Zut and Other Parisians/The Tuition of Dodo Chapuis

The Tuition of Dodo Chapuis
The situation was best summed up in the epigram of little Sacha Vitzoff, the second secretary at the Russian Embassy, who said that there was room enough in Paris for two and a half millions of people and Gabrielle de Poirier, or for two and a half millions of people and Thaïs de Trémonceau, but that even the place de la Concorde was not sufficiently wide for Gabrielle and Thaïs to pass without treading on each others’ toes.

It was a rivalry of long standing, nourished by innumerable petty jealousies and carefully treasured affronts. Gabrielle was tall and very slender, with a clear, pale complexion, and hair of a curious dark bronze that in certain lights showed a hint of olive green. So Thaïs called her the Asparagus Woman — la Femme Asperge. Thaïs was short and anything but slim, and brown of hair, eyes, and skin. So Gabrielle called her the Mud-Ball — la Boule de Boue. And neither appellation was pleasing to the object thereof.

These two great luminaries of the Parisian demi-monde, blazing crimson with mutual jealousy, followed, for six months of the year, a kind of right-triangular orbit, comprising the restaurant of Armenonville, the race-course of Auteuil, and the Café de Paris, and embracing divers other points of common interest, — the Palais de Glace, of a Sunday afternoon, the tea-room of the Elysée Palace Hotel, the Folies-Marigny, the Salon, and the Horse-Show; and, individually, Gabrielle’s apartment on the avenue Kléber, and Thaïs’s little hôtel on the rue de la Faisanderie. Between the last two, as regards situation, cost, and general equipment, there was not a straw’s weight of difference, save in the estimation of their respective occupants. The apartment had been rented for a term of years, and furnished and decorated, and supplied with four servants, by a Russian millionaire, and the same was true of the hôtel in every, save one, detail, — the de Trémonceau’s millionaire was a Brazilian. For the rest, Gabrielle was of a literary bent, and wrote occasional feuilletons for the Journal, and short stories, staggering with emotion, for the Gil Blas Illustré: something which, in the opinion of Thaïs, was stupid and all there was of the most ignoble. Thaïs herself was a sporadic feature at the Folies-Bergère, where she sang songs of a melody and a propriety equally doubtful, bunching up her silk skirts at the end of the refrain, with her side toward the audience, and winking, with brazen effrontery, at a spot midway between the heads of the bald gentleman in the third row and the wide-eyed little St. Cyrien across the aisle. The which Gabrielle found to be the trade of a camel.

Each had her horses, and her carriage, in which she was whirled three times up and three times down the allée des Acacias each noon of the season, and again at five o’clock, and each spent hours daily in the rue de la Paix, trailing long skirts of tulle and satin before the mirrors of the men-milliners, and pricing strings of pearls in the private offices of servile jewelers. Each was deftly veneered, as it were, with the bearing of the grande dame, except at the moment when she chanced to pass the other, or refer to her in the course of conversation. Then the irrepressible past came suddenly to the fore in a word or a gesture, which babbled of Gabrielle’s early experience in the work-room of the very Paquin she was now patronizing, and of Thaïs’s salad days as assistant to a florist on the grand boulevards.

Honors were even between the two when Dodo Chapuis first came up to pay homage to the queen capital, of which he had been dreaming for four years. He was only nineteen, the son of a great manufacturer of Arles, who had lived severely and frugally, and, dying a widower, left a cool half million of francs to be divided between Dodo and his sister Louise. There seems to have been no trace of doubt in the mind of either as to the respective uses to which their dazzling inheritances should be applied. Louise promptly accepted a young playwright with a record of fourteen rejected revues, to whose suit her father had been most violently opposed; and Dodo, as promptly, took out a letter of credit for fifty thousand francs and departed for Paris on the morning following the funeral.

The story of Dodo’s first six weeks in the capital is the story of full a million of his kind. A pocket filled with gold and a mind emptied of responsibility; youth, health, and craving for the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge, — these foundations given, the aspect of the structure erected thereupon is inevitable.

