man ! " . 
 
 He carried with him in the powerful car 
 he had hired, large parties of strange 
 people 64 
 
 To my consternation he replied by inquir- 
 ing if I had shaved my head as yet 
 that morning 68 
 
 The contact was severe enough to dislodge 
 from her hand her folded parasol, for 
 which I began to grope .... 82 
 
List of Illustrations 
 "Not for you, Prince Caravacioli" she 
 cried, through her tears, " Not for 
 you/" . . , 1 V . . . 138 
 
 A hundred bouquets showered into the car- 
 riage, and my friend's silver went out 
 in another shower to meet them . . 142 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL LADY 
 
whole 
 of the 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 OTHING could 
 have been more 
 
 XT w \ a ^ n ^ * m y sen ~ 
 
 IN ^111 sitiveness than to 
 occupy myself, con- 
 fused with blushes, 
 at the centre of the 
 world as a living advertisement 
 least amusing ballet in Paris. 
 [3] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 To be the day's sensation of the 
 boulevards one must possess an eccen- 
 tricity of appearance conceived by 
 nothing short of genius; and my mis- 
 fortunes had reduced me to present 
 such to all eyes seeking mirth. It was 
 not that I was one of those people in 
 uniform who carry placards and strange 
 figures upon their backs, nor that my 
 coat was of rags; on the contrary, my 
 whole costume was delicately rich and 
 well chosen, of soft grey and fine linen 
 (such as you see worn by a marquis in 
 the psage at Auteuil) according well 
 with my usual air and countenance, 
 sometimes esteemed to resemble my 
 father's, which were not wanting in 
 distinction. 
 
 To add to this, my duties were not 
 [4] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 exhausting to the body. I was required 
 only to sit without a hat from ten of 
 the morning to midday, and from four 
 until seven in the afternoon, at one 
 of the small tables under the awning 
 of the Cafe de la Paix at the corner 
 of the Place de 1'Opera that is to say, 
 the centre of the inhabited world. In 
 the morning I drank my coffee, hot in 
 the cup; in the afternoon I sipped it cold 
 in the glass. I spoke to no one; not a 
 glance or gesture of mine passed to 
 attract notice. 
 
 Yet I was the centre of that centre of 
 the world. All day the crowds sur- 
 rounded me, laughing loudly; all the 
 voyous making those jokes for which I 
 found no repartee. The pavement was 
 sometimes blocked; the passing coach- 
 [5] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 men stood up in their boxes to look over 
 at me, small infants were elevated on 
 shoulders to behold me; not the gravest 
 or most sorrowful came by without 
 stopping to gaze at me and go away 
 with rejoicing faces. The boulevards 
 rang to their laughter all Paris 
 laughed ! 
 
 For seven days I sat there at the ap- , 
 pointed times, meeting the eye of no- 
 body, and lifting my coffee with fingers 
 which trembled from embarrassment at 
 this too great conspicuosity ! Those 
 mournful hours passed, one by the year, 
 while the idling bourgeois and the trav- 
 ellers made ridicule; and the rabble ex- 
 hausted all effort to draw plays of wit 
 from me. 
 
 I have told you that I carried no 
 [6] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 placard, that my costume was elegant, 
 my demeanour modest in #11 degree. 
 
 "How, then, this excitement?" 
 would be your disposition to inquire. 
 "Why this sensation?" 
 
 It is very simple. My hair had been 
 shaved off, all over my ears, leaving 
 only a little above the back of the neck, 
 to give an appearance of far-reaching 
 baldness, and on my head was painted, 
 in ah ! so brilliant letters of distinctness : 
 
 Theatre 
 
 Folie-Rouge 
 
 Revue 
 
 de 
 
 Printemps 
 Tons les Soirs ! 
 
 Such was the necessity to which I was 
 at that time reduced! One has heard 
 [7] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 that .the North-Americans invent the 
 most singular advertising, but I will not 
 believe they surpass the Parisian. My- 
 self, I say I cannot express my suffer- 
 ings under the notation of the crowds 
 that moved about the Cafe de la Paix! 
 The French are a terrible people when 
 they laugh sincerely. It is not so much 
 the amusing things which cause them 
 amusement; it is often the strange, 
 those contrasts which contain some- 
 thing horrible, and when they laugh 
 there is too frequently some person who 
 is uncomfortable or wicked. I am glad 
 that I was born not a Frenchman; I 
 should regret to be native to a country 
 where they invent such things as I was 
 doing in the Place de TOpera; for, as I 
 tell you, the idea was not mine. 
 [8] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 As I sat with my eyes drooping before 
 the gaze of my terrible and applauding 
 audiences, how I mentally formed curs- 
 ing words against the day when my mis- 
 fortunes led me to apply at the Theatre 
 Folie-Rouge for work! I had expected 
 an audition and a role of comedy in the 
 Revue; for, perhaps lacking any expe- 
 rience of the stage, I am a Neapolitan 
 by birth, though a resident of the Con- 
 tinent at large since the age of fifteen. 
 All Neapolitans can act; all are actors; 
 comedians of the greatest, as every trav- 
 eller is cognizant. There is a thing in 
 the air of our beautiful slopes which 
 makes the people of a great instinctive 
 musicalness and deceptiveness, with 
 passions like those burning in the old 
 mountain we have there. They are 
 [9] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 ready to play, to sing or to explode, 
 yet, imitating that amusing Vesuvio, 
 they never do this last when you are in 
 expectancy, or, as a spectator, hopeful 
 of it. 
 
 How could any person wonder, then, 
 that I, finding myself suddenly desti- 
 tute in Paris, should apply at the thea- 
 tres ? One after another, I saw myself 
 no farther than the director's door, until 
 (having had no more to eat the day pre- 
 ceding than three green almonds, which 
 I took from a cart while the good female 
 was not looking) I reached the Folie- 
 Rouge. Here I was astonished to find a 
 polite reception from the director. It 
 eventuated that they wished for a per- 
 son appearing like myself a person 
 whom they would outfit with clothes of 
 [10] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 quality in all parts, whose external pre- 
 sented a gentleman of the great world, 
 not merely one of the galant-uomini, 
 but who would impart an air to a table 
 at a cafe where he might sit and par- 
 take. The contrast of this with the em- 
 placement of the embellishment on his 
 bald head-top was to be the success of 
 the idea. It was plain that I had no 
 baldness, my hair being very thick and 
 I but twenty-four years of age, when it 
 was explained that my hair could be 
 shaved. They asked me to accept, alas ! 
 not a part in the Revue, but a specialty 
 as a sandwich-man. Knowing the Eng- 
 lish tongue as I do, I may afford the 
 venturesomeness to play upon it a little : 
 I asked for bread, and they offered me 
 not a role, but a sandwich! 
 

 
 The Beautiful Lady 
 It must be undoubted that I possessed 
 not the disposition to make any fun 
 with my accomplishments during those 
 days that I spent under the awning of 
 the Cafe de la Paix. I had consented to 
 be the advertisement in greatest des- 
 peration, and not considering what the 
 reality would be. Having consented, 
 honour compelled that I fulfil to the 
 ending. Also, the costume and outfit- 
 tings I wore were part of my emolu- 
 ment. They had been constructed for 
 me by the finest tailor; and though I 
 had impulses, often, to leap up and 
 fight through the noisy ones about me 
 and run far to the open country, the 
 very garments I wore were fetters bind- 
 ing me to remain and suffer. It seemed 
 to me that the hours were spent not in 
 [12] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 the centre of a ring of human persons, 
 but of un-well-made pantaloons and 
 ugly skirts. Yet all of these pantaloons 
 and skirts had such scrutinous eyes and 
 expressions of mirth to laugh like de- 
 mons at my conscious, burning, painted 
 head ; eyes which spread out, astonished 
 at the sight of me, and peered and 
 winked and grinned from the big wrin- 
 kles above the gaiters of Zouaves, from 
 the red breeches of the gendarmes, the 
 knickerbockers of the cyclists, the white 
 ducks of sergents de ville, and the knees 
 of the boulevardiers, bagged with sit- 
 ting cross-legged at the little tables. I 
 could not escape these eyes; --how 
 scornfully they twinkled at me from the 
 spurred and glittering officers' boots! 
 How with amaze from the American 
 [13] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 and English trousers, both turned up 
 and creased like folded paper, both 
 with some dislike for each other but 
 for all other trousers more. 
 
 It was only at such times when the 
 mortification to appear so greatly em- 
 barrassed became stronger than the em- 
 barrassment itself that I could by will 
 power force my head to a straight con- 
 struction and look out upon my specta- 
 tors firmly. On the second day of my 
 ordeal, so facing the laughers, I found 
 myself glaring straight into the mon- 
 ocle of my half-brother and ill-wisher, 
 Prince Caravacioli. 
 
 At this, my agitation was sudden and 
 
 very great, for there was no one I wished 
 
 to prevent perceiving my condition more 
 
 than that old Antonio Caravacioli! I 
 
 [14] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 had not known that he was in Paris, but 
 I could have no doubt it was himself: 
 the monocle, the handsome nose, the 
 toupee, the yellow skin, the dyed-black 
 moustache, the splendid height it was 
 indeed Caravacioli! He was costumed 
 for the automobile, and threw but one 
 glance at me as he crossed the pavement 
 to his car, which was in waiting. There 
 was no change, not of the faintest, in that 
 frosted tragic mask of a countenance, 
 and I was glad to think that he had not 
 recognized me. 
 
 And yet, how strange that I should 
 care, since all his life he had declined to 
 recognize me as what I was! Ah, I 
 should have been glad to shout his age, 
 his dyes, his artificialities, to all the 
 crowd, so to touch him where it would 
 [15] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 most pain him ! For was he not the vain- 
 est man in the whole world ? How well 
 I knew his vulnerable point: the mon- 
 strous depth of his vanity in that pre- 
 tense of youth which he preserved 
 through superhuman pains and a genius 
 of a valet, most excellently ! I had much 
 to pay Antonio for myself, more for my 
 father, most for my mother. This was 
 why that last of all the world I would 
 have wished that old fortune-hunter to 
 know how far I had been reduced ! 
 
 Then I rejoiced about that change 
 which my unreal baldness produced 
 in me, giving me a look of forty years 
 instead of twenty-four, so that my oldest 
 friend must take at least three stares to 
 know me. Also, my costume would dis- 
 guise me from the few acquaintances I 
 [16] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 had in Paris (if they chanced to cross 
 the Seine), as they had only seen me in 
 the shabbiest ; while, at my last meeting 
 with Antonio, I had been as fine in the 
 coat as now. 
 
 Yet my encouragement was not so 
 joyful that my gaze lifted often. On the 
 very last day, in the afternoon when my 
 observers were most and noisiest, I 
 lifted my eyes but once during the final 
 half-hour but such a once that was! 
 
 The edge of that beautiful grey pon- 
 gee skirt came upon the rim of my low- 
 ered eyelid like a cool shadow over hot 
 sand. A sergent had just made many of 
 the people move away, so there re- 
 mained only a thin ring of the laughing 
 pantaloons about me, when this divine 
 skirt presented its apparition to me. A 
 [17] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 pair of North-American trousers ac- 
 companied it, turned up to show the 
 ankle-bones of a rich pair of stockings; 
 neat, enthusiastic and humorous, I 
 judged them to be ; for, as one may dis- 
 cover, my only amusement during my 
 martyrdom if this misery can be said 
 to possess such alleviatings had been 
 the study of feet, pantaloons, and skirts. 
 The trousers in this case detained my 
 observation no time. They were but the 
 darkest corner of the chiaroscuro of a 
 Rembrandt the mellow glow of gold 
 was all across the grey skirt. 
 
 How shall I explain myself, how 
 make myself understood ? Shall I be 
 thought sentimentalistic or but mad 
 when I declare that my first sight of the 
 grey pongee skirt caused me a thrill of 
 [18] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 excitation, of tenderness, and oh-i- 
 me ! of self-consciousness more acute 
 than all my former mortifications. It 
 was so very different from all other 
 skirts that had shown themselves to me 
 those sad days, and you may under- 
 stand that, though the pantaloons far 
 outnumbered the skirts, many hundreds 
 of the latter had also been objects of my 
 gloomy observation. 
 
 This skirt, so unlike those which had 
 passed, presented at once the qualifica- 
 tions of its superiority. It had been con- 
 structed by an artist, and it was worn 
 by a lady. It did not pine, it did not 
 droop; there was no more an atom of 
 hanging too much than there was a por- 
 tion inflated by flamboyancy; it did not 
 assert itself ; it bore notice without seek- 
 [19] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 ing it. Plain but exquisite, it was that 
 great rarity goodness made charm- 
 ing. 
 
