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Ha Ha

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.
 According to the customs of the day, her body was borne into the
basilica, in gala dress, and with uncovered face, to the chant of
psalms, and followed by the whole populace.
Kneeling down beside her, in a loud voice Injuriosus uttered these
words—
“I give Thee hearty thanks, Lord Jesus, that Thou hast bestowed
upon me strength to preserve Thy treasure uninjured.”
Upon these words, she that was dead rose up upon her funeral
couch and smiled, and murmured softly—
“My friend, why do you declare that which no man has asked of
you?”
Whereupon she resumed her everlasting rest.
Injuriosus soon followed her to the tomb. They buried him not far
from her in the basilica of Saint Allire. The first night after he was
laid there a miraculous rose tree sprang from the grave of the virgin
bride and enwrapped both tombs in its flower-besprent embraces.
So that on the morrow the folk beheld them bound fast one to the
other by chains of roses. Recognizing by this sign the sanctity of the
blessed Injuriosus and the blessed Scholastica, the priests of
Auvergne held up these shrines to the veneration of the faithful. But
in this province, which had been evangelized by Saints Allire and
Nepotian, pagans still dwelt. One of these, by name Sylvanus, still
held sacred the springs dedicated to the nymphs, hung votive
pictures upon the branches of an ancient oak, and cherished by his
fireside little images in clay representing the sun and the goddesses
of fruitfulness. Half hidden amid the foliage, the garden god watched
over his orchard. Sylvanus passed his declining years in the writing
of verse. He composed eclogues and elegies in a style a little stiff
perhaps, but not wanting in skill, and into these poems, whenever
he could manage to do so, he introduced verses from the bards of
old. With the general populace he too visited the spot where the
Christian spouses were laid, and the good man marvelled at the rose
tree which decked the two tombs. And as, after his fashion, he was
pious, he recognized therein a heavenly sign. But he attributed the
prodigy to his own gods, and doubted nothing that the rose tree
flourished by the will of Eros.
 Said he: “Now that she is nothing but a vain shadow, the tristful
Scholastica regrets the hours when love was timely and the
pleasures she renounced. These roses, which come forth from her
body and express her thoughts, say to us who still survive: Love
while ye may. This prodigy indeed instructs us to taste the joys of
life while it is yet time.”
Thus reflected this simple pagan. Upon this subject he composed
an elegy which by the greatest of chances I unearthed in the public
library at Tarascon, on the binding of a Bible of the eleventh century,
catalogued Michel Chasles Collection F n 7439, 179 bis. The precious
leaf which had so far escaped the notice of the learned, contains not
fewer than eighty-four lines in a fairly legible Merovingian script
probably dating from the seventh century. The text begins with
these words—

>Nunc piget; et quaeris, quod non aut ista volontas

Tunc fuit....[1]

and finishes in this fashion—

Stringamus maesti carminis obsequio.[2]

I shall not fail to publish the complete text so soon as I have finished
deciphering it. And I do not doubt that Monsieur Leopold Delisle
himself will undertake to present this invaluable document to the
Academy of Inscriptions.

1. .sp 1
Now regret rankles, and thou cravest that
Thou didst reject....

