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Updated: June 9, 2025
The firelight glanced and glowed on her throat and bosom, tingeing their marble with opalescent lights, and searching the deep shadows under her long lashes. It reached her hair, touching here and there a soft, dark wave, and falling aslant the knots of ribbon on her bare shoulders, tipped them with points of white fire. "Is it so bad, dearest Yvonne?" "Yes." "Then you must go?" "Oh, yes!"
"Twice, Monsieur," she corrected, whereupon I recalled how she had surprised me with my arm about the waist of the inn-keeper's daughter, and had Heaven given me shame I might have blushed. But if sweet Yvonne thought to bring Gaston de Luynes to task for profiting by the good things which God's providence sent his way, she was led by vanity into a prodigious error. "Twice, indeed, Mademoiselle.
"Nor green nor violet," added Frances reflectively, "and yet it is all of them. I've seen something like it but I can't think what." "I suppose only an Oriental artist could conceive such a combination," said Constance, ringing the bell for Yvonne and then curling into a little heap on the couch. "Dad brought it to me from Paris and I keep it for very special occasions.
Undermine that, become wise and cynical, learn the meaning of doubtful words and gestures whose significance you never need have suspected, meet men on the same ground where they may any day meet fast women of the continent, and fix at that moment on your free limbs the same chains which corrupt society has forged for the women of Europe. Yvonne leaned back in her box with a little gasp.
You are young, Yvonne, to believe there is nothing more for you in life that is worth while." "I know that would be true if these were not war times, Madame," the girl answered. "Will you please listen to my story now? There may be no opportunity at another time." Slipping out of her berth, Yvonne proffered the one small chair the state-room afforded to her visitor. "Won't you sit here?
In the country there is not such another!" With these compliments and in others like them the minutes passed quickly. Yvonne's eyes avoided Philidor's, though he frequently sought them. Nor was he dismayed when, in response to Madame Gugou's interest query as to when they would marry, Yvonne shrugged her shoulders indifferently and sighed. "Oh, I do not know, Madame. Often I think never.
One or two rickety chairs and a rough deal table showed vaguely in the gloom, and in the far corner of the room there lay a bundle of what looked like heaped-up rags, but from which there now emerged the sound of heavy breathing and also a little cry of fear. "Yvonne," came in feeble, querulous accents from that same bundle of wretchedness, "are these the English milors come back at last?"
She could not of course feel equally attracted. So far she cared most for Peggy Webster and for Mary Gilchrist, possibly attracted toward Mary because she also was an outsider like herself. Then Mary's boyish attitude toward life, her utter freedom even from the knowledge of the conventions in which Yvonne had been so carefully reared, at first startled, then amused the young French girl.
This final argument was convincing to their frugal souls, and he sat upon a chair until sunset making Vallcy immortal. Philidor was too busy even to pass the hat for the musical part of the performances, so Yvonne did it herself, returning with two francs, all in coppers.
"See here, little goose, I never cared about any of that crowd, and I haven't been to the Bullier since since last May." She turned her face up to his; tears were stealing down from under her mask. "Why, Yvonne!" he began, but she clung to his shoulder, as the orchestra broke into a waltz. "Don't speak to me, Rex but dance! Dance!"
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