 The peregrination of the American 
 trousers suddenly stopped as they 
 caught sight of me, and that precious 
 skirt paused, precisely in opposition to 
 my little table. I heard a voice, that to 
 which the skirt pertained. It spoke the 
 English, but not in the manner of the 
 inhabitants of London, who seem to 
 sing undistinguishably in Jtheir talking, 
 although they are comprehensible to 
 each other. To an Italian it seems that 
 many North-Americans and English 
 seek too often the assistance of the nose 
 in talking, though in different manners, 
 each equally unagreeable to our ears. 
 The intelligent among our lazzaroni of 
 [20] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 Naples, who beg from tourists, imitate 
 this, with the purpose of reminding the 
 generous traveller of his home, in such 
 a way to soften his heart. But there is 
 some difference : the Italian, the French- 
 man, or German who learns English 
 sometimes misunderstands the Amer- 
 ican : the Englishman he sometimes un- 
 derstands. 
 
 This voice that spoke was North- 
 American. Ah, what a voice! Sweet as 
 the mandolins of Sorrento! Clear as 
 the bells of Capri ! To hear it, was like 
 coming upon sight of the almond- 
 blossoms of Sicily for the first time, or 
 the tulip-fields of Holland. Never before 
 was such a voice! 
 
 "Why did you stop, Rufus ?" it said. 
 
 "Look!" replied the American trou- 
 [21] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 sers; so that I knew the pongee lady had 
 not observed me of herself. 
 
 Instantaneously there was an excla- 
 mation, and a pretty grey parasol, 
 closed, fell at my feet. It is not the 
 pleas an test to be an object which causes 
 people to be startled when they behold 
 you; but I blessed the agitation of this 
 lady, for what caused her parasol to fall 
 from her hand was a start of pity. 
 
 "Ah!" she cried. "The poor man!" 
 
 She had perceived that I was a gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 I bent myself forward and lifted the 
 parasol, though not my eyes I could 
 not have looked up into the face above 
 me to be Csesar! Two hands came down 
 into the circle of my observation ; one of 
 these was that belonging to the trousers, 
 [22] 
 
"Ah!" she cried. "The poor man!" 
 
 DRAWN BY BLENDOX CAMPBELL 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 sers; so that I knew the pongee lady had 
 not observed me of h 
 
 Instantaneous; 
 
 mation, and v parasol, 
 
 closed, fell at my feet, if is not the 
 pleasantest to be an object which causes 
 people to ! -led when they behold 
 
 you; but I A the agitation of this 
 
 lady, for what rasol to fall 
 
 from her hand w: rt of pily. 
 
 "A' man!'' 
 
 She i <t gen- 
 
 tleman. 
 
 I bent myself forv d lifted the 
 
 parasol, though not my eyes I could 
 not have looked up into the face above 
 me. to b r ! Two h ar > wn 
 
 into the circle of my ohmrwboii ; one of 
 these was that belonging ? -rs, 
 
 Koauaaa va 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 thin, long, and white; the other was the 
 grey-gloved hand of the. lady, and 
 never had I seen such a hand the 
 hand of an angel in a suede glove, as 
 the grey skirt was the mantle of a saint 
 made by Doucet. I speak of saints and 
 angels; and to the large world these may 
 sound like cold words. It is only in 
 Italy where some people are found to 
 adore them still. 
 
 I lifted the parasol toward that glove 
 as I would have moved to set a candle 
 on an altar. Then, at a thought, I placed 
 it not in the glove, but in the thin hand 
 of the gentleman. At the same time the 
 voice of the lady spoke to me I was 
 to have the joy of remembering that 
 this voice had spoken four words to me. 
 
 " Je vous remercie, monsieur," it said. 
 [23] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 
 "Pas de quoi!" I murmured. 
 
 The American trousers in a loud tone 
 made reference in the idiom to my mis- 
 erable head: "Did you ever see any- 
 thing to beat it ?" 
 
 The beautiful voice answered, and by 
 the gentleness of her sorrow for me I 
 knew she had no thought that I might 
 understand. "Come away. It is too 
 pitiful!" 
 
 Then the grey skirt and the little 
 round-toed shoes beneath it passed 
 from my sight, quickly hidden from me 
 by the increasing crowd ; yet I heard the 
 voice a moment more, but fragmentar- 
 ily: "Don't you see how ashamed he is, 
 how he must have been starving before 
 he did that, or that some one dependent 
 on him needed " 
 
 [24] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 
 I caught no more, but the sweetness 
 that this beautiful lady understood and 
 felt for the poor absurd wretch was so 
 great that I could have wept. I had not 
 seen her face; I had not looked up 
 even when she went. 
 
 "Who is she?" cried a scoundrel 
 voyou, just as she turned. "Madame of 
 the parasol ? A friend of monsieur of the 
 ornamented head?" 
 
 "No. It is the first lady in waiting to 
 his wife, Madame la Duchesse," an- 
 swered a second. "She has been sent 
 with an equerry to demand of monseig- 
 neur if he does not wish a little sculp- 
 ture upon his dome as well as the colour 
 decorations!" 
 
 "'Tis true, my ancient?" another 
 asked of me. 
 
 [25] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 I made no repartee, continuing to sit 
 with my chin dependent upon my cra- 
 vat, but with things not the same in my 
 heart as formerly to the arrival of that 
 grey pongee, the grey glove, and the 
 beautiful voice. 
 
 Since King Charles the Mad, in Paris 
 no one has been completely free from 
 lunacy while the spring-time is happen- 
 ing. There is something in the sun and 
 the banks of the Seine. The Parisians 
 drink sweet and fruity champagne be- 
 cause the good wines are already in 
 their veins. These Parisians are born 
 intoxicated and remain so ; it is not fair 
 play to require them to be like other 
 human people. Their deepest feeling is 
 for the arts; and, as every one has de- 
 clared, they are farceurs in their trag- 
 [26] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 edies, tragic in their comedies. They 
 prepare the last epigram in the tum- 
 bril; they drown themselves with en- 
 thusiasm about the alliance with Rus- 
 sia. In death they are witty; in war they 
 have poetic .spasms; in love they are 
 mad. 
 
 The strangest of all this is that it is 
 not only the Parisians who are the iti- 
 sane ones in Paris ; the visitors are none 
 of them in behaviour as elsewhere. You 
 have only to go there to become as luna- 
 tic as the rest. Many travellers, when 
 they have departed, remember the 
 events they have caused there as a per- 
 son remembers in the morning what he 
 has said and thought in the moonlight 
 of the night. 
 
 In Paris it is moonlight even in the 
 [27] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 morning; and in Paris one falls in love 
 even more strangely than by moon- 
 light. 
 
 It is a place of glimpses : a veil flutter- 
 ing from a motor-ear, a little lace hand- 
 kerchief fallen from a victoria, a figure 
 crossing a lighted window, a black hat 
 vanishing in the distance of the ave- 
 nues of the Tuileries. A young man 
 writes a ballade and dreams over a bit 
 of lace. Was I not, then, one of the least 
 extravagant of this mad people? Men 
 have fallen in love with photographs, 
 those greatest of liars; was I so wild, 
 then, to adore this grey skirt, this small 
 shoe, this divine glove, the golden- 
 honey voice of all in Paris the only 
 one to pity and to understand ? Even to 
 love the mystery of that lady and to 
 [28] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 build my dreams upon it? to love 
 all the more because of the mystery? 
 Mystery is the last word and the com- 
 pleting charm to a young man's pas- 
 sion. Few sonnets have been written 
 to wives whose matrimony is more than 
 five years of age is it not so ? 
 
 [29] 
 
CHAPTER TWO 
 
 HEN my hour was 
 finished and I in 
 liberty to leave that 
 horrible corner, I 
 pushed out of the 
 crowd and walked 
 down the boule- 
 vard, my hat covering my sin, and went 
 quickly. To be in love with my mystery, 
 [30] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 I thought, that was a strange happiness ! 
 It was enough. It was romance! To 
 hear a voice which speaks two sentences 
 of pity and silver is to have a chime of 
 bells in the heart. But to have a shaven 
 head is to be a monk! And to have a 
 shaven head with a sign painted upon 
 it is to be a pariah. Alas ! I was a person 
 whom the Parisians laughed at, not 
 with! 
 
 Now that at last my martyrdom was 
 concluded, I had some shuddering, as 
 when one places in his mouth a morsel 
 of unexpected flavour. I wondered 
 where I had found the courage to bear 
 it, and how I had resisted hurling my- 
 self into the river, though, as is known, 
 that is no longer safe, for most of those 
 who attempt it are at once rescued, ar- 
 [31] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 rested, fined, and imprisoned for throw- 
 ing bodies into the Seine, which is for- 
 bidden. 
 
 At the theatre the frightful badge was 
 removed from my head-top and I was 
 given three hundred francs, the price of 
 my shame, refusing an offer to repeat 
 the performance during the following 
 week. To imagine such a thing made 
 me a choking in my throat, and I left 
 the bureau in some sickness. This in- 
 creased so much (as I approached the 
 Madeleine, where I wished to mount an 
 omnibus) that I entered a restaurant and 
 drank a small glass of cognac. Then I 
 called for writing-papers and wrote to 
 the good Mother Superior and my dear 
 little nieces at their convent. I enclosed 
 two hundred and fifty francs, which 
 [32] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 sum I had fallen behind in my pay- 
 ments for their education and suste- 
 nance, and I felt a moment's happiness 
 that at least for a while I need not fear 
 that my poor brother's orphans might 
 become objects of charity a fear 
 which, accompanied by my own hun- 
 ger, had led me to become the joke of 
 the boulevards. 
 
 Feeling rich with my remaining fifty 
 francs, I ordered the waiter to bring me 
 a goulasch and a carafe of blond beer, 
 after the consummation of which I 
 spent an hour in the reading of a news- 
 paper. Can it be credited that the jour- 
 nal of my perusement was the one 
 which may be called the North- Amer- 
 ican paper of the aristocracies of 
 Europe ? Also, it contains some names 
 [33] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 of the people of the United States at the 
 hotels and elsewhere. 
 
 How eagerly I scanned those singular 
 columns! Shall I confess to what pur- 
 pose? I read the long lists of unconti- 
 nental names over and over, but I lin- 
 gered not at all upon those like " Mu- 
 riel," "Hermione," "Violet," and "Si- 
 byl," nor over "Balthurst," "Skeffing- 
 ton - Sligo," and " Covering- Legge " ; 
 no, my search was for the Sadies and 
 Mamies, the Thompsons, Van Dusens, 
 and Bradys. In that lies my preposter- 
 ous secret. 
 
 You will see to what infatuation 
 those words of pity, that sense of a 
 beautiful presence, had led me. To fall 
 in love must one behold a face ? Yes ; 
 at thirty. At twenty, when one is some- 
 [34] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 thing of a poet No : it is sufficient to 
 see a grey pongee skirt! At fifty, when 
 one is a philosopher No : it is enough 
 to perceive a soul! I had done both; I 
 had seen the skirt; I had perceived the 
 soul! Therefore, while hungry, I neg- 
 lected my goulasch to read these lists of 
 names of the United States again and 
 again, only that I might have the thought 
 that one of them though I knew not 
 which might be this lady's, and that 
 in so infinitesimal a degree I had been 
 near her again. Will it be estimated ex- 
 treme imbecility in me when I ventured 
 the additional confession that I felt a 
 great warmth and tenderness toward 
 the possessors of all these names, as 
 being, if not herself, at least her com- 
 patriots ? 
 
 [35] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 I am now brought to the admission 
 that before to-day I had experienced 
 some prejudices against the inhabitants 
 of the North- American republic, though 
 not on account of great experience of 
 my own. A year previously I had made 
 a disastrous excursion to Monte Carlo 
 in the company of a young gentleman of 
 London who had been for several weeks 
 in New York and Washington and Bos- 
 ton, and appeared to know very much 
 of the country. He was never anything 
 but tired in speaking of it, and told me a 
 great amount. He said many times that 
 in the hotels there was never a concierge 
 or portier to give you information where 
 to discover the best vaudeville; there 
 was no concierge at all! In New York 
 itself, my friend told me, a f acchino, or 
 [36] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 species of porter, or some such good-for- 
 nothing, had said to him, including a 
 slap on the shoulder, "Well, brother, 
 did you receive your delayed luggage 
 correctly ?" (In this instance my studies 
 of the North-American idiom lead me 
 to believe that my friend was intention- 
 ally truthful in regard to the principal- 
 ities, but mistaken in his observation of 
 detail.) He declared the recent willing- 
 ness of the English to take some interest 
 in the United-Statesians to be a mistake; 
 for they were noisy, without real confi- 
 dence in themselves; they were restless 
 and merely imitative instead of inven- 
 tive. He told me that he was not excep- 
 tional; all Englishmen had thought 
 similarly for fifty or sixty years; there- 
 fore, naturally, his opinion carried great 
 [37] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 weight with me. And myself, to my as- 
 tonishment, I had often seen parties of 
 these republicans become all ears and 
 whispers when somebody called a prince 
 or a countess passed by. Their reverence 
 for age itself, in anything but a horse, 
 had often surprised me by its artless- 
 ness, and of all strange things in the 
 world, I have heard them admire old 
 customs and old families. It was strange 
 to me to listen, when I had believed that 
 their land was the only one where hap- 
 pily no person need worry to remember 
 who had been his great-grandfather. 
 