2. Weave we the tribute of a mournful song.

OUR LADY’S JUGGLER

TO GASTON PARIS
 OUR LADY’S JUGGLER

n the days of King Louis there was a poor juggler in

France, a native of Compiègne, Barnaby by name, who
went about from town to town performing feats of skill
and strength.
On fair days he would unfold an old worn-out carpet in
the public square, and when by means of a jovial address, which he
had learned of a very ancient juggler, and which he never varied in
the least, he had drawn together the children and loafers, he
assumed extraordinary attitudes, and balanced a tin plate on the tip
of his nose. At first the crowd would feign indifference.
But when, supporting himself on his hands face downwards, he
threw into the air six copper balls, which glittered in the sunshine,
and caught them again with his feet; or when throwing himself
backwards until his heels and the nape of the neck met, giving his
body the form of a perfect wheel, he would juggle in this posture
with a dozen knives, a murmur of admiration would escape the
spectators, and pieces of money rain down upon the carpet.
Nevertheless, like the majority of those who live by their wits,
Barnaby of Compiègne had a great struggle to make a living.
Earning his bread in the sweat of his brow, he bore rather more
than his share of the penalties consequent upon the misdoings of
our father Adam.
Again, he was unable to work as constantly as he would have
been willing to do. The warmth of the sun and the broad daylight
were as necessary to enable him to display his brilliant parts as to
the trees if flower and fruit should be expected of them. In winter
time he was nothing more than a tree stripped of its leaves, and as
it were dead. The frozen ground was hard to the juggler, and, like
the grasshopper of which Marie de France tells us, the inclement
season caused him to suffer both cold and hunger. But as he was
simple-natured he bore his ills patiently.
He had never meditated on the origin of wealth, nor upon the
inequality of human conditions. He believed firmly that if this life
should prove hard, the life to come could not fail to redress the
balance, and this hope upheld him. He did not resemble those
thievish and miscreant Merry Andrews who sell their souls to the
devil. He never blasphemed God’s name; he lived uprightly, and
although he had no wife of his own, he did not covet his
neighbour’s, since woman is ever the enemy of the strong man, as it
appears by the history of Samson recorded in the Scriptures.
In truth, his was not a nature much disposed to carnal delights,
and it was a greater deprivation to him to forsake the tankard than
the Hebe who bore it. For whilst not wanting in sobriety, he was
fond of a drink when the weather waxed hot. He was a worthy man
who feared God, and was very devoted to the Blessed Virgin.
Never did he fail on entering a church to fall upon his knees
before the image of the Mother of God, and offer up this prayer to
her:
“Blessed Lady, keep watch over my life until it shall please God
that I die, and when I am dead, ensure to me the possession of the
joys of paradise.”
 II

ow on a certain evening after a dreary wet day, as

Barnaby pursued his road, sad and bent, carrying under
his arm his balls and knives wrapped up in his old carpet,
on the watch for some barn where, though he might not
sup, he might sleep, he perceived on the road, going in
the same direction as himself, a monk, whom he saluted courteously.
And as they walked at the same rate they fell into conversation with
one another.
“Fellow traveller,” said the monk, “how comes it about that you are
clothed all in green? Is it perhaps in order to take the part of a jester
in some mystery play?”
“Not at all, good father,” replied Barnaby. “Such as you see me, I
am called Barnaby, and for my calling I am a juggler. There would be
no pleasanter calling in the world if it would always provide one with
daily bread.”
“Friend Barnaby,” returned the monk, “be careful what you say.
There is no calling more pleasant than the monastic life. Those who
lead it are occupied with the praises of God, the Blessed Virgin, and
the saints; and, indeed, the religious life is one ceaseless hymn to
the Lord.”
Barnaby replied—
“Good father, I own that I spoke like an ignorant man. Your calling
cannot be in any respect compared to mine, and although there may
be some merit in dancing with a penny balanced on a stick on the
tip of one’s nose, it is not a merit which comes within hail of your
own. Gladly would I, like you, good father, sing my office day by day,
and especially the office of the most Holy Virgin, to whom I have
vowed a singular devotion. In order to embrace the monastic life I
would willingly abandon the art by which from Soissons to Beauvais
I am well known in upwards of six hundred towns and villages.”
 The monk was touched by the juggler’s simplicity, and as he was
not lacking in discernment, he at once recognized in Barnaby one of
those men of whom it is said in the Scriptures: Peace on earth to
men of good will. And for this reason he replied—
“Friend Barnaby, come with me, and I will have you admitted into
the monastery of which I am Prior. He who guided St. Mary of Egypt
in the desert set me upon your path to lead you into the way of
salvation.”
It was in this manner, then, that Barnaby became a monk. In the
monastery into which he was received the religious vied with one
another in the worship of the Blessed Virgin, and in her honour each
employed all the knowledge and all the skill which God had given
him.
The prior on his part wrote books dealing according to the rules of
scholarship with the virtues of the Mother of God.
Brother Maurice, with a deft hand copied out these treatises upon
sheets of vellum.
Brother Alexander adorned the leaves with delicate miniature
paintings. Here were displayed the Queen of Heaven seated upon
Solomon’s throne, and while four lions were on guard at her feet,
around the nimbus which encircled her head hovered seven doves,
which are the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, the gifts, namely, of
Fear, Piety, Knowledge, Strength, Counsel, Understanding, and
Wisdom. For her companions she had six virgins with hair of gold,
namely, Humility, Prudence, Seclusion, Submission, Virginity, and
Obedience.
At her feet were two little naked figures, perfectly white, in an
attitude of supplication. These were souls imploring her all-powerful
intercession for their soul’s health, and we may be sure not
imploring in vain.
Upon another page facing this, Brother Alexander represented
Eve, so that the Fall and the Redemption could be perceived at one
and the same time—Eve the Wife abased, and Mary the Virgin
exalted.
Furthermore, to the marvel of the beholder, this book contained
presentments of the Well of Living Waters, the Fountain, the Lily, the
Moon, the Sun, and the Garden Enclosed of which the Song of Songs
tells us, the Gate of Heaven and the City of God, and all these things
were symbols of the Blessed Virgin.
Brother Marbode was likewise one of the most loving children of
Mary.
He spent all his days carving images in stone, so that his beard,
his eyebrows, and his hair were white with dust, and his eyes
continually swollen and weeping; but his strength and cheerfulness
were not diminished, although he was now well gone in years, and it
was clear that the Queen of Paradise still cherished her servant in his
old age. Marbode represented her seated upon a throne, her brow
encircled with an orb-shaped nimbus set with pearls. And he took
care that the folds of her dress should cover the feet of her,
concerning whom the prophet declared: My beloved is as a garden
enclosed.
Sometimes, too, he depicted her in the semblance of a child full of
grace, and appearing to say, “Thou art my God, even from my
mother’s womb.”
In the priory, moreover, were poets who composed hymns in
Latin, both in prose and verse, in honour of the Blessed Virgin Mary,
and amongst the company was even a brother from Picardy who
sang the miracles of Our Lady in rhymed verse and in the vulgar
tongue.
 III

