The Mannequin (Chapin)

by Anna Alice Chapin

THE MANNEQUIN.

The Story of the Duchesse de Folicœur's Masquerade.

BY ANNA ALICE CHAPIN

I.

HOW IT ALL BEGAN.

I HAD lived so long in the whirling storm of my own thoughts that when Félice reminded me of the Duchesse de Folicœur's masquerade I laughed aloud. A masquerade! And I—I was to go! After a week of black torture, of terror, temptation, and regret—and all these miseries lashed into double agony by a self-ordained seclusion for the better possibility of brooding—after such a week, I was to put up my tangled hair, rouge my white cheeks, and go out gaily into the gay world.

I sat at my dressing table and studied my own haggard reflection. Yet, it was I, Cléo de Vincennes, one of the prettiest jeunes mariées in Paris. But sleeplessness, grief, suspense, and rage had made my eyes like saucers, and had given my mouth a droop that added ten—no, fifteen—years to my age.

It had all begun with a flirtation with Philippe de Pavaney. He was mad about me—all the world knew that, including my husband; but there was never any sort of declaration until the night of “Thais” at the Comique. After that delicious, seductive number that ends the second act, and prostrates the passionate monk with its piercing, cruel sweetness, Philippe leaned behind my chair, under cover of the darkness and applause, and kissed my arm, whispering crazily that I was lovelier than Thais herself. Of course, it was a mad thing to do—and in an opera box! I could never forgive such stupidity; but, after all, it was the effect of the music; so—well, one could not, really, blame him utterly. But Hugues had seen it!

Figure to yourself the situation! What was the use of telling the truth? That Philippe had never kissed me before, had never even told me that he loved me. I had often, as a matter of fact, wondered why he did not tell me. But who would believe it after that? At all events, Hugues did not. We had a ghastly scene when we got home. And then I did not see Hugues, or Philippe, all that black, awful week.

I do not know now, on looking back, whether I was most unhappy or most angry. The whole thing seemed to me so unnecessary, so enraging. Of course, I had never thought of Philippe as a lover, merely as some one who was beautifully convenient and comfortable, and who made me feel awfully pleased with myself all the time. I was truly and sincerely devoted to Hugues, when he would let me be. I admired him more than any man I knew, and had been head over heels in love with him when we were married.

After all, that was only a year before; and I think it would have been quite easy for me to have stayed just as madly in love with him as ever. But he was rather distant and reserved as a rule; and I used to wonder whether or not his mouth ever smiled under his iron-grey moustache. I was nineteen, and frivolous.

Well, I cried myself sick, and Hugues would not see me, and I would not see Philippe. And then Folicœur Félice reminded me of the masque. And I laughed. But, after all, it would be a change. I might even forget some of my troubles for a little while. I suddenly decided that I would go. And—well, le bon Dieu manages things very queerly, it seems to me, for women who wish to remain honest. Félice brought me a note from Philippe:—

Dear and Most Beautiful One—What is the use of further wretchedness for us both? You know I adore you, and you, who are all gentleness and mercy, cannot be entirely insensible to my feeling for you. Come to-night to the duchess's ball, and afterwards—we will go away together! Make all your plans, my bien aimé, as I shall make mine, and then allons! A life of love together!

Yours for ever,
P.

The audacity of it! And yet it seemed to me at that moment—wretched, lonely, and depressed—very, very charming to be adored. The words “yours for ever” had rather a wonderful ring.

I am like a kitten. I must be stroked the right way, and caressed, and petted, and played with. I must!

I sent no answer. That salved my conscience somewhat, of course. But—I began to mean to go. Oh, it was very wicked! But I was nineteen, and frivolous, and Hugues had no further interest in me; and I had never been able to find out whether he could smile under that iron-grey moustache.

So I said to Félice: “Tiens! We will go to Goujet's and try on my new gown. I recall now that I ordered one for to-night, and Monsieur le Marquis chose the colour.”

Monsieur le Marquis is Hugues. He had chosen the colour ages before; a quite adorable blue. He said he picked it out because it was a pretty colour, and not too startling for a lady to wear. Philippe would have said that it matched my eyes.