 The greatest of my own had not saved 
 me from the decoration of the past 
 week, yet he was as much mine as he 
 was Antonio Caravacioli's; and Anto- 
 nio, though impoverished, had his 
 [38] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 motor-car and dined well, since I hap- 
 pened to see, in my perusal of the jour- 
 nal, that he had been to dinner the 
 evening before at the English Embassy 
 with a great company. "Bravo, Anto- 
 nio ! Find a rich foreign wife if you can, 
 since you cannot do well for yourself at 
 home!" And I could say so honestly, 
 without spite, for all his hatred of me, 
 because, until I had paid my addition, I 
 was still the possessor of fifty francs ! 
 
 Fifty francs will continue life in the 
 body of a judicial person a long time in 
 Paris, and combining that knowledge 
 and the good goulasch, I sought dili- 
 gently for "Mamies" and "Sadies" 
 with a revived spirit. I found neither of 
 those adorable names in fact, only 
 two such diminutives, which are more 
 [39] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 charming than our Italian ones : a Miss 
 Jeanie Archibald Zip and a Miss Fannie 
 Sooter. None of the names was harmo- 
 nious with the grey pongee in truth, 
 most of them were no prettier (however 
 less processional) than royal names. I 
 could not please myself that I had come 
 closer to the rare lady; I must be con- 
 tented that the same sky covered us 
 both, that the noise of the same city 
 rang in her ears in as mine. 
 
 Yet that was a satisfaction, and to 
 know that it was true gave me myster- 
 ious breathlessness and made me hear 
 fragments of old songs during my walk 
 that night. I walked very far, under the 
 trees of the Bois, where I stopped for a 
 few moments to smoke a cigarette at one 
 of the tables outside, at Armenonville. 
 [40] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 None of the laughing women there 
 could be the lady I sought; and as my 
 refusing to command anything caused 
 the waiter uneasiness, in spite of my 
 prosperous appearance, I remained but 
 a few moments, then trudged on, all the 
 long way to the Cafe de Madrid, where 
 also she was not. 
 
 How did I assure myself of this since 
 I had not seen her face ? I cannot tell 
 you. Perhaps I should not have known 
 her; but that night I was sure that I 
 should. 
 
 Yes, as sure of that as I was sure that 
 she was beautiful! 
 
 [41] 
 
CHAPTER THREE 
 
 EARLY the whole 
 of the next day, 
 endeavouring to 
 look preoccupied, 
 I haunted the 
 lobbies and vicin- 
 ity of the most ex- 
 pensive hotels, unable to do any other 
 thing, but ashamed of myself that I had 
 [42] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 not returned to my former task of seek- 
 ing employment, although still reassured 
 by possession of two louis and some 
 silver. I dined well at a one-franc coach- 
 man's restaurant, where my elegance 
 created not the slightest surprise, and I 
 felt that I might live in this way indefi- 
 nitely. 
 
 However, dreams often conclude ab- 
 ruptly, and two louis always do, as I 
 found, several days later, when, after 
 paying the rent for my unspeakable 
 lodging and lending twenty francs to a 
 poor, bad painter, whom I knew and 
 whose wife was ill, I found myself with 
 the choice of obtaining funds on my 
 finery or not eating, either of which I 
 was very loath to do. It is not essential 
 for me to tell any person that when you 
 [43] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 seek a position it is better that you ap- 
 pear not too greatly in need of it; and 
 my former garments had prejudiced 
 many against me, I fear, because they 
 had been patched by a friendly con- 
 cierge. Pantaloons suffer as terribly as 
 do antiques from too obvious restora- 
 tions; and while I was only grateful to 
 the good woman's needle (except upon 
 one occasion when she forgot to remove 
 it), my costume had reached, at last, 
 great sympathies for the shade of Prax- 
 iteles, feeling the same melancholy over 
 original intentions so far misrepresented 
 by renewals. 
 
 Therefore 1 determined to preserve 
 
 my fineries to the uttermost; and it was 
 
 fortunate that I did so; because, after 
 
 dining, for three nights upon nothing 
 
 [44] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 but looking out of my window, the 
 fourth morning brought me -a letter from 
 my English friend. I had written to him, 
 asking if he knew of any people who 
 wished to pay a salary to a young man 
 who knew how to do nothing. I place his 
 reply in direct annexation : 
 
 " HENRIETTA STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE, May 14. 
 
 " MY DEAR ANSOLINI, Why haven't 
 you made some of your relatives do 
 something? I understand that they do 
 not like you; neither do my own, but 
 after our crupper at Monte Carlo what 
 could mine do, except provide? If a 
 few pounds (precious few, I fear!) be 
 of any service to you, let me know. In 
 the mean time, if you are serious about 
 a position, I may, preposterously 
 [45] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 enough, set you in the way of it. There 
 is an old thundering Yankee here, 
 whom I met in the States, and who be- 
 lieved me a god because I am the 
 nephew of my awful uncle, for whose 
 career he has ever had, it appears, a life- 
 long admiration, sir! Now, by chance, 
 meeting this person in the street, it de- 
 veloped that he has need of a man, pre- 
 cisely such a one as you are not : a sober, 
 tutorish, middle-aged, dissenting par- 
 son, to trot about the Continent tied to 
 a dancing bear. It is the old gentleman's 
 cub, who is a species of Caliban in fine 
 linen, and who has taken a few too 
 many liberties in the land of the free. In 
 fact, I believe he is much a youth of my 
 own kind with similar admiration for 
 baccarat and good cellars. His father 
 [46] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 must return at once, and has decided 
 (the cub's native heath angl friends be- 
 ing too wild) to leave him in charge of a 
 proper guide, philosopher, courier, 
 chaplain, and friend, if such can be 
 found, the same required to travel with 
 the cub and keep him out of mischief. I 
 thought of your letter directly, and I 
 have given you the most tremendous 
 recommendation - - part of it quite true, 
 I suspect, though I am not a judge of 
 learning. I explained, however, that you 
 are a master of languages, of elegant 
 though subdued deportment, and I ex- 
 tolled at length your saintly habits. Al- 
 together, I fear there may have been too 
 much of the virtuoso in my interpreta- 
 tion of you; few would have recognized 
 from it the gentleman who closed a table 
 [47] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 
 at Monte Carlo and afterwards was 
 closed himself in the handsome and 
 spectacular fashion I remember with 
 both delight and regret. Briefly, I lied 
 like a master. He almost had me in the 
 matter of your age; it was important 
 that you should be middle-aged. I 
 swore that you were at least thirty- 
 eight, but, owing to exemplary habits, 
 looked very much younger. The cub 
 himself is twenty-four. 
 
 " Hence, if you are really serious and 
 determined not to appeal to your people, 
 call at once upon Mr. Lambert R. Poor, 
 at the Hotel d'lena. He is the father, 
 and the cub is with him. The elder Yan- 
 kee is primed with my praises of you, 
 and must engage some one at once, as he 
 sails in a day or two. Go --with my 
 [48] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 blessing, an air of piety, and as much 
 age as you can assume. When the father 
 has departed, throw the cub into the 
 Seine, but preserve his pocket-book, 
 and we shall have another go at those 
 infernal tables. Vale! J. G. S." 
 
 I found myself smiling I fear mis- 
 erably over this kind letter, espe- 
 cially at the wonder of my friend that I 
 had not appealed to my relatives. The 
 only ones who would have liked to help 
 me, if they had known I needed some- 
 thing, were my two little nieces who 
 were in my own care; because my 
 father, being but a poet, had no family, 
 and my mother had lost hers, even her 
 eldest son, by marrying my father. After 
 that they would have nothing to do with 
 [49] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 her, nor were they asked. That rascally 
 old Antonio was now the head of all the 
 Caravacioli, as was I of my own outcast 
 branch of our house that is, of my 
 two little nieces and myself. It was 
 partly of these poor infants I had 
 thought when I took what was left of 
 my small inheritance to Monte Carlo, 
 hoping, since I seemed to be incapable 
 of increasing it in any other way, that 
 number seventeen and black would 
 hand me over a fortune as a waiter 
 does wine. Alas! Luck is not always 
 a fool's servant, and the kind of for- 
 tune she handed me was of that spe- 
 cies the waiter brings you in the other 
 bottle of champagne, the gold of a 
 bubbling brain, lasting an hour. After 
 this there is always something evil 
 [50] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 to one's head, and mine, alas! was 
 shaved. 
 
 Half an hour after I had read the let- 
 ter, the little paper-flower makers in the 
 attic window across from mine may 
 have seen me shaving it without 
 pleasure again. What else was I to 
 do ? I could not well expect to be given 
 the guardianship of an erring young 
 man if I presented myself to his parent 
 as a gentleman who had been sitting at 
 the Cafe de la Paix with his head paint- 
 ed. I could not wear my hat through the 
 interview. I could not exhibit the thick 
 five days' stubble, to appear in contrast 
 with the heavy fringe that had been 
 spared; I could not trim the fringe 
 to the shortness of the stubble ; I should 
 have looked like Pierrot. I had only, 
 [51] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 then, to remain bald, and, if I obtained 
 the post, to shave in secret a harm- 
 less and mournful imposition. 
 
 It was well for me that I came to this 
 determination. I believe it was the ap- 
 pearance of maturity which my head 
 and dining upon thoughts lent me, as 
 much as my friend's praises, which cre- 
 ated my success with the amiable Mr. 
 Lambert R. Poor. I witness that my 
 visit to him provided one of the most 
 astonishing interviews of my life. He 
 was an instance of those strange beings 
 of the Western republic, at whom we are 
 perhaps too prone to pass from one of 
 ourselves to another the secret smile, 
 because of some little imperfections of 
 manner. It is a type which has grown 
 more and more familiar to us, yet never 
 [52] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 less strange: the man in costly but se- 
 vere costume, big, with a necessary great 
 waistcoat, not noticing the loudness of 
 his own voice; as ignorant of the thou- 
 sand tiny things which we observe and 
 feel as he would be careless of them 
 (except for his wife) if he knew. We 
 laugh at him, sometimes even to his 
 face, and he does not perceive it. We are 
 a little afraid that he is too large to see 
 it; hence too large for us to comprehend, 
 and in spite of our laughter we are al- 
 ways conscious of a force yes, of a 
 presence ! We jeer slyly, but we respect, 
 fear a little, and would trust. 
 
 Such was my patron. He met me with 
 a kind greeting, looked at me very ear- 
 nestly, but smiling as if he understood 
 my good intentions, as one understands 
 [53] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 the friendliness of a capering poodle, 
 yet in such a way that I could not feel 
 resentment, for I could see that he 
 looked at almost every one in the same 
 fashion. 
 
 My friend had done wonders for me ; 
 and I made the best account of myself 
 that I could, so that within half an hour 
 it was arranged that I should take 
 charge of his son, with an honourarium 
 which gave me great rejoicing for my 
 nieces and my accumulated appetite. 
 
 "I think I can pick men," he said, 
 "and I think that you are the man I 
 want. You're old enough and you've 
 seen enough, and you know enough to 
 keep one fool boy in order for six 
 months." 
 
 So frankly he spoke of his son, yet not 
 [54] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 without affection and confidence. Be- 
 fore I left, he sent for the youth himself, 
 Lambert R. Poor, Jr., not at all a 
 Caliban, but a most excellent-appear- 
 ing, tall gentleman, of astonishingly 
 meek countenance. He gave me a sad, 
 slow look from his blue eyes at first; 
 then with a brightening smile he gently 
 shook my hand, murmuring that he was 
 very glad in the prospect of knowing 
 me better; after which the parent de- 
 fined before him, with singular elabora- 
 tion, my duties. I was to correct all 
 things in his behaviour which I consid- 
 ered improper or absurd. I was to dic- 
 tate the line of travel, to have a restrain- 
 ing influence upon expenditures; in 
 brief, to control the young man as a gov- 
 erness does a child. 
 
 [55] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 To all of his parent's instructions 
 Poor Jr. returned a dutiful nod and ex- 
 pressed perfect acquiescence. The fol- 
 lowing day the elder sailed from Cher- 
 bourg, and I took up my quarters with 
 the son. 
 
