Diamonds And Hearts

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Title:     Diamonds And Hearts
Author: H. S. Armstrong [More Titles by Armstrong]

A Sketch of Rio de Janeiro.

CHAPTER I.

The sun was setting on the Passeio Publico. On one side the fading light gilded the delicate green of the palms, and on the other it shimmered on the placid waters of the bay.

It whitened the little lodges, nestling in the luxuriance of foliage, and glistened on the gaudy boats, lying motionless on the pearly bosom of the deep. It sparkled on the little lakes where troops of joyous children gathered around the swans, and lost itself in the blue mists that circled the green and purple mountains in the distance.

Past the clustered giants of the sea, whose banners told of mighty nations that made war, past the forts where the sentries kept weary pace on the ramparts, it lighted up the "Pao de Assucar;" through the crowded thoroughfares where the hum of traffic told of multitudes in peace, it glowed on the Corcovado.

Far into the golden west, past the islands that dotted the harbor, past the last villa of Sao Christovao, it burned and blazed among the hills, until shadowy peaks, that seemed but ghosts in the dim remoteness, burst resplendent on the view, gorgeous in their prodigality of color.

Rio de Janeiro had mustered her children in crowds. Long and broad as was the promenade, its marble mosaics scarce contained room for the multitude. Anxious matrons, on one side, gathered on the granite stairs to watch their children in the garden beneath; heedless youngsters, on the other, hung over the balustrades for a view of the tide swelling at the foot of the wall; fair young _donnas_, bewildered at the throng of admirers, filled the air with peals of glad laughter; exquisite _senhors_, thrilled by the music, yielded themselves willing captives to the seductive influences of the hour.

Who but a Latin can understand the wild abandon of a _festa_? who but he can enter into the spirit of the many fete-days sanctioned by his ancient Church?

Armand Dupleisis, in his seat over the sea, stared absently at the jocose revelers, for he was a stranger in a strange land. He leaned back on the granite railings with the easy indolence of an invalid, though his frame was robust and sinewy as a mountaineer's. The hidden power of his bronzed and Moresque features, if developed, might inspire a certain amount of wonder; but _then_ you would as readily have sought expression in the statues below. His gaze was almost indifferent; yet the unmoving eyes took a mental inventory of everything. Had their owner been provided with a memorandum-book and a stubby pencil, the catalogue could not have been more complete.

Among the hundreds present, those eyes picked out one man and one woman. They followed them in their rambles through the dome-roofed shelters; they scrutinized them as they lingered near the band; they searched them out when mingled with the throngs on the promenade. They did not seem to be watching, but they were; and their owner did not look interested, but he was.

The man, physically speaking, was a marvel; but there was an air of foppish elegance in his movements, and a silky kind of beauty, like that of a leopard. His head was small, but finely formed, and covered with flossy hair black as ebony. His features, though clearly cut, wore, from their extreme delicacy, an almost feminine expression. His hands were small and exquisitely shaped; his mustache curled gracefully from his lip; and, when speaking, he bit the ends of it in a nervous, almost embarrassed way.

The woman was a proud, passionate daughter of the sun. The brown blood of the sun burned in her veins, and the soul of the sun streamed shaded from her eyes. A sumptuous splendor mingled, moist and languid, with their light. She was clothed in the sunlight. It glistened in the soft darkness of her hair; it glowed in the rubies that clung to her swelling throat; it flashed on her robe tremulous with radiance. From a coquettish little hat a long white plume fluttered over her curls, and a floating cloud of fleecy under-sleeve half concealed an arm of snowy purity. Her life, though in its spring, seemed goldened with the flush of summer; her morning flashed with the meridian luster of perfect day; and yet the eyes that scanned so closely remained undazzled. Their owner had heard of her, and of her conversation, sparkling with wit and humor and mocking irony; but he was not fascinated. He saw but a woman for whom no surprises appear to survive. What see we?

