CHAPTER III
THE BEAUTIFUL TIGRESS
Flora Desimone had been born in a Calabrian peasant’s hut, and she had rolled in the dust outside, yelling vigorously at all times. Specialists declare that the reason for all great singers coming from lowly origin is found in this early development of the muscles of the throat. Parents of means employ nurses or sedatives to suppress or at least to smother these infantile protests against being thrust inconsiderately into the turmoil of human beings. Flora yelled or slept, as the case might be; her parents were equally indifferent. They were too busily concerned with the getting of bread and wine. Moreover, Flora was one among many. The gods are always playing with the Calabrian peninsula, heaving it up here or throwing it down there: il terremoto, the earthquake, the terror. Here nature tinkers vicariously with souls; and she seldom has time to complete her work. Constant communion with death makes for callosity of feeling; and the Calabrians and the Sicilians are the cruellest among the civilized peoples. Flora was ruthless.
She lived amazingly well in the premier of an apartment-hotel in the Champs-Elysées. In England and America she had amassed a fortune. Given the warm beauty of the Southern Italian, the passion, the temperament, the love of mischief, the natural cruelty, the inordinate craving for attention and flattery, she enlivened the nations with her affairs. And she never put a single beat of her heart into any of them. That is why her voice is still splendid and her beauty unchanging. She did not dissipate; calculation always barred her inclination; rather, she loitered about the Forbidden Tree and played that she had plucked the Apple. She had an example to follow; Eve had none.
Men scattered fortunes at her feet as foolish Greeks scattered floral offerings at the feet of their marble gods – without provoking the sense of reciprocity or generosity or mercy. She had worked; ah, no one would ever know how hard. She had been crushed, beaten, cursed, starved. That she had risen to the heights in spite of these bruising verbs in no manner enlarged her pity, but dulled and vitiated the little there was of it. Her mental attitude toward humanity was childish: as, when the parent strikes, the child blindly strikes back. She was determined to play, to enjoy life, to give back blow for blow, nor caring where she struck. She was going to press the juice from every grape. A thousand odd years gone, she would have led the cry in Rome – “Bread and the circus!” or “To the lions!” She would have disturbed Nero’s complacency, and he would have played an obbligato instead of a solo at the burning. And she was malice incarnate. They came from all climes – her lovers – with roubles and lire and francs and shillings and dollars; and those who finally escaped her enchantment did so involuntarily, for lack of further funds. They called her villas Circe’s isles. She hated but two things in the world; the man she could have loved and the woman she could not surpass.
Arrayed in a kimono which would have evoked the envy of the empress of Japan, supposing such a gorgeous raiment – peacocks and pine-trees, brilliant greens and olives and blues and purples – fell under the gaze of that lady’s slanting eyes, she sat opposite the Slavonic Jove and smoked her cigarette between sips of coffee. Frequently she smiled. The short powerful hand of the man stroked his beard and he beamed out of his cunning eyes, eyes a trifle too porcine to suggest a keen intellect above them.
“I am like a gorilla,” he said; “but you are like a sleek tigress. I am stronger, more powerful than you; but I am always in fear of your claws. Especially when you smile like that. What mischief are you plotting now?”
She drew in a cloud of smoke, held it in her puffed cheeks as she glided round the table and leaned over his shoulders. She let the smoke drift over his head and down his beard. In that moment he was truly Jovian.
“Would you like me if I were a tame cat?” she purred.
“I have never seen you in that rôle. Perhaps I might. You told me that you would give up everything but the Paris season.”
“I have changed my mind.” She ran one hand through his hair and the other she entangled in his beard. “You’d change your mind, too, if you were a woman.”
“I don’t have to change my mind; you are always doing it for me. But I do not want to go to America next winter.” He drew her down so that he might look into her face. It was something to see.
“Bah!” She released herself and returned to her chair. “When the season is over I want to go to Capri.”
“Capri! Too hot.”
“I want to go.”
“My dear, a dozen exiles are there, waiting to blow me up.” He spoke Italian well. “You do not wish to see me spattered over the beautiful isle?”
“Tch! tch! That is merely your usual excuse. You never had anything to do with the police.”
