Motion Picture Story Magazine (Feb 1914 - Sep 1916 (assorted issues))

A TIIJIJF OF HEARTS 33 "Ida delights in making the poor boy jealous," the other said; then, with a shrug and a light laugh, "Diable! I wonder how many others the Bianca has played the same game with?" Pierre heard the low-toned interchange, and his head whirled. It was bad enough to be the acknowledged plaything of the equally acknowledged player, but to be pitied as her dupe was a little too far. "Ida," he whispered to her, hoarsely, "what do you say to a trip to Spain — a motor trip?" Ida hesitated. She weighed values carefully. She recalled the fact that Novita was to be in Madrid the next month. Paris was a bore just now. She would have Pierre to herself on the long trip, and at the end, when he should be more enslaved than ever and the memory of the gray-clad lady should have been banished from his heart — at this triumphant journey's end — there would be Novita. Surely, surely, the cool blood of the young Parisian would wake to a blue-tipped flame. Ida had planned well. The trip wooed Pierre from the grating reproach every avenue in Paris had held out to him. The Bianca was her most fascinating self. The country stretched mile upon mile of verdant undulation, and the waters were golden under the summer sun. Pierre was almost happy. And then, one day, he knew that happiness was not for him — that he had bartered thricetested gold for the glitter of brass. Running out of gasoline, and far from the next town, their chauffeur hailed a passing car, and the occupants of both machines alighted. It was Marthe who faced him there in the road, and her white face held only scorn. Swathed in her veils, the dancer watched the encounter with narrowed eyes, and Pierre felt that he had tasted the bitterest that could be offered. He knew that Marthe did not think the hailing of her car accidental. And he knew the humiliation to which her proud spirit was subjected. And then the cars passed on. In Madrid, lie wrote her a penitent note, telling her how deeply he felt the accident of the meeting ; how more than gladly he would have averted the encounter; how truly he was sorry. And the girl who had given to him all that she had to give, felt a little rush of warmth around her heart. His self-respect was not entirely dormant, at all events. Perhaps, some day, the old Pierre might return — the Pierre of the clear eyes and the steel-true soul — perhaps. Then she apostrophized herself as a fool for daring to think the impossible and as a peasant soul for thus humbling herself. The journey's end had not quite the triumphant conclusion Ida had hoped for. Pierre had been distrait since the meeting with the whitefaced girl, and Ida had begun to consider the game not quite worth the candle. After all, there were other fish in the sea — and there was Novita. Her pagan soul yearned secretly for the untamedness of his. What a splendid lover he might make — what a splendid love theirs might be ! It would be as flame to water compared with the passive Frenchman at her side. Novita met them in Madrid, and that night, in the lobby of the hotel, he pleaded with the dancer to leave Pierre and seek true happiness with him. "What does he know of love, Ida?" he whispered fiercely. ' ' I — I can give you the flame from the hot suns of Spain — the essence of the wine of the grape. I can give you love, my Bianca, such a love as he has never dreamed of." Ida weighed values. La Belle Bianca would not be La Belle Bianca if she had not sensed the values of things. And she knew that the time for leaving Pierre was not yet ripe. That her passion for him was waning, she was aware, but all the more surely could she torture him if the fire of her own love should die. But Novita knew no sense of values. He knew only Ida Bianca — and the oblivion of Death. To him there