Were you to question the crowd, they would tell you the man was Edgar Fay; that, years before, his father brought him, a velvet-coated boy, to Rio de Janeiro; that shortly afterward he died, leaving the son and a baby sister a small fortune; that the sister, being under the control of a mother who had deserted her husband, was never heard of; and that the guardians, finding no coheir, had spent the money on Edgar's education, afterward securing him a position under the Imperial government.

About the woman they would say, "She is Mademoiselle Milan, just arrived on the French packet, to fill an engagement as leading lady at the _Alcasar_."

Concerning Dupleisis, except that he had arrived recently on the English steamer, that he seemed to be a man of leisure, and paid promptly for what he received, they could tell you nothing.

The glowing sunshine faded entirely out of the sky, the thick-walled houses flickered faintly through their staring casements, the lamps on the streets glimmered dismally at the returning crowds, and one by one the lights began to quiver on the water. The Passeio, an hour before too cramped for the multitude, was now deserted; but Dupleisis, nothing daunted, smoked on. Disgusted at the necessity which compelled his presence, and annoyed at the stupidity of the few people he had met, he commented savagely on their peculiarities, and anathematized with merciless ingenuity.

"Pshaw, M. Dupleisis! you are only angry because you cannot have chicken-pie every day for dinner. What have the Brazilians done to you?"

Dupleisis gazed at the speaker in astonishment.

"Their impudence, rather than degeneracy, perhaps should surprise."

"Really, M. Dupleisis! I fear you are a cynic. In the gayest promenade in the empire, you are filled with violence. You are a spoiled child looking in at a shop-window and admiring nothing. Are you going to cry with a mouth _full_ of sugar-plums?"

"Pardon me," said the Frenchman, haughtily, "but it is an awkward habit of mine to feel curious concerning the _names_ of my associates."

"Let me hasten to enlighten you:--Percy Reed, diamond-dealer, Rua do Ouvidor, at your service. You brought me a letter of introduction; but, unluckily, I was out of town when you arrived."

The dark eyes glanced at the speaker closely as they had watched the man and the woman. There was something in the face that commanded respect. The broad high forehead, the eyes flashing with scornful mirth, and the thin lips curling with such a whimsical mixture of kindliness and sarcasm, bespoke a man of mind. Since reaching Rio, Dupleisis had searched for these three, and he liked this one the best. Reed took out his eye-glass, and, adjusting it carefully on his nose, surveyed Dupleisis deliberately from head to foot.

"You'll do," he remarked, after some little thought; "but I still believe that in your bread-and-butter days some friend thought you sarcastic. I knew a young girl once who was told she had a musical laugh, and the consequence was she giggled the rest of her life. Now, if you don't wish to see us locked in here for the night, come along."

CHAPTER II

The establishment of Percy Reed, diamond-dealer, Rua do Ouvidor, was a corner-building, almost the exact counterpart of a dozen edifices on the same square. The basement was of polished blocks of black and white marble, and the upper portion faced with blue and white porcelain tiles. From above, the front rooms looked out through bow-windows at small balconies with brass-knobbed railings and thick glass floors; those in rear looked through glass doors at a flat roof, one story high, paved with black and white marble squares. This breathing-place of the household was adorned with pots of flowers and evergreens and provided with neat iron chairs. It was divided from the breathing-place of the adjoining household by a low brick wall.

Below, pedestrians gazed in through rose-wood doors and French plate windows. The counting-room had rather the appearance of an elegant boudoir than of a place of business. The floor was of alternate strips of satin-wood and ebony; the walls and ceiling were paneled with rose-wood, and rows of small glistening show-cases contained samples of the dazzling gems. In the rear--but so covered with the glossy finish as to be almost imperceptible--was a huge vault, containing precious stones of a value almost sufficient to change the fate of an empire. Farther back, and opening on the side street, was a long, dark hall-way, from which a winding staircase led to the residence above. The second floor of the adjoining house was usually let furnished to members of the dramatic profession; and on this occasion it was occupied by Mademoiselle Adrienne Milan, of the _Alcasar_.