eing a witness of this emulation in praise and the glorious

harvest of their labours, Barnaby mourned his own
ignorance and simplicity.
“Alas!” he sighed, as he took his solitary walk in the
little shelterless garden of the monastery, “wretched wight that I am,
to be unable, like my brothers, worthily to praise the Holy Mother of
God, to whom I have vowed my whole heart’s affection. Alas! alas! I
am but a rough man and unskilled in the arts, and I can render you
in service, blessed Lady, neither edifying sermons, nor treatises set
out in order according to rule, nor ingenious paintings, nor statues
truthfully sculptured, nor verses whose march is measured to the
beat of feet. No gift have I, alas!”
After this fashion he groaned and gave himself up to sorrow. But
one evening, when the monks were spending their hour of liberty in
conversation, he heard one of them tell the tale of a religious man
who could repeat nothing other than the Ave Maria. This poor man
was despised for his ignorance; but after his death there issued forth
from his mouth five roses in honour of the five letters of the name
Mary (Marie), and thus his sanctity was made manifest.
Whilst he listened to this narrative Barnaby marvelled yet once
again at the loving kindness of the Virgin; but the lesson of that
blessed death did not avail to console him, for his heart overflowed
with zeal, and he longed to advance the glory of his Lady, who is in
heaven.
How to compass this he sought but could find no way, and day by
day he became the more cast down, when one morning he
awakened filled full with joy, hastened to the chapel, and remained
there alone for more than an hour. After dinner he returned to the
chapel once more.
 And, starting from that moment, he repaired daily to the chapel at
such hours as it was deserted, and spent within it a good part of the
time which the other monks devoted to the liberal and mechanical
arts. His sadness vanished, nor did he any longer groan.
A demeanour so strange awakened the curiosity of the monks.
These began to ask one another for what purpose Brother
Barnaby could be indulging so persistently in retreat.
The prior, whose duty it is to let nothing escape him in the
behaviour of his children in religion, resolved to keep a watch over
Barnaby during his withdrawals to the chapel. One day, then, when
he was shut up there after his custom, the prior, accompanied by
two of the older monks, went to discover through the chinks in the
door what was going on within the chapel.
They saw Barnaby before the altar of the Blessed Virgin, head
downwards, with his feet in the air, and he was juggling with six
balls of copper and a dozen knives. In honour of the Holy Mother of
God he was performing those feats, which aforetime had won him
most renown. Not recognizing that the simple fellow was thus
placing at the service of the Blessed Virgin his knowledge and skill,
the two old monks exclaimed against the sacrilege.
The prior was aware how stainless was Barnaby’s soul, but he
concluded that he had been seized with madness. They were all
three preparing to lead him swiftly from the chapel, when they saw
the Blessed Virgin descend the steps of the altar and advance to
wipe away with a fold of her azure robe the sweat which was
dropping from her juggler’s forehead.
Then the prior, falling upon his face upon the pavement, uttered
these words—
“Blessed are the simple-hearted, for they shall see God.”
“Amen!” responded the old brethren, and kissed the ground.
 MASS OF SHADOWS

