Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1922)

"I love you" she said, "as a pure and religious woman should love!" "I will not believe that he has surrendered to the charms of any woman," Madame de Serizy had said, "unless I see him upon his knees before her." And so, when the General knelt, the Duchess could not forbear to cast a glance of pride in her rival's direction. It was unfortunate that the General should have glanced up, at that moment, and surprised the triumphant expression upon her face. It shattered his perfect faith, and he arose quickly from his knees, exclaiming — "As Charles the First knelt before the executioner, he remarked: 'If I had not played with the axe of destiny, my neck would never have felt its steel!' ': And he walked, with never a backward glance, from her presence and from the crowded room. Only, at the door, he turned and spoke again. "You, too, milady, have touched the axe!" he said. FROM that second the General became again the man of steel. Love had been his religion — and it had been taken away from him. He became cruel, relentless, a fanatical enemy of the woman he had so adored. And, with the loss of his love, the Duchess, too, underwent a change. She discovered, too late, that she had a heart and that it belonged, and would always belong, to the man who no longer cared. When she left the ball late that night she was almost on the point of hysteria. Perhaps that was why she did not notice that her own coach was not waiting for her — why she was too dazed to cry out when she was forcibly seized by a strange footman and coachman who blindfolded her and brought her, by an unknown route, into the presence of the utterly revengeful General. "You have robbed my life of joy," he told her bitterly, as the bandages were removed from her eyes; "you have killed my belief in human nature. You have committed murder; for all killing is murder! And so I intend to punish you by branding your forehead with an infamous mark!" Almost in a state of utter collapse, the Duchess threw herself upon her knees, before the man that she loved. G6 "Armand, beloved," she cried wildly, "brand me! For when you have branded me as your own you cannot abandon me. I am yours, yours forever!" Then, quite unflinchingly, she waited for a masked man — whom she dimly recognized as her enemy, De Ronquerolles, to bring a branding iron to a white heat. Steeling himself, De Montriveau bent over her white forehead. But her eyes, with an expression of complete adoration in them, never left his bitter ones. It was the eyes that made him throw the iron aside. The Duchess rose unsteadily to her feet. The thought of being unhurt did not seem so important to her as the fact that the General was still, apparently, in love with her. She was about to throw herself into his arms, but his grim aloofness repelled her. "I would like to believe you sincere in the outpouring of your heart," he said slowly, "but my faith is gone forever. Let us say — farewell!" And he turned away as a servant rebandaged her eyes so that the route of her homeward journey would still remain a secret to her. AND yet, in the moment of parting, de Montriveau gave way to the wild tumult of love that was all but consuming him. Asking the Duchess if she could see through the bandage, and receiving her answer that she could not, he knelt before her. But because she bent over, instinctively, to caress him, he rose with a sardonically curt smile. "So you still deceive me, Madam," he said. "I might have known that you could not be sincere!" And he left her. The next day the Duchess sent him a repentant letter. And then, with the house made into a veritable bower of roses, she waited for his coming. But he did not come. For weeks she continued to write — and to wait. But still he did not come. Then, as the final proof of her devotion, she sent her carriage . to remain outside of his house all day so that the city of Paris — so well versed in intrigue — would think that she belonged to him. But he was spending the day out of town, and so he never knew of her supreme sacrifice. And then, like a bolt from the blue, came the news of the Due's death. He had passed on, rather bravely, in the pursuit of his duty, and yet it would only have been hypocritical for the Duchess to mourn him. For his death took away the only real barrier that had ever kept her from the man of her heart. Society and church would now sanction her union with De Montriveau. In complete desperation the Duchess wrote one last letter. It was not a long letter, but it breathed a limitless love, and a real purpose. "If you no longer care for me, my own," it read, "I will renounce the world forever. There is always refuge and strength as a holy sister in the convent. I will wait until — " she named a certain hour, "and if you do not then come to me, I will be lost to you forever!" And then she signed the letter with her initials, and sealed it with a kiss. To insure the letter's safety she sent it in the care of an aged relative, one of the nobility, whom she would have trusted with her very "life. And then she dressed for traveling and summoned her coach. And, in it, she went to meet the old relative. And she ascertained, from him, that the General was at home and had received the note. So she drove, post haste, to the De Montriveau mansion, and there — hidden by some shrubbery — she waited, hoping that he would come out of the house and that she could tell, by his expression, that he had forgiven her. TO the Duchess it was exquisite agony. As the seconds went by — each one like an hour — she knew all of the pain of crucifixion. For the house was still — no one emerged from the barred door of it. How was she to know that the General— torn between disillusionment and love— was also having a terrific struggle? How was she to know that, though he still did not trust her, he loved her with his whole heart? The hour that she had set was almost come. And then, swinging up the path in front of (Continued on page 101)