The day after the _festa_, the lady, in a simple morning toilet, had moved her table and sewing-chair into the open air. Instead of sewing, she was occupied in furbishing up some old stage jewelry, and her visitor, stretched on an iron bench, calmly puffed a cigar. From his manner, one would imagine him master rather than guest; but that Mademoiselle Milan and a female servant were the sole occupants there is not a doubt.

With the utmost nonchalance, he had ordered a pillow, and, his ambrosial locks buried in its soft depths and his feet raised high above his head, he lounged a modern Apollo, scrutinizing with supercilious indifference the lady's work. If the cigar-ashes at his side were a criterion, he had been lying there for hours; and if the nervous movements of Mademoiselle were significant, he had been lying there an hour too long. For some minutes the silence was broken only by the jingle of the gaudy ornaments, and then the man exclaimed, "But, _ma chere_ Adrienne, I am short--deuced short. Delay is ruin. How am I to live?"

"Work," said the lady, curtly.

"There you are again, with your cursed woman's wisdom! What are you here _for_? What am _I_ here for?"

Mademoiselle answered, with a shrug, "Judging from your position, I would say, to enjoy your ease; from your language, to annoy me."

He raised himself to a sitting posture. "Adrienne Milan, do you take me for an idiot?"

"Edgar Fay, you are insulting."

"Prima donnas of the _Alcasar_ are not usually so sensitive," broke out the visitor, with a laugh.

The woman sprang to her feet, and in the haste overturned the table with its glittering baubles.

"Go! go!" she fiercely exclaimed. "The compact between you and me is sacred. Another word, and I reveal all."

White as any ghost, he started up, and, without uttering a sound, slunk away.

Trembling with rage and mortification, Mademoiselle Milan sunk into a seat; but hers was not a nature to dwell long on trouble. With a woman's spirit of order, she commenced picking up the finery scattered around her, and putting it away. Among other things was a box of quartz diamonds, which, being small, flew in all directions. All within view were collected, and she turned to go.

"There are several lying near that flower-pot in the corner."

The lady looked up. Standing on a chair on the other side, and leaning lazily over the wall, was Armand Dupleisis.

CHAPTER III.

"Has Flora proved more attractive than Thalia?"

Armand Dupleisis, long since become acquainted, stood examining a bouquet of roses and geraniums in the music-room of Mademoiselle Milan, and the lady was seated near him, trifling with the keys of her piano.

"I gaze on beauty, mademoiselle, to accustom my eyes to divinity."

"Really! Were it not for his gigantic proportions, one would suppose man was reared in an atmosphere of compliment."

"You mistake us. Though not a favorite diet, in Pekin we devour rice with the gusto of the most polished Celestial."

"I bow to your sincerity. Women, then, are to be talked to of birds, and flowers, and stars, and fed on water-cresses?"

"Women, mademoiselle, make men apt scholars in the art of pleasing. I have studied much."

"How singular!" rejoined the lady. "I should never have detected it."

"True art, mademoiselle, lies in its concealment. My life has been one of concealment."

"Now you pique my curiosity," she replied. "Do let me learn the 'veritable historie.'"

The smile on Mademoiselle Milan's face showed that the interest was feigned, but the grim look about Dupleisis' mouth proved him conscious of it. A man without an object would have changed the subject at once; but Dupleisis _had_ an object, and did not.

"I was ushered into this land of hope and sunny smiles with scarcely any other patrimony than a name."

"What limited resources!" ejaculated the lady, with a slight sneer.

"While blushing with the consciousness of my virgin cravat, I went to Paris, that sacred ark, which saves from shipwreck all the wretched of the provinces if but crowned with a ray of intellect."

"And which saved you, of course," continued the lady.