I insisted on stopping to order a domino on the way to the Rue de la Paix, and I felt feverishly excited. Félice kept shaking her head and muttering: “Sainte Marie! Sainte Marie!” under her breath, as she picked up my chatelaine and my muff. I dropped them six times before I got to Goujet. I think I frightened poor Félice, who is truly fond of me, quite as much by my sudden gaiety as I had by my seven days of moping.

 

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II.

THE MANNEQUIN AT GOUJET'S.

You know, there really are compensations about being nineteen and frivolous. I was quite crazy to see my dress, and could hardly wait when we got to Goujet's. Charlemagne—the Charlemagne who dresses all the fashionable world, and turns sunsets, and spring showers, and things into frocks—usually spoiled me shockingly, and snubbed all sorts of smart personages right and left so as not to keep me waiting. But to-day he saw that stupid old Duchesse de Morange ahead of me; and that, too, after Flavie, my pet saleswoman, had whispered to him that I had arrived. I was in a temper! But when at last I went upstairs, and saw that love of a gown, I forgave Charlemagne everything. There really is nobody like him. The dress was simply gorgeous. I went crazy about it as the mannequin sailed about in it; and I could hardly wait to get it on myself.

The mannequin was an awfully pretty, chic sort of girl. I felt so sorry for her. To have the figure, and the style, and the looks to wear Goujet clothes, and always to have to do it as somebody else's proxy! Still, if I had to earn my living, I'm sure I'd rather do it among dainty, rich things, and see good jewels, and well-bred people, and nice turnouts every day, than do any other work in the world.

It occurred to me, as I looked at that girl, that I wouldn't make a bad mannequin myself. She is built just precisely the way I am, and she has quite as good a carriage, and was ten times better looking. If you covered up her face, you'd swear it was I. Her hair is exactly the same colour; and it is an odd kind of shade, too. It is dull red; not a bit coppery, you understand, but with almost pinkish tones in it. I think if I were painting it, I should put purple in,

It was while I was looking at the mannequin, and thinking how clever it was of Charlemagne to have found such a double of me to try on my clothes, that a new consideration began to bother me. Domino or no domino, mask or no mask, there was no disguising my sort of person. A fine time I should have at the ball! Hugues would be able to pick me out anywhere, just by my head and figure. And if he saw a lock of hair, that would settle it, for no one but the mannequin ever had hair exactly like mine. I was so absorbed thinking that I would not have any freedom at all to enjoy myself that night that I only lent a very absent ear to Charlemagne, who was rhapsodising softly to himself about the resemblance between my gown and a moonlit cascade.

“A thousand million drops of water,” chanted Charlemagne lyrically. “All the colours of twilight and moonshine! Blue! Silver! Pearl grey! Pale pink! Violet shadows! A real dream gown, madame! It needs a fairy to wear it.”

“A fairy like madame!” chimed Flavie.

“Exactly!” chirped Félice.

And the mannequin just smiled. And I was saying to myself:—

“Of course I do not intend to run away with that villain Philippe. But, all the same, it is detestable to have things settled for me so that I can't, anyway. I, who know myself to be nineteen and frivolous, know, too, that if a thing is made quite impossible for me, immediately, voilà! I must do it. The temptation is too great. I must do it whether it is possible or not. Now, as to to-night. If Hugues is there—and he will be there, for the Duc de Folicœur is his oldest friend, and my husband will go to his house, when he is in far too bad a humour to go anywhere else—if Hugues is there, he will keep his eye upon me every single moment, and I—I shall simply be forced to run away with Philippe, which, of course, being a good woman and all that, I do not for one moment wish to be driven to do!

Charlemagne was whispering soft nothings about trimming by this time, his eyes closed in a truly enviable ecstasy.

“Flavie!” I cried aloud, an idea striking me with such force and originality that I nearly exploded. “Flavie! Can you rent me your mannequin?”

They thought me mad, of course. Probably I was a little mad. Félice assured me quite seriously afterwards that she looked up the telephone numbers of all the really expensive sanitoriums in Paris that afternoon.

