The Day of Days: An Extravaganza

by Louis Joseph Vance

  XVI

  BEELZEBUB

  Late enough in all conscience was the last guest to arrive for theHadley-Owen masquerade.

  Already town-cars, carriages, and private 'busses were being calledfor and departing with their share of the more seasoned andsober-sided revellers, to whom bed and appetite for breakfast had cometo mean more than a chance to romp through a cotillion by the light ofthe rising sun--to say discreetly little or nothing of those otherconveyances which had borne away _their_ due proportion of far lesssage and by no means sober-sided ones, who yet retained sufficientsense of the fitness of things to realise that bed followed bymatutinal bromides would be better for them than further dalliancewith the effervescent and evanescent spirits of festivity.

  More and more frequently the elevators, empty but for theirattendants, were flying up to the famous ball-room floor of theBizarre, to descend heavy-laden with languid laughing parties ofgaily-costumed ladies and gentlemen no less brilliantlyattired--prince and pauper, empress and shepherdess, monk, milkmaid,and mountebank: all weary yet reluctant in their going.

  And at this hour a smallish gentleman, in an old-style Invernessopera-coat that cloaked him to his ankles, with an opera hat setjauntily a wee bit askew on his head, a mask of crimson silk coveringhis face from brows to lips, slipped silently like some sly, sinistershadow through the Fifth Avenue portals of the Bizarre, and shaped acourse by his wits across the lobby to the elevators, so discreetlyand unobtrusively that none of the flunkeys in attendance noticed hisarrival.

  In effect, he didn't arrive at all, but suddenly was there.

  A car, discharging its passengers before the smallish gentleman couldcatch the eye of its operator, flew suddenly upward in the echo of agate slammed shut in his face; and all the other cars were still atthe top, according to the bronze arrows of their tell-tale dials. Thelate arrival held up patiently; but after an instant's deliberation,doffed his hat, crushed it flat, slipped out of his voluminous cloak,and beckoned a liveried attendant.

  In the costume thus disclosed, he cut an impish figure: "Satan on thehalf-shell," Peter Kenny had christened him.

  A dress coat of black satin fitted P. Sybarite more neatly than himfor whom it had been made. The frilled bosom of his shirt was set withwinking rubies, and the lace cuffs at his wrists were caught togetherwith rubies--whether real or false, like coals of fire: and ruby wasthe hue both of his satin mask and his satin small-clothes. Buckles ofred paste brilliants burned on the insteps of his slender polishedshoes with scarlet heels; and his snug black silk stockings set offankles and calves so well-turned that the Prince of Sin himself mighthave taken pride in them. For boutonniere he wore a smoulderingember--so true an imitation that at first he himself had hesitated totouch it. Literally to crown all, his ruddy hair was twisted upwardfrom each temple in a cornuted fashion that was most vividlypicturesque.

  "Here," he said, surrendering hat and coat to the servitor before thelatter could remonstrate--"take and check these for me, please. Ishan't be going for some time yet."

  "Sorry, sir, but the cloak-room down 'ere 's closed, sir. You'll haveto check them on the ball-room floor above."

  "No matter," said the little man: and groping in a pocket, he produceda dollar bill and tendered it to ready fingers; "you keep 'em for me,down here. It'll save time when I'm ready to go."

  "Very good, sir. Thank you."

  "You won't forget me?"

  The flunkey grinned. "You're the only gentleman I've seen to-night,sir, in a costume anything like your own."

  "There's but one of me in the Union," said the gentleman, sententious:"my spear knows no brother."

  "Thank you, sir," said the servant civilly, making off.

  With an air of some dubiety, the little man watched him go.

  "I say!" he cried suddenly--"come back!"

  He was obeyed.

  A second dollar bill appeared as it were by magic between his fingers.The flunkey stared.

  "Beg pardon, sir?"

  "Take it"--impatiently.

  "Thank you." The well-trained fingers executed their most familiarmanoeuvre. "But--m'y I ask, sir--wot's it for?"

  "You called me a gentleman just now."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You were right."

  "Quite so, sir."

  "The devil _is_ a gentleman," the masquerader insisted firmly.

  "So I've always 'eard, sir."

  "Then you may go; you've earned the other dollar."

  Obsequiousness stared: "M'y I ask, 'ow so?"

  "By standing for that antediluvian bromidiom. I had to get it off mychest to somebody, or else blow up. Far better to hire an audiencewhen you can't be original. Remember that; you've been paid: youdaren't object."

