Part 2 (2/2)

The Countess Zarfine was walking slowly across the ballroom, her hand resting upon the arm of a tall man in the dress of an exquisite of the period of Louis XIV., and, quickly grasping my meaning, Gaspard strolled aimlessly in the same direction, carrying on an animated conversation with me all the while, which raised him greatly in my estimation as a budding diplomat.

”They are going to sit upon the balcony,” I found an instant to whisper, and we followed them, my nerves thrilling with delight as I realized the strength of my position, for now the Countess would feel herself secure, thinking that I had departed.

She was seated upon a basket-chair upon the balcony overlooking the Champs Elysees, talking, in a voice that challenged criticism, of the new play at the Renaissance, and Gaspard skilfully led me to a seat facing them, and took one by my side.

And then the clever boy entered with zest into the Bohemian conceit of the _bal masque_, for without a word of introduction he joined in their conversation, and in an instant we were a quartette discussing the frivolities of life.

Gradually an idle group grew round us--flattering gallants who protested with glowing compliments ”that it was too cruel of their hostess to hide all the lovely faces of Paris behind silken masks.”

”It must be because she is jealous,” the Countess cried, with a smile that showed for an instant the gleam of her teeth; ”she fears the contrast.”

But then--for men, despite their deceit, are strangely truthful sometimes--no one dared to dispute the beauty of his hostess, and her eyes gleamed with gratified pride as her sneer was left unsupported in the silence--yet perhaps they were suspicious.

”Still, messieurs,” she exclaimed, with a ripple of laughter, ”since our faces are hidden, our freedom is greater--we may be more Bohemian.” And in an instant she produced a gold case, and, extracting a cigarette, placed it with a gesture of impudence between her lips. ”Those who love me join with me,” she continued, handing the case to the surrounding group.

It seemed to me that there was a falseness in this ingenuous mood that sat but ill upon one so contemptuously proud.

In an instant the blue smoke curled in the air from half a dozen cigarettes.

”'Carmen,'” she cried, reproachfully, with a glance at me, ”you who should have led the way still hesitate,” and she extended the case, and carefully lighted the cigarette for me from her own.

”And you, monsieur,” with a glance at the man who had been her companion from the ballroom.

”It was a privilege I had never antic.i.p.ated, and so came unprepared.”

”Then she who grants permission supplies the means of enjoyment. Take two, or three, or four, or what you will; their fragrance may be even greater in the morning.”

There was an intonation in the last words that struck me with a sense of hidden meaning, and as the man carelessly took several, and, after lighting one, slipped the remainder into his pocket, the truth burst upon me in a flash--the key to the cipher had been pa.s.sed.

On each cigarette paper was the key. I held it between my fingers half consumed, and those around were obligingly burning the others before her eyes, save for that man whom I knew still had three in his possession.

What a thoughtless fool I had been, I who held all I needed in my grasp had myself destroyed it. The cigarette had burned down to my fingers. I was compelled to drop it, and he trod it to dust beneath his foot.

But he still had three. With an _abandon_ worthy of ”Carmen” herself I turned my fascinations upon him; with a swift glance at Gaspard, who instantly comprehended, I sent him to the side of the Countess, and she, nothing loath to be the centre of a group of admirers, elated because her mission was over, encouraged them, and kept them from her with the arts of one born to coquetry.

The saints be praised, all men are young--or, at least, feel they are--when a pretty woman smiles upon them. He was what a diplomat would have called middle-aged, but--saints be praised--I am a pretty woman.

”You are the incarnation of 'Carmen' herself,” he whispered, as we found ourselves excluded from the group surrounding the Countess.

”_Merci_, monsieur, you flatter me--it is the dress attracts you.”

”No; it is the sparkle of your eyes behind that envious mask, the grace of each gesture, the soul of music in your voice, the poetry in every motion that proclaims you the ideal 'Carmen.'”

”Save for one thing: a cigarette, _s'il vous plait_, monsieur,” and I extended my hand.

Slowly, even as though he realized that he was being drawn into a trap, he took one of them from his pocket and hesitatingly handed it to me.

<script>