"Through the influence of my friends, I entered the _Ecole Polytechnique_, and, after graduating, cut the army, and cast my fate, for better or for worse, in the flowery paths of literature."

"Now, do not say it proved for worse."

"It was for worse," said Dupleisis. "My family were treated shabbily; 'the muse is a maiden of good memory,' but a _cocote_; my satiric efforts were rewarded by a _lettre de cachet_."

"What a loss to France!"

"At the accession of the Emperor, I returned, a prodigal son of Mars, and now manage to sustain myself by----"

"By writing sonnets to Brazilian hospitality," interrupted mademoiselle.

Dupleisis bowed gravely. "Anxious to do so, mademoiselle, but I have not, as yet, collected sufficient material."

The retort crimsoned the lady's face, and Dupleisis adroitly covered her confusion by asking her to sing.

"What will you say to me, when you speak of yourself as though you were a block of wood?"

"The prosy geologist talks pedantically of a granite rock, and is mute when he sees the flower that blooms above it."

"_Mon Dieu_, M. Dupleisis! I cannot sit by and hear _Chamfort_ so ruthlessly robbed."

"Mademoiselle, you are unkind. I say nothing complimentary but you cry, 'Stop thief!'"

The lady played a few sparkling bars, and sang. She had a magnificent voice, but her music, like herself, was studied, faultless, but chilling as the north wind. It swelled deep and full, in rich, flute-like tones, now ringing clear and sweet in pure, rippling notes, now quivering low in waves of enchanting melody. There were soft, gurgling sounds, that flowed wild and free as a mountain-rivulet. It was brilliant, bewildering; but the dazzle was like the frozen glitter of an icicle. Suddenly, a look of unmitigated scorn swept across her face, and the music ceased.

She eyed Dupleisis for a moment half defiantly, and asked, "Would you really like to hear me sing?"

Dupleisis answered, earnestly, "Yes."

A plaintive prelude followed, and her voice mingled with it almost imperceptibly. It was one of those gloomy Spanish ballads, dramatic rather than harmonious, that poured forth its mournful strains in the fitful measure of an AEolian harp. There were bursts of pathos that seemed to echo from her very soul. It was fierce, mocking, passionate; tender, wicked, terrible. It sank in sobs of melting compassion; it implored pity and sympathy in words of thrilling entreaty; and then it rose, cold and calm, in sounds of withering derision and implacable hate. It trembled, it scorned, it pleaded, it taunted, it struggled, it hoped, it despaired; and then, as if for the dead, it wailed and died in a long, helpless cry of sorrow.

Dupleisis sat listening to the dreary history entranced. There was love, and feeling, and fond womanly devotion; there was refined thought, gentle pity, and warm generous charity; and there was a neglected heart, a gloomy, embittered mind, a life lost in utter desolation. The glorious being whom God had created to cheer and encourage man was a beautiful statue.

Who would teach that heart to feel again? Who turn to quivering flesh that rigid marble? Yet the man of iron sat masking his features, controlling his emotions, with every muscle under his command. It was a flash of real feeling from a proud, sensitive woman, but it passed lightly as a snowdrift on a frozen river.

CHAPTER IV.

"Mr. Reed, you certainly are the most old-maidish man I ever saw in my life."

The room did appear old-maidish, as Mademoiselle Milan stood looking in. The balmy breeze fluttered pleasantly past the little French curtains, the glowing sunshine warmed the delicate tracery of the walls and lighted up the flowers on a huge rug spread on the bare floor. A tiny bouquet of Spanish violets, in a wonderful little vase, filled the room with a dreamy perfume, such as one sometimes imagines he would find in those far-off little islands in the South seas. There were crayon sketches hung between the windows, here and there a statuette filled a niche, and out on the glass-floored gallery was a perfect bower of flowers. There were several easy-chairs placed about in comfortable positions, as if they were all made to sit on, and a great lounge, covered with green marine, stood, like a small grass-mound, under one of the windows.