“No?” He eyed the end of his cigarette gravely. “One does not have to be affiliated with the police. There is class prejudice. We Russians are very fond of Egypt in the winter. Capri seems to be the half-way place. They wait for us, going and coming. Poor fools!”
“I shall go alone, then.”
“All right.” In his dull way he had learned that to pull the diva, one must agree with her. In agreeing with her one adroitly dissuaded her. “You go to Capri, and I’ll go to the pavilion on the Neva.”
She snuffed the cigarette in the coffee-cup and frowned. “Some day you will make me horribly angry.”
“Beautiful tigress! If a man knew what you wanted, you would not want it. I can’t hop about with the agility of those dancers at the Théâtre du Palais Royale. The best I can do is to imitate the bear. What is wrong?”
“They keep giving her the premier parts. She has no more fire in her than a dead grate. The English-speaking singers, they are having everything their own way. And none of them can act.”
“My dear Flora, this Eleonora is an actress, first of all. That she can sing is a matter of good fortune, no more. Be reasonable. The consensus of critical opinion is generally infallible; and all over the continent they agree that she can act. Come, come; what do you care? She will never approach your Carmen…”
“You praise her to me?” tempest in her glowing eyes.
“I do not praise her. I am quoting facts. If you throw that cup, my tigress…”
“Well?” dangerously.
“It will spoil the set. Listen. Some one is at the speaking-tube.”
The singer crossed the room impatiently. Ordinarily she would have continued the dispute, whether the bell rang or not. But she was getting the worst of the argument and the bell was a timely diversion. The duke followed her leisurely to the wall.
“What is it?” asked Flora in French.
The voice below answered with a query in English. “Is this the Signorina Desimone?”
“It is the duchess.”
“The duchess?”
“Yes.”
“The devil!”
She turned and stared at the duke, who shrugged. “No, no,” she said; “the duchess, not the devil.”
“Pardon me; I was astonished. But on the stage you are still Flora Desimone?”
“Yes. And now that my identity is established, who are you and what do you want at this time of night?”
The duke touched her arm to convey that this was not the moment in which to betray her temper.
“I am Edward Courtlandt.”
“The devil!” mimicked the diva.
She and the duke heard a chuckle.
“I beg your pardon again, Madame.”
“Well, what is it you wish?” amiably.
The duke looked at her perplexedly. It seemed to him that she was always leaving him in the middle of things. Preparing himself for rough roads, he would suddenly find the going smooth. He was never swift enough mentally to follow these flying transitions from enmity to amity. In the present instance, how was he to know that his tigress had found in the man below something to play with?
“You once did me an ill turn,” came up the tube. “I desire that you make some reparation.”
“Sainted Mother! but it has taken you a long time to find out that I have injured you,” she mocked.
There was no reply to this; so she was determined to stir the fire a little.
“And I advise you to be careful what you say; the duke is a very jealous man.”
That gentleman fingered his beard thoughtfully.
“I do not care a hang if he is.”
The duke coughed loudly close to the tube.
Silence.
“The least you can do, Madame, is to give me her address.”
“Her address!” repeated the duke relievedly. He had had certain grave doubts, but these now took wing. Old flames were not in the habit of asking, nay, demanding, other women’s addresses.
“I am speaking to Madame, your Highness,” came sharply.
“We do not speak off the stage,” said the singer, pushing the duke aside.
“I should like to make that young man’s acquaintance,” whispered the duke.
She warned him to be silent.
Came the voice again: “Will you give me her address, please? Your messenger gave me your address, inferring that you wished to see me.”
“I?” There was no impeaching her astonishment.
“Yes, Madame.”
“My dear Mr. Courtlandt, you are the last man in all the wide world I wish to see. And I do not quite like the way you are making your request. His highness does not either.”
“Send him down!”
“That is true.”
“What is?”
“I remember. You are very strong and much given to fighting.”
The duke opened and shut his hands, pleasurably. Here was something he could understand. He was a fighting man himself. Where was this going to end, and what was it all about?
“Do you not think, Madame, that you owe me something?”
“No. What I owe I pay. Think, Mr. Courtlandt; think well.”
“I do not understand,” impatiently.
“Ebbene, I owe you nothing. Once I heard you say – ‘I do not like to see you with the Calabrian; she is – Well, you know.’ I stood behind you at another time when you said that I was a fool.”