 [56] 
 
CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 T is with the most 
 extreme mortifica- 
 tion that I record 
 my ensuing experi- 
 ences, for I felt 
 that I could not 
 honourably accept 
 my salary without earning it by carry- 
 ing out the parent Poor's wishes. That 
 [57] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 first morning I endeavoured to direct 
 my pupil's steps toward the Musee 
 de Cluny, with the purpose of inciting 
 him to instructive study; but in the 
 mildest, yet most immovable manner, 
 he proposed Longchamps and the races 
 as a substitute, to conclude with dinner 
 at La Cascade and supper at Maxim's 
 or the Cafe Blanche, in case we should 
 meet engaging company. I ventured the 
 vainest efforts to reason with him, mak- 
 ing for myself a very uncomfortable 
 breakfast, though without effect upon 
 him of any visibility. His air was unin- 
 terruptedly mild and modest; he rarely 
 lifted his eyes, but to my most earnest 
 argument replied only by ordering more 
 eggs and saying in a chastened voice: 
 "Oh no; it is always best to begin 
 [58] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 school with a vacation. To Longchamps 
 -we!" 
 
 I should say at once that through this 
 young man I soon became an amateur 
 of the remarkable North- American idi- 
 oms, of humour and incomparable brev- 
 ities often more interesting than those 
 evolved by the thirteen or more dialects 
 of my own Naples. Even at our first 
 breakfast I began to catch lucid 
 glimpses of the intention in many of his 
 almost incomprehensible statements. I 
 was able, even, to penetrate his meaning 
 when he said that although he was 
 "strong for aged parent," he himself 
 had suffered much anguish from over- 
 work of the "earnest youth racquette" 
 in his late travels, and now desired to 
 "create considerable trouble for Paris." 
 [59] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 Naturally, I did not wish to begin by 
 antagonizing my pupil an estrange- 
 ment at the commencement would only 
 lead to his deceiving me, or a continued 
 quarrel, in which case I should be of no 
 service to my kind patron, so that after 
 a strained interval I considered it best 
 to surrender. 
 
 We went to Longchamps. 
 That was my first mistake; the second 
 was to yield to him concerning the lat- 
 ter part of his programme; but opposi- 
 tion to Mr. Poor Jr. had a curious effect 
 of inutility. He had not in the least 
 the air of obstinacy, nothing could 
 have been less like rudeness ; he neither 
 frowned nor smiled; no, he did not 
 seem even to be insisting; on the con- 
 trary, never have I beheld a milder 
 [60] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 countenance, nor heard a pleas anter 
 voice; yet the young man -was so com- 
 pletely baffling in his mysterious way 
 that I considered him unique to my 
 experience. 
 
 Thus, when I urged him not to place 
 large wagers in the pesage, his whisper- 
 ed reply was strange and simple 
 "Watch me!" This he conclusively said 
 as he deposited another thousand-franc 
 note, which, within a few moments, ac- 
 crued to the French government. 
 
 Longchamps was but the beginning 
 of a series of days and nights which wore 
 upon my constitution not indeed 
 with the intensity of mortification which 
 my former conspicuosity had engend- 
 ered, yet my sorrows were stringent. It 
 is true that I had been, since the age of 
 [61] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 seventeen, no stranger to the gaieties 
 and dissipations afforded by the capitals 
 of Europe; I may say I had exhausted 
 these, yet always with some degree of 
 quiet, including intervals of repose. I 
 was tired of all the great foolishnesses 
 of youth, and had thought myself done 
 with them. Now I found myself plunged 
 into more uproarious waters than I had 
 ever known I, who had hoped to begin 
 a life of usefulness and peace, was forc- 
 ed to dwell in the midst of a riot, pursu- 
 ing my extraordinary charge. 
 
 There is no need that I should de- 
 scribe those days and nights. They re- 
 main in my memory as a confusion of 
 bad music, crowds, motor-cars and 
 champagne of which Poor Jr. was a dis- 
 tributing centre. He could never be per- 
 [62] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 suaded to the Louvre, the Carnavalet, 
 or the Luxembourg; in truth, he seldom 
 rose in time to reach the museums, for 
 they usually close at four in the after- 
 noon. Always with the same inscrutable 
 meekness of countenance, each night he 
 methodically danced the cake-walk at 
 Maxim's or one of the Montmartre res- 
 taurants, to the cheers of acquaintances 
 of many nationalities, to whom he of- 
 fered libations with prodigal enormity. 
 He carried with him, about the boule- 
 vards at night, in the highly powerful 
 car he had hired, large parties of strange 
 people, who would loudly sing airs from 
 the Folie-Rouge (to my unhappy shud- 
 derings) all the way from the fatiguing 
 Bal Bullier to the Cafe de Paris, where 
 the waiters soon became affluent. 
 [63] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 And how many of those gaily dressed 
 and smiling ladies whose bright eyes 
 meet yours on the veranda of the 
 Theatre Marigny were provided with 
 excessive suppers and souvenir fans by 
 the inexhaustible Poor Jr.! He left a 
 trail of pink hundred-franc notes be- 
 hind him, like a running boy dropping 
 paper in the English game; and he kept 
 showers of gold louis dancing in the air 
 about him, so that when we entered the 
 various cafes or "American bars" a 
 cheer (not vocal but to me of perfect 
 audibility) went up from the hungry and 
 thirsty and borrowing, and from the at- 
 tendants. Ah, how tired I was of it, 
 and how I endeavoured to discover a 
 means to draw him to the museums, and 
 to Notre Dame and the Pantheon! 
 [64] 
 

 
 
 He carried with him in the powerful car he had hired, 
 large parties of strange people 
 
 DRAWN BY BLENDON CAMPBELL 
 
autiful Lady 
 
 10 w many of those gaily dressed 
 / smiling ladies v kt eyes 
 
 meet yours on the vt of the 
 
 Theatre Marigny were provided with 
 excessive suppers and souvenir fans by 
 the inexhaustible Poor Jr.! He left a 
 trail of hundred-franc notes be- 
 
 hind him, likr a running boy dropping 
 paper in the English game; and he kept 
 she*- ! louis dancing in the air 
 
 we entered the 
 a 
 
 t'he perfect 
 
 audibility) went up from the hungry and 
 thirsty and borrowing, and from the at- 
 tendants. Ah, how tired I was of it, 
 and how I endeavoured to discover a 
 means to draw him to the museums, and 
 to Notre Dam< Pantheon! 
 
 \o 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 And how many times did I unwill- 
 ingly find myself in the too enlivening 
 company of those pretty supper-girls, 
 and what jokings upon his head-top did 
 the poor bald gentleman not undergo 
 from those same demoiselles with the 
 bright eyes, the wonderful hats, and the 
 fluffy dresses! 
 
 How of ten among those gay people did 
 I find myself sadly dreaming of that grey 
 pongee skirt and the beautiful heart that 
 had understood ! Should I ever see that 
 lady? Not, I knew, alas! in the whirl 
 about Poor Jr. ! As soon look for a nun 
 at the Cafe Blanche! 
 
 For some reason I came to be per- 
 suaded that she had left Paris, that she 
 had gone away; and I pictured her a 
 little despairingly on the borders of 
 [65] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 Lucerne, with the white Alps in the 
 sky above her, or perhaps listening to 
 the evening songs on the Grand Canal, 
 and I would try to feel the little rocking 
 of her gondola, making myself dream 
 that I sat at her feet. Or I could see 
 the grey flicker of the pongee skirt in 
 the twilight distance of cathedral aisles 
 with a chant sounding from a chapel; 
 and, so dreaming, I would start spas- 
 modically, to hear the red-coated orches- 
 tra of a cafe blare out into "Bedelia," 
 and awake to the laughter and rouge 
 and blague which that dear pongee had 
 helped me for a moment to forget! 
 
 To all places Poor Jr., though never 
 
 unkindly, dragged me with him, even to 
 
 make the balloon ascent at the Porte 
 
 Maillot on a windy evening. Without 
 
 [66] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 embarrassment I confess that I was ter- 
 rified, that I clung to the ropes with a 
 clutch which frayed my gloves, while 
 Poor Jr. leaned back against the side of 
 the basket and gazed upward at the 
 great swaying ball, with his hands in 
 his pockets, humming the strange bal- 
 lad that was his favourite musical com- 
 position : 
 
 "The prettiest girl I ever saw 
 Was sipping cider through a straw-aw-haw!" 
 
 In that horrifying basket, scrambling 
 for a foothold while it swung through 
 arcs that were gulfs, I believed that my 
 sorrows approached a sudden conclu- 
 sion, but finding myself again upon the 
 secure earth, I decided to come to an 
 understanding with the young man. 
 [67] ' 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 Accordingly, on the following mor- 
 ning, I entered his apartment and ad- 
 dressed myself to Poor Jr. as severely as 
 I could (for, truthfully, in all his follies I 
 had found no ugliness in his spirit - 
 only a good-natured and inscrutable de- 
 sire of wild amusement) reminding him 
 of the authority his father had deputed 
 to me, and having the venturesomeness 
 to hint that the son should show some 
 respect to my superior age. 
 
 To my consternation he replied by 
 inquiring if I had shaved my head as yet 
 that morning. I could only drop in a 
 chair, stammering to know what he 
 meant. 
 
 "Didn't you suppose I knew?" he 
 asked, elevating himself slightly on his 
 elbow from the pillow. "Three weeks 
 [68] 
 
ff 
 
 p8 N -v^ 
 
 
 To my consternation he replied by inquiring if I had 
 shaved my head as yet that morning 
 
 DRAWN BY BLENDON CAMPBELL, 
 
Beam 
 
 gly, on mor- 
 
 entered hi it and ad- 
 
 myself to Poo 
 uld (for, truthfully, ih 
 had found no ugliness in his Sj. 
 only a good-natured and inscrutable 
 sire of wild amusement) reminding him 
 of the authority his father had deputed 
 to me, and having the venturesomeness 
 to hint that the son should sho 
 respect to 
 
 1 o 
 
 inquin my head as yet 
 
 that morning. I could only drop in a 
 chair, stammering to know what he 
 meant. 
 
 "Didn't you suppose I knew?" he 
 asked, elevating himself slightly on his 
 elbow from the pillow. "Three weeks 
 [68] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 ago I left my aged parent in London and 
 ran over here for a day. I saw you at the 
 Cafe de la Paix, and even then I knew 
 that it was shaved, not naturally bald. 
 When you came here I recognized you 
 like a shot, and that was why I was glad 
 to accept you as a guardian. I've en- 
 joyed myself considerably of late, and 
 you've been the best part of it, I 
 think you are a wonderation! I wouldn't 
 have any other governess for the world, 
 but you surpass the orchestra when you 
 beg me to respect your years ! I will bet 
 you four dollars to a lead franc piece 
 that you are younger than I am!" 
 
 Imagine the completeness of my dis- 
 may! Although he spoke in tones the 
 most genial, and without unkindness, I 
 felt myself a man of tatters before him, 
 [69] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 ashamed to have him know my sorry se- 
 cret, hopeless to see all chance of author- 
 ity over him gone at once, and with it 
 my opportunity to earn a salary so gen- 
 erous, for if I could continue to be but 
 an amusement to him and only part of 
 his deception of Lambert R. Poor, my 
 sense of honour must be fit for the guil- 
 lotine indeed. 
 
 I had a little struggle with myself, and 
 I think I must have wiped some 
 amounts of the cold perspiration from 
 my absurd head before I was able to 
 make an answer. It may be seen what a 
 coward I was, and how I feared to begin 
 again that search for employment. At 
 last, however, I was in self-control, so 
 that I might speak without being afraid 
 that my voice would shake. 
 [70] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 "I am sorry," I said. "It seemed to 
 me that my deception would not cause 
 any harm, and that I might be useful in 
 spite of it enough to earn my living. 
 It was on account of my being very poor ; 
 and there are two little children I must 
 take care of. Well, at least, it is over 
 now. I have had great shame, but I 
 must not have greater. " 
 
 " What do you mean ?" he asked me, 
 rather sharply. 
 
 "I will leave immediately," I said, 
 going to the door. " Since I am no more 
 than a joke, I can be of no service to 
 your father or to you ; but you must not 
 think that I am so unreasonable as to be 
 angry with you. A man whom you have 
 beheld reduced to what I was, at the 
 Cafe de la Paix, is surely a joke to the 
 [71] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 whole world ! I will write to your father 
 before I leave the hotel and explain that 
 I feel myself unqualified - 
 
 "You're going to write to him why 
 you give it up!" he exclaimed. 
 
 "I shall make no report of espion- 
 age," I answered, with, perhaps, some 
 bitterness, "and I will leave the letter 
 for you to read and to send, of yourself. 
 It shall only tell him that as a man of 
 honour I cannot keep a position for 
 which I have no qualification." 
 
 I was going to open the door, bidding 
 him adieu, when he called out to me. 
 