Percy Reed, seated near a table loaded with needle-books, silk-winders, and a hundred little trinkets, with a cigar in his mouth, and a sock, with a little round gourd shoved into the foot of it, in his hand, was intently occupied in darning a hole in the toe.

"There! don't throw away your cigar. _Mon Dieu!_ can a person never see you without being overpowered at your grand politeness?"

"Mademoiselle, I make no apologies. Buttons will come off, and stockings will contract holes. Washer-women are heartless. The mountain will not come to Mahomet: therefore I darn 'em myself."

"A philosopher under all circumstances. And pray what have you done with your pupil in morality and economy?"

"Oh, Dupleisis? I have started him out in a carriage to view the wonders of this 'River of January.' By-the-by, if you ever hope to attract, don't dream of mentioning figures in the presence of our mysterious Frenchman."

"Why?"

"The branch of mathematics known as simple addition seems to be the crowning glory of his intellect. He knows to a _milreis_ the value of this building, from chimney-pot to cellar."

"Blessed with curiosity," said Mademoiselle, significantly.

"Mathematics entirely. If Armand Dupleisis were entering the pearly gates of Paradise, amid the resounding hallelujahs of cherubim and seraphim, he would deliberately count the cost of the entire wardrobe, before he thought of receiving the waters of eternal life."

"Mr. Reed," said Mademoiselle, earnestly, "who _did_ you ever see of whom you _could_ not speak lightly?"

"One person in the world--my mother. Sometimes in my dreams of the 'auld lang syne' I almost see that dear little lady; she had a window just like that, with the foliage rustling over it just as this does. Never, mademoiselle, does that little morning-wrapper come up before my eyes without making me a better and a purer man."

Both were silent for some minutes after this. Mademoiselle Milan sat leaning her face against the crimson lining of her chair, apparently lost in thought.

At length she said, "Would to God that all men understood women as well as you!"

"But _your_ mother; where is she, mademoiselle?"

The lady's face turned as pale as marble, and her little white hands grasped the arms of her chair, until they seemed almost imbedded in the ebony. She attempted an utterance, but her voice failed her, and there was a dead silence.

Reed was a man of feeling. He did not talk, nor persuade her to talk. He did not even sit doing nothing. He went out on the balcony to examine the flowers. He climbed noiselessly up the lattice-work for jasmines fluttering in the evening breeze. Finally, he took up a violin and played.

He always played well, but now the music was low and soft,--old Scotch ballads, wild and mournful, touching little German songs, plaintive romances full of subdued passion. Mademoiselle Milan did not notice him; but in her heart she felt grateful for his consideration. Gradually the color returned to her face, and, soothed by the sad, sweet strains, she sunk into dreamy reverie.

"When we have reached another sphere, where emotion governs instead of thought, I think that man will speak in splendid music."

Reed looked at her earnestly for a moment, and then said, "Mademoiselle, why did you never write?"

"The public treats authors very much as drill-sergeants do recruits,--drunk the first day, and beaten the rest of their lives."

"Great minds _rule_ the public."

"And yet I fear your courage would ooze away when you came to lay a lance at rest against such a windmill as the common sense of the nineteenth century, whirling its rotary sails under the steady breeze of ridicule. I am a woman, and know a woman's place. I have had dreams in my time,--'dreams like that flower that blooms in a single night, and dies at dawn;' but they are passed. You see, I carry the glare of the foot-lights even here." And a bitter smile curled from her lip.

"Mademoiselle," said Percy, solemnly, "the foot-lights enable you to move man to a hundred passions."

"Yes; it reduces me to the level of a harlequin, to be laughed with, and laughed _at_. Who are _my_ friends? Are they the idle boys who send me bouquets and never mention my name without looking unutterable things? Have I no tastes, no likings, no feelings, no emotions? In the name of God, was I created only to memorize so many lines of Racine, Corneille, or Voltaire per diem?"