TO MONSIEUR JEAN FRANÇOIS BLADÉ,

OF AGEN,

THE “PIOUS CHRONICLER” WHO HAS COLLECTED THE

POPULAR TALES OF GASCONY
 THE MASS OF SHADOWS

his tale the sacristan of the church of St. Eulalie at

Neuville d’Aumont told me, as we sat under the arbour of
the White Horse, one fine summer evening, drinking a
bottle of old wine to the health of the dead man, now
very much at his ease, whom that very morning he had
borne to the grave with full honours, beneath a pall powdered with
smart silver tears.
“My poor father, who is dead” (it is the sacristan who is speaking),
“was in his lifetime a gravedigger. He was of an agreeable
disposition, the result, no doubt, of the calling he followed, for it has
often been pointed out that people who work in cemeteries are of a
jovial turn. Death has no terrors for them: they never give it a
thought. I, for instance, Monsieur, enter a cemetery at night as little
perturbed as though it were the arbour of the White Horse. And if by
chance I meet with a ghost, I don’t disturb myself in the least about
it, for I reflect that he may just as likely have business of his own to
attend to as I. I know the habits of the dead, and I know their
character. Indeed, so far as that goes, I know things of which the
priests themselves are ignorant. If I were to tell you all I have seen
you would be astounded. But a still tongue makes a wise head, and
my father, who, all the same, delighted in spinning a yarn, did not
disclose a twentieth part of what he knew. To make up for this he
often repeated the same stories, and to my knowledge he told the
story of Catherine Fontaine at least a hundred times.
“Catherine Fontaine was an old maid whom he well remembered
having seen when he was a mere child. I should not be surprised if
there were still, perhaps, three old fellows in the district who could
remember having heard folks speak of her, for she was very well
known and of excellent reputation, although poor enough. She lived
at the corner of the Rue aux Nonnes, in the turret which is still to be
seen there, and which formed part of an old half-ruined mansion
looking on to the garden of the Ursuline nuns. On that turret can still
be traced certain figures and half-obliterated inscriptions. The late
Curé of St. Eulalie, Monsieur Levasseur, asserted that there are the
words in Latin, Love is stronger than death, ‘which is to be
understood,’ so he would add, ‘of divine love.’
“Catherine Fontaine lived by herself in this tiny apartment. She
was a lacemaker. You know, of course, that the lace made in our
part of the world was formerly held in high esteem. No one knew
anything of her relatives or friends. It was reported that when she
was eighteen years of age she had loved the young Chevalier
d’Aumont-Cléry, and been secretly affianced to him. But decent folk
didn’t believe a word of it, and said it was nothing but a tale which
had been concocted because Catherine Fontaine’s demeanour was
that of a lady rather than of a working woman, and because,
moreover, she possessed beneath her white locks the remains of
great beauty. Her expression was sorrowful, and on one finger she
wore one of those rings fashioned by the goldsmith into the
semblance of two tiny hands clasped together. In former days folks
were accustomed to exchange such rings at their betrothal
ceremony. I am sure you know the sort of thing I mean.
“Catherine Fontaine lived a saintly life. She spent a great deal of
time in the churches, and every morning, whatever might be the
weather, she went to assist at the six o’clock Mass at St. Eulalie.
“Now one December night, whilst she was abed in her little
chamber, she was awakened by the sound of bells, and nothing
doubting that they were ringing for the first Mass, the pious woman
dressed herself and came downstairs and out into the street. The
night was so obscure that not even the walls of the houses were
visible, and not a ray of light shone from the murky sky. And such
was the silence amid this black darkness, that there was not even
the sound of a distant dog barking, and a feeling of aloofness from
every living creature was perceptible. But Catherine Fontaine knew
well every single stone she stepped on, and as she could have found
her way to the church with her eyes shut, she reached without
difficulty the corner of the Rue aux Nonnes and the Rue de la
Paroisse, where the timbered house stands with the tree of Jesse
carved on one of its massive beams. When she reached this spot she
perceived that the church doors were open, and that a great light
was streaming out from the wax tapers. She resumed her journey,
and when she had passed through the porch she found herself in
the midst of a vast congregation which entirely filled the church. But
she did not recognize any of the worshippers, and was surprised to
observe that all these people were dressed in velvets and brocades,
with feathers in their hats, and that they wore swords in the fashion
of days gone by. Here were gentlemen who carried tall canes with