“Madame, I do not forget that, that is pure invention. You are mistaken.”
“No. You were. I am no fool.” A light laugh drifted down the tube.
“Madame, I begin to see.”
“Ah!”
“You believe what you wish to believe.”
“I think not.”
“I never even noticed you,” carelessly.
“Take care!” whispered the duke, who noted the sudden dilation of her nostrils.
“It is easy to forget,” cried the diva, furiously. “It is easy for you to forget, but not for me.”
“Madame, I do not forget that you entered my room that night …”
“Your address!” bawled the duke. “That statement demands an explanation.”
“I should explain at once, your Highness,” said the man down below calmly, “only I prefer to leave that part in Madame’s hands. I should not care to rob her of anything so interesting and dramatic. Madame the duchess can explain, if she wishes. I am stopping at the Grand, if you find her explanations are not up to your requirements.”
“I shall give you her address,” interrupted the diva, hastily. The duke’s bristling beard for one thing and the ice in the other man’s tones for another, disquieted her. The play had gone far enough, much as she would have liked to continue it. This was going deeper than she cared to go. She gave the address and added: “To-night she sings at the Austrian ambassador’s. I give you this information gladly because I know that it will be of no use to you.”
“Then I shall dispense with the formality of thanking you. I add that I wish you twofold the misery you have carelessly and gratuitously cost me. Good night!” Click! went the little covering of the tube.
“Now,” said the duke, whose knowledge of the English tongue was not so indifferent that he did not gather the substance, if not all the shadings, of this peculiar conversation; “now, what the devil is all this about?”
“I hate him!”
“Refused to singe his wings?”
“He has insulted me!”
“I am curious to learn about that night you went to his room.”
Her bear had a ring in his nose, but she could not always lead him by it. So, without more ado, she spun the tale, laughing at intervals. The story evidently impressed the duke, for his face remained sober all through the recital.
“Did he say that you were a fool?”
“Of course not!”
“Shall I challenge him?”
“Oh, my Russian bear, he fences like a Chicot; he is a dead shot; and is afraid of nothing … but a woman. No, no; I have something better. It will be like one of those old comedies. I hate her!” with a burst of fury. “She always does everything just so much better than I do. As for him, he was nothing. It was she; I hurt her, wrung her heart.”
“Why?” mildly.
“Is not that enough?”
“I am slow; it takes a long time for anything to get into my head; but when it arrives, it takes a longer time to get it out.”
“Well, go on.” Her calm was ominous.
“Love or vanity. This American singer got what you could not get. You have had your way too long. Perhaps you did not love him. I do not believe you can really love any one but Flora. Doubtless he possessed millions; but on the other hand, I am a grand duke; I offered marriage, openly and legally, in spite of all the opposition brought to bear.”
Flora was undeniably clever. She did the one thing that could successfully cope with this perilous condition of the ducal mind. She laughed, and flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.
“I have named you well. You are a tigress. But this comedy of which you speak: it might pass in Russia, but not in Paris.”
“I shall not be in the least concerned. My part was suggestion.”
“You suggested it to some one else?”
“To be sure!”
“My objections …”
“I will have my way in this affair. Besides, it is too late.”
Her gesture was explicit. He sighed. He knew quite well that she was capable of leaving the apartment that night, in her kimono.
“I’ll go to Capri,” resignedly. Dynamite bombs were not the worst things in the world.
“I don’t want to go now.”
The duke picked up a fresh cigarette. “How the devil must have laughed when the Lord made Eve!”
CHAPTER IV
THE JOKE OF MONSIEUR
With the same inward bitterness that attends the mental processes of a performing tiger on being sent back to its cage, Courtlandt returned to his taxicab. He wanted to roar and lash and devour something. Instead, he could only twist the ends of his mustache savagely. So she was a grand duchess, or at least the morganatic wife of a grand duke! It did not seem possible that any woman could be so full of malice. He simply could not understand. It was essentially the Italian spirit; doubtless, till she heard his voice, she had forgotten all about the episode that had foundered his ship of happiness.