 " Look here ! " he said, and he jumped 
 out of bed in his pajamas and came 
 quickly, and held out his hand. "Look 
 here, Ansolini, don't take it that way. I 
 know you've had pretty hard times, and 
 [72] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 if you'll stay, I'll get good. I'll go to the 
 Louvre with you this afternoon; we'll 
 dine at one of the Duval restaurants, 
 and go to that new religious tragedy 
 afterwards. If you like, we'll leave Paris 
 to-morrow. There's a little too much 
 movement here, maybe. For God's 
 sake let your hair grow, and we'll go 
 down to Italy and study bones and ruins 
 and delight the aged parent! It's all 
 right, isn't it?" 
 
 I shook the hand of that kind Poor Jr. 
 with a feeling in my heart that kept me 
 from saying how greatly I thanked him 
 and I was sure that I could do any- 
 thing for him in the world! 
 
 [73] 
 
CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 HREE days later 
 saw us on the 
 pretty waters of 
 Lake Leman, in 
 the bright weather 
 when Mont Blanc 
 heaves his great 
 bare shoulder of ice miles into the blue 
 sky, with no mist-cloak about him. 
 [74] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 Sailing that lake in the cool morning, 
 what a contrast to the champagne houp- 
 la nights of Paris! And how docile was 
 my pupil! He suffered me to lead him 
 through the Castle of Chillon like a 
 new-born lamb, and even would not 
 play the little horses in the Kursaal at 
 Geneva, although, perhaps, that was 
 because the stakes were not high 
 enough to interest him. He was nearly 
 always silent, and, from the moment of 
 our departure from Paris, had fallen into 
 dreamfulness, such as would come over 
 myself at the thought of the beautiful 
 lady. It touched my heart to find how 
 he was ready with acquiescence to the 
 slightest suggestion of mine, and, if 
 it had been the season, I am almost 
 credulous that I could have con- 
 [75] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 ducted him to Baireuth to hear Parsi- 
 fal! 
 
 There were times when his mood of 
 gentle sorrow was so like mine that I 
 wondered if he, too, knew a grey pon- 
 gee skirt. I wondered over this so much, 
 and so marvellingly, also, because of the 
 change in him, that at last I asked him. 
 
 We had gone to Lucerne ; it was clear 
 moonlight, and we smoked on our little 
 balcony at the Schweitzerhof, puffing 
 our small clouds in the enormous face 
 of the strangest panorama of the world, 
 that august disturbation of the earth by 
 gods in battle, left to be a land of tragic 
 fables since before Pilate was there, and 
 remaining the same after William Tell 
 was not. I sat looking up at the moun- 
 tains, and he leaned on the rail, looking 
 [76] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 down at the lake. Somewhere a woman 
 was singing from Pagliacci* and I slow- 
 ly arrived at a consciousness that I had 
 sighed aloud once or twice, not so much 
 sadly, as of longing to see that lady, and 
 that my companion had permitted sim- 
 ilar sounds to escape him, but more 
 mournfully. It was then that I asked 
 him, in earnestness, yet with the man- 
 ner of making a joke, if he did not 
 think often of some one in North Am- 
 erica. 
 
 "Do you believe that could be, and I 
 making the disturbance I did in Paris ?" 
 he returned. 
 
 'Yes," I told him, "if you are trying 
 to forget her." 
 
 "I should think it might look more 
 as if I were trying to forget that I 
 [77] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 wasn't good enough for her and that she 
 knew it!" 
 
 He spoke in a voice which he would 
 have made full of ease "off-hand," 
 as they say; but he failed to do so. 
 
 " That was the case ?" I pressed him, 
 you see, but smilingly. 
 
 "Looks a good deal like it," he re- 
 plied, smoking much at once. 
 
 " So ? But that is good for you, my 
 friend!" 
 
 "Probably." He paused, smoking 
 still more, and then said, " It's a benefit 
 I could get on just as well without." 
 
 "She is in North America?" 
 
 "No; over here." 
 
 "Ah! Then we will go where she is. 
 That will be even better for you! 
 Where is she?" 
 
 [78] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 "I don't know. She asked me not to 
 follow her. Somebody eke is doing 
 that." 
 
 The young man's voice was steady, 
 and his face, as usual, showed no emo- 
 tion, but I should have been an Italian 
 for nothing had I not understood quick- 
 ly. So I waited for a little while, then 
 spoke of old Pilatus out there in the sky, 
 and we went to bed very late, for it was 
 our last night in Lucerne. 
 
 Two days later we roared our way out 
 of the gloomy St. Gotthard and wound 
 down the pass, out into the sunshine of 
 Italy, into that broad plain of mul- 
 berries where the silkworms weave to 
 enrich the proud Milanese. Ah, those 
 Milanese! They are like the people of 
 Turin, and look down upon us of Na- 
 [79] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 pies ; they find us only amusing, because 
 our minds and movements are too quick 
 for them to understand. I have no re- 
 spect for the Milanese, except for three 
 things : they have a cathedral, a picture, 
 and a dead man. 
 
 We came to our hotel in the soft twi- 
 light, with the air so balmy one wished 
 to rise and float in it. This was the hour 
 for the Cathedral; therefore, leaving 
 Leonardo and his fresco for the to-mor- 
 row, I conducted my uncomplaining 
 ward forth, and through that big arcade 
 of which the people are so proud, to the 
 Duomo. Poor Jr. showed few signs of 
 life as we stood before that immense- 
 ness ; he said patiently that it resembled 
 the postals, and followed me inside the 
 portals with languor. 
 [80] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 It was all grey hollowness in the vast 
 place. The windows showed not any 
 colour nor light; the splendid pillars 
 soared up into the air and disappeared 
 as if they mounted to heights of invisi- 
 bility in the sky at night. Very far away, 
 at the other end of the church it seemed, 
 one lamp was burning, high over the 
 transept. One could not see the chains of 
 support nor the roof above it ; it seemed 
 a great star, but so much all alone. We 
 walked down the long aisle to stand 
 nearer to it, the darkness growing 
 deeper as we advanced. When we came 
 almost beneath, both of us gazing up- 
 ward, my companion unwittingly stum- 
 bled against a lady who was standing 
 silently looking up at this light, and who 
 had failed to notice our approach. The 
 [81] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 contact was severe enough to dislodge 
 from her hand her folded parasol, for 
 which I began to grope. 
 
 There was a hurried sentence of ex- 
 cusation from Poor Jr., followed by mo- 
 ments of silence before she replied. 
 Then I heard her voice in startled ex- 
 clamation : 
 
 "Rufus, it is never you?" 
 
 He called out, almost loudly, 
 
 "Alice!" 
 
 Then I knew that it was the second 
 time I had lifted a parasol from the 
 ground for the lady of the grey pongee 
 and did not see her face; but this time 
 I placed it in her own hand; for my 
 head bore no shame upon it now. 
 
 In the surprise of encountering Poor 
 Jr. I do not think she noticed that she 
 [82] 
 

 contact was Severe enough to dislodge from her hand 
 her folded parasol, for which I began to grope 
 
 DRAWN BY BLENDON CAMPBELL, 
 
was sever Hslodge 
 
 from her hand her i for 
 
 which I began to grope. 
 
 There was a hurried sent 
 cusation from Poor Jr., folio^ 
 ments of silence before she rep: 
 Then I heard her voice in startled ex- 
 
 ; you'? 99 
 II 
 
 i from the 
 
 lady of the grey pongee 
 and did not see her face; but this time 
 I placed it in her own hand; for my 
 head bore no shame upon it now. 
 
 In the surprise of encountering Poor 
 Jr. I do not think she noticed that she 
 [82] 
 
 VwnA tsA \ot\ a^fookVb oi A^MONS s-msfc %w ioftifloo aAT 
 
 woawaja YH 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 took the parasol or was conscious of my 
 presence, and it was but too secure that 
 my young friend had forgotten that I 
 lived. I think, in truth, I should have 
 forgotten it myself, if it had not been 
 for the leaping of my heart. 
 
 Ah, that foolish dream of mine had 
 proven true : I knew her, I knew her, un- 
 mistaking, without doubt or hesitancy 
 - and in the dark! How should I know 
 at the mere sound of her voice ? I think I 
 knew before she spoke! 
 
 Poor Jr. had taken a step toward her 
 as she fell back; I could only see the two 
 figures as two shadows upon shadow, 
 while for them I had melted altogether 
 and was forgotten. 
 
 "You think I have followed you," he 
 cried, " but you have no right to think it. 
 [83] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 It was an accident, and you've got to 
 believe me!" 
 
 " I believe you," she answered gently. 
 "Why should I not?" 
 
 " I suppose you want me to clear out 
 again," he went on, "and I will; but I 
 don't see why." 
 
 Her voice answered him out of the 
 shadow: "It is only you who make a 
 reason why. I'd give anything to be 
 friends with you; you've always known 
 that." 
 
 "Why can't we be ?" he said, sharply 
 and loudly. " I've changed a great deal. 
 I'm very sensible, and I'll never bother 
 you again that other way. Why 
 shouldn't I see a little of you?" 
 
 I heard her laugh then - - happily, it 
 seemed to me, and I thought I per- 
 [84] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 ceived her to extend her hand to him, 
 and that he shook it briefly,- in his fash- 
 ion, as if it had been the hand of a man 
 and not that of the beautiful lady. 
 
 "You know I should like nothing bet- 
 ter in the world since you tell me 
 what you do," she answered. 
 
 "And the other man ?" he asked her, 
 with the same hinting of sharpness in 
 his tone. "Is that all settled?" 
 
 "Almost. Would you like me to tell 
 you?" 
 
 "Only a little -- please!" 
 
 His voice had dropped, and he spoke 
 very quietly, which startlingly caused 
 me to realize what I was doing. I went 
 out of hearing then, very softly. Is it 
 credible that I found myself trembling 
 when I reached the twilit piazza? It is 
 [85] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 true, and I knew that never, for one mo- 
 ment, since that tragic, divine day of 
 her pity, had I wholly despaired of 
 beholding her again; that in my most 
 sorrowful time there had always been a 
 little, little morsel of certain knowledge 
 that I should some day be near her 
 once more. 
 
 And now, so much was easily revealed 
 to me: it was to see her that the good 
 Lambert R. Poor Jr., had come to 
 Paris, preceding my patron; it was he 
 who had passed with her on the last day 
 of my shame, and whom she had ad- 
 dressed by his central name of Rufus, 
 and it was to his hand that I had re- 
 stored her parasol. 
 
 I was to look upon her face at last I 
 knew it and to speak with her. Ah, 
 [86] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 yes, I did tremble ! It was not because I 
 feared she might recognize her poor 
 slave of the painted head-top, nor that 
 Poor Jr. would tell her. I knew him now 
 too well to think he would do that, had I 
 been even that other of whom he had 
 spoken, for he was a brave, good boy, 
 that Poor Jr. No, it was a trembling of 
 another kind something I do not 
 know how to explain to those who have 
 not trembled in the same way; and I 
 came alone to my room in the hotel, still 
 trembling a little and having strange 
 quickness of breathing in my chest. 
 
 I did not make any light; I did not 
 wish it, for the precious darkness of the 
 Cathedral remained with me magic 
 darkness in which I beheld floating 
 clouds made of the dust of gold and 
 [87] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 vanishing melodies. Any person who 
 knows of these singular things compre- 
 hends how little of them can be told; but 
 to those people who do not know of 
 them, it may appear all great foolish- 
 ness. Such people are either too young, 
 and they must wait, or too old they 
 have forgotten! 
 
 It was an hour afterward, and Poor 
 Jr. had knocked twice at my door, 
 when I lighted the room and opened it 
 to him. He came in, excitedly flushed, 
 and, instead of taking a chair, be- 
 gan to walk quickly up and down the 
 floor. 
 
 "I'm afraid I forgot all about you, 
 Ansolini," he said, "but that girl I ran 
 into is a a Miss Landry, whom 1 
 have known a long - 
 [88] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 
 I put my hand on his shoulder for a 
 moment and said: 
 
 "I think I am not so dull, my 
 friend!" 
 
 He made a blue flash at me with his 
 eyes, then smiled and shook his head. 
 
 " Yes, you are right," he answered, re- 
 beginning his fast pace over the carpet. 
 " It was she that I meant in Lucerne - 
 I don't see why I should not tell you. In 
 Paris she said she didn't want me to see 
 her again until I could be friendly 
 the old way instead of something 
 considerably different, which I'd grown 
 to be. Well, I've just told her not only 
 that I'd behave like a friend, but that 
 I'd changed and felt like one. Pretty 
 much of a lie that was!" He laughed, 
 without any amusement. "But it was 
 [89] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 successful, and I suppose I can keep it 
 up. At any rate we're going over to Ven- 
 ice with her and her mother to-morrow. 
 Afterwards, we'll see them in Naples 
 just before they sail." 
 