It was a tone of almost ferocity with which she spoke, and the trembling lip, the flashing eye, and the swollen veins on her temple betrayed the self-scorn racking her heart within her.

A bang at the hall-door, and heavy footsteps on the marble pavement, forced her to composure.

"Old-maidish to the last!" (the lady commenced picking the dead leaves off a geranium). "This geranium looks as if you had watched it a year; and this old gray hat, I suppose, you have hung above it for good luck."

"The hat belongs to a friend abroad, and is not to be moved until his safe return; but the geranium was presented not a week ago by my ever-faithful money. You see the magic charm. Here are careful watching, weeks of anxiety, and, no doubt, a modicum of affection (for I _have_ heard people say they loved flowers), bartered away for one _milreis_."

"Apropos of money,--I thought I was to have a view of the treasures of Aladdin, locked up in the vaults below."

"Of a surety you shall."

Reed excused himself, and in a short time reappeared, bearing a large iron casket. Mademoiselle Milan's face turned a shade or two paler when she saw him; for he was accompanied by Edgar Fay. It had now become quite dark, and Percy Reed lighted the gas-jet before opening the casket. It was made in imitation of the ordinary iron safe, but opening at the top.

When the glare of the gas struck the dark recesses of the velvet lining, a gleam of radiance shot up that fairly dazzled. Great grains of light, large as peas, shimmered and glittered with an unearthly brilliancy. Blue, purple, violet, and a gorgeous white that combined the whole, sparkled in their turn with weird splendor. It looked like a flash from heaven turned suddenly on a startled world. Both Mademoiselle Milan and Fay stood breathless with astonishment, and it was many minutes before they regained their composure.

Hearing the heavy rumbling caused by the lowering of the iron shutters in the counting-room, Mademoiselle urged Mr. Reed to return the gems to the vault before it closed.

He assured her it was entirely unnecessary, saying that larceny was a crime unknown to Brazilians, and that he had provided for exigencies such as this. Moving the piles of thread and embroidery silk to the side of the table, he touched a spring, and a lid flew up. The table, though presenting the appearance of fragility itself, was really of iron, and contained a vault that would puzzle the most expert of burglars.

Just then Dupleisis called from the street, and both Reed and Edgar Fay went out on the gallery to see him. He had made arrangements to spend the night with a friend, and the three stood chatting for some minutes, the Frenchman giving an amusing description of his adventures among the _Brazileiros_.

Shortly afterward, Mademoiselle Milan and Fay took their leave. The wind by this time was blowing so fiercely that no taper could live in the gusts; so both were compelled to grope their way through the hall, which was dark as Erebus.

The door was faithfully bolted, and the casket carefully placed in the secret vault; but when Percy Reed awoke in the morning he found both open, and the diamonds, worth a million, missing.

CHAPTER V.

"Mademoiselle Milan, I wish you good-evening."

The lady bowed. She was reclining on a divan, before a large mirror, absently turning the rings on her finger; but in her simple negligee she appeared more beautiful than ever. The long, dark ringlets gave the oval face a look of earnestness, the fierce Italian blood glowed in her cheeks, and the flashing brilliancy of her eyes had a restlessness that was unusual. She was evidently suffering from nervous excitement; but there was a fascinating grace in every movement, and even in the easy indolence of her position.

"Take a seat on that sofa, by the side of my little dog. Is he not pretty?"

"Very," replied Dupleisis; "but I am more interested in his mistress. We have not met for a week,--not, in fact, since two thieves robbed Mr. Reed of a fortune."

Dupleisis said this with pointed significance; but the lady preserved the coolest unconcern.

"The muse of the foot-lights is the most jealous of mistresses."

"True," replied Dupleisis; "but in this case she has had rivals."

"I choose to amuse myself with a crowd, who eat my suppers and make me laugh."

"And among the jesters you number the Minister of War and Chief of Police."