  "Thankyousir," said the lackey blankly.

  "And now--avaunt--before I brand thee for mine own!"

  The little gentleman flung out an imperative, melodramatic arm; andveritable sparks sprayed from his crackling finger-tips. The servantretired in haste and dismay.

  "'E's balmy--or screwed--or the Devil 'imself!" he muttered....

  Beneath his mask the little man grinned privately at the man'sretreat.

  "Piker!" said he severely--"sharpening your wits on helpless servants.A waiter has no friends, anyway!"

  An elevator, descending, discharged into the lobby half a dozenmirthful maskers. Of these, a Scheherazade of bewitching prettiness(in a cloak of ermine!) singled out the silent, cynical littlegentleman in scarlet mask and smalls, and menaced him merrily with ajewelled forefinger.

  "What--you, Lucifer! Traitor! Where have you been all evening?"

  "Madame!"--he bowed mockingly--"in spirit, always at your ear."

  She flushed and bit her lip in charming confusion; while an abbess,with face serene in the frame of her snowy coif, caught up the ball ofbadinage:

  "Ah, in spirit! But in the flesh?"

  "Why, poppet!" he retorted in suave surprise--"it isn't possible that_you_ missed me?"

  And she, too, coloured; while a third, a girl dressed all in buckskinfrom beaded hunting-shirt to fringed leggings and dainty moccasins,bent to peer into his face.

  "Who are you?" she demanded curiously. "I don't seem to know you--"

  "That, child, you have already proved."

  "I?... Proved?... How do you mean?"

  "You alone have not yet blushed."

  And wheeling mischievously to the others, he covered them withwidespread hands in burlesque benediction.

  "The unction of my deep damnation abide with ye, my children, now andforevermore!" he chanted, showering sparks from crepitant finger-tips;and bounded lightly into the elevator.

  "But your mask!" protested Scheherazade in a pet. "You've noright--when we all unmasked at supper."

  Through the iron fretwork of the gate, the little gentleman shot aParthian spark or two.

  "I wear no mask!" he informed them solemnly as the car shot fromsight.

  The conceit tickled him; he had it still in mind when he alighted atthe ball-room floor.

  Pausing in the anteroom, he struck an artificial pose on his high redheels and stroked thin, satiric lips with slender fingers, reviewingthe crush with eyes that glinted light-hearted malice through thescarlet visor; seeking a certain one and finding her not among thosemany about him--their gay exotic trappings half hidden beneath wrapsof modern convention assumed against impending departure.

  A hedge of backs hid from him the ball-room, choking the wide, higharch of its entrance.

  Turning to one side, he began to pick a slow way through the press,and so presently found himself shoulder to shoulder with elderly andpompous Respectability in a furred great-coat; who, all ready for thestreet, with shining topper poised at breast-level, had delayed hisgoing for an instant's guarded confabulation with a youngish manconspicuous in this, that he, alone of all that company, was in simpleevening dress.

  Their backs were toward P. Sybarite, but by the fat pink folds abovethe back of Respectability's collar and th
e fat white side-whiskersadorning his plump pink chops, Beelzebub knew that he encountered forthe second time that evening Respectability of the gold-capped cane.

  Without the least shame, he paused and cocked sharp ears to catch whathe could of the conversation between these two.

  Little enough he profited by his open eavesdropping; what he heard wasscarcely illuminating when applied to the puzzle that haunted him.

  "She won't--that's flat," Respectability's companion announced in asullen voice.

  By the tone of this last Beelzebub knew that it issued from an uglytwisted mouth.

  "But," Respectability insisted heavily--"You're sure you've done yourbest to persuade her?"

  "She won't listen to reason."

  "Well ... everything's arranged. You have me to thank for that."

  "Oh," sneered the younger man, "you've done a lot, you have!"

  And then, moving to give way to another making toward the elevators,Brian Shaynon discovered at his elbow that small attentive body insinister scarlet and black.

  For a breath, utterance failed the old man. He glared pop-eyedindignation from a congested countenance, his fat lips quivering andhis jowls as well; and then as Beelzebub tapped him familiarly iflightly upon the chest, his face turned wholly purple, from swollentemples to pendulous chin.

  "Well met, _ame damnee_!" P. Sybarite saluted him gaily. "Are youindeed off so early upon my business?"

  "Damnation!" exclaimed Brian Shaynon, all but choking.