Dodo made his début at the Moulin Rouge at eight o’clock on the evening of his first day in Paris. Despite appearances, this did not mean that he was wholly a fool. One must remember that it was the evening of the first day. He walked leagues, it seemed to him, around the crowded promenade, half stifled by an atmosphere composed of equal parts of stale beer, cigarette smoke, and cheap perfumery. He watched a quadrille made up of shrill shrieks, rouge, and an abundance of white lace. He tossed balls into numbered holes in a long board, and won a variety of prizes of pseudo-Japanese make, which he immediately presented to the exponents of the aforesaid quadrille. He squandered a louis in firing a rifle at paper rabbits passing in monotonous succession over three feet of sickly green hillside. He bought a citronade for a girl with blue eyes, and a menthe glaciale for another with brown; and, at the end, rebuffing the proffered services of a guide, who, by reason of his new tan overcoat, and to his intense disgust, addressed him in English, he returned to the Hôtel du Rhin in a state of profound despondency.

But that, as we have said, was on his first evening. On the third, he had engaged a table in advance at Maxim’s, and supped in state on caviar, langouste à l’Américaine, and Ruinart. And with Antoinette Féria. It was not much of an achievement, but it showed progress.

On the following day Dodo went to Auteuil, won twelve francs fifty on a ten-franc bet, and dined at Armenonville. It was here that Suzanne Derval looked cross-eyed at him, fingered her pearls, and remarked that he had beaux yeux. Dodo might be said to be fairly launched.

It would be superfluous to note the further stages of his initiation. They were strictly conventional, and, under the circumstances, it was remarkable that, at the end of six weeks, he had drawn but seven thousand francs on his letter of credit, and still retained his enthusiasms. It is not every one from the provinces for whom Paris reserves her supreme surprise for the forty-third day.

It chanced to be the first evening of the de Trémonceau’s annual engagement at the Folies-Bergère, and for three days the eloquent legend “La Belle Thaïs” had been glaring at the boulevard throngs in huge block letters from the posters on the colonnes Morris. Dodo, meanwhile, had made many friends among men of tastes similar to his own — a feat which is curiously easy of accomplishment in Paris, when one has forty-odd thousand francs and a desire for company. Of these was Sacha Vitzoff, who, on occasion, had five louis, and invariably spent them at once upon his friends, before he should be tempted to put them to a worse use.

So Sacha bought the box, and they sat, five of them, through two hours of biograph, and trained dogs, and Neapolitan ballet, until the liveried attendants thrust cards bearing the number 19 into rococo frames at the side of the proscenium, and the orchestra plunged into Sarasate’s “Zapateado,” and various stout gentlemen wrestled with mechanical devices for supplying opera-glasses, and, conquering, sat back in their seats and grunted. Then the drop rose upon a pale pink and gray libel on Versailles, and La Belle Thaïs flashed out from the wing, with a red silk scarf bound about her head and a toreador’s hat perched on one side. There was no denying it. Despite her rouge, despite her four decades (an eternity in Paris), La Thaïs was very beautiful. Dodo forgot his cigarette, his champagne, and his companions. He followed every swish of her spangled skirts, every click of her castanets, every tap of her pointed shoes, every movement of her gleaming shoulders and her lithe, white arms. This, then, was the reality of his dream, the soul and substance of his vision, the essence of the great city that had drawn him like a magnet from his humdrum bourgeois life in the suburbs of Arles, — the ineffable, eternal Woman, poured like oil upon the smouldering fire of boyish imagination! His slender hands gripped the plush of the box-rail feverishly, his eyes widened and brightened, his lips parted, and his breath came short. Then, suddenly, there was a final clash of tambourines and castanets which brought La Belle Thaïs to a standstill, her head flung back, and one arm high in air!

“She has charm — even now!” said Sacha, emptying his glass.

Three days later, it was known to all the world that concerns itself with such things that Dodo Chapuis was latest in the train of victims to the fascinations of Thaïs de Trémonceau. One cannot pretend to say what she saw in him to divert her attention from richer and maturer men. He was handsome — yes — but the Comte d’Ys was handsomer. He was rich, as such things go, and for the moment. But he had no wit, poor Dodo — and as for money, which, after all, is the only other thing which counts in the demi-monde, what were forty thousand francs to one authorized to draw, ad libitum, upon a Brazilian multi-millionaire? No, evidently, it was one of those strange whims to which the slaves of self-interest are sometimes subject. The de Trémonceau had nothing to gain, and everything to lose, for, certainly, her Brazilian miché would have been ill pleased to know that Dodo Chapuis was riding daily six times up and six times down the allée des Acacias in the victoria of La Belle Thaïs. As it chanced, he was in Buenos Ayres. Still, he might return without warning. He had an ignoble habit of doing that. But when those sufficiently intimate suggested this to Thaïs she only laughed, and sang a snatch from La Belle Hélène: —

“Si par mégarde il se hasarde De rentrer chez lui tout à coup, II est le maître, mais c’est, peut-être, Imprudent et de mauvais goût!”