 "To Venice with them!" I could not 
 repress crying out. 
 
 "Yes; we join parties for two days," 
 he said, and stopped at a window and 
 looked out attentively at nothing before 
 he went on: "It won't be very long, 
 and I don't suppose it will ever happen 
 again. The other man is to meet them 
 in Rome. He's a countryman of yours, 
 and I believe I believe it's about 
 -settled!" 
 
 He pronounced these last words in an 
 even voice, but how slowly! Not more 
 slowly than the construction of my 
 [90] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 own response, which I heard myself 
 making : 
 
 " This countryman of mine who is 
 he?" 
 
 " One of your kind of Kentucky Col- 
 onels," Poor Jr. laughed mournfully. 
 At first I did not understand; then it 
 came to me that he had sometimes pre- 
 viously spoken in that idiom of the no- 
 bles, and that it had been his custom to 
 address one of his Parisian followers, a 
 vicomte, as "Colonel." 
 
 "What is his name?" 
 
 "I can't pronounce it, and I don't 
 know how to spell it," he answered. 
 " And that doesn't bring me to the verge 
 of the grave! I can bear to forget it, at 
 least until we get to Naples!" 
 
 He turned and went to the door, say- 
 [91] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 ing, cheerfully: "Well, old horse-thief" 
 (such had come to be his name for me 
 sometimes, and it was pleasant to hear), 
 "we must be dressing. They're at this 
 hotel, and we dine with them to-night." 
 
 [92] 
 
CHAPTER SIX 
 
 OW can I tell of 
 the lady of the 
 pongee now 
 that I beheld 
 her ? Do you 
 think that, when 
 sne cam e that 
 night to the salon where we were a- 
 waiting her, I hesitated to lift my eyes 
 [93] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 to her face because of a fear that it 
 would not be so beautiful as the misty 
 sweet face I had dreamed would be 
 hers ? Ah, no ! It was the beauty which 
 was in her heart that had made me 
 hers ; yet I knew that she was beautiful. 
 She was fair, that is all I can tell. I 
 cannot tell of her eyes, her height, her 
 mouth ; I saw her through those clouds 
 of the dust of gold she was all 
 glamour and light. It was to be seen 
 that every one fell in love with her at 
 once; that the chef d'orchestre came 
 and played to her; and the waiters 
 you should have observed them! 
 made silly, tender faces through the 
 great groves of flowers with which Poor 
 Jr. had covered the table. It was most 
 difficult for me to address her, to call 
 [94] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 her " Miss Landry." It seemed impossi- 
 ble that she should have a name, or that 
 I should speak to her except as "you." 
 Even, I cannot tell very much of her 
 mother, except that she was adorable 
 because of her adorable relationship. 
 She was florid, perhaps, and her con- 
 versation was of commonplaces and 
 echoes, like my own, for I could not 
 talk. It was Poor Jr. who made the talk- 
 ing, and in spite of the spell that was on 
 me, I found myself full of admiration 
 and sorrow for that brave fellow. He 
 was all gaieties and little stories in a 
 Way I had never heard before; he kept 
 us in quiet laughter; in a word, he was 
 charming. The beautiful lady seemed 
 content to listen with the greatest pleas- 
 ure. She talked very little, except to en* 
 [95] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 courage the young man to continue. I 
 do not think she was brilliant, as they 
 call it, or witty. She was much more 
 than that in her comprehension, in her 
 kindness her beautiful kindness! 
 
 She spoke only once directly to me, 
 except for the little things one must 
 say. " I am almost sure I have met you, 
 Signor Ansolini." 
 
 I felt myself burning up and knew 
 that the conflagration was visible. So 
 frightful a blush cannot be prevented by 
 will-power, and I felt it continuing in 
 hot waves long after Poor Jr. had ef- 
 fected salvation for me by a small joke 
 upon my cosmopolitanism. 
 
 Little sleep visited me that night. 
 The darkness of my room was luminous 
 and my closed eyes became painters, 
 [96] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 painting so radiatingly with divine 
 colours painters of wonderful por- 
 traits of this lady. Gallery after gallery 
 swam before me, and the morning 
 brought only more! 
 
 What a ride it was to Venice that day ! 
 What magical airs we rode through, and 
 what a thieving old trickster was Time, 
 as he always becomes when one wishes 
 hours to be long! I think Poor Jr. had 
 made himself forget everything except 
 that he was with her and that he must 
 be a friend. He committed a thousand 
 ridiculousnesses at the stations; he 
 filled one side of the compartment with 
 the pretty chianti-bottles, with terrible 
 cakes, and with fruits and flowers; he 
 never ceased his joking, which had no 
 tiresomeness in it, and he made the lit- 
 [97] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 tie journey one of continuing, happy 
 laughter. 
 
 And that evening another of my fool- 
 ish dreams came true ! I sat in a gondola 
 with the lady of the grey pongee to hear 
 the singing on the Grand Canal; not, 
 it is true, at her feet, but upon a little 
 chair beside her mother. It was my 
 place to be, as I had been all day, 
 escort to the mother, and guide and 
 courier for that small party. Contented 
 enough was I to accept it ! How could I 
 have hoped that the Most Blessed 
 Mother would grant me so much near- 
 ness as that ? It was not happiness that 
 I felt, but something so much more prec- 
 ious, as though my heart-strings were 
 the strings of a harp, and sad, beautiful 
 arpeggios ran over them. 
 [98] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 I could not speak much that evening, 
 nor could Poor Jr. We were very silent 
 and listened to the singing, our gondola 
 just touching the others on each side, 
 those in turn touching others, so that a 
 musician from the barge could cross 
 from one to another, presenting the hat 
 for contributions. In spite of this extreme 
 propinquity, I feared the collector would 
 fall into the water when he received the 
 offering of Poor Jr. It was " Gra-a-az 9 , 
 Mi-lor ! Graz 9 ! " a hundred times, with 
 bows and grateful smiles indeed ! 
 
 It is the one place in the world where 
 you listen to a bad voice with pleasure, 
 and none of the voices are good -- they 
 are harsh and worn with the night-sing- 
 ing yet all are beautiful because they 
 are enchanted. 
 
 [99] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 They sang some of our own Neapoli- 
 tan songs that night, and last of all the 
 loveliest of all, " La Luna Nova." It was 
 to the cadence of it that our gondoliers 
 moved us out of the throng, and it still 
 drifted on the water as we swung, far 
 down, into sight of the lights of the 
 Ledo: 
 
 "Luna d'ar-gen-to fal-lo so-gnar 
 Ba-cia-lo in fron-te non lo de-star. 
 
 Not so sweetly came those measures 
 as the low voice of the beautiful lady 
 speaking then. 
 
 "One could never forget it, never!" 
 she said. "I might hear it a thousand 
 other times and forget them, but never 
 this first time." 
 
 I perceived that Poor Jr. turned his 
 [100] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 face abruptly toward hers at this, but 
 he said nothing, by which I understood 
 not only his wisdom but his forbearance. 
 
 "Strangely enough," she went on, 
 slowly, "that song reminded me of 
 something in Paris. Do you remem- 
 ber" - she turned to Poor Jr. -- "that 
 poor man we saw in front of the Cafe de 
 la Paix with the sign painted upon his 
 head?" 
 
 Ah, the good-night, with its friendly 
 cloak! The good, kind night! 
 
 "I remember," he answered, with 
 some shortness. "A little faster, boat- 
 man!" 
 
 "I don't know what made it," she 
 said, "I can't account for it, but I've 
 been thinking of him all through that 
 last song." 
 
 [101] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 
 Perhaps not so strange, since one 
 may know how wildly that poor devil 
 had been thinking of her! 
 
 "I've thought of him so often," the 
 gentle voice went on. "I felt so sorry for 
 him. I never felt sorrier for any one in 
 my life. I was sorry for the poor, thin 
 cab-horses in Paris, but I was sorrier 
 for him. I think it was the saddest sight 
 I ever saw. Do you suppose he still has 
 to do that, Rufus?" 
 
 "No, no," he answered, in haste. 
 "He'd stopped before I left. He's all 
 right, I imagine. Here's the Danieli." 
 
 She fastened a shawl more closely 
 about her mother, whom I, with a ring- 
 ing in my ears, was trying to help up 
 the stone steps. "Rufus, I hope," the 
 sweet voice continued, so gently, "I 
 [102] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 hope he's found something to do that's 
 very grand! Don't you ? Something to 
 make up to him for doing that!' 9 
 
 She had not the faintest dream that it 
 was I. It was just her beautiful heart. 
 
 The next afternoon Venice was a 
 bleak and empty setting, the jewel gone. 
 How vacant it looked, how vacant it 
 was! We made not any effort to penetrate 
 the galleries ; I had no heart to urge my 
 friend. For us the whole of Venice had 
 become one bridge of sighs, and we sat 
 in the shade of the piazza, not watching 
 the pigeons, and listening very little to 
 the music. There are times when St. 
 Mark's seems to glare at you with By- 
 zantine cruelty, and Venice is too hot 
 and too cold. So it was then. Evening 
 found us staring out at the Adriatic 
 [103] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 from the terrace of a cafe on the Ledo, 
 our coffee cold before us. Never was a 
 greater difference that that in my com- 
 panion from the previous day. Yet he 
 was not silent. He talked of her continu- 
 ally, having found that he could talk of 
 her to me though certainly he did 
 not know why it was or how. He told 
 me, as we sat by the grey-growing sea, 
 that she had spoken of me. 
 
 "She liked you, she liked you very 
 much," he said. " She told me she liked 
 you because you were quiet and melan- 
 choly. Oh Lord, though, she likes every 
 one, I suppose! I believe I'd have a bet- 
 ter chance with her if I hadn't always 
 known her. I'm afraid that this damned 
 Italian I beg your pardon, Anso- 
 lini! " 
 
 [104] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 "Ah, no," I answered. "It is some- 
 times well said." 
 
 "I'm afraid his picturesqueness as a 
 Kentucky Colonel appeals to her too 
 much. And then he is new to her a 
 new type. She only met him in Paris, 
 and he had done some things in the 
 Abyssinian war - 
 
 "What is his rank?" I asked. 
 " He's a prince. Cheap down this way, 
 aren't they? I only hope" and Poor 
 Jr. made a groan - - " it isn't going to be 
 the old story and that he'll be good 
 to her if he gets her." 
 
 "Then it is not yet a betrothal ?" 
 "Not yet. Mrs. Landry told me that 
 Alice had liked him well enough to 
 promise she'd give him her answer be- 
 fore she sailed, and that it was going to 
 [105] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 be yes. She herself said it was almost 
 settled. That was just her way of break- 
 ing it to me, I fear." 
 
 "You have given up, my friend?" 
 " What else can I do ? I can't go on 
 following her, keeping up this play at 
 second cousin, and she won't have any- 
 thing else. Ever since I grew up she's 
 been rather sorrowful over me because 
 I didn't do anything but try to amuse 
 myself - - that was one of the reasons 
 she couldn't care for me, she said, when 
 I asked her. Now this fellow wins, who 
 hasn't done anything either, except his 
 one campaign. It's not that I ought to 
 have her, but while I suppose it's a real 
 fascination, I'm afraid there's a little 
 glitter about being a princess. Even the 
 best of our girls haven't got over that 
 [106] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 yet. Ah, well, about me she's right. I've 
 been a pretty worthless sort* She's right. 
 I've thought it all over. Three days be- 
 fore they sail we'll go down to Naples 
 and hear the last word, and whatever it 
 is we'll see them off on the 'Princess 
 Irene.' Then you and I'll come north and 
 sail by the first boat from Cherbourg." 
 
 "I I?" I stammered. 
 
 "Yes," he said. "I'm going to make 
 the aged parent shout with unmanly 
 glee. I'm going to ask him to take me on 
 as a hand. He'll take you, too. He uses 
 something like a thousand Italians, and 
 a man to manage them who can talk to 
 them like a Dutch uncle is what he has 
 always needed. He liked you, and he'll 
 be glad to get you." 
 
 He was a good friend, that Poor Jr., 
 [107] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 you see, and I shook the hand that he 
 offered me very hard, knowing how 
 great would have been his embarrass- 
 ment had I embraced him in our own 
 fashion. 
 
 "And perhaps you will sail on the 
 'Princess Irene,' after all," I cried. 
 
 "No," he shook his head sadly, "it 
 will not happen. I have not been worth 
 it." 
 
 [108] 
 
CHAPTER SEVEN 
 
 HAT Naples of 
 mine is like a 
 soiled coronet of 
 white gems, spark- 
 ling only from far 
 away. But I love 
 it altogether, near 
 or far, and my heart would have leaped 
 to return to it for its own sake, but to 
 [109] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 come to it as we did, knowing that the 
 only lady in the world was there. . . . 
 Again, this is one of those things I pos- 
 sess no knowledge how to tell, and that 
 those who know do know. How I had 
 longed for the time to come, how I had 
 feared it, how I had made pictures 
 of it! 
 
