Page:Once a Week Volume 7.djvu/40

32 Mademoiselle Blondette! What do I care? You are an imbecile! Her sharp bones will project, let her paint as thick as she may. Truly, she is what you call lath and plaster! Go, little fool.”

The expression of Regine’s face, as she said these words, was not pleasant.

Monsieur Alexis slunk away. Regine’s strength left her as the taunts of Alexis faded from her memory.

“Wilford!” she cried. He came to her again.

“Oh, Wilford! you will never pardon me.”

“Do not think so, Regine, my poor soul. I will try to pardon. What right have I to withhold forgiveness? I will try to pardon, and I shall succeed.”

“But you do not know, perhaps. You cannot know—”

“Know what, Regine?”

“I have disobeyed you—I have acted cruelly, shamefully, again. It is since our meeting, Monsieur Wilford—”

“What have you done?”

“Pardon me. I have seen her—Violet—your wife! Pardon me—no! You cannot—you cannot!”

“Violet!” he screamed, aghast. “You have dared do this?—you have seen her—you have spoken to her?”

“I have insulted her—wronged her. I have told her all! More—I have lied to her!”

“All! Oh, God! She has learnt this dreadful news, and not from me. It has come upon her a sudden blow—she will sink beneath it—you have killed her!” He staggered back. He glared fiercely at Regine.

“Pardon me!” she cried again in agony.

“I cannot—I cannot!” and he pushed his way angrily through the bewildered bystanders.

“Wilford!” cried Martin, hastening after him. But the cry was not heard. Wilford was gone.

“Stop, mon ami,” said the Frenchman to Martin, who was starting in pursuit. “You know, then, this gentleman?”

“He is the dearest friend I have in the world,” Martin exclaimed, warmly.

“Ah, then it is different. But it is too late to stop him now. You will not catch him, and you will lose an episode very interesting. See, the English doctor has arrived.”

A stout, red-faced man advanced, hurried.

“Where is she?” he asked, bluntly, blowing his nose fiercely, and flourishing about a large silk handkerchief of many colours.

“Monsieur,” said the Frenchman, removing his hat and bowing obsequiously. “I have to demand a thousand pardons. I am also a humble follower of your distinguished profession. I have hitherto seen to the lady whose sufferings are the cause of your presence, then, as of mine. But I hasten to render her to your cares. My diploma is not of this country. Accept, Monsieur le docteur, the assurance of my highest consideration. In your hands the patient will be secure. I cede her to you—”

“Well, well, let me go and see what’s the matter;” and the English doctor brushed past, loudly blowing his nose, like the “advance” on the trumpet.

“How these English are droll,” said the Frenchman, with a pitying smile, raising his eyebrows and his shoulders. “But see, he is a man of action, he is already having the patient moved upon a fauteuil. It is true that she has fainted again. But what does it matter? It is time to go home.”

“See about the bills,” said Grimshaw, to certain of his officers, “and the advertisements. Put up Blondette, ‘in consequence of the severe indisposition of Boisfleury.’ One good thing—the run won’t be stopped. Brown or anybody can play Blondette’s part. She’s a plucky girl is Blondette, and the public like her. She’s not a bit afraid. She’d hang on to the rope by her eyelashes to get a round of applause. We shan’t do so badly. There’ll be a row, of course, about dangerous performances; but that always brings the money in and fills the private boxes. The west end will come down to the place in a body if they think there’s an excitement to be got out of the thing; and I shall be able to get a letter into the papers, defending the theatre; those are always the best advertisements for which you don’t have to pay; and we must be careful to bill the bally well. If Boisfleury’s really bad, we’ll get up a subscription, and I’ll head it, and that will look well; and then we can have up a benefit for her, and come the charitable move, with a prologue for the occasion, by a literary swell. Somehow we shan’t do so badly. A rehearsal, mind, to-morrow, at twelve, for Blondette; you must attend to it, Tacker; I shan’t be here; I’ve got an appointment with a man who’s brought over a performing elephant—wonderful animal I’m told—does the globe roulant and the double trapeze—that ought to draw, I think.”

Martin and the Frenchman stood outside the theatre.

“Nearly two o’clock,” said Martin, looking at his watch. He paused for a minute, then he added, rather sadly: “No, it will avail nothing if I go to him now. By this time he will know all. Poor Wil.”

“All?” said the Frenchman, a strange smile running along his thin lips. “You think he will know all? Pardon me: he will not know all yet.”

“What do you mean, Monsieur?” asked Martin, eagerly.

“Smoke, mon ami,” and Monsieur Chose proffered an embroidered cigar-case. Each lighted a cigar.

“You are interested much, very much, it seems, in this Monsieur Wilford, and—shall I say Mademoiselle Stephanie Boisfleury, or Madame sa femme? Mis-tress Wilford—is that not correct English?”

Martin thought for a moment; an idea appeared to occur to him; he drew himself up; then he bowed with an extreme courtesy to the Frenchman.

“Monsieur,” he said, very deliberately, speaking in French; “it is not for me, I comprehend perfectly, to ask of you questions. These it may be in your power to answer; still I feel, Monsieur,