As for Dodo, he was in Elysium. He was singularly innocent, Dodo, with his smooth russet hair, and his steady gray eyes, and his straight, fine nose, and his sensitive, patrician mouth; and, believe it or not as you will, he cherished the project of marrying Thaïs de Trémonceau! He had fed himself on the poetry of Alfred de Musset, giving doubtful words and phrases his own interpretation, from lack of experience, and, despite the lesson of “Don Paez” and “La Nuit d’Octobre,” he believed in the power of trust to hold another true. Alas, he was hopelessly conventional! There is no one of us poor moths who is content with seeing his fellow singe his wings. No, each must plunge into the radius of consuming heat and learn its peril for himself. All of which is, no doubt, a wise ruling. For if experience could be handed down from father to son, and accepted on its face value, then the child of the third or fourth generation would be a demi-god, or even a full one, and there would be no further attraction in heaven, and no further menace in hell. The which morsel of morality may be allowed to pass, if only for contrast’s sake. We were speaking of Thaïs de Trémonceau.

Dodo’s Elysium lasted longer than such mirages are wont to do. For a full month he basked in the sultry sunshine of the de Trémonceau’s smiles, dined almost nightly in the rue de la Faisanderie, occupied a fauteuil at the Folies while she whisked her spangled skirts and sang “Holà! Holà!” to Sarasate’s music, supped with her afterwards at the Café de Paris or Paillard’s, and paid the addition, and tipped the garçon, and the maître d’hôtel and the chef d’orchestre, as liberally as if he had had a million francs instead of a dwindling twenty thousand. And the delirium might have lasted even longer had it not been for Louise Chapuis.

No one ever knew who told. There is a wireless telegraphy in such cases which defies detection. Suffice it to say that, one morning, the Hôtel de Choiseuil numbered Mademoiselle Chapuis among its guests, and that, as this name was inscribed upon the register, the Fates rang up the curtain on the final act of the brief comedy of the tuition of Dodo Chapuis.

Where, when, and how Louise contrived, in three days of Paris, to strike, full and firm-fingered, the keynote of the situation remained a mystery which none of those concerned was capable of solving. In all the capital there was but one person competent to deal conclusively with the situation. That person was Gabrielle de Poirier, and to Gabrielle de Poirier Louise Chapuis applied.

There could have been no stranger meeting than this between the young Arlésienne, with her blue eyes, and her embarrassed hands, and her gown that all the plage turned to look at, because it was in the fashion of more than yester-year, and the cold, stately leader of the demi-monde, with her air of languid ease, her shimmer of diamonds, and her slow, tired voice, roused to interest for the moment by this singularly sudden and imperative demand upon her good-will and ingenuity.

Louise found Gabrielle half buried among the cushions of a great divan, with a yellow-backed novel perched, tent-like, upon her knee. For once, the demi-mondaine was alone, bored to extinction by the blatant ribaldry of Octave Mirbeau. She had fingered the simply-lettered card of her unknown visitor for a full minute, before bidding her valet-de-pied admit her. A whim, a craving for novelty — who knows what? The Open Sesame had been spoken, and now, in the half-light of late afternoon, her caller stood before her.

“Be seated,” said Gabrielle courteously. “Be seated, Ma — ?”

“— Demoiselle,” replied Louise, complying with the invitation.

There was a brief pause. Each woman studied the other curiously. Then Louise began to speak, at first timidly.

“You think it strange, no doubt, madame, this visit of mine. Let me be quite candid. I come to ask a favor of you — I, who have no right, save the right of one woman to crave assistance from another. I have a brother” —

“Faith of God!” said Gabrielle, lightly, “so have I. A poor sample, if you will!”

Her flippancy seemed suddenly to lend the other fresh courage. She leaned forward eagerly, clasping her gray-gloved hands upon her knee.

“But mine,” she said, “is but a boy. He has come to Paris, seeking to know the world, and, lately, he has become the friend of Mademoiselle Thaïs de Trémonceau.”

“Zut!” put in Gabrielle. “You say well that it is but a boy!”

“Is there need to tell you,” continued Louise, without heeding the sneer, “what this means to me? Is there need to tell you what it means to him?”

“My faith, no!” said Mademoiselle de Poirier. “It is acquainted with me, that story. The end is not beautiful!”