  "It shall surely be your portion," gravely assented the little man."To all who in my service prosper in a worldly way--damnation, upon myhonourable Satanic word!"

  "Who the devil--?"

  "_Whisht!_" P. Sybarite reproved. "A trifle more respect, if youplease--lest you wake in the morning to find all my benefactionsturned to ashes in your strong-boxes!"

  But here Respectability found his full voice.

  "Who are you?" he demanded so stormily that heads turned curiously hisway. "I demand to know! Remove that mask! Impertinent--!"

  "Mask?" purred Beelzebub in a tone of wonder. "I wear no mask!"

  "No mask!" stammered the older man, in confusion.

  "Nay, _I_ am frankly what I am--old Evil's self," P. Sybariteexplained blandly; "but you, Brian Shaynon--now you go always masked:waking or sleeping, hypocrisy's your lifelong mask. You see thedistinction, old servant?"

  In another moment he might have suffered a sound drubbing with theebony cane but for Peter Kenny's parlour-magic trick. For as BrianShaynon started forward to seize Beelzebub by the collar, a stream ofincandescent sparks shot point-blank into his face; and when he fellback in puffing dismay, Beelzebub laughed provokingly, ducked behindthe backs of a brace of highly diverted bystanders, and quickly anddeftly wormed his way through the press to the dancing-floor itself.

  As for the younger man--he of the unhandsome mouth--P. Sybarite wascontent to hold him in reserve, to be dealt with later, at hisleisure. For the present, his business pressed with the waning night.

  In high feather, bubbling with mischief, he sidled along the wall alittle way, then halted to familiarise himself with scene andatmosphere against his next move.

  But after the first minute or two, spent in silent review of thebrilliant scene, his thin lips lost something of their cynicmodelling, the eyes behind the scarlet visor something of theirmischievous twinkle--softening with shadows envious and regretful.

  The room was as one vast pool of limpid golden light, walls andceilings so luminous with the refulgence of a thousand electric bulbsthat they seemed translucent, glowing with a radiance from beyond.

  On the famous floor, twelve-score couples swung and swayed to theintoxicating rhythms of an unseen orchestra; kaleidoscopic in theiramazingly variegated costuming of colour, drifting past the lonely,diabolical little figure, an endless chain of paired anachronisms.

  Searching narrowly each fair face that flashed past in another's arms,he waited with seeming patience. But the music buzzed in his brain andhis toes tingled for it; breathing the warm, voluptuous air, heinhaled hints of a thousand agreeable and exciting scenes; watching,he perceived in perturbation the witchery of a hundred exquisitewomen. And a rancorous discontent gnawed at his famished heart.

  This was all his by right of birth--should be his now, but for theblind malice of his sorry destiny. _Kismet_ had favoured him greatly,but too late....

  But of a sudden he forgot self-pity and vain repining, in thediscovery of the one particular woman swinging dizzily past in thearms of an Incroyable, whose giddy plumage served only to render themore striking her exquisite fairness and the fine simplicity of hercostume.

  For she was all in the black-and-white uniform of a Blessingtonshopgirl; black skirt and blouse, stockings and pumps, relieved byshowy linen at throat and wrists, with at waist the white patch of atiny lace-and-linen apron.

  Perhaps it was his start of recognition; it may have been the veryfixed intensity of his regard; whatever drew it, her gaze veered tohis silent and aloof figure, and for an instant his eyes held hers. Atonce, to his consternation, the hot blood stained her lovely face fromthroat to brow; her glance wavered, fell in confusion, then as thoughby a strong effort of will alone, steadied once more to his. Noddingwith an air of friendly diffidence, she flashed him a strange,perplexing smile; and was swept on and away.

  For a thought he checked his breath in stupefaction. Had she, then,recognised him? Was it possible that her intuition had been keenenough to pierce his disguise, vizard and all?

  But the next moment he could have sworn in chagrined appreciation ofhis colossal stupidity. Of course!--his costume was that worn by PeterKenny earlier in the evening; and as between Peter and himself, of thesame stock, the two were much of a muchness in physique; both,moreover, were red-headed; their points of unlikeness were negligible,given a mask.

  So after all, her emotion had been due solely to embarrassment andregret for the pain she had caused poor Peter by refusing his offer ofmarriage!

  Well!... P. Sybarite drew a long, sane breath, laughed wholesomely athimself, and thereafter had eyes only to keep the girl in sight,however far and involved her wanderings through the labyrinth of thedance.