I talked at them like a phonograph; simply chattered and racketed away, as excited as a baby over my great scheme, but providentially too incoherent to give the Maison Goujet a very lucid idea of my plans. Anyway, it ended by my getting two masks instead of one, and two dominoes—one black and the other yellow—and another little blue gown, of the same colour, and something the same effect as my own gorgeous creation. The number two one looked really quite enough like it to pass, even when the domino was open. Then I rushed home to telephone for the hairdresser, and the masseuse, and the manicurist, and a lot of other people, to keep me busy until the evening. And I sent around to Cartier for a little bracelet for the mannequin, as a sort of an extra payment for her evening's services, in addition to what I was going to pay her.

I felt beautifully intrigued and excited. It was all too delicious! Naturally, the fact that I was taking so much trouble for an ostensibly nefarious end made it a hundred thousand times nicer. In my heart, I did not in the very least want Philippe Pavaney to make love to me; but I liked to pretend that I was planning all this so that he could; or, at least, so that he should want to, anyway. It is just as nice, in most cases, to have a man want to make love to you as to have him really do it. There is about as much excitement, take it all in all, and no danger of getting bored, or disgusted, or conscience-stricken, or anything uncomfortable like that.

 

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III.

A NOTE FROM HUGHES.

I had dinner served upstairs, and prinked to my heart's content. My duck of a mannequin came early, as I had told her to; and, when the hair-dresser arrived, he coiffed us precisely alike. You simply could not tell those two heads of ours apart. She had a healthier colour than I, and her hands were not quite so nice; but powder and good gloves arranged all that; and I let her wear those paste copies of my Vincennes emeralds which I had made that horrid time when I had to pawn the real things to get Gaby de Morange out of her mess.

The mannequin and I practised voices carefully. She was wonderfully quick, and a perfect mimic; and I warned her to say very little, and to speak low. People would think I was trying to disguise my voice, anyway, as it was a masquerade. After we were through rehearsing there were simply two of me instead of one.

Hugues' valet came to the boudoir door late in the evening with a note. This was what it said:

My Dear Cléo,—I understand that you are going to the Folicœurs to-night. Your willingness to attend a ball at such a crisis in our lives proves to me how wise I was not to take you or your explanations too seriously. You are too thoughtless—and may I say too heartless?—to be permitted to bring any deep sorrow into any life.

For the sake of your reputation, or possibly I should be more correct in saying for mine, I wish to accompany you to the ball. You have been in the way of being talked about lately, and in any case that should be stopped,

If you will signify to Auguste, who takes this, the hour at which you care to order the motor, I shall be ready to start with you.

Your husband,
Hugues de Vincennes.

I read it through, snapped “Half-past eleven” at Auguste, and then sat down and cried like an imbecile.

How could Hugues care so little? I asked myself. He must have been fond of me when he married me, for I had no dowry to speak of, and the Marquis de Vincennes could have found plenty of pretty girls much better qualified to entertain his friends and represent his house than I was. Yes, he must have cared for me—cared for me as a woman, I mean, not just as Madame la Marquise. And now he was treating me like a bad child; and not even as a bad child whom he was fond of! Just any bad child—that was what I was to him; the kind for whom you use your influence in getting them accepted by institutions. I knew now how the poor little brats must feel. All that devilish, impersonal concern for their regeneration, and not a mortal on earth to like them, anyhow, in case they should happen to stay unregenerated.

After I had cried my heart out for three whole minutes, I got very angry again, and made up my mind to be just as sweet to Philippe Pavaney as I could bring myself to be. Thoughtless and heartless was I, indeed? Then I'd have some fun out of being both.

To begin with, I decided to send the mannequin to the masque with Hugues. He and I were barely on speaking terms, anyway, or wouldn't be after that note of his; and I could be quite sure that he would not look closely enough to know whether she were actually me, or not one scrap like me. I confess I felt a little shocked at myself for doing such an awful thing; but the devil had taken possession of me that night.

The mannequin and I finished our last touches, and I gave her her final orders. She was entirely self-possessed and nice, and merely seemed to think us all a little crazy—not unpleasantly so. She smiled at me compassionately now and then; otherwise she was very satisfactory.

I went downstairs, masked and wearing the yellow domino. Hugues was standing in the hall, looking stern, and grave, and handsome, and at least nine feet tall in his evening dress and the big coat with the sable collar that he got on our wedding trip in Russia.

“Good evening,” he remarked formally. “I hope your gown turned out satisfactorily?”

I opened the domino and let him see; but I did not speak. I wanted him to understand that I would not talk.