“Tout simplement,” said her visitor, “I have come to Paris to bring him back, to show him the folly of his way. But I alone am powerless. You — you who are more admired, more beautiful, more clever than this Mademoiselle de Trémonceau” — (Oh, Louise!) — “you alone can aid me to rescue him.”

Gabrielle raised her eyebrows slightly, and let her lids droop with an air of unutterable boredom.

“Truly, mademoiselle,” she drawled, “I neither see in what fashion I can assist you, nor why, in any event, I should concern myself with this affair. If your brother has such taste” —

“Oh, madame, I know I have no right,” broke in Louise. “But you, of all women in Paris, alone have the power to win him from her.”

“And when I have won him,” demanded Gabrielle, “what then? Do you think your precious brother will fare better with me than with the de Trémonceau?”

Her calm was broken for a moment by a flash of anger.

“The world is full of fools,” she added. “One more or less is no great matter. I am not a Rescue Society, mademoiselle. Let your brother go his way. His best cure will be effected by the woman herself. When his money is gone, there will be no need to win him from her.”

The sneer sent the blood racing to the other’s cheeks. She had been counting, as she realized with a pang of mortification, upon some Quixotic quality which her reading had taught lay always dormant, even in such a woman as Gabrielle de Poirier, — some innate nobility, ready to spring into activity at the bidding of such an appeal as she had just made. And, too, beneath all her anxiety, she had believed that Thaïs loved her brother, that his peril lay not so much in her making use of him and then flinging him aside, as in the existence of actual affection between him and a woman whom, even as his wife, society would not recognize. This brutal intrusion of money into the discussion, this flippant classification of Dodo with a world full of fools who flung away honor and reputation for a passing fancy, only to be flung away themselves in turn, suddenly seemed to lay clear the whole situation, in all its sordid vulgarity, and with the revelation came a white rage against this woman who was only another of the same kind. She despised herself for having stooped to ask her aid, and a fury of wounded pride blazed in her reply.

“You know yourself well, madame!” she said. “No, surely my brother would fare no better with you, though that was not what I meant to ask. I thought, in my folly, that, perhaps, in the life of such a one as you, there might come moments when you longed to be other than you are, moments when you would like to think that among all the men you have played with, ruined, and spurned, there were one or two who could speak and think of you as men speak and think of honest women, who could say that you had been an ennobling influence in their lives, and whose word would count upon the side of good when you come to answer for the evil you have done. I thought that, not for money’s sake or vanity’s, you might wish to win my brother from this woman, and, when you had won him, teach him how sordid, how wicked, how futile such a life is, and send him back to decency — a better man! I see how mistaken I was in judging you. There is no compassion in you, no nobler instinct than self-interest. Your motives are the same as hers, love of admiration and love of gold, — and, perhaps, less worthy. I cannot say. Hers, at least, I can only suspect: yours I have had from your own lips. Had my brother been more than the poor weak boy he is, had he been brilliant, powerful, or a millionaire, it would never have been necessary for me to ask you to win him from her. No, madame, for you would have done so of your own accord!”

Now, there is such a thing as diplomacy, and there is such a thing as luck, and of the former Louise Chapuis had not an atom. An impulse, made apparently reasonable by pure imagination, led her to seek out Gabrielle, and had she found her, as her fancy had painted her, readily moved by the appeal of honest affection and confidence, she was competent to have won her end. Louise was one of the people who, in foreseeing a dispute, invent the replies to their own questions, and who, if the actual answers accord with those preconceived, will emerge from the ordeal triumphant, but who lack the diplomat’s gift of adapting the line of argument to that of unexpected retort. Confronted with a state of affairs wholly different from that which she had supposed existent, her sole resource was in this outburst of disappointment and reproach, honest, but inutile as the clamor of a baffled baby. So much for diplomacy.

But, as we have said, there is also such a thing as luck. Gabrielle de Poirier was insufferably bored. Her Russian was in Moscow, her recent tips at Auteuil had proved disastrous, her latest feuilleton had been rejected. For six hours she had been buried among the cushions of the divan, clad materially in light pink but mentally in deepest blue, skipping from page to page of a novel that was not amusing, and confronted every ten minutes by the recurrent realization that the next event on her calendar was a dinner at the Café de Paris, which would not come for the eternity of twenty-seven hours! Despite her ungracious reception of Louise, she had been grateful for the diversion, and hardly had she sneered at Dodo’s position before she lit a cigarette, and fell to studying the situation seriously. Louise, pausing, breathless, after her tirade, was surprised to find that she made no reply, looking straight before her with her great eyes half closed, and put down her silence as equivalent to admission of the charges hurled against her. The truth of the matter was, however, that Gabrielle had not heard one word of her visitor’s impassioned denunciation!

