Red Masquerade | Page 4

the whisper pursued with relish--"by-blow, they say, of
a Russian grand duke and a Manchu princess--half Russian, half
Chinese, all devil!"
Without looking, Lanyard felt that Prince Victor's stare had again
shifted from the women, and that the mongrel son of the alleged grand
duke was aware he had become a subject of comment. So the eminent
collector of works of art elected to dismiss the subject with a negligent
lift of one shoulder.
"Ah, well! Daresay he can't help his ugly make-up. All the same, he's
spoiling my afternoon. Be a good fellow, do, and put him out."
The Briton chuckled a deprecating chuckle; meaning to say, he hoped
Lanyard was spoofing; but since one couldn't be sure, one's only wise
course was to play safe.
"Really, Monsieur Lanyard! I'm afraid one couldn't quite do _that_, you
know!"

III
MONSIEUR QUIXOTE
The sale dragged monotonously. The paintings offered were mostly of
mediocre value. The gathering was apathetic.
Lanyard bid in two or three sketches, more out of idleness than because
he wanted them, and succeeded admirably in seeming ignorant of the
existence of the Princess Sofia and the husband whose surface of a
blackguard was so harmonious with his reputation.
In time, however, a change was presaged by an abrupt muting of that
murmured conversation between the beautiful Russian and the almost
equally beautiful Englishwoman. An inquisitive look discovered the

princess sitting slightly forward and intently watching the auctioneer.
The pose of an animated, delightful child, hanging breathlessly upon
the progress of some fascinating game: one's gaze lingered approvingly
upon a bewitching profile with half-parted lips, saw that excitement
was faintly colouring the cheeks beneath shadowy and enigmatic eyes,
remarked the sweet spirit that poised that lovely head.
And then one looked farther, and saw the prince, like the princess,
absorbed in the business at the auction block, his slack elegance of the
raffish aristocrat forgotten, all his being tense with purpose, strung
taut--as taut at least as that soft body, only half-masculine in mould and
enervated by loose living, could ever be. One thought of a rather
elderly and unfit snake, stirred by the sting of some long-buried passion
out of the lassitude of years of slothful self-indulgence, poising to
strike....
At the elbow of the auctioneer an attendant was placing on exhibition a
landscape that was either an excellent example of the work of Corot or
an imitation no less excellent. At that distance Lanyard felt inclined to
dub it genuine, though he knew well that Europe was sown thick with
spurious Corots, and would never have risked his judgment without
closer inspection.
He was accordingly perplexed when, after a brief exhortation by the
auctioneer, discreetly noncommittal as to the antecedents of the
canvas--"attributed to Corot"--Prince Victor, who had been straining
forward like a hound in leash, half rose in his eagerness to offer:
"One thousand guineas!"
The entire company stirred as one and sat up sharply. Even the
auctioneer was momentarily stricken dumb. And for the first time the
Princess Sofia acknowledged the presence of her husband, and got from
him that look of white hatred with a sneer of triumph thrown in for
good measure.
Though she affected indifference, Lanyard saw her slender body
transiently shaken by a shudder, it might have been of dread. But she
was quick to pull herself together, and the auctioneer had scarcely
found his tongue--"One thousand guineas for this magnificent canvas
attributed to Corot"--when her clear and youthful voice cut in:
"Two thousand guineas!"
This the prince capped with a monosyllable:

"Three!"
Stupefaction settled upon the audience. The auctioneer hesitated,
blinked astonished eyes, framed unspoken phrases with halting lips.
Prince Victor, again gave his wife the full value of his vindictive snarl.
She would not see, but it was plain that she was cruelly dismayed, that
it cost her an effort to rise to the topping bid:
"Thirty-five hundred guineas!"
"Four thousand!"
"Four thousand I am offered ..."
The auctioneer faltered, a spasm of honesty shook him, he proceeded:
"It is only fair, ladies and gentlemen, that I should state that this canvas
is not put up as an authentic Corot. It very possibly is such, in fact"--the
seizure was passing swiftly--"it bears every evidence of having come
from the brush of the master. But we cannot guarantee it. There is,
however, a gentleman present who is amply qualified to pass upon the
merits of this work. With his permission"--his eye sought Lanyard's--"I
venture to request the opinion of Monsieur Michael Lanyard, the noted
connoisseur!"
Lanyard detached a deprecating smile from the pages of his catalogue,
but his contemplated response was cut short by Prince Victor.
"I am not aware," that one said, icily, "that the authenticity of this
painting is a material question. Nor have I any need of