The Argosy — page 285: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

266 The Missing Rubtes. in through Madame Valerot’s windows. What was there to prevent him from entering that room of hers? Already his promise to his friend had passed completely out of his mind. He lingered a second or two on the threshold, consumed with an intense curiosity and long- ing to go in. It was not likely that a man of his unsettled and stormy tempera- ment would resist such a temptation, coming, as it did, at a time when there was small risk of discovery. He did not resist*it, but yielded without a struggle. He entered, silently treading on the heavy carpet. ‘The place was full of rich evening light, and sweet with the fragrant breath of many flowers. ‘There was a sense of utter comfort and luxury here: satin cushions were heaped upon the couch ; over the back of a chair hung an open cloak of golden brocade, edged with dark fur ; on an ottoman lay a fan of yellow feathers. Upon a round table in the middle of the room there was a large circular glass dish of flowers, with a lily-shaped vase springing out of the centre. It was bordered with velvety pointed leaves and sprays of maidenhair—a meet setting for stephanotis and golden cineraria, scarlet geranium and crimson and yellowroses. In the tall vase were two white camellias with their dark-green foliage. The gaunt, shabby man (looking oddly out of place in this luxurious room) drew a step nearer to the table and looked at the flowers. He had been fond of flowers once. ‘There came to him a vague memory of a time when he had offered them, as fitting gifts, to fair women. With a trembling hand he touched, first a spray of fern, and then a delicate cambric handkerchief that had been left there. When he moved the handkerchief, he saw that something was lying under it. Only an open note, written by a woman’s hand. He stood still, looking round him at the rich cushions and draperies, and all the traces of a luxurious taste and an easy life. And then he thought of old Wouriski, dying of exhaustion on the long road to Siberia—of Paul, in his perpetual servitude in the mines—of the two lone women, growing old in poverty, and still mourning for a father and a lover. The expression of that haggard face was not good to see just then. There was no Vordenberg at hand to utter soothing words. The wild heart in Michael’s bosom cried out against all this wealth and luxury. The betrayer lved and prospered and flourished; her victims told no tales; and found no avengers. He glanced down at the note, lying near the embroidered handkerchief. ‘Time was precious; already he fancied that there were sounds in the rooms below. Snatching up the letter, he put it into his breast, and then left the room, and passed out of the house. Out in the open air he walked briskly, until he had gained a quiet street where there was little traffic. ‘Then he drew the crumpled COMIC OOOKS.G©