  In good time the music ended; the fluent movement of the dancerssubsided with a curious effect of eddying--like confetti settling torest; and P. Sybarite left his station by the wall, slipping likequicksilver through the heart of the throng to the far side of theroom, where, near a great high window wide to the night, thebreathless shopgirl had dropped into a chair.

  At Beelzebub's approach the Incroyable, perhaps mindful of obligationsin another quarter, bowed and moved off, leaving the field temporarilyquite clear.

  She greeted him with a faint recurrence of her former blush.

  "Why, Peter!" she cried--and so sealed with confirmation his surmiseas to her mistake--"I was wondering what had become of you. I thoughtyou must have gone home."

  "Peter did go home," P. Sybarite affirmed gravely, bending over herhand.

  His voice perplexed her tremendously. She opened eyes wide.

  "Peter!" she exclaimed reproachfully--"you promised it wouldn't makeany difference. We were to go on just as always--good friends. Andnow ..."

  "Yes?" P. Sybarite prompted as she faltered.

  "I don't like to say it, Peter, but--your voice is so different.You've not been--doing anything foolish, have you?"

  "Peter hasn't," the little man lied cheerfully; "Peter went home tosulk like the unwhipped cub he is; and sulking, was yet decent enoughto lend me these rags."

  "You--you're not Peter Kenny?"

  "No more than you are Molly Lessing."

  "Molly Lessing! What do you know--? Who can you be? Why are youmasked?"

  "Simply," he explained pleasantly, "that my incognito may remain suchto all save you."

  "But--but who _are_ you?"

  "It is permitted?" he asked, with a gesture offering to take the tinyprinted card of dance engagements that dangled from her fingers by
itssilken thong.

  In dumb mystification the girl surrendered it.

  Seating himself beside her, P. Sybarite ran his eye down the list.

  "The last was number--which?" he enquired with unruffled impudence.

  Half angry, half amused, wholly confused, she told him: "Fifteen."

  "Then one number only remains."

  His lips hardened as he read the initials pencilled opposite thatnumeral; they were "B.S."

  "Bayard Shaynon?" he queried.

  She assented with a nod, her brows gathering.

  Coolly, with the miniature pencil attached to the card, he changed thesmall, faint _B_ to a large black _P_, strengthened the _S_ tocorrespond, and added to that _ybarite_; then with a bow returned thecard.

  The girl received the evidence of her senses with a silent gasp.

  He bowed again: "Yours to command."

  "You--Mr. Sybarite!"

  "I, Miss Blessington."

  "But--incredible!" she cried. "I can't believe you ..."

  Facing her, he lifted his scarlet visor, meeting her stare with hiswistful and diffident smile.

  Facing her, he lifted his scarlet visor.]

  "You see," he said, readjusting the mask.

  "But--what does this mean?"

  "Do you remember our talk on the way home after _Kismet_--four hoursor several years ago: which is it?"

  "I remember we talked ..."

  "And I--clumsily enough, Heaven knows!--told you that I'd go far forone who'd been kind and tolerant to me, if she were in trouble andcould use my poor services?"

  "I remember--yes."

  "You suspected--surely--it was yourself I had in mind?"

  "Why, yes; but--"

  "And you'll certainly allow that what happened later, at the door,when I stood in the way of the importunate Mr. 'B.S.'--if I'm notsadly in error--was enough to convince any one that you needed afriend's good offices?"

  "So," she said softly, with glimmering eyes--"so for that you followedme here, Mr. Sybarite!"

  "I wish I might claim it. But it wouldn't be true. No--I didn't followyou."

  "Please," she begged, "don't mystify me--"

  "I don't mean to. But to tell the truth, my own head is still awhirlwith all the chapter of accidents that brought me here. Since youflew off with B.S., following afoot, I've traversed a vast deal ofadventure--to wind up here. If," he added, grinning, "this is thewind-up. I've a creepy, crawly feeling that it isn't...."

  "Miss Blessington," he pursued seriously, "if you have patience tolisten to what I've been through since we parted in Thirty-eighthStreet--?" Encouraged by her silence he went on: "I've broken the bankat a gambling house; been held up for my winnings at the pistol'spoint--but managed to keep them. I've been in a raid and escaped onlyafter committing felonious assault on two detectives. I thenburglarised a private residence, and saved the mistress of the housefrom being murdered by her rascally husband--blundered thence tothe deadliest dive in New York--met and slanged mine ancient enemy,the despoiler of my house--took part in a drunken brawl--saved myinfatuated young idiot of a cousin, Peter Kenny, from assassination--tookhim home, borrowed his clothing, and impudently invited myself to thisparty on the mere suspicion that 'Molly Lessing' and Marian Blessingtonmight be one and the same, after all!... And all, it appears, that Imight come at last to beg a favour of you."