There was a long silence, and then the demi-mondaine looked up.

“Where does your brother live?” she asked, touching an electric button at her side, “and what is his first name?”

“At the Hôtel du Rhin,” stammered Louise, “and his name is Do — I should say Charles, — Charles Chapuis. I am at the Hôtel de Choiseuil.”

“Bon!” said the other. “If you will go home, mademoiselle, and keep your own counsel, I think I can promise you that you will shortly have your brother back.”

Louise stepped forward impulsively.

“Oh, madame!” — she began.

But just then the valet-de-pied appeared at the door, and Gabrielle, taking up her novel, flounced back among the cushions.

“Bon jour, mademoiselle,” she said, without looking at Louise. “Achille, la porte! And send Mathilde to me.”

The conference between mistress and maid was brief but eloquent.

“Who,” demanded Gabrielle, “is Dodo Chapuis?”

“The young monsieur of Boule-de-Boue,” responded Mathilde promptly.

“Parfaitement. I needed to refresh my memory. And how long is it since we cabled the last tuyau?”

“Eight weeks, at least, madame — before the coming of Monsieur Chapuis.”

“Bon!” said Gabrielle. “We cable another tip at once.”

(For it may be noted, in passing, that she had one source of income which La Belle Thaïs little suspected!)

“What does Boule-de-Boue do to-night?” she demanded again.

“Dines at home with Monsieur Chapuis,” replied the omniscient Mathilde, “dances at the Fol’ Berg’ at eleven, sups at Paillard’s with Monsieur Chapuis.”

(For it may also be noted, in passing, that the maid of La Belle Thaïs had one source of income which her mistress totally ignored!)

“Très bien!” said Gabrielle. “Now a pen and paper, the inkstand, envelopes, sealing wax, and a telegraph form, and write as I tell thee.”

For ten minutes Mathilde wrote rapidly, and then spread the results of her exertions out before her, in the shape of two notes and a cablegram, and read them aloud triumphantly. The first note was directed to Monsieur Charles Chapuis, at the Hôtel du Rhin, place Vendôme: —

The second note was addressed to Mademoiselle Thaïs de Trémonceau, at 27 bis. rue de la Faisanderie.

And the cablegram was to Señor Miguel Cevasco, Reconquista 21, Buenos-Ayres, République Argentine.

The point of which observation lay in the fact that Dodo confessed to nineteen, and Señor Miguel to fifty-two, and Gabrielle to twenty-six.

It was a bold play, and one foredoomed to failure unless each link in the chain held true. But Mademoiselle de Poirier was no novice, and experience had long since taught her that success is the child of audacity; so, ten minutes later, Achille was speeding, in one cab, toward the place Vendôme, pausing only at the bureau de télégraphe on the corner of the rue Pierre Charron and the avenue Marceau, and Mathilde was speeding in another toward the rue de la Faisanderie: and Gabrielle herself was making life not worth living for Louis, her long-suffering maître-d’hôtel.

The upshot of this triple commotion was that, as the clock on her mantel struck seven, Mademoiselle Gabrielle de Poirier was posing on a chaise-longue in correct imitation of David’s “Madame Récamier,” except for a wonderful black gown, when Achille announced Monsieur Charles Chapuis.

Dodo entered the room in immaculate evening dress, but with a touch of embarrassment in his manner which betrayed his years. He was good to look upon, was Dodo, tall, straight, and slight, with the ruddy olive skin, the firm, square fling of chest and shoulder, the narrowness of waist, and the confident swing of long, slender, but sinewy legs with which one is blessed at nineteen in Bouches-du-Rhône. Gabrielle, taking note of him from under her covert, languid lids, was compelled, for once, to mental candor.

“I comprehend Thaïs,” she said to herself, but to Dodo, “Monsieur, I felicitate you. You have the true spirit of chivalry.”

“My sister” — began Dodo.

“Is, no doubt, at the Hôtel de Choiseuil,” answered Gabrielle, coolly, fanning herself. “In any event she is not here. Oh, she was here — yes; but she had gone — gone before I sent you the note. Be seated, monsieur.”