gold knobs, and ladies with lace caps fastened with coronet-shaped
combs. Chevaliers of the Order of St. Louis extended their hands to
these ladies, who concealed behind their fans painted faces, of
which only the powdered brow and the patch at the corner of the
eye were visible! And all of them proceeded to take up their places
without the slightest sound, and as they moved neither the sound of
their footsteps on the pavement nor the rustle of their garments
could be heard. The lower places were filled with a crowd of young
artisans in brown jackets, dimity breeches, and blue stockings, with
their arms round the waists of very pretty blushing girls who lowered
their eyes. Near the holy water stoups peasant women, in scarlet
petticoats and laced bodices, sat upon the ground as immovable as
domestic animals, whilst young lads, standing up behind them,
stared out from wide-open eyes and twirled their hats round and
round on their fingers, and all these silent countenances seemed
centred irremovably on one and the same thought, at once sweet
and sorrowful. On her knees, in her accustomed place, Catherine
Fontaine saw the priest advance towards the altar, preceded by two
servers. She recognized neither priest nor clerks. The Mass began. It
was a silent Mass, during which neither the sound of the moving lips
nor the tinkle of the bell, vainly swung to and fro, was audible.
Catherine Fontaine felt that she was under the observation and the
influence also of her mysterious neighbour, and when, scarcely
turning her head, she stole a glance at him, she recognized the
young Chevalier d’Aumont-Cléry who had once loved her, and who
had been dead for five-and-forty years. She recognized him by a
small mark which he had over the left ear, and, above all, by the
shadow which his long black eyelashes cast upon his cheeks. He was
dressed in his hunting clothes, scarlet with gold lace, the very
clothes he wore that day when he met her in St. Leonard’s Wood,
begged her for a drink, and stole a kiss. He had preserved his youth
and his good looks. When he smiled he still displayed magnificent
teeth. Catherine said to him in an undertone—
“‘Monseigneur, you who were my friend, and to whom in days
gone by I gave all that a girl holds most dear, may God keep you in
His grace! O, that he would at length inspire me with regret for the
sin I committed in yielding to you; for it is a fact that, though my
hair is white and I approach my end, I have not yet repented of
having loved you. But, dear dead friend and noble seigneur, tell me,
who are these folk, habited after the antique fashion, who are here
assisting at this silent Mass?’
“The Chevalier d’Aumont-Cléry replied in a voice feebler than a
breath, but none the less crystal clear—
“‘Catherine, these men and women are souls from purgatory who
have grieved God by sinning as we ourselves sinned through love of
the creature, but who are not on that account cast off by God,
inasmuch as their sin, like ours, was not deliberate.
“‘Whilst, separated from those they loved upon earth, they are
purified in the cleansing fires of purgatory, they suffer the pangs of
absence, which is for them the most cruel of tortures. They are so
unhappy that an angel from heaven takes pity upon their love-
torment. By the permission of the Most High, for one hour in the
night, he reunites each year lover to loved in their parish church,
where they are permitted to assist at the Mass of Shadows, hand
clasped in hand. These are the facts. If it has been granted to me to
see thee here before thy death, Catherine, it is a boon which has
been bestowed by God’s special permission.’
“And Catherine Fontaine answered him—
 “‘I would die gladly enough, dear, dead lord, if I might recover the
beauty that was mine when I gave you to drink in the forest.’
“Whilst they conversed thus under their breath, a very old canon
was taking the collection and proffering to the worshippers a great
copper dish, wherein they let fall, each in his turn, ancient coins
which have long since ceased to pass current: écus of six livres,
florins, ducats and ducatoons, jacobuses and rose-nobles, and the
pieces fell silently into the dish. When at length it was placed before
the Chevalier, he dropped into it a louis which made no more sound
than had the other pieces of gold and silver.
“Then the old canon stopped before Catherine Fontaine, who
fumbled in her pocket without being able to find a farthing. Then,
being unwilling to allow the dish to pass without an offering from
herself, she slipped from her finger the ring which the Chevalier had
given her the day before his death, and cast it into the copper bowl.
As the golden ring fell, a sound like the heavy clang of a bell rang
out, and on the stroke of this reverberation the Chevalier, the canon,
the celebrant, the servers, the ladies and their cavaliers, the whole
assembly vanished utterly; the candles guttered out, and Catherine
Fontaine was left alone in the darkness.”