 Yet I feared not so much as my friend, 
 for he had a dim, small hope, and I had 
 none. How could I have ? I a man 
 whose head had been painted ? I for 
 whom her great heart had sorrowed as 
 for the thin, beaten cab-horses of Paris ! 
 Hope ? All I could hope was that she 
 might never know, and I be left with 
 some little shred of dignity in her 
 eyes! 
 
 Who cannot see that it was for my 
 [110] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 friend to fear? At times, with him, it 
 was despair, but of that br.ave kind one 
 loves to see never a quiver of the lip, 
 no winking of the eyes to keep tears 
 back. And I, although of a people who 
 express everything in every way, I un- 
 derstood what passed within him and 
 found time to sorrow for him. 
 
 Most of all, I sorrowed for him as we 
 waited for her on the terrace of the Ber- 
 tolini, that perch on the cliff so high that 
 even the noises of the town are dulled 
 and mingle with the sound of the thick 
 surf far below. 
 
 Across the city, and beyond, we saw, 
 from the terrace, the old mountain 
 of the warm heart, smoking amiably, 
 and the lights of Torre del Greco at its 
 feet, and there, across the bay, I beheld, 
 
 [in] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 as I had nightly so long ago, the lamps 
 of Castellamare, of Sorrento; then, after 
 a stretch of water, a twinkling which 
 was Capri. How good it was to know 
 that all these had not taken advantage 
 of my long absence to run away and 
 vanish, as I had half feared they would. 
 Those who have lived here love them 
 well; and it was a happy thought that 
 the beautiful lady knew them now, and 
 shared them. I had never known quite 
 all their loveliness until I felt that she 
 knew it too. This was something that I 
 must never tell her yet what happi- 
 ness there was in it ! 
 
 I stood close to the railing, with a 
 rambling gaze over this enchanted earth 
 and sea and sky, while my friend walk- 
 ed nervously up and down behind me. 
 [112] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 We had come to Naples in the late af- 
 ternoon, and had found a nate from Mrs. 
 Landry at our hotel, asking us for din- 
 ner. Poor Jr. had not spoken more than 
 twice since he had read me this kind in- 
 vitation, but now I heard a low excla- 
 mation from him, which let me know 
 who was approaching; and that foolish 
 trembling got hold of me again as I 
 turned. 
 
 Mrs. Landry came first, with out- 
 stretched hand, making some talk ex- 
 cusing delay; and, after a few paces, fol- 
 lowed the loveliest of all the world. Be- 
 side her, in silhouette against the white 
 window lights of the hotel, I saw the very 
 long, thin figure of a man, which, even 
 before I recognized it, carried a certain 
 ominousness to my mind. 
 [113] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 Mrs. Landry, in spite of her florid 
 contentedness, had sometimes a flutter- 
 ing appearance of trivial agitations. 
 
 " The Prince came down from Rome 
 this morning," she said nervously, and 
 I saw my friend throw back his head 
 like a man who declines the eye-band- 
 age when they are going to shoot him. 
 " He is dining with us. I know you will 
 be glad to meet him." 
 
 The beautiful lady took Poor Jr.'s 
 hand, more than he hers, for he seemed 
 dazed, in spite of the straight way he 
 stood, and it was easy to behold how 
 white his face was. She made the pres- 
 entation of us both at the same time, 
 and as the other man came into the 
 light, my mouth dropped open with 
 wonder at the singular chances which 
 [114] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 the littleness of our world brings 
 about. 
 
 "Prince Caravacioli, Mr. Poor. And 
 this is Signor Ansolini." 
 
 It was my half-brother, that old An- 
 tonio ! 
 
 [115] 
 
CHAPTER EIGHT 
 
 EVER lived any 
 person with more 
 possession of him- 
 self than Antonio; 
 he bowed to each of 
 us with the utmost 
 amiability; and for 
 expression all one saw of it was a 
 little streak of light in his eye-glass. 
 [116] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 "It is yourself, Raffaele ?" he said to 
 me, in the politest manner, jn our own 
 tongue, the others thinking it some com- 
 monplace, and I knew by his voice that 
 the meeting was as surprising and as ex- 
 asperating to him as to me. 
 
 Sometimes dazzling flashes of light 
 explode across the eyes of blind people. 
 Such a thing happened to my own, 
 now, in the darkness. I found myself 
 hot all over with a certain rashness that 
 came to me. I felt that anything was pos- 
 sible if I would but dare enough. 
 
 "I am able to see that it is the same 
 2/owrself!" I answered, and made the 
 faintest eye-turn toward Miss Landry. 
 Simultaneously bowing, I let my hand 
 fall upon my pocket a language 
 which he understood, and for which (the 
 [117] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 Blessed Mother be thanked!) he per- 
 ceived that I meant to offer battle imme- 
 diately, though at that moment he of- 
 fered me an open smile of benevolence. 
 He knew nothing of my new cause for 
 war; there was enough of the old! 
 
 The others were observing us. 
 
 'You have met?" asked the gentle 
 voice of Miss Landry. "You know 
 each other?" 
 
 "Exceedingly!" I answered, bowing 
 low to her. 
 
 "The dinner is waiting in our own 
 salon," said Mrs. Landry, interrupt- 
 ing. She led the way with Antonio to 
 an open door on the terrace where serv- 
 ants were attending, and such a forest 
 of flowers on the table and about the 
 room as almost to cause her escort to 
 [118] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 stagger; for I knew, when I caught 
 sight of them, that he had never been wise 
 enough to send them. Neither had Poor 
 Jr. done it out of wisdom, but because 
 of his large way of performing every- 
 thing, and his wish that loveliest things 
 should be a background for that lady. 
 
 Alas for him ! Those great jars of per- 
 fume, orchids and hyacinths and roses, 
 almost shut her away from his vision. 
 We were at a small round table, and she 
 directly in opposition to him. Upon her 
 right was Antonio, and my heart grew 
 cold to see how she listened to him. 
 
 For Antonio could talk. At that time 
 he spoke English even better than I, 
 though without some knowledge of the 
 North- American idiom which my trav- 
 els with Poor Jr. had given me. He was 
 [119] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 one of those splendid egoists who seem 
 to talk in modesty, to keep themselves 
 behind scenes, yet who, when the cur- 
 tain falls, are discovered to be the 
 heroes, after all, though shown in so 
 delicate a fashion that the audience flat- 
 ters itself in the discovery. 
 
 And how practical was this fellow, 
 how many years he had been develop- 
 ing his fascinations ! I was the only per- 
 son of that small company who could 
 have a suspicion that his moustache 
 was dyed, that his hair was toupee, or 
 that hints of his real age were scorpions 
 and adders to him. / should not have 
 thought it, if I had not known it. Here 
 was my advantage: I had known his 
 monstrous vanity all my life. 
 
 So he talked of himself in his various 
 
 LMO] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 surreptitious ways until coffee came, 
 Miss Landry listening eagerly, and 
 my poor friend making no effort; for 
 what were his quiet United States ab- 
 surdities compared to the whole-world 
 gaieties and Abyssinian adventures of 
 this Othello, particularly for a young girl 
 to whom Antonio's type was unfamil- 
 iar ? For the first time I saw my young 
 man's brave front desert him. His 
 mouth drooped, and his eyes had an ap- 
 pearance of having gazed long at a 
 bright light. I saw that he, unhappy one, 
 was at last too sure what her answer 
 would be. 
 
 For myself, I said very little I 
 
 waited. I hoped and believed Antonio 
 
 would attack me in his clever, disguised 
 
 way, for he had always hated me and 
 
 [121] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 my dead brother, and he had never fail- 
 ed to prove himself too skilful for us. In 
 my expectancy of his assault there was 
 no mistake. I comprehended Antonio 
 very well, and I knew that he feared I 
 might seek to do him an injury, particu- 
 larly after my inspired speech and ges- 
 ture upon the terrace. Also, I felt that 
 he would, if possible anticipate my at- 
 tempt and strike first. I was willing; 
 for I thought myself in possession of 
 his vulnerable point never dreaming 
 that he might know my own ! 
 
 At last when he, with the coffee and 
 cigarettes, took the knife in his hand, he 
 placed a veil over the point. He began, 
 laughingly, with the picture of a pick- 
 pocket he had helped to catch in Lon- 
 don. London was greatly inhabited by 
 [188] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 pickpockets, according to Antonio's 
 declaration. Yet, he continued, it was 
 nothing in comparison to Paris. Paris 
 was the rendezvous, the world's home, 
 for the criminals, adventurers, and 
 rascals of the world, English, Spanish, 
 South- Americans, North- Americans, 
 and even Italians ! One must beware of 
 people one has met in Paris ! 
 
 "Of course," he concluded, with a 
 most amiable smile, "there are many 
 good people there also. That is not to be 
 forgotten. If I should dare to make a 
 risk on such a trifle, for instance, I 
 would lay a wager that you " - he nod- 
 ded toward Poor Jr. "made the ac- 
 quaintance of Ansolini in Paris ?" 
 
 This was of the greatest ugliness in its 
 underneath significance, though the 
 [123] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 manner was disarming. Antonio's smile 
 was so cheerful, his eye-glass so twink- 
 ling, that none of them could have been 
 sure he truly meant anything harmful of 
 me, though Poor Jr. looked up, puzzled 
 and frowning. 
 
 Before he could answer I pulled my- 
 self altogether, as they say, and leaned 
 forward, resting my elbows upon the 
 table. "It is true," and I tried to smile 
 as amiably as Antonio. "These coinci- 
 dences occur. You meet all the great 
 frauds of the world in Paris. Was it not 
 there" -I turned to Mrs. Landry 
 " that you met the young Prince here ?" 
 
 At this there was no mistaking that 
 
 the others perceived. The secret battle 
 
 had begun and was not secret. I saw a 
 
 wild gleam in Poor Jr.'s eyes, as if he 
 
 [124] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 comprehended that strange things were 
 to come ; but, ah, the face of distress and 
 wonder upon Mrs. Landry, who be- 
 held the peace of both a Prince and a 
 dinner assailed; and, alas! the strange 
 and hurt surprise that came from the 
 lady of the pongee! Let me not be a 
 boastful fellow, but I had borne her pity 
 and had adored it I could face her 
 wonder, even her scorn. 
 
 It was in the flash of her look that I 
 saw my great chance and what I must 
 try to do. Knowing Antonio, it was as if 
 I saw her falling into the deep water and 
 caught just one contemptuous glance 
 from her before the waves hid her. But 
 how much juster should that contempt 
 have been if I had not tried to save her! 
 
 As for that old Antonio, he might 
 [125] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 have known enough to beware. I had 
 been timid with him always, and he 
 counted on it now, but a man who has 
 shown a painted head-top to the people 
 of Paris will dare a great deal. 
 
 "As the Prince says," replied Mrs. 
 Landry, with many flutters, " one meets 
 only the most agreeable people inParis !" 
 
 "Paris!" I exclaimed. "Ah, that 
 home of ingenuity! How they paint 
 there ! How they live, and how they dye 
 their beards!" 
 
 You see how the poor Ansolini played 
 the buffoon. I knew they feared it was 
 wine, I had been so silent until now; 
 but I did not care, I was beyond care. 
 
 " Our young Prince speaks truly, " I 
 cried, raising my voice. " He is wise be- 
 yond his years, this youth! He will be 
 [126] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 great when he reaches middle age, for he 
 knows Paris and understands North 
 America! Like myself, he is grateful 
 that the people of your continent enrich 
 our own ! We need all that you can give 
 us! Where should we be any of us" 
 (I raised my voice still louder and waved 
 my hand to Antonio), "where should 
 we be, either of us" (and I bowed to the 
 others) "without you?" 
 
 Mrs. Landry rose with precipitous- 
 ness, and the beautiful lady, very red, 
 followed. Antonio, unmistakably stung 
 with the scorpions I had set upon him, 
 sprang to the door, the palest yellow 
 man I have ever beheld, and let the 
 ladies pass before him. 
 
 The next moment I was left alone 
 with Poor Jr. and his hyacinth trees. 
 [127] 
 
CHAPTER NINE 
 
 OR several min- 
 utes neither of us 
 spoke. Then I 
 looked up to 
 meet my friend's 
 gaze of perturba- 
 tion. 
 
 A waiter was proffering cigars. I took 
 one, and waved Poor Jr.'s hand away 
 [128] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 from the box of which the waiter made 
 offering, 
 
 " Do not remain ! " I whispered, and I 
 saw his sad perplexity. "I know her an- 
 swer has not been given. Will you pre- 
 sent him his chance to receive it --just 
 when her sympathy must be stronger 
 for him, since she will think he has had 
 to bear rudeness?" 
 
