Evening Star Newspaper, March 17, 1935, Page 82

dinner and supper time. Mr. Copperas is very clever. He insists thai they all stay in the hotel, that they show themselves about the place freely. They have made many friends and naturally this has created a little dis- turbance. Of course our greatest trouble is with the bride.” ““The bride?" Besserley repeated. “Miss Rosa Helliot. She takes the part of the bride in the grand finale.” “Oh, I know all about her,” Besserley groaned. “A great many men,” Monsieur Bloit assured him, ‘“‘have lost their heads over Rosa Helliot. This young man who takes the principal male part, Morris Dring, is worse than anyone. In the finale there is, as you know, a great wedding scene. Well, Dring is the bridegroom and when he has got through with it, he is-in such a state of excitement that he gets drunk nearly every night, imagines he is really married to her, and tries to come up to her rooms. Her manager has to wait up and see him to bed most nights. That was what happened last night."” ‘‘Well, there’s a certain amount of humor about your explanation, Monsieur Bloit," General Besserley observed, ‘‘but there’s one thing I must ask you. Will you impress upon the young lady, that she must not force her way into the rooms of respectable elderly gentlemen like myself in these hours of peril?” “I'll try to see that you are not annoyed again,” Monsieur Bloit promised. “‘And it will soon be all over, anyway, General,’’ he confided. ‘‘You have heard of the real wedding, of course?” “I heard that Jim Montressor, who is old enough to know better, is to marry a child of sixteen or seventeen out of the show,’” Bes- serley grunted. “‘She is going to be married to him the day after to-morrow at the cathedral,” the director assented. ‘‘She is to have the same girls as bridesmaids. The Société are giving the wedding supper, and it will be a marvelous show. There will be one final performance at night. The next morning she leaves as a respectably married woman for her honey- moon." *‘And what becomes of Dring?" The director shrugged. *‘He will probably get drunk again after the last performance, but the bride will be in Italy.” g “An excellent place for her,” Besserley ~marked. The bar of the Hotel de Paris two days aiterwards became, a few minutes after the bells had rung out from the church on the hill, full to overflowing with a crowd of perspiring, exhausted, gaily dressed but highly amused habitués of the Principality. Every- one had entered into the spirit of the affair. The church had been packed. Nothing had been done to hurt the susceptibilities of the more devout portion of the congregation, and the whole affair had been pronounced, a mar- velous success. The bride had worn the prescribed costume of every night — the same wonderful veil, and marvelous wreath of orange blossoms. Everyone declared she had never seemed more sweet. “Jim is a lucky fellow,” they were all saying over their cocktails in the hotel bar. The bridal party itself had gone straight from the church to their rooms. ““I should say he was,” Copperas agreed a little dolefully. “‘Rosa is as straight as a line, and she has been most carefully brought up, but of course the best thing that can happen to a girl as charming as that is to be married early.” . ‘‘She has irritated me once or twice lately,” Besserley confessed. “but I never saw a love- lier bride.” “T'll tell you who I thought looked well,” one girl remarked. ““That was Morris Dring. Of course everyone knows that he is madly in love with the bride himself, but he stuck to his guns as best man instead of bridegroom in great style.” *‘Is he in love with her, or is that only stage pretence?’’ someone else speculated. *‘Not much stage pretence about it, I don't fancy,” one of the under managers of the show confided. Then some one asked curiously, ‘“‘What made Jim conseni to a last performance to- night? That is what'’s been puzzling me." *I think he’s made a mistake,” Besserley observed. “I think a reception this afternoon and good-bye to Monte Carlo would have been the safest and the wisest thing.” “Why safest?” a girl on his left asked. Besserley was revisioning the little wedding group - one of them in particular — as he had seen it from his place of vantage. *‘Just an idea,”” he replied. “But then I'm a foolish old man. . . . " Dring, in a cool grey suit, came wandering . amongst them. He accepted cocktails in cvery direction, THIS WEEK "I'he Shining Hour Continued from page five “Gee, it's something to get out of those show clothes,” he observed, sinking down upon a stool. “'If ever I'm best man in earnest it won't be in that sort of costume. Where are Rosa and Jim?" “‘Shouldn’t think they will come in here," Copperas replied. “‘It will take them a long time to get out of those glad rags, and they’ll want a rest before the show to-night.” Dring's face was suddenly dark. “They’re having a private celebration, I suppose,”” he grumbled. ‘‘Don't see why they left the best man out.” ‘““‘What did you mean when you said just As Others now ‘if ever you are best man in earnest’, Dring?"" Copperas enquired. ‘““This morning was real enough, wasn’t it?" ““That,” Dring scoffed. ““That was nothing but a bit of show work."” Besserley rose and shouldered his way through the crowd to where Copperas was standing. “Doesn’t it strike you, Copperas,” he sug- gested, “that Dring is a little over strung?” “‘He's been like that for weeks,” the manager agreed. ‘‘He’ll get over it, now this show is breaking up.”’ ‘“There’s a last fling to-night, isn't there?"” Decoration by Robert Lawson See Us by ANDRE MAUROIS EADING recently the letters of Napoleon to Marie Louise —those letters so strange, with their short childish sentences and their incredible mistakes in spelling — sent me back to the “Memorial of St. Helena”, a fine book written by a man who accompanied the great general into exile. There we find another Napoleon, one deepened by sorrow, accepting exile, defeat and insult with proud serenity — ironic and tender — in a word, a very human person. Quite different still would be the Emperor of the triumphant period. Which was the real Napoleon? Undoubtedly all of them. One of the greatest difficulties in human rela- tionships is the infinite variety of sides every human being has. How can one ever know any man or woman’ How is it possible to detect the real person from the character he is assuming? We might think that our husband or our wife would be thoroughly familiar to us. But one day Chance shows them to us writing or speaking to someone else, and then perhaps we dis- cover that they are quite different human beings from what we thought. And we ourselves. We vary according to the setting in which we find our- selves and the persons who surround us. For each of our friends we wear, in perfect good faith, a distinct mask. It is for this reason that the English proverb, “Two is company, three is a crowd”, is so true. As two, we can play our innocent comedy without restraint. As three, we are in the trying position of remaining faithful to two people at the same time. A friend suffers between two friends — one knows him as a happy person; the other has always seen him serious. A young artist, Jean Bruller, has just published a book of cartoons called “A Man Cut in Slices”. He shows the man as he sees himself — charming, the center of an admiring universe. Next the same man as he seems to his son — Jove roaring. Then as his mother sees him — a small child threatened on all sides by every sort of malady. Then as the woman who loves him sees him — a Don Juan, pursued by troops of women. Then as he looks to the woman he loves hopelessty — a timid, shrinking soul, following behind her and carrying her cloak. As his employer sees him—a mere speck. And finally, as he appears to his employees—the whole world. In one of Paul Morand’s stories, “The Three-Panelled Mirror”, three women are talking together, each one describing the man she loves. Now, without knowing it, they all love the same man. But at no moment in the conversation are they aware of the coincidence. The three portraits are quite different, but no doubt they all resemble the man himself. Saint Helena was necessary in order that we might fully understand Napoleon. It would be diverting to imagine what kind of people our rela- tives, our friends and our enemies would turn out to be if they were exiled to St. Helena. Copyright, 1935, by Jacques Chambrun March 17, 1935 “A terrific gala, and then at supper time the club are entertaining Rosa, Jim and all the bridesmaids. You have had an invitation, know." “Yes, I'm going,"” Besserley acquiesced. “I can't help feeling, though, that you ought to keep your eye on Dring.” “He will probably be drunk before the evening is half way through, and then we'll get rid of him."” “If 1 can be of any assistance, * Besserley suggested. “You are just the man who migiit be,” Copperas answered eagerly. “I'll put you on Rosa’s right, two or three places down, because the Grand Duke may be coming, and you'll be right on the spot there, in case I need a hand with Dring. I have never known him really to turn ugly, still there’s nothing like being prepared."’ . "I'm going to take him away from here now if I can,” Besserley confided. He went over to Dring. “Can you come and have lunchepn with me, Dring?”’ “Much obliged, General,” was the dubious reply. “‘I want to get over to Nice some time this afternoon, though.”” “I'm going to Nice myself after luncheon, as it happens. We can go to the Reserve at Beaulieu, call at Nice afterwards. Come along, let’s get out of this mob." Dring, a little stupid with the cocktails he had drunk and the smoky atmosphere, suf- fered himself to be led outside. Over luncheon* he became talkative. On the way to Nice, however, he became gloomy again. “I want to go to the gun makers,” he an- nounced. “Boulestin’s.”’ *‘Good place,” Besserley remarked. “‘I go there myself." ‘Do any shooting around here?" ‘‘Not much. | always carry a revolver, though."” “The devil you do! I thought I was the only man who had sense enough to do that.” Arrived at their destination, Dring pur- chased a Belgian revolver of ordinary type and a few clips of cartridges. Besserley, too, made some purchases at the further end of the shop. Half way back on the Moyenne Corn- iche, Besserley pulled up ‘Let's have a look at your weapon,’’ he said. Dring handed it over. Besserley sighted it and shook his head. ‘‘Ugly thing," he declared. I don't think I could hit a haystack with it. Look here, do you really want a gun, Dring?"’ ‘‘What do you suppose I bought one for?" was the somewhat surly reply. “I'll. make you a present,”” Besserley promised. ‘‘1 have been a bit of a collector and I have one or two half that size that would fit in your waistcoat pocket and would do just as much mischief with less fuss." “Very good of you,” Dring said slowly. “I don't suppose I shall ever want to use it. You can't tell, though,’ he went on. ‘‘Monte Carlo is a queer place.” “Just so,” Besserley agreed. ‘‘Anyway, come down to my rooms and I'll show you what [ have."” Dring lost all confidence in his own inferior weapon when he had inspected Besserley's armory. The latter selected one particular six- shooter —— small and flat in shape but of sinister appearance. “This is one of the latest models that Wilkinson's are turning out,” he confided. ““There’s no one much in this part of the hotel. We'll take a chance."” He opened the door of the bathroom and placed half a sheet of notepaper in a secure place. The first three bullets were within half an inch of each other through the middle of the sheet. Dring, enraptured, refused to dis- play hisown lack of skill but accepted the gift. “That's a little present,” Besserley told him, ‘‘because I have enjoyed your shows very much and because I should hate to see a man carrying a blunderbuss like yours. I'll charge it up for you,” he added, extracting the remaining cartridges and filling it up from a fresh box. ‘“There youare. There's the safety catch. Just close up the breech. Put your thumb on there when you want to go into action, and you're a killer. What's more, there's no one can see that in your pocket.” Dring wrung the other's hand. “I'll value this, General,” he said. ‘' You can chuck the other away if you like. I don't want it."” There had been many nights during the last decade which stood out in the memories of the habitués of Monte Carlo but never quite such a one as the night of the wedding feast. Every supper table was occupied to more than its capacity except the long one reaching almost the length of the room, reserved for the bridal party and a few special guests. At the end of it was placed an enormous cake, in S Continued on page 15