Having concluded his narrative after this fashion, the sacristan

drank a long draught of wine, remained pensive a moment, and then
resumed his talk in these words:—
“I have told you this tale exactly as my father has told it to me
over and over again, and I believe that it is authentic, because it
agrees in all respects with what I have myself observed of the
manners and customs peculiar to those who have passed away. I
have associated a good deal with the dead ever since my childhood,
and I know that they are accustomed to return to what they have
loved.
“It is on this account that the miserly dead wander at night in the
neighbourhood of the treasures they concealed during their lifetime.
They keep a strict watch over their gold; but the trouble they give
themselves, far from being of service to them, turns to their
disadvantage; and it is not at all a rare thing to come upon money
buried in the ground on digging in a place haunted by a ghost. In
the same way deceased husbands come by night to harass their
wives who have made a second matrimonial venture, and I could
easily name several who have kept a better watch over their wives
since death than ever they did while living.
“That sort of thing is blameworthy, for in all fairness the dead
have no business to stir up jealousies. Still I do but tell you what I
have observed myself. It is a matter to take into account if one
marries a widow. Besides, the tale I have told you is vouched for in
the manner following:
“The morning after that extraordinary night Catherine Fontaine
was discovered dead in her chamber. And the beadle attached to St.
Eulalie found in the copper bowl used for the collection a gold ring
with two clasped hands. Besides, I’m not the kind of man to make
jokes. Suppose we order another bottle of wine?...”
 LESLIE WOOD

TO THE COMTESSE DE MARTEL-JANVILLE

 LESLIE WOOD

here was music and private theatricals at Madame N——'s

reception in the Boulevard Malesherbes.
Whilst on the outskirts of a display of bare shoulders
the younger men at the doorway were suffocating in the
stifling, scented air, we older guests, not without
grumbling, were keeping ourselves cool in a little salon from which
we could see nothing, and to which the voice of Mademoiselle
Réjane only penetrated like the slightly metallic sound of a dragon-
fly’s flight. From time to time we could hear the laughter and
applause burst forth in the sweltering room, and we were disposed
to extend a mild tolerance to the entertainment we did not share.
We were exchanging fairly amusing trivialities, when one of the
company, a genial deputy, Monsieur B——, remarked—
“Did you know that Wood was here?”
At this statement each in turn exclaimed—
“Wood? Leslie Wood? It’s impossible. It is ten years since he was
seen in Paris. Nobody knows what’s become of him.”
“The story goes that he has established a black republic on the
shores of the Victoria Nyanza.”
“What a tale! You know, of course, that he is fabulously wealthy,
and that he is a past master in achieving the impossible. Well, he is
living in Ceylon, in a fairy palace, in the midst of enchanted gardens,
where the bayadères never cease dancing night and day.”
“How can any one believe such balderdash? The truth is, that
Leslie Wood has gone off with a Bible and a carbine to convert the
Zulus.”
Monsieur B—— interrupted in an undertone—
 “There he is; there, do you see?”
And he drew our attention by a slight movement of the head and
eyes to a man leaning against the doorway, dominating by his lofty
stature the heads of the crowd huddled in front of him. He seemed
engrossed in the performance.
That athletic carriage, the ruddy face with the white whiskers, the
penetrating eyes and calm gaze, they could belong to no one else
but Leslie Wood.
Recalling the inimitable letters which for ten years he contributed
to the World, I said to Monsieur B——
“That man is the foremost journalist of our time.”
“You may possibly be right,” replied B——. “At any rate, I am
ready to assert that for twenty years past no one has known Europe
as thoroughly as Leslie Wood.”
Baron Moïse, who was following our talk, shook his head.
“You don’t know the real Wood. I know him myself, though. He
was before all things a financier. He had a better grasp of the money
market than any one I know. What are you laughing at, Princess?”
Lolling expansively on the sofa, and in gloomy depression at being
unable to smoke a cigarette, the Princess Zévorine had smiled.
“You neither of you understand Mr. Wood—neither of you,” she
said. “He was always a mystic and a lover, never anything else.”
“I can’t agree to that,” replied Baron Moïse. “But I should be very
glad to know where this devil of a fellow has been spending the best
ten years of his life.”
“And at what period do you place those best ten years of life?”
“Between the fiftieth and sixtieth years; a man’s position is made
by then, and he has nothing to do but enjoy his existence.”
“Baron, you can question Wood himself. He is coming towards us.”
The applause, this time rising to a furious pitch like the fall of a
heavy body or the banging of doors, announced the close of the
performance. The black-coated contingent leaving the doorways
clear overflowed into the smaller salon, and as the company made
their way in couples in the direction of the buffet, Leslie Wood
approached us.
He shook hands with undemonstrative cordiality.