Her statement as to the primal cause was purely inventive. There was not a grain of truth in it. He could not possibly have been so rude. He had been too indifferent. Too indifferent! The repetition of the phrase made him sit straighter. Pshaw! It could not be that. He possessed a little vanity; if he had not, his history would not have been worth a scrawl. But he denied the possession vehemently, as men are wont to do. Strange, a man will admit smashing those ten articles of advisement known as the decalogue and yet deny the inherent quality which surrenders the admission – vanity. However you may look at it, man’s vanity is a complex thing. The vanity of a woman has a definite and commendable purpose: the conquest of man, his purse, and half of his time. Too indifferent! Was it possible that he had roused her enmity simply because he had made it evident that her charms did not interest him? Beyond lifting his hat to her, perhaps exchanging a comment on the weather, his courtesies had not been extended. Courtlandt was peculiar in some respects. A woman attracted him, or she did not. In the one case he was affable, winning, pleasant, full of those agreeable little surprises that in turn attract a woman. In the other case, he passed on, for his impressions were instant and did not require the usual skirmishing.
A grand duchess! The straw-colored mustache now described two aggressive points. What an impossible old world it was! The ambition of the English nobility was on a far lower scale than that of their continental cousins. On the little isle they were satisfied to marry soubrettes and chorus girls. Here, the lady must be no less a personage than a grand-opera singer or a première danseuse. The continental noble at least showed some discernment; he did not choose haphazard; he desired the finished product and was not to be satisfied with the material in the raw.
Oh, stubborn Dutchman that he had been! Blind fool! To have run away instead of fighting to the last ditch for his happiness! The Desimone woman was right: it had taken him a long time to come to the conclusion that she had done him an ill turn. And during all these weary months he had drawn a melancholy picture of himself as a wounded lion, creeping into the jungle to hide its hurts, when, truth be known, he had taken the ways of the jackass for a model. He saw plainly enough now. More than this, where there had been mere obstacles to overcome there were now steep mountains, perhaps inaccessible for all he knew. His jaw set, and the pressure of his lips broke the sweep of his mustache, converting it into bristling tufts, warlike and resolute.
As he was leaving, a square of light attracted his attention. He looked up to see the outline of the bearded Russ in the window. Poor devil! He was going to have a merry time of it. Well, that was his affair. Besides, Russians, half the year chilled by their bitter snows, were susceptible to volcanoes; they courted them as a counterbalance. Perhaps he had spoken roughly, but his temper had not been under control. One thing he recalled with grim satisfaction. He had sent a barbed arrow up the tube to disturb the felicity of the dove-cote. The duke would be rather curious to know what was meant in referring to the night she had come to his, Courtlandt’s, room. He laughed. It would be a fitting climax indeed if the duke called him out.
But what of the pretty woman in the Taverne Royale? What about her? At whose bidding had she followed him? One or the other of them had not told the truth, and he was inclined to believe that the prevarication had its source in the pomegranate lips of the Calabrian. To give the old barb one more twist, to learn if its venomous point still held and hurt; nothing would have afforded the diva more delight. Courtlandt glared at the window as the shade rolled down.
When the taxicab joined the long line of carriages and automobiles opposite the Austrian ambassador’s, Courtlandt awoke to the dismal and disquieting fact that he had formulated no plan of action. He had done no more than to give the driver his directions; and now that he had arrived, he had the choice of two alternatives. He could wait to see her come out or return at once to his hotel, which, as subsequent events affirmed, would have been the more sensible course. He would have been confronted with small difficulty in gaining admission to the house. He knew enough of these general receptions; the announcing of his name would have conveyed nothing to the host, who knew perhaps a third of his guests, and many of these but slightly. But such an adventure was distasteful to Courtlandt. He could not overstep certain recognized boundaries of convention, and to enter a man’s house unasked was colossal impudence. Beyond this, he realized that he could have accomplished nothing; the advantage would have been hers. Nor could he meet her as she came out, for again the odds would have been largely in her favor. No, the encounter must be when they two were alone. She must be surprised. She must have no time to use her ready wit. He had thought to wait until some reasonable plan offered itself for trial; yet, here he was, with nothing definite or recognizable but the fact that the craving to see her was not to be withstood. The blood began to thunder in his ears. An idea presented itself. It appealed to him at that moment as quite clever and feasible.
“Wait!” he called to the driver.