“Your wrap is warm enough?”

I nodded.

“I am afraid it is cold,” he volunteered. “I should advise something very warm.”

He spoke with the most beautiful politeness, which irritated me almost beyond endurance. However, he was playing nicely into my hands; so, on the whole, I felt that I should be grateful to him, and I said: “I will get another wrap.”

“Let Félice bring it.

“No; I must pick out a heavy scarf, too.”

I fled back to my room, where the mannequin was waiting in my fur-trimmed cloak, with yards of rose-red chiffon over her head, and her mask fastened closely. I hastily tore off my flowers and gave them to her to carry, handed over my fan and lorgnon, and gave her a final spray with my own individual perfume, which all my friends knew and associated with me. I had used none that evening intentionally. Then I waved her off; and she sailed down the staircase, looking ever so much more graceful and grande dame than I ever did!

 

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IV.

AT THE BALL.

As soon as we heard the motor roar away Félice hurried me into my plain black little domino. In another minute, a taxicab was at the door; and in yet another I was being whirled on to the dance, all by myself, in the wildest flutter of excitement. I had hinted something of my mad prank to Diane de Folicœur; so my name, spoken a second time already that night into a servant's ear, admitted me quickly and without question; and, murmured once again, a few moments later, permitted me to mingle with the guests without being announced.

No one could possibly recognise me. I kept my black domino tightly closed; the mannequin had been directed to leave her yellow one negligently open. I flitted like a shadow among my friends, feeling much of the impersonal interest which I should think would be the attitude of a disembodied spirit looking on at the world's doings. Yet I should not speak of myself as disembodied, or as a spirit. I have rarely felt so much alive as on that evening.

Once I saw myself—the mannequin, I mean—talking gravely to a dull dowager duchess, and managing her fan “like an old hand,” as they say in the States. I was immensely proud of her.

But where in the world was Philippe? I hunted for him high and low; in the conservatories where he might have been making love to the débutantes, and under the bright lights, where he must be making love to the married women. But he appeared to be nowhere. My husband I saw twice, looking courteously bored the first time, but pleased the second, for he was talking to Folicœur, whom he loves.

At last I saw Philippe, and slipped close to him, like a ghost.

“The twelfth dance in the centre conservatory,” I whispered in his ear, and melted away.

He looked bewildered, but interested. He had not recognised my voice in the least, but I knew he would come—I mean, I thought I knew he would come.

The twelfth dance found me in the meeting place I had appointed, very glad of the cool, and quiet, and dimness—and rather ashamed of myself. My escapade up to now did not seem nearly as interesting as I had expected. I hoped that my mannequin was having a better time than I was.

I was not sure what I wanted. Women hardly ever are, in their hearts, if only they would tell the truth and admit it. Philippe Pavaney did not seem a very engaging person now that I saw him again. It was nice to have him madly infatuated with me, of course; but I found myself hoping against hope that he would not want to kiss me, or anything silly of that sort. It is odd that a woman will come close to contemplating eloping with a man whom she would hate to have hold her hand for very long. I suppose it is because the little things are so much more important than the big.

What was it that that clever American humourist said when he advised the girl not to marry the man who could be depended upon in times of trouble, but made a noise eating soup? I think he said that times of trouble would, heaven willing, be few in her life; but she would have soup every day. I do not know why this should occur to me at this instant. It is not particularly relevant.

A step at the door of the conservatory startled me. Philippe, of course. I felt thoroughly uncomfortable. What if he should accept my presence there as an unconditional surrender and consent to his plan of running away? I took a deep breath, and wheeled around to meet him. There, just lighting a cigarette, stood my husband!

For a moment I forgot that he did not know who I was, and I was on the verge of stammering out one of my own peculiar explanations which might better be lies; they are so ineffective and bad. But he bowed very civilly, threw his cigarette away, and said:

“Your pardon, mademoiselle. I thought every one was dancing, and came here to smoke. Forgive my intrusion.”

He was about to leave, but I said quickly, altering my voice as much as I could:

“It is not necessary, monsieur. I only came myself for a breath of air. One grows fatigued in the ballroom.”

“Mademoiselle is certain to fatigue with dancing,” he said, courteously flattering. “I am sure that has been seen to.”