Dodo selected a chair, dropped into it, and awaited developments in silence. Six weeks before, he would have demanded in a passion the meaning of this subterfuge. But whatever might be said of La Belle Thaïs, one learned diplomacy in her company.

“You are surprised, monsieur!”

“I am infinitely surprised, madame,” he agreed, with charming candor.

“Shall we be frank with each other?” asked Gabrielle, pleasantly.

“I think it is the only way,” said Dodo. “Eh bien, I am infinitely surprised, madame; first, to see my sister’s name in connection with yours at all, and, second, to find that you have been lying to me.”

“She came to ask me to rescue you from the toils of Thaïs de Trémonceau.”

Despite his elaborate self-control, Dodo flushed crimson.

“I think we had best drop the discussion here,” he said, rising. “There can be no possible profit in continuing it. If my sister was here at all” —

“Her card is there on the table,” put in Gabrielle, pointing with her fan.

“Pardon. I should not have permitted myself the insinuation. I accept your statement, and simply say that it was an unwarrantable intrusion on her part. For you, madame, I have only admiration. Your compliance” —

“It was not that,” said Gabrielle, shortly. “I can conceive of nothing less important to me than your sister’s wishes. But I dislike Mademoiselle de Trémonceau.”

“That,” said Dodo, with exaggerated courtesy, “can only be a matter of opinion. I admire Mademoiselle de Trémonceau enormously.”

“The force of admiration is undoubtedly strong,” snapped Gabrielle, “to reconcile you to riding in another man’s carriage, drinking another man’s wine, dawdling with another man’s” —

“Assez!” said Dodo.

Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders.

“Quite right,” she said. “You are old enough to see for yourself. I presume you will not return to her.”

“On the contrary, I shall be with her in fifteen minutes.”

In the distance an electric bell whirred.

“Sooner than that, I think,” smiled Gabrielle, and then La Belle Thaïs was standing at the salon door. She was gowned in scarlet, with a poppy flaring in her hair, and, if she had but lent to her dance at the Folies but half the fury of that entrance, the manager would, no doubt, have tripled her already ample salary. And, at the instant of her appearance, as if by signal, — which indeed it was, — Louis flung wide the opposite door, with a stately “Monsieur et madame sont servis,” and there, gleaming with spotless napery, silver shaded candlesticks, and shimmering cut glass, was the daintiest of tables, set for two!

What Thaïs did and what she said, this is not the time or place to detail. She was not wanting in vocabulary, the de Trémonceau, nor sparing thereof in an emergency. A decade of careful training fell from her like a discarded mantle, and she became in an instant the vulgar-tongued fleuriste of the boulevards. From her chaise-longue Gabrielle smiled calmly, the picture of a new Circe, rejoicing in the success of her spells. And, between the two, Dodo, his hands clenched until the knuckles shone white, turned sick with contempt and loathing. At the end Thaïs flung him an unspeakable taunt, and there was a pause. Then, —

“Do you play the black or the red, monsieur?” asked Gabrielle, sweetly, with a glance at her own gown and another at the de Trémonceau’s.

Dodo let his eyes run slowly, contemptuously, from the topmost ripple of her bronze hair to the point of her satin slipper, with the felicitous inspiration of seeming to take stock of her charms and to be not over-pleased therewith. Then, —

“I continue my game, madame!” he said. “I play the red.”

It was the last, faint cry of youthful chivalry, disillusioned, blotted out, and it was wasted on Thaïs de Trémonceau.

“Tu penses, salaud!” she broke in, with a laugh. “Well, then, thou art well mistaken. Rien ne va plus!”

“He will come back to me!” she cried to her rival, as the door closed behind him.

“Perhaps,” agreed Gabrielle, “but only to leave you again, in a fashion more mortifying for him and more calamitous for you. I sent a cable to Buenos Ayres this afternoon.”

She was deliberately flinging away the aforementioned source of income, for the sake of seeing a certain expression on the face of La Belle Thaïs. But when she saw it, she was well content. For the honors were no longer even.

On the avenue Kléber, Dodo hailed the first cab that passed, and flinging a curt “Hôtel de Choiseuil — au galop!” to the cocher, blotted himself into one corner, and covered his face with his hands.

“It was my first, but it shall be my last confidence in woman,” he said. It was neither strictly original nor strictly true, this, but it showed progress.

For there is such a thing as diplomacy and there is such a thing as luck, and the fact that his sister had not an atom of the former made no difference whatever in the tuition of Dodo Chapuis.