He dived among the carriages and cars, and presently he found what he sought, – her limousine. He had taken the number into his mind too keenly to be mistaken. He saw the end of his difficulties; and he went about the affair with his usual directness. It was only at rare times that he ran his head into a cul-de-sac. If her chauffeur was regularly employed in her service, he would have to return to the hotel; but if he came from the garage, there was hope. Every man is said to have his price, and a French chauffeur might prove no notable exception to the rule.
“Are you driver for Madame da Toscana?” Courtlandt asked of the man lounging in the forward seat.
The chauffeur looked hard at his questioner, and on finding that he satisfied the requirements of a gentleman, grumbled an affirmative. The limousine was well known in Paris, and he was growing weary of these endless inquiries.
“Are you in her employ directly, or do you come from the garage?”
“I am from the garage, but I drive mademoiselle’s car most of the time, especially at night. It is not madame but mademoiselle, Monsieur.”
“My mistake.” A slight pause. It was rather a difficult moment for Courtlandt. The chauffeur waited wonderingly. “Would you like to make five hundred francs?”
“How, Monsieur?”
Courtlandt should have been warned by the tone, which contained no unusual interest or eagerness.
“Permit me to remain in mademoiselle’s car till she comes. I wish to ride with her to her apartment.”
The chauffeur laughed. He stretched his legs. “Thanks, Monsieur. It is very dull waiting. Monsieur knows a good joke.”
And to Courtlandt’s dismay he realized that his proposal had truly been accepted as a jest.
“I am not joking. I am in earnest. Five hundred francs. On the word of a gentleman I mean mademoiselle no harm. I am known to her. All she has to do is to appeal to you, and you can stop the car and summon the police.”
The chauffeur drew in his legs and leaned toward his tempter. “Monsieur, if you are not jesting, then you are a madman. Who are you? What do I know about you? I never saw you before, and for two seasons I have driven mademoiselle in Paris. She wears beautiful jewels to-night. How do I know that you are not a gentlemanly thief? Ride home with mademoiselle! You are crazy. Make yourself scarce, Monsieur; in one minute I shall call the police.”
“Blockhead!”
English of this order the Frenchman perfectly understood. “Là, là!” he cried, rising to execute his threat.
Courtlandt was furious, but his fury was directed at himself as much as at the trustworthy young man getting down from the limousine. His eagerness had led him to mistake stupidity for cleverness. He had gone about the affair with all the clumsiness of a boy who was making his first appearance at the stage entrance. It was mightily disconcerting, too, to have found an honest man when he was in desperate need of a dishonest one. He had faced with fine courage all sorts of dangerous wild animals; but at this moment he hadn’t the courage to face a policeman and endeavor to explain, in a foreign tongue, a situation at once so delicate and so singularly open to misconstruction. So, for the second time in his life he took to his heels. Of the first time, more anon. He scrambled back to his own car, slammed the door, and told the driver to drop him at the Grand. His undignified retreat caused his face to burn; but discretion would not be denied. However, he did not return to the hotel.
Mademoiselle da Toscana’s chauffeur scratched his chin in perplexity. In frightening off his tempter he recognized that now he would never be able to find out who he was. He should have played with him until mademoiselle came out. She would have known instantly. That would have been the time for the police. To hide in the car! What the devil! Only a madman would have offered such a proposition. The man had been either an American or an Englishman, for all his accuracy in the tongue. Bah! Perhaps he had heard her sing that night, and had come away from the Opera, moonstruck. It was not an isolated case. The fools were always pestering him, but no one had ever offered so uncommon a bribe: five hundred francs. Mademoiselle might not believe that part of the tale. Mademoiselle was clever. There was a standing agreement between them that she would always give him half of whatever was offered him in the way of bribes. It paid. It was easier to sell his loyalty to her for two hundred and fifty francs than to betray her for five hundred. She had yet to find him untruthful, and to-night he would be as frank as he had always been.
But who was this fellow in the Bavarian hat, who patrolled the sidewalk? He had been watching him when the madman approached. For an hour or more he had walked up and down, never going twenty feet beyond the limousine. He couldn’t see the face. The long dark coat had a military cut about the hips and shoulders. From time to time he saw him glance up at the lighted windows. Eh, well; there were other women in the world besides mademoiselle, several others.