“Oh, no, monsieur!” I said demurely. “Madame my mother does not approve of too much dancing.”

“And how does it happen,” he queried, “that so docile and obedient a little demoiselle should be so far away from madame, her wise mother?”

Little demoiselle, indeed! But, then, I am little—frightfully little, you know. I look like a child sometimes, in spite of being nineteen years old.

A funny thought came to me. I wondered whether I could not make friends with my husband a tiny, wee bit? It would be amusing to see if he were human enough to be entertained by a little, quaint coquette whose name even he did not know.

“Monsieur will promise not to betray me?” I whispered confidentially.

“How could I,” he replied, with reason, “since I do not know who you are, nor madame your mother either?”

I dismissed this with a gesture.

“The principle is the same,” I declared, with fine finality. “I can trust monsieur, I see. Bien! To-night—this night—even—I had decided to—run away.”

“Run away?” he repeated. where were you going to run to?”

“To the Riviera, with—with a man who loves me.”

He looked very grave, almost sorrowful.

“Why, child,” he said, “you cannot be serious. How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

And then he sighed.

“Nineteen! I, too, know a little lady of nineteen. Are all girls of nineteen the same? Who is this man?” he then demanded, frowning.

“Monsieur! As if I could tell you!”

“Pardon, mademoiselle! You could not. But—such a blackguard! Was there no one to look out for you? Was there no one to protect you from even the thought of such a vulgar, silly thing as an elopement?”

He made me ashamed and angry when he called even the thought vulgar and silly. But I managed to summon enough spirit to answer him.

“The thought, vulgar, or silly, or not, has been given up, monsieur. As for being protected and cared for, what does that matter? You can take care of a woman's person, but not her personality. You can protect her from everything in the world except what comes from within her soul. I do not believe that anything can be forced. If it is forced, it is artificial, of no value, monsieur. And I think that is true of everything, even of a young girl's innocence.”

“You are precocious,” he told me. “You have ideas, mademoiselle, that sound almost grown up.”

I was very angry then.

“One understands life once and for all,” I said. “It makes no difference whether one is nineteen or ninety.”

“So she understands life at nineteen,” he said, with kind mockery. “Mademoiselle, believe me, at ninety you will not dream of understanding it!”

I tapped the floor with my pale blue satin slipper, and wished that I had brought a fan. My cheeks were hot—hot as they are when we have great open fires in the country, and sit as close as we dare, and get roasted all through.

“Will you not sit down, mademoiselle?” said Hugues.

“On condition that monsieur lights another cigarette—and gives me one!” I returned daringly.

He shook his head in pretended disapproval, but he gave me one just the same. I puffed at it with gratitude until the smoke curled up under my mask and made me sneeze; then I threw it away.

“Shall we talk, mademoiselle?” said my surprising husband.

“If monsieur will promise to entertain me,” I said.

“But I am not going to entertain you at all. I am going to entertain myself.”

“But monsieur is selfish.”

“Certainly. I want very much to talk about my own troubles. I mean, to talk around them. Of course, if I knew you, I could not do that. Just as you could not have told me you had meant to run away.”

Heaven knows that was true enough!

 

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V.

IN THE CONSERVATORY.

We seated ourselves among the sweet-smelling green things, in the heavy, damp air. My heart was beating in the most absurd way. One would have said that I was with my lover, not my husband. I suppose it was the surreptitious element, the shadow of the clandestine, the suggestion of something secret and stolen which gave those moments, like all such moments, their added zest.

There had always been something lacking between my husband and myself, something which one better balanced and discreet than myself would have been glad to miss—forbidden excitement. Hugues' affection for me had always seemed so sure, and so—so—how shall I say it?—so obvious. There seemed no manner of reason for making a great fuss about it.

I suppose that I must naturally be rather a horrid person because I have always liked best the things to eat that the doctor told me were bad for me, and wanted most frantically to do the things that there was every reason for my not doing. I always liked peaches in January, and roast chestnuts in June. It is a delight of mine to light wood fires on summer afternoons, and to take my constitutional during a hard thunderstorm.

I—— But I digress, as usual. The real point, just here, is that I found myself sitting in scented twilight with my dignified husband, enjoying myself more thrillingly than I ever had before in all my life.