 He went out of the door quick- 
 
 ly- . 
 
 I did not smoke. I pretended to, while 
 the waiters made the arrangements of 
 the table and took themselves off. I 
 sat there a long, long time waiting for 
 Antonio to do what I hoped I had be- 
 trayed him to do. 
 
 It befell at last. 
 
 Poor Jr. came to the door and spoke 
 [129] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 in his steady voice. "Ansolini, will you 
 come out here a moment?" 
 
 Then I knew that I had succeeded, 
 had made Antonio afraid that I would 
 do the thing he himself, in a panic, had 
 already done speak evil of another 
 privately. 
 
 As I reached the door I heard him call 
 out foolishly, "But, Mr. Poor, I beg 
 you--" 
 
 Poor Jr. put his hand on my shoulder, 
 and we walked out into the dark of the 
 terrace. Antonio was leaning against the 
 railing, the beautiful lady standing near. 
 Mrs. Landry had sunk into a chair be- 
 side her daughter. No other people were 
 upon the terrace. 
 
 " Prince Caravacioli has been speak- 
 ing of you," said Poor Jr., very quietly. 
 [130] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 
 "Ah?" said I. 
 
 "I listened to what he -said; then I 
 told him that you were my friend, and 
 that I considered it fair that you should 
 hear what he had to say. I will repeat 
 what he said, Ansolini. If I mistake any- 
 thing, he can interrupt me. " 
 
 Antonio laughed, and in such a way, so 
 sincerely, so gaily, that I was frightened. 
 
 "Very good!" he cried. "I am con- 
 tent. Repeat all." 
 
 " He began, " Poor Jr. went on, quiet- 
 ly, though his hand gripped my shoulder 
 to almost painfulness, "he began by 
 saying to these ladies, in my presence, 
 that we should be careful not to pick up 
 chance strangers to dine, in Italy, and 
 and he went on to give me a repeti- 
 tion of his friendly warning about Paris. 
 [131] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 He hinted things for a while, until I ask- 
 ed him to say what he knew of you. 
 Then he said he knew all about you; 
 that you were an outcast, a left-handed 
 member of his own family, an adven- 
 turer-- " 
 
 " It is finished, my friend, " I said, in- 
 terrupting him, and gazed with all my 
 soul upon the beautiful lady. Her face 
 was as white as Antonio's or that of my 
 friend, or as my own must have been. 
 She strained her eyes at me fixedly; I 
 saw the stars standing still in them, and 
 I knew the moment had come. 
 
 "This Caravacioli is my half-broth- 
 er," I said. 
 
 Antonio laughed again. "Of what 
 kind!" 
 
 Oh, he went on so easily to his be- 
 [132] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 trayal, not knowing the United-States- 
 ians and their sentiment, as- 1 did. 
 
 "We had the same mother," I con- 
 tinued, as quietly as I could. "Twenty 
 years after this young this somewhat 
 young Prince was born she divorced 
 his father, Caravacioli, and married a 
 poor poet, whose bust you can see on 
 the Pincian in Rome, though he died in 
 the cheapest hotel in Sienna when my 
 true brother and I were children. This 
 young Prince would have nothing to do 
 with my mother after her second mar- 
 riage and - 
 
 "Marriage!" Antonio laughed pleas- 
 antly again. He was admirable. "This 
 is an old tale which the hastiness of our 
 American friend has forced us to re- 
 hearse. The marriage was never recog- 
 [133] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 nized by the Vatican, and there was not 
 twenty years ' 
 
 " Antonio, it is the age which troubles 
 you, after all!" I said, and laughed 
 heartily, loudly, and a long time, in the 
 most good-natured way, not to be un- 
 done as an actor. 
 
 "Twenty years," I repeated. "But 
 what of it ? Some of the best men in the 
 world use dyes and false " 
 
 At this his temper went away from him 
 suddenly and completely. I had struck 
 the right point indeed ! 
 
 "You cammorrista!" he cried, and 
 became only himself, his hands ges- 
 turing and flying, all his pleasant man- 
 ner gone. "Why should we listen one 
 second more to such a fisherman! The 
 very seiners of the bay who sell dried 
 [134] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 sea-horses to the tourists are better gen- 
 tlemen than you. You can. shrug your 
 shoulders! I saw you in Paris, though 
 you thought I did not! Oh, I saw you 
 well! Ah! At the Cafe de la Paix!" 
 
 At this I cried out suddenly. The 
 sting and surprise of it were more than I 
 could bear. In my shame I would even 
 have tried to drown his voice with bab- 
 blings but after this one cry I could not 
 speak for a while. He went on trium- 
 phantly : 
 
 "This rascal, my dear ladies, who has 
 persuaded you to ask him to dinner, this 
 camel who claims to be my excellent 
 brother, he, for a few francs, in Paris, 
 shaved his head and showed it for a 
 week to the people with an advertise- 
 ment painted upon it of the worst ballet 
 [135] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 in Paris. This is the gentleman with 
 whom you ask Caravacioli to dine!" 
 
 It was beyond my expectation, so as- 
 tonishing and so cruel that I could only 
 look at him for a moment or two. I felt 
 as one who dreams himself falling for- 
 ever. Then I stepped forward and 
 spoke, in thickness of voice, being un- 
 able to lift my head : 
 
 "Again it is true what he says. I was 
 that man of the painted head. I had my 
 true brother's little daughters to care 
 for. They were at the convent, and I 
 owed for them. It also was partly for 
 myself, because I was hungry. I could 
 find not any other way, and so but 
 that is all." 
 
 I turned and went stumblingly away 
 from them. 
 
 [136] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 
 In my agony that she should know, I 
 could do nothing but seek greater dark- 
 ness. I felt myself beaten, dizzy with 
 beatings. That thing which I had done 
 in Paris discredited me. A man whose 
 head-top had borne an advertisement of 
 the Folie-Rouge to think he could be 
 making a combat with the Prince Cara- 
 vacioli ! 
 
 Leaning over the railing in the dark- 
 est corner of the terrace, I felt my hand 
 grasped secondarily by that good friend 
 of mine. 
 
 " God bless you ! " whispered Poor Jr. 
 "On my soul, I believe he's done him- 
 self. Listen!" 
 
 I turned. That beautiful lady had 
 stepped out into the light from the salon 
 door. I could see her face shining, and 
 [137] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 her eyes ah me, how glorious they 
 were ! Antonio followed her. 
 
 "But wait," he cried, pitifully. 
 
 " Not for you!" she answered, and 
 that voice of hers, always before so gen- 
 tle, rang out as the Roman trumpets 
 once rang from this same cliff. "Not 
 for you ! / saw him there with his paint- 
 ed head and I understood! You saw 
 him there, and you did nothing to help 
 him ! And the two little children your 
 nieces, too, and he your brother!" 
 
 Then my heart melted and I found 
 myself choking, for the beautiful lady 
 was weeping. 
 
 "Not for you, Prince Caravacioli," 
 she cried, through her tears, " Not 
 for you!" 
 
 [138] 
 
'Not far you, Prince Caravacioli" she cried, through 
 her tears, " Not for you I " 
 
 DRAWN BY BLENDON CAMPBELL 
 
Beautiful I 
 
 her ey rious they 
 
 were! Antonio follow 
 
 "But wait," he cried. 
 
 "Not for you!" she an* and 
 
 that voice of hers, always before so gen- 
 tle, rang out as the Roman trumpets 
 once rang from this same cliff. "Not 
 for you ! / *&w him there with his paint- 
 ed head %i :<* f understood! You saw 
 him *ng to help 
 
 him! And \ iren your 
 
 niec Hrother!" 
 
 Then my i I found 
 
 myself choking, for the beautiful lady 
 was weeping. 
 
 "Not for you, Prince Caravacioli," 
 she cried, through her tears, ~- " Not 
 for you!" 
 
 [ 138 ] 
 
 >TOVJ T0\ 
 
 \MO\J io\ to VI" 
 
CHAPTER TEN 
 
 LL of the beggars 
 in Naples, I think, 
 all of the flower- 
 girls and boys, I 
 am sure, and all 
 the wandering ser- 
 enaders, I will 
 swear, were under our windows at 
 the Vesuve, from six o'clock on the 
 [139] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 morning the " Princess Irene " sailed ; 
 and there need be no wonder when it is 
 known that Poor Jr. had thrown hand- 
 f uls of silver and five-lire notes from our 
 balcony to strolling orchestras and sing- 
 ers for two nights before. 
 
 They wakened us with "Addio, la 
 bella Napoli, addio, addio!" sung to the 
 departing benefactor. When he had 
 completed his toilet and his coffee, he 
 showed himself on the balcony to them 
 for a moment. Ah! What a resounding 
 cheer for the signore, the great North- 
 American nobleman! And how it 
 swelled to a magnificent thundering 
 when another largess of his came flying 
 down among them! 
 
 Who could have reproved him ? Not 
 Raff aele Ansolini, who was on his knees 
 [140] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 over the bags and rugs ! I think I even 
 made some prolongation of that posi- 
 tion, for I was far from assured of my 
 countenance, that bright morning. 
 
 I was not to sail in the "Princess Irene " 
 with those dear friends. Ah no! I had 
 told them that I must go back to Paris 
 to say good-bye to my little nieces and 
 sail from Boulogne and I am sure 
 they believed that was my reason. I had 
 even arranged to go away upon a train 
 which would make it not possible for me 
 to drive to the dock with them. I did not 
 wish to see the boat carry them away 
 from me. 
 
 And so the farewells were said in the 
 street in all that crowd. Poor Jr. and I 
 were waiting at the door when the car- 
 riage galloped up. How the crowd 
 [141] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 rushed to see that lady whom it bore to 
 us, blushing and laughing! Clouds of 
 gold-dust came before my eyes again; 
 she wore once more that ineffable grey 
 pongee ! 
 
 Servants ran forward with the effects 
 of Poor Jr., and we both sprang toward 
 the carriage. 
 
 A flower-girl was offering a great bas- 
 ket of loose violets. Poor Jr. seized it 
 and threw them like a blue rain over the 
 two ladies. 
 
 "Bravo! Bravo!" 
 
 A hundred bouquets showered into 
 the carriage, and my friend's silver went 
 out in another shower to meet them. 
 
 "Addio, la bella Napoli!" came from 
 the singers and the violins, but I cried 
 to them for "La Luna Nova." 
 [142] 
 
A hundred bouquets showered into the carriage, and 
 
 my friend's silver went out in another 
 
 sfwwer to meet them 
 
 DRAWN BY BLENDON CA.UPBELL 
 
blushing and lau 
 gold-dust came before my 
 she wore once more that ineffable grey 
 pongee ! 
 
 Servants ran forward with the eff< 
 of Poor Jr., and we both sprang toward 
 the car 
 
 A 1'eri rig a great bas- 
 
 ket of i d it 
 
 and threw them like a blue rain over the 
 two lad 
 
 "Bravo IB 
 
 A hundred bouquets showered into 
 the carriage, and my friend's silver went 
 out in another shower to meet them. 
 
 " Addio, la bella Napolil" came from 
 the singers and the violins, but i cried 
 to them for "La Luna Nova/' 
 
 [I* 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 
 " Good-bye for a little while 
 good-bye!" 
 
 I knew how well my friend liked me, 
 because he shook my hand with his head 
 turned away. Then the grey glove of the 
 beautiful lady touched my shoulder - 
 the lightest touch in all the world as 
 I stood close to the carriage while Poor 
 Jr. climbed in. 
 
 "Good-bye. Thank you and God 
 bless you!" she said, in a low voice. 
 And I knew for what she thanked 
 me. 
 
 The driver cracked his whip like an 
 honest Neapolitan. The horses sprang 
 forward. "Addio, addio!" 
 
 "Luna d'argento fallo sognar 
 Bacialo in fronte non lo destar" 
 [143] 
 
The Beautiful Lady 
 I sang with the musicians, waving and 
 waving and waving my handkerchief to 
 the departing carriage. 
 
 Now I saw my friend lean over and 
 take the beautiful lady by the hand, 
 and together they stood up in the car- 
 riage and waved their handkerchiefs to 
 me. Then, but not because they had 
 passed out of sight, I could see them not 
 any longer. 
 
 They were so good that kind Poor 
 Jr. and the beautiful lady; they seemed 
 like dear children as if they had been 
 my own dear children. 
 + 
 
 THE END 
 
 THE McCLURE PRESS, NEW TORK 
 
STORED AT NRLF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, SANTA CRUZ 
 
 " 
 
 This book is due on the last DATE stamped below. 
 
 50m-6,'67(H2523s8)2373 
 
PS2972.E 
 
 3 2106 00208 1419