THE FRACAS AT THE THEATRE FEYDAU
Leaving his host to act as his plenipotentiary with
Mademoiselle de Kercadiou, and to explain to her that
it was his profound contrition that compelled him
to depart without taking formal leave of her, the
Marquis rolled away from Sautron in a cloud of gloom.
Twenty-four hours with La Binet had been more than
enough for a man of his fastidious and discerning
taste. He looked back upon the episode with
nausea — the inevitable psychological reaction
— marvelling at himself that until yesterday
he should have found her so desirable, and cursing
himself that for the sake of that ephemeral and worthless
gratification he should seriously have imperilled his
chances of winning Mademoiselle de Kercadiou to wife.
There is, after all, nothing very extraordinary in
his frame of mind, so that I need not elaborate it
further. It resulted from the conflict between
the beast and the angel that go to make up the composition
of every man.
The Chevalier de Chabrillane — who in reality
occupied towards the Marquis a position akin to that
of gentleman-in-waiting — sat opposite to him
in the enormous travelling berline. A small folding
table had been erected between them, and the Chevalier
suggested piquet. But M. le Marquis was in no
humour for cards. His thoughts absorbed him.
As they were rattling over the cobbles of Nantes’
streets, he remembered a promise to La Binet to witness
her performance that night in “The Faithless
Lover.” And now he was running away from
her. The thought was repugnant to him on two
scores. He was breaking his pledged word, and
he was acting like a coward. And there was more
than that. He had led the mercenary little strumpet
— it was thus he thought of her at present, and
with some justice — to expect favours from him
in addition to the lavish awards which already he
had made her. The baggage had almost sought
to drive a bargain with him as to her future.
He was to take her to Paris, put her into her own
furniture — as the expression ran, and still
runs — and under the shadow of his powerful
protection see that the doors of the great theatres
of the capital should be opened to her talents.
He had not — he was thankful to reflect —
exactly committed himself. But neither had he
definitely refused her. It became necessary
now to come to an understanding, since he was compelled
to choose between his trivial passion for her —
a passion quenched already — and his deep, almost
spiritual devotion to Mademoiselle de Kercadiou.
His honour, he considered, demanded of him that he
should at once deliver himself from a false position.
La Binet would make a scene, of course; but he knew
the proper specific to apply to hysteria of that nature.
Money, after all, has its uses.
He pulled the cord. The carriage rolled to a
standstill; a footman appeared at the door.