He had to wait only half an hour for her appearance. He opened the door and saw to it that she was comfortably seated; then he paused by the window, touching his cap.
“What is it, François?”
“A gentleman offered me five hundred francs, Mademoiselle, if I would permit him to hide in the car.”
“Five hundred francs? To hide in the car? Why didn’t you call the police?”
“I started to, Mademoiselle, but he ran away.”
“Oh! What was he like?” The prima donna dropped the bunch of roses on the seat beside her.
“Oh, he looked well enough. He had the air of a gentleman. He was tall, with light hair and mustache. But as I had never seen him before, and as Mademoiselle wore some fine jewels, I bade him be off.”
“Would you know him again?”
“Surely, Mademoiselle.”
“The next time any one bothers you, call the police. You have done well, and I shall remember it. Home.”
The man in the Bavarian hat hurried back to the third car from the limousine, and followed at a reasonably safe distance.
The singer leaned back against the cushions. She was very tired. The opera that night had taxed her strength, and but for her promise she would not have sung to the ambassador’s guests for double the fee. There was an electric bulb in the car. She rarely turned it on, but she did to-night. She gazed into the little mirror; and utter weariness looked back from out the most beautiful, blue, Irish eyes in the world. She rubbed her fingers carefully up and down the faint perpendicular wrinkle above her nose. It was always there on nights like this. How she longed for the season to end! She would fly away to the lakes, the beautiful, heavenly tinted lakes, the bare restful mountains, and the clover lawns spreading under brave old trees; she would walk along the vineyard paths, and loiter under the fig-trees, far, far away from the world, its clamor, its fickleness, its rasping jealousies. Some day she would have enough; and then, good-by to all the clatter, the evil-smelling stages, the impossible people with whom she was associated. She would sing only to those she loved.
The glamour of the life had long ago passed; she sang on because she had acquired costly habits, because she was fond of beautiful things, and above all, because she loved to sing. She had as many moods as a bird, as many sides as nature. A flash of sunshine called to her voice; the beads of water, trembling upon the blades of grass after a summer shower, brought a song to her lips. Hers was a God-given voice, and training had added to it nothing but confidence. True, she could act; she had been told by many a great impressario that histrionically she had no peer in grand opera. But the knowledge gave her no thrill of delight. To her it was the sum of a tremendous physical struggle.
She shut off the light and closed her eyes. She reclined against the cushion once more, striving not to think. Once, her hands shut tightly. Never, never, never! She pressed down the burning thoughts by recalling the bright scenes at the ambassador’s, the real generous applause that had followed her two songs. Ah, how that man Paderewski played! They two had cost the ambassador eight thousand francs. Fame and fortune! Fortune she could understand; but fame! What was it? Upon a time she believed she had known what fame was; but that had been when she was striving for it. A glowing article in a newspaper, a portrait in a magazine, rows upon rows of curious eyes and a patter of hands upon hands; that was all; and for this she had given the best of her life, and she was only twenty-five.
The limousine stopped at last. The man in the Bavarian hat saw her alight. His car turned and disappeared. It had taken him a week to discover where she lived. His lodgings were on the other side of the Seine. After reaching them he gave crisp orders to the driver, who set his machine off at top speed. The man in the Bavarian hat entered his room and lighted the gas. The room was bare and cheaply furnished. He took off his coat but retained his hat, pulling it down still farther over his eyes. His face was always in shadow. A round chin, two full red lips, scantily covered by a blond mustache were all that could be seen. He began to walk the floor impatiently, stopping and listening whenever he heard a sound. He waited less than an hour for the return of the car. It brought two men. They were well-dressed, smoothly-shaven, with keen eyes and intelligent faces. Their host, who had never seen either of his guests before, carelessly waved his hand toward the table where there were two chairs. He himself took his stand by the window and looked out as he talked. In another hour the room was dark and the street deserted.
In the meantime the prima donna gave a sigh of relief. She was home. It was nearly two o’clock. She would sleep till noon, and Saturday and Sunday would be hers. She went up the stairs instead of taking the lift, and though the hall was dark, she knew her way. She unlocked the door of the apartment and entered, swinging the door behind her. As the act was mechanical, her thoughts being otherwise engaged, she did not notice that the lock failed to click. The ferrule of a cane had prevented that.