“Be quick, monsieur,” I murmured, feigning great disturbance and haste. “It is not proper that I should be here alone with you.”

He glanced at me as though in surprise.

“You are safe enough with me, child,” he said kindly, as though he did, indeed, speak to a child. And I could have slapped him. So he would spoil it all, eh?

“Oh, as to that, that goes without saying,” I said sweetly. “Madame my mother has taught me always to look up to and revere those older and wiser than myself.”

Oh, was it not detestable of me?

But he laughed at that. Yes, he laughed with absolute amusement; I might almost have said enjoyment. I wondered that I had never noticed before what a delightful laugh he had—rich and full and well-bred. Philippe Pavaney laughed like a comedian at the Capucines. I surveyed Hugues with close attention from behind my mask. He was astonishingly good-looking; and truly that iron-grey moustache of his gave him a most distinguished appearance.

So he could smile, after all? He could smile at a coquettish little masked lady, but not at naughty Cleo, his troublesome wife. I began to perceive his possibilities. Certainly a domino is a great assistance in properly appraising one's husband.

“Madame your mother is a very wise and, without doubt, a very charming lady, mademoiselle,” he said, with a delightful little bow. But I will whisper to you that nearly everybody in the world—myself included—detests being—revered.”

And this from Hugues!

“You think so?” I rattled. “I—I adore being treated with deference for myself.” And I tried to look stately.

He laughed again at that; quite merrily, I thought. Heavens! Had I really been the little girl he thought me, he would have played havoc with my small heart. As it was; well——

“Deference!” he jested softly. “Little mademoiselle, do the butterflies exact homage from the blades of grass?”

“I don't know what you mean,” I said primly. “I am not a butterfly. If you like to call yourself a blade of grass, it is your own affair.”

“Blades of grass, to be cut down with a scythe,” he muttered, with just a shade of sadness. “So the little lady is not a butterfly? Shall I say, rather, a will-o'-the-wisp?”

“No, nor yet a will-o'-the-wisp. I do not dance over marshes.”

“No; only over blades of grass. I am sure that you would dance over anything, even people's hearts.”

“Will-o'-the-wisps have nothing to do with hearts, and neither have blades of grass,” I said.

“I wonder! Suppose there should be hearts in the grass that grows green about us. Do you imagine they ache when we tread upon them?”

“How can we know? Anyway, the grass cannot tell us, so we can never find out.”

“You are right,” he returned slowly “The grass cannot tell us, so we can never find out.”

They began to play a waltz in the ballroom—a drawling, delicious thing that moved one in a languid and yet piercing sort of way. I did not want to dance to it then; but I felt exactly the way one feels when one does want to dance. Do you know what I mean? My face tingled, and my heart seemed to turn all the way over two or three times, with a queer little thrill and floating sensation at every turn.

“Little mademoiselle,” said my husband, “do even women understand women? To a man they seem so strange—so strange. Do even their sisters understand them?”

“I do not know, monsieur,” I whispered. “I do not—understand—myself.”

“When a flower seems real,” he said, “sweet, and fresh, and utterly desirable and adorable, and a strong light shows it to be made of the cheapest paper, after all—what is it that one must do? Must one treasure the false blossom for very tenderness, or throw it away? Or must one merely close one's eyes, and dream the flower is real?”

It was me he spoke of; my poor little soul knew it. And I trembled into tears—tears which I did not care if he saw roll down from under the mask. Had I seemed that to him? A paper flower! “The cheapest paper!”

“Monsieur,” I said, very low and brokenly, “sometimes that strong light is cruel—and untrue. I have seen a light that would make the lilies of Our Lady look like artifice. Perhaps the—the flower is real, after all.”

An odd sort of glow came into his dark eyes. He seemed to think profoundly for the space of three breaths. Then he said:—

“Child, whose name I do not know, whose face I have not seen, I felt myself impelled to you, as though by some deep, insistent need. I thought that by chance it might be your own need; now I know that it was mine. At best, we men are but creatures blundering among cobwebs and moonbeams when we deal with women. Our hearts may be full of song, but we lack the light touch upon the lute, and our voices are out of tune.” I wanted vision, knowledge of what to do, help in my trouble. I have found all these in this chance meeting with you. Go back to madame your mother, little mademoiselle, and feel that you have brought me unknowingly new life. I will believe my flower is real, little mademoiselle, as real as my dream.”