  "I can't think what it can be," breathed the girl, dumfounded.

  "To forgive my unpardonable impertinence--"

  "I've not been conscious of it."

  "You'll recognise it immediately. I am about to transgress yourprivacy with a question--two, in fact. Will you tell me, please, inconfidence, why you refused my cousin, Peter Kenny, when he asked youto marry him?"

  Colouring, she met his eyes honestly.

  "Because--why, it was so utterly absurd! He's only a boy. Besides, Idon't care for him--that way."

  "You care for some one else--'that way'?"

  "Yes," said the girl softly, averting her face.

  "Is it--Mr. Bayard Shaynon?"

  "No," she replied after a perceptible pause.

  "But you have promised to marry him?"

  "I once made him that promise--yes."

  "You mean to keep it?"

  "I must."

  "Why?"

  "It was my father's wish."

  "And yet--you don't like him!"

  Looking steadily before her, the girl said tensely: "I loathe him."

  "Then," cried P. Sybarite in a joyful voice, "I may tell yousomething: you needn't marry him."

  She turned startled eyes to his, incredulous.

  "_Need_ not?"

  "I should have said _can_ not--"

  Through the loud hum of voices that, filling the room, had furnished acover for their conversation, sounded the opening bars of music forthe final dance.

  The girl rose suddenly, eyes like stars aflame in a face of snow.

  "He will be coming for me now," she said hurriedly. "But--if you meanwhat you say--I must know--instantly--why you say it. How can wemanage to avoid him?"

  "This way," said P. Sybarite, indicating the wide window nearby.

  Through its draped opening a shallow balcony showed, half-screened bypalms whose softly stirring fronds, touched with artificial light,shone a garish green against the sombre sky of night.

  Immediately Marian Blessington slipped through the hangings and,turning, beckoned P. Sybarite to follow.

  "There's no one here," she announced in accents tremulous withexcitement, when he joined her. "Now--_now_ tell me what you mean!"

  "One moment," he warned her gently, turning back to the window just asit was darkened by another figure.

  The man with the twisted mouth stood there, peering blindly into thesemi-obscurity.

  "Marian...?" he called in a voice meant to be ingratiating.

  "Well?" the girl demanded harshly.

  "I thought I saw you," he commented blandly, advancing a pace and socoming face to face with the bristling little Mephistophelean figure,which he had endeavoured to ignore.

  "My dance, I believe," he added a trace more brusquely, over thelittle man's head.

  "I must ask you to excuse me," said the girl coldly.

  "You don't care to dance again to-night?"

  "Thank you--no."

  "Then I will give myself the pleasure of sitting it out with you."

  "I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me, Bayard," she returned,consistently inflexible.

  He hesitated. "Do I understand you're ready for me to take you home?"

  "You're to understand that I will neither dance nor sit out the dancewith you--and that I don't wish to be disturbed."

  "Bless your heart!" P. Sybarite interjected privately.

  The voice of the younger Shaynon broke with passion.

  "This is--the limit!" he cried violently. "I've reached the end of myendurance. Who's this creature you're with?"

  "Is your memory so short?" P. Sybarite asked quietly. "Have youforgotten the microbe?--the little guy who puts the point indisappointment?"

  "I've forgotten nothing, you--animal! Nor that you insulted my fatherpublicly only a few minutes ago, you--"

  "That is something that takes a bit of doing, too!" affirmed P.Sybarite with a nod.

  "And I want to inform you, sir," Shaynon raged, "that you've gone toofar by much. I insist that you remove your mask and tell me yourname."

  "And if I refuse?" said the little man coolly.

  "If you refuse--or if you persist in this insolent attitude,sir!--I--I'll--"

  "_What?_ In the name of brevity, make up your mind and give it a name,man!"

  "I'll thrash you within an inch of your life--here and now!" Shaynonblustered.

  "One moment," P. Sybarite pleaded with a graceful gesture. "Beforecommitting yourself to this mad enterprise, would you mind telling meexactly how you spell that word _inch_? With a capital _I_ and a final_e_--by any chance?"