"I may need their aid."

"Mademoiselle Milan, you _do_ need their aid; but, with all your charming courtesies, you have not secured it."

"M. Dupleisis chooses to speak in enigmas. I am obtuse."

"At our last most agreeable _tete-a-tete_, you were pleased to feel interested in my somewhat sluggish history. Would you pardon a few inquiries concerning yours?"

"M. Dupleisis, I am at your service."

"Two months since, you resided in the Rue de Luxembourg, Paris."

"This is an assertion. I expected an inquiry."

Dupleisis took from a pocket-book a half-sheet of thin, closely-written letter-paper, and spread it out on the table before him.

"It was about two months ago that this document was blown from your window. Am I right, Mademoiselle Milan?"

"It _was_ blown from my writing-desk into the street."

"I knew I was right; for 'twas I that picked it up. It is a letter, written in Rio de Janeiro, and contains the details of a plot to rob one of the wealthiest diamond-dealers in this city. You may think my interest singular, mademoiselle; but the merchant deals with every large jewelry-house in Paris. Their loss by a felony of this magnitude would be immense."

Mademoiselle Milan listened with an air of indifference that was absolutely freezing.

"You may think it singular, also, that when, shortly afterward, you started for Bordeaux, I went by the same train; and that when you concluded to prolong your journey to Brazil by the French packet, via Lisbon, it was _I_ who assisted with your luggage."

"There is nothing low enough to be singular in M. Dupleisis."

"Mademoiselle Milan, one week ago you and Edgar Fay went into the hall-way of Mr. Reed's house together, and you went _out_ alone. Denial is useless, for I _saw_ you. If you remember, the door was banged violently, and it was you who did it. A careless servant locked him in. He opened the secret vault in that table, and abstracted diamonds worth a million. You were wise in courting the Minister of War and Chief of Police, but your passports have been stopped. No power under heaven can get you out of Rio."

For the first time her countenance changed, and she looked at Dupleisis with a smile of contemptuous pity.

"So I was not wrong in suspecting you to be an agent of the police. How strong an alloy of cunning exists in every fool! The man whom you believe to have stolen a million is my own brother. The letter which caused this display of sagacity was paid for out of my wretched weekly earnings. At the sacrifice of every _sou_ I owned, I came here to thwart the plot it spoke of."

Dupleisis glanced at her with an incredulous sneer.

"He wrote to Paris for a woman to assist him,--what weaklings you men are!--and, utterly unable to prevent the larceny, I pretended to be his accomplice. While you were exposing your ill-breeding by coarse criticisms on a people in every way your superior, I substituted for the real diamonds the paste gems you were so particular in noticing. What was stolen is my property. Go back to Mr. Reed, and tell him his diamonds are bundled into an old hat that hangs on the wall of his sitting-room; and tell him, furthermore, it was I who put them there. I did court the favor of the Minister of War, but it was to put that man in the army. I have watched over him for years, and, by the blessing of God, I will watch over him to the end. He has never known me, nor will he----" Suddenly she turned livid, and nervously clasped her hands over her breast.

"M. Dupleisis, I regret my inability to be present at the Assembly; but, really, I am engaged."

Dupleisis looked at her in astonishment.

Edgar Fay, pale and trembling, was standing behind them. He must have heard every word; for he sunk helplessly and faint on the floor, hiding his face in the depth of his degradation.

Why should we follow them any further? _Can_ I tell how the miserable man, cringing at the feet of that pure woman, narrated his dreary history of folly, extravagance, and dishonor? Need it be said that, through all his dissipation, frivolity, and crime, his gentle sister clung to him, and, smiling through her tears, bade him go and sin no more? She stole upon him like a shadow in the night, and, her labor of love ended, faded away. No entreaty of the generous diamond-dealer dissuaded her; no apology of the detective turned her from the one fixed purpose. The star of the _Alcasar_ rose, culminated, and disappeared in two weeks.

