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Page 5
It was an undemonstrative parting, such as English-men are addicted to.
Jack sauntered out to the boulevard, and turned his steps homeward. His
thoughts were all of Diane, and he was not to be cajoled by a couple of
grisettes who made advances. He nodded to a friendly gendarme, and
crossed the street to avoid a frolicksome party of students, who were
bawling at the top of their voices the chorus of the latest topical song
by Paulus, the Beranger of the day--
"Nous en avons pour tous les gouts."
Victor Nevill heard the refrain as he left the brasserie and looked
warily about. He stepped into a cab, gave the driver hurried
instructions, and was whirled away at a rattling pace toward the Seine.
"He will never suspect me," he muttered complacently, as he lit a
cigar.
With head erect, and coat buttoned tightly over his breast, Jack went on
through the enticing streets of Paris. He had moved from his former
lodgings to a house that fronted on the Boulevard St. Germain. Here he
had the entresol, which he had furnished lavishly to please his wife. He
let himself in with a key, mounted the stairs, and opened the studio
door. A lamp was burning dimly, and the silence struck a chill to his
heart.
"Diane," he called.
There was no reply. He advanced a few feet, and caught sight of a letter
pinned to the frame of an easel. He turned up the lamp, opened the
envelope, and read the contents:
"Dear Jack:--
"Good-by forever. You will never see me again. Forgive me and try to
forget. It is better that we should part, as I could not endure a life of
poverty. I love you no longer, and I am sure that you have tired of me. I
am going with one who has taken your place in my heart--one who can
gratify my every wish. It will be useless to seek for me. Again,
farewell. DIANE."
The letter fell from Jack's hand, and he trampled it under foot. He
reeled into the dainty bedroom, and his burning eyes noted the signs of
confusion and flight--the open and empty drawers, the despoiled dressing
table, the discarded clothing strewn on the floor.
"Gone!" he cried hoarsely. "Gone at the bidding of some
scoundrel--perhaps a trusted friend and comrade! God help my betrayer
when the day of reckoning comes! But I am well rid of her. She was
heartless and mercenary. She never could have loved me--she has left me
because she knew that my money was nearly spent. But I love her still. I
can't tear her out of my heart. Diane, my wife, come back! Come back!"
His voice rang through the empty, deserted rooms. He threw himself on
the bed, and tore the lace coverings with his finger nails. He wept
bitter tears, strong man though he was, while out on the boulevard the
laughter of the midnight revelers mocked at his grief.
Finally he rose; he laughed harshly.
"Damn her, she would have dragged me down to her own level," he
muttered. "It is for the best. I am a free man once more."
CHAPTER II.
FIVE YEARS AFTERWARDS.
Jack Vernon looked discontentedly at the big canvas on the easel, and
with a shrug of the shoulders he turned his back on it. He dropped his
palette and flung his sheaf of brushes into an open drawer.
"I am not fit for anything to-day," he said petulantly. "I was up too
late last night. No, most decidedly, I am not in the mood for work."
He sauntered to the huge end window of the studio, and looked out over
the charming stretch of Ravenscourt Park. It was an ideal morning toward
the close of April, 1897--such a morning as one finds at its best in the
western suburbs of mighty London. The trees were in fresh leaf and bud,
the crocuses were blooming in the well-kept beds, and the grass was a
sheet of glittering emeralds. The singing of birds vied with the jangle
of tram-bells out on the high-road.
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