He bowed ceremoniously; and I bowed, too. And under the mask I went on crying, crying as though my heart would break. And yet I was happy.

We went out of the conservatory in silence, and parted.

 

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VI.

“NOBLESSE OBLIGE.”

It was nearly time to unmask, so I hastened to spirit the mannequin away from the party. I changed dominoes with her in the dressing-room, and got one of the servants to call her a taxi-cab. When she was safely off, I hurried back towards the dancing room.

In the hall I saw Philippe Pavaney. He had his hat and coat, and seemed extraordinarily pressed for time. I thought him looking quite white and nervous, as a matter of fact. After a quick, furtive glance around him, he slid out of the big front doors, and vanished into the night.

Incidentally, I have never seen him since.

I stared after him blankly. Philippe was running away that evening, not with me, but—from me.

Will it be very shocking if I confess that, as this thought took shape, I threw back my head and laughed consumedly? “Ah, coward! Coward!” I said to myself. But I could feel no anger. I was, really, too happy to care what Philippe did. I suppose I have no pride; but it is a fact that I do not a bit mind being rudely treated by people if I do not happen to care for them; and, of course, I had never cared a particle for Philippe.

I went back to the ballroom and unmasked with the rest. We had supper, and a lot of people praised my gown, and said had I had a nice time, and they were sure they had recognised me; but I had not seemed a bit like myself all the evening. I had supper with Hugues, and we went home early.

He put his arm around me in the motor and kissed me, but we neither of us said a word.

When we got home I went straight to my rooms, and found the mannequin waiting for me. She was all nicely dressed in her own things, having turned my belongings over to Félice. I could not get much out of her concerning the evening as a whole. Evidently the gay world was rather a disappointment to her.

“Always I had thought it would be heaven,” she said, “to see the world of great ladies and fine messieurs; to be with them, and to hear them talk—not as one paid for a service, but as one of themselves. But now! Eh bien, madame! One sees the wisdom of le bon Dieu in not permitting too many of one's dreams to come true. It would be too tiresome. Is it not so?”

Her philosophy was superb, but I was not in a philosophical mood. I said:

“You! You are ten thousand years old!”

She smiled, then grew grave.

“It is necessary to relate one deplorable incident to madame,” she said. “Madame has lost a—a friend.”

“Lost a friend!” I repeated. “I do not understand.”

“But naturally. It was this way: I was endeavouring to bear myself in the image of madame, remembering the great honour which was mine for this one evening. A man—a—a gentleman, one would say, madame—came quickly up to me. I was standing in shadow, and he caught my hand. At first I was stunned with horror. I thought, of course, that some one had penetrated my disguise; some one who felt that he might dare to be familiar with Goujet's mannequin. But, then—he murmured a name. Madame must pardon me. It was, I fear, her own name—Cléo!”

“The man was not drunk. He was only——” The mannequin hesitated. “Madame, I believe that he was only mad! He poured forth such expressions of adoration and passion as I had only heard before in the theatre. For me, I have never had such beautiful language addressed to me. But the sentiments, madame—they were not beautiful. They were ugly and—vulgar.”

Vulgar! Hugues—and the mannequin! Hugues— and the mannequin! Vulgar and silly!

“When I could, I stopped him,” said the mannequin. “But I felt that it was something that madame should know.”

“You—stopped him?” I stammered. “But how? What did you say? What did you do?”

Now I was beginning to understand Philippe's hasty exit.

The mannequin looked faintly surprised.

“I thought, madame,” said she, “of the insolence of this person, and the treachery. I thought of the great name which I was at that moment the unworthy guardian of. It had been entrusted to me—too lightly, madame; you must let me say so—and I was for the time responsible for it. I thought of the splendid-looking gentleman whose wife I was supposed to be. And I looked at this—this person, with all these things in my mind. And then I dismissed him.”

“Dismissed him!”

“I looked at him until he had seen plainly all that I thought, madame. Then I looked over his head, and endeavoured to forget him. When I stopped looking at him, he went away.”

I waited for my husband, and I was the happiest woman in Paris. But it did give me a queer feeling to think how gently I had been instructed in the rules of noblesse oblige by the mannequin.