O woman! I have seen you in the brilliant whirl of society, where all was gayety, gallantry, and splendor. I have seen your eyes flash triumphant, and daintily gaitered feet move fast and furious to the music of _les pieces d'or_. I have seen brave men stand fascinated at your side, and careless youth overflow the bumper of Johannisberger to health, and youth, and beauty. I have heard the stern cynic jingle his Napoleons in unison with the frantic strains, and sneer out, "_Vive la bagatelle!_" Daughters of marble! daughters of marble! Turn your snowy arms to the glittering gorgeous, scatter the golden heaps, deluge the world with champagne. Diamonds, _diamonds_ must win hearts. I have watched you in a deeper, darker, madder whirl, while I have seen fair, blooming flowers wither in the hot hands of drunken licentiousness. Oh, Becky Sharp! Oh, _Dame aux Camellias_! you are but single dandelions in a parterre of heliotropes!

* * * * *

There was hurrying to and fro on the broad decks. Bustling cabin-boys rushed hither and thither with great baskets of stores; the jauntily-arrayed stewardess chatted saucily with her friends in the shore-boats; sailors slipped quietly over the bulwarks with their secretly-collected menageries of pets; watermen contended stoutly at the gangway for a landing near the steps; and dusky _cameradas_ cursed, in broken French and Portuguese, at the weight of the trunks. Here a naturalist trembled with anxiety for the fate of a coral; there a bird-fancier worked himself into a small frenzy at the jostling of big parrots. Bones, fossils, plants, bottled fish, bananas, oranges, and mangoes, were mingled in one promiscuous heap. Monkeys of all tribes and shades of complexion, from the golden Mumasitte to the fierce Machaca, were crowded pell-mell into passages; and forcing them against the bulkheads were boxes of wine, jellies, and _doces_ in their infinitesimal variety. Men and women, crouching in retired places, hurried through their few broken words of parting, and eyes were dried for the great heart-throb left for the very last. Off in the painted boats, ship-chandlers smilingly bowed their _bon voyage_, and faces pallid with grief gazed with swollen eyes at loved ones convulsed with emotion. The gorgeous custom-house officer has smoked his last cigarette and taken his last "dispatch;" the belated passenger, whose agonizing shrieks and spasmodic contortions finally attracted the attention of the captain, is at length, carpet-bag in hand, on board, and the sharp crash of the gong severs the lingering groups.

Who ever made an ocean voyage undismayed by the knell! It is the trumpet-tongue of reality, awakening the mind from the lethargy of its distress. The woe of separation, the terror of the journey, the vague apprehension of the future, meeting, burst upon you in the fullness of their stern reality. The bewildered mortal turns to gaze at the companions of his danger, casts a lingering look on those he has left behind; the groaning paddles, with reluctant plunges, begin their weary labor; the faces of the cheering crowd, one by one, drop out of the picture, until distance swallows the whole, and those nearer and dearer than all earth beside become a memory.

Far aft, under the waving tricolor, stood the woman of our story. Her fingers twined carelessly through the glittering necklace thrust into her hand as Percy Reed clambered into his boat, and her eyes rested sadly on an ungainly transport, already freighting with its cargo of mortality for the sacrifice at Humaita. The golden glow of the harbor was lost in the chilly mist; the bare mountain-tops loomed bleakly through the piles of cloudy haze. White waves curled dismally at the base of the Pao de Assucar, and the weird shrieks of the sea-gulls on the rocks that jutted around it made the dreariness more desolate. Far out in the trackless waste the sky lowered gloomily over the weary waters. Fit emblem of her path through life--dark was the picture, threatening the surroundings.

Pray for the woman doomed to a calling she cannot but despise! Pray for the being overflowing with good thoughts toward all mankind, sentenced to "tread the wine-press alone!" God have mercy upon us miserable sinners!

[The end]
H. S. Armstrong's short story